Ask FWG, not Jeeves - edition seven

Once again, These are my answers to the legitimate web search queries that led innocent surfers to click on Fantasy Writer Guy:

g1test fee
If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

Streetsville nut house
All are welcome. See you when you get here.

blinded by the light wrapped up like a dues
Like a dues? A dues? Are you kidding me? What’s that? Like a library dues? Your insane. Go sit in the corner and keep quiet.

sobeys nacho dip ingredients
Tomatoes, modified milk solids, jalapino peppers, onion powder, tapioca starch, elephant sperm, artificial colour, calcium extract, citric acid.

packed up like a deuce
Is that you again? Get back in the corner. Honestly. Packed? Get the wax out.

toronto "cat detector"
Voila: The Toronto Cat Detector:

how do you know you have a lump in the middle of your chest and it is not the sternum
If it speaks to you at night and whispers such things as, “I am not your sternum” or “Go and kill your father” or anything really. Authentic sternums are most definitely mute.

breakfast sausage
Holy crap! I can’t believe my little old blog came up number 3 according to South Korea’s most popular web search portal! I must be all the rage in South Korea! Sorry. To answer your question, you can usually be certain it’s a breakfast sausage and not a penis if you find it resting on a plate alongside some eggs and toast. But even then you should proceed with caution. An exploratory poke is always a good idea.

1408 what brand of cognac Cusack
I don’t know. What brand of rye guy?
What brand of vodka Vladika?
What brand of rum chum?

"madd scientists"
A committee of leading Physicists bent on the quest to determine how little red ribbons may be fixed to automobile radio antennas; lead by Dr. Alfred McSobershtingein. Also the name of an excellent blues band that very sadly, broke up.

FWG Jeans
A popular brand of apparel back when I was a kid. Until Wayne Gretzky did a commercial for them and all my clever little contemporaries began saying that FWG stood for “Fag, Wayne Gretzky” which drove the brand to extinction. No, wait a minute. It was “Gay Wayne Gretzky”. Yeah, that’s right because it was GWG jeans. Not FWG. I think you meant to say GWG. I think you made a smelling pistake. Ha ha ha! Get it? That’s a clever way to say ‘spelling mistake’. Ha ha ha. I’m so funny.

camel toe
What? You keep hearing the joke but you don’t get it? Don’t feel bad. I didn’t either for a while and now I wish I still didn’t. The answer is two, by the way. Per foot that is. Eight altogether.

cubical makeover
You spelled cubicle wrong, dipshit. Oh. And so did I. Okay, never mind.

sixteen discussion questions in back of the alchemist
They are as follows:
1. How do you turn lead into gold?
2. How do you turn gold into lead?
3. How do you turn water into wine?
4. What is your favorite colour?
5. What is the average airborne velocity of an unladen African swallow?
6. What is the average airborne velocity of an unladen European swallow?
7. How many bloggers does it take to screw in a light bulb?
8. Who’s buried in Grant’s Tomb?
9. What was your mother drinking the night she became pregnant with you?
10. How many children did George Bush Sr. have that lived?
11. Tell me why Bob Geldof doesn’t like Mondays
12. How many times is the F-word spoken in the film Scarface?
13. Do you want to pet my monkey?
14. Why doesn’t Flumadiddle come around anymore?
15. How do you spell relief?
16. Is that a half-roll of dimes in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?


The information provided above is correct to the best of the author’s knowledge at the time of this release. The author bears no responsibility, financial or otherwise, for any manifestations of the use or misuse of the above counsel, including but not limited to: financial loss; data loss, stutter, chronic tardiness, arthritis, shingles, contagious penis, explosive sneezery, coastal erosion, gum disease, lead foot, shrinkage, quivers down your backbone, shakes in your thigh bone or Indian rub burn.

FWG: Hypnotic Dance

Newly emerged from cocoon,
He spreads his wings revealing
Colours extraordinary,
Patterns supernatural;
Impossibly vibrant.

No aid to flight are these shades.
No safety measure do they serve.
No environment are they camouflaged within.
A ludicrous over-evolution
With no real purpose but to hypnotize;
To dazzle her.

I am a fully functional male,
Say the colours on his wings.
Testament to health.
Choose me,
And we’ll make beautiful butterfly babies.

Branching here and there,
A convoluted network.
No simple horns are these.
We call them antlers ‘round these parts.

No prey or predator they impale,
This runaway mutation
With no real purpose but to impress;
To wow her.

I am a strong and robust male,
Says this towering network.
Testament to health.
Rut with me
And we’ll make sturdy elk babies.

The beetle’s kaleidoscope carapace;
No stronger does it make the shell.
But stronger are the chances he’ll get lucky;
Get some hot and sweaty beetle sex.

The peacock’s tail;
An insane extravagance;
A dangerous liability.
Dragging him down in flight from pursuer.
Natural selection gone out of control.
But oh how he spreads it out and shakes it,
He’ll be getting some peahen sugar tonight.

And what is this creature?
What is this creature?
That walks on two legs,
Knuckles clear of the ground,
With one feature evolved beyond all appropriateness;
Beyond all suitability for survival.

It is a hidden feature,
Caged behind a bulging forehead,
Apparent only through behavior;
Through its power to invent
And dream and fantasize.
It is this creature’s brain that testifies to health,
That is made to wow, to hypnotize.

Look at the beast. It talks and dances
And acts upon a stage.
Jokes and songs and back-stage passes,
Fancy words and podiums.

It summons the strangest ideas;
Ideas of nations and corporations,
Of gods and ideologies;
All of them tribal competitions;
Trading little green papers; imagined gold.
Building nests ever more gigantic.
Building machines ever faster.

Each stud competing
To make the biggest noise
Or fill the biggest space.
Every word and action a seduction.

All their lives a mating game;
A permanent foreplay
To one global bisexual orgy.

Aequitas: The Nargolost

Off the long and winding road

There lies a path, though little known.

And off that path, a grove to find,

The home of small, secluded kind.

The Nargolost, they call themselves

The grove their home, where they dwell.

Wise and kind, these small folk are,

And ever seen from afar.

But even then, the mind does trick

The seer into falling sick,

For the Nargolost are no mere folk,

But magical, weaving their yoke.

And should unwary traveller find

Himself amidst this little kind,

He will be welcomed into home,

And feast on meat, ripe from bone.

And should weary traveller stay,

He will wait, day by day

And day will pass, once again,

He will wait some more, but then

Years go by, ere traveller leaves

For that is the magic that they weave.

No memory, beyond their grove,

Will be left, in head, or trove.

So wary must yon traveller be,

If the Nargolost he sees.

Read more poetry by Aequitas on Authspot

Why FWG is like your roof

The gown is soft. I like it. I'd kind of like to keep it. Except it ties in the back. Rather awkward.

I'm watching the shoes move back and forth out there in the land beyond the curtain, and listening to the voices following them around. The curtains look new. You can see a lot of creases in them still. Curious set of patterns on the curtains. There are six repeating images. Two are botanical; two astronomical and two geometrical. Very hodge-podgey. I'm irked by its themelessness. There's a single blemish; a carrot-shaped stain. The human body produces dozens of different fluids. I wonder which is responsible for this?

Somewhere distant a baby is screaming. Not crying. Screaming. This baby is seriously pissed.

I pick up pieces of a strange conversation. "You know what she does? She kicks cats! And she pushes old ladies down escalators!"

"That's not true! I pinch old ladies. And I kick babies!"

I swear, that's what they said.

In the next compartment a woman occasionally gasps. Her intermittent cramps are getting worse. Someone, a doctor or nurse, enters her space and moves back and forth, assisting her in some way while brushing against the curtain before me. If I were a cat I'd be swatting the heck out of this person.

Finally Doc enters my pen, looking at the notes they'd taken at reception. She puts me in the blood-pressure cuff, slaps a pulse-monitoring doo-dad on my index finger and slips a thermometer under my tongue. She shines a light in my ear. The nurse had already done these things earlier - along with taking a blood sample. I hate giving blood. It's painful. No - not the needle. That's a breeze. It's the goddam tape they use to hold the gauze over your tiny puncture wound. When I rip that tape off later it takes my arm hairs with it.

I have a slight fever and my BP is very high. We discuss my long list of symptoms.

"I'm going to untie you," she says, "So I can check your shoulder."

"Your going to hate the knots I put in it."

"I see that."

She checks my shoulder and neck and pokes about in my hair with her light.

"I hate to tell you this but these aren't hives."

"They're not?"

"No. They're shingles."

"I've got shingles?”

“You sure do.”

Since the previous doctors at the walk-in-clinic failed to make the diagnosis, the window for treatment has expired. She explains the kind of pain I should expect.

“I’m already getting that,” I assure. “It’s manageable.”

She shakes her head slowly; ruefully. It’s the kind of expression that can only mean one thing: ‘It’s gonna get worse.’

“It’s gonna get worse,” she says.

“I knew you were going to say that.”

All she can do is prescribe more drugs to try to keep me comfortable. She issues me Percocet for the pain and some damn thing called Amiabletrampoline or something like that. I presume it’s to keep me friendly and bouncy.

I’m going to be home-bound for a while.

Alien Contact: FWG encounters a miniature humanoid

In my inflamed condition I'm desperate to stay cool. I'm spending the afternoon across the street from the Grotto at Starbucks, home of turbo air conditioning, iced chai lattes and two big comfy chairs surrounded by a lot of stiff wooden ones.

I'm reading and sucking back chai lattes like a fiend. Facing me, from the other comfy chair, is a young man working on a scholastic project while sucking on his silver crucifix jewelry. One of the local personalities, a man who marches to his very own special beat, who relies on community assistance and the generosity of neighbors and strangers, sits in the corner singing along to all the songs being played - but with his very own lyrics which go precisely like this:

You're my favorite person in the house!

You're my favorite person in the house!

You're my favorite person in the house!

You're my favorite person in the house!

Repeat...

A woman bemuled by the extensive gear that supports herself, her small baby and her son - perhaps five years old, is barking her own incantation which has little to do with the music and goes like this:

Nicolas don't touch that!

Nicolas get down from there!

Nicolas stop that!

Nicolas put that down!

Repeat...

Between verses she tries to comfort the squealing baby.

I'm fine with all this by the way, and even fine with the ear ache; rather zen at the moment and able to concentrate on the book.

But eventually the five-year old takes notice of me and leans on the arm of my comfy chair and giggles at me. I carry on reading.

He reaches out and tickles my hand and takes hold of a finger. The student is looking up and smiling at the little creature's antics. The little creature is grinning maniacally.

He blurts, "What's your name!"

I have no idea why these next words come out of me, other than that it is my instinct to be uncooperative: "I am known by many names, earthling." The mom suddenly looks over. The student lets the cross fall from his mouth.

Local dude, oblivious, goes on singing, only now his lyrics have become:

I have been to hell!

I have been to hell!

I have been to hell!

I have been to hell!

Repeat...

The kidlet persists. "Like what?"

'Like... SATAN!' I wish to say, and then hiss like a snake - just for kicks, you know. Just to see if I can make him pee his pants. I mean, what else am I supposed to do? I don't know how to communicate with kids on their level. I haven't a clue. Instead, brilliantly I say, "You really want to know my name?"

He nods, still beaming like a miniature lunatic and still holding my finger. I consider a few more ridiculous responses and finally cave in and give him my name. "And what's your name?" I ask, knowing full well, of course.

"Nicolas!"

"Do you like it here, Nicolas?"

"Yes!"

"Are you having fun?"

He nods rapidly.

"Well that's great. I'm happy for you."

"Nicolas, come here please!" says the mom.

The kid releases my finger and runs away - from - not too - the mom.

I go back to my book.

Death by Haircut

Okay, it's like this, see. I'm sick but without the usual sore throat, drippy nose thing. The symptoms are very strange and are all located on my left side and above the shoulder.

- very stiff neck

- overly-sensitive skin (beard stubble feels like daggers on my neck)

- hives

- visible swelling of the neck and cheek

- ear-infection-type discomfort in ear

- tender swolen lymph nodes

- extremely sore areas on scalp

- fever

Sounds fun, eh? I'm living in a blurry world because it hurts to wear my glasses!

Luckily work has been slow and I've basically worked half-days the last few days and from home, at that. Gawd bless the internet.

Been hounding doctors to give me antibiotics but that of course is like trying to get gold out of Fort Knox. They gave me Naproxin or something like that - an anti-inflamatory. Hasn't done shit so far. Basically if you come crawling back to the doctor a week or more after your initial visit with all your hair fallen out and your bloody entrails dragging behind you they'll begin considering antibiotics. I have a few days to go.

Most unfortunately our lacrosse playoffs run this week and I'm in no condition to squish my head into a helmet let alone play the game.

Speaking of my head, it was feeling rather hot and sweaty yesterday and I realized I was touting way too much hair, so I popped across the street to one of the barbers.

I wasn't thinking clearly.

I got a great haircut.

I also learned what it is to be tortured.

There are hives on my head, you see. And for whatever reason, I didn't feel like asking Aldo for special treatment. He raked his comb across the sores over and over and over again until I was sure my brain was exposed.

Ouch.

Oh dear god, ouch.

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Image rudely pickpocketed from Splash Magazine

Cry for a Shadow

There are some events that belong in the past; that simply will never happen to you again; like losing your virginity; like learning to ride a bike; like watching the Toronto Maple Leafs win a Stanley Cup.


Like discovering a new Beatles song and falling immediately in love with it.


Oops. Scratch the last one.


I never would have dreamed that there could still be an awesome Beatles song hiding out there that has somehow evaded me all these years.


And yet here it is. Cry for a Shadow. I feel like I'm fourteen again.


You can listen to a clip here if you want.
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Steve-o buys a new toothbrush

FWG: Relative Size

Sat in the dirt and muddied my jeans
And didn’t care
Wore holes through the knees
And didn’t care

Carved pathways in the dirt
Streets and driveways
And parking lots with little twigs
lined up as parking stones

Tufts of grass became trees
Houses and buildings only vaguely imagined

Arranged all the matchbox cars within the network

No racing strips, no pile-ups
No hot rods.

Just sedans and vans and pick-up trucks
Moving faceless citizens about a miniature village
Perfectly civilized, slowing down to turn the corners

Where the grass became dense,
This was cottage country.

Playing cars on a Saturday morning there existed only Saturday.
Monday with its morning bell and its lawless incarceration
So far away it did not exist.
Monday morning might just never come.

Took the little jeep and kept on driving
Patiently trekked the breadth of the yard
Inch by inch, and then
Broke the ground for the next village.

Today I have only one car
It encloses me
And takes me where I’m told to be

Now I am the faceless one
In clean respectable clothes
With Monday mornings always looming over me

How was it that cars
Became so much bigger
Or am I just that much smaller?
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Photo courtesy of Eternal Exemption.

An important message from Marjoram Stinkpot

Recieved this email today. It's not often something slips by our extensive quarantine/spam systems so kudos to this guy. Unfortunately this is about as sensible and relevant as any other email I've received today.

The Avitable Scramble

Okay - here's the deal. You start with a blank mind - so to speak, and then try to belch out 13 separate thoughts in 13 minutes. It's blogging by the seat of your pants. You pretty much have to spit out anything that comes to mind no matter how stupid because you won't have time to wait for 13 gems!

I'm calling it the Avitable Scramble because I discovered it on the Avitable site. I have no idea who deserves proper attribution. I presume Mister Avitable will give me proper heck if he so wishes and if he even finds out about it!

My strategy is to keep an even pace. If the clock marks the next minute prior to completion of the thought, the thought dies where it stands. If I finish a thought early I get to start the next one early.

I will permit myself to go back at the end and fix spelling (but not grammar) and perhaps add any formatting, links or images if inclined. But the first-draft words shall be preserved.

Here goes:

1. I love watching clouds at night. Moonlight can create amazing effects with clouds when the positioning is right.

2. I probably shouldn't stare at the moon so much when going for walks. Especially when it’s a full moon and I’ve just had a really big meal because the way I stagger sort of slowly like that - I'm lucky I haven't been mistaken for some kind of monster and had a stake driven through my heart or something.

3. Saw the coolest spider web on my last night-walk. Hung under hydro wires with one massive thick strand stretching right down to the middle of the street! Crazy. Must not have lasted long after I saw it. Quiet street but one car is all it would take...

4. Mind is blank. The blankness of mind. Argle Bargle. Burdle nurdle. Shelob was the giant spider queen from LOTR.

5. Pan’s dog, Zee is fortunate to be alive, lucky that humans were willing to spend thousands to keep him so. He spent much of his puppyhood in doggie intensive care, on IV, getting plasma transfusions and what not.

6. Zee’s latest adventure: He knocked the screen out of an upstairs bedroom window. Pan arrived home to find a crowd on the sidewalk and the pooch looking down at him, standing on a section of roof. Pan just looked up at him and said, ‘You’re an idiot.’

7. My new pal Matman is pulling out of the media business to concentrate on his music. I'm absolutely delighted. Loss of income opportunity for me but I don't give a shit about that. Musicians have a lot better chance of saving their soul than corporation executives according to my calculations.

8. Everyone at work thinks I love cars because my cubicle is filled with Mattel Hot Wheels posters. But that's only because they're free from our client and they cover up the god-awful pea-green-grey military prison theme decor. I hate cars. Loved them as a kid but then I grew up.

9. Cadbury has had a couple recalls in the last year or so - one because they accidentally used waste-water as an ingredient (I think that was in U.K. - not here) and the other was because plastic material got into the chocolate. I could probably get fired for saying so. Which would be excellent.

10. My coffee tastes a little bit like paint remover but not as much as it sometimes does. Yikes, I'm falling behind.

11. I hate voice mail. I can't tell you how much I hate voice mail. For the love of god let us allow voice mail in no heavenly or earthly place but only in hell where it so perfectly belongs.

12. I have a decorative stone on my desk that was surely a gift from a travelling coworker but for the life of me I can’t remember who or where it came from.

13.

Crap! Ran out of time.

Okay. This was a failure but I think I shall try again some time. I challenge all of you, my weird little blog friends to give it a try.

Eramosa Eden

Just a few pics from a recent day-trip with a bunch of writer friends. I love this place.

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