I’m a little tired today. Last night I fell asleep on the couch. The last thing I recall was watching a classic 1973 animated Star Trek episode. It was by my recollection, pretty entertaining. (Yes I know I’m a huge geek. Not just Star Trek, but animated… As if it could get any geekier…) As if an animated Shatner isn’t that much more amusing.
The weather here is ungodly. Today was the first day of respite. That last few days here have been evil. Minus 30 is not what humans were designed for. (Especially this human.) That is the kind of cold that punches you in the face. Since when is November the month when Satan unleashes this foul arctic hatred of his.
I truly believe that hell is frosty, it has to be, because that is the worst punishment I can possibly imagine. Fuck the fires of hell; I’m willing to bet it’s nothing but giant mountainous snow banks. Satan in my humble estimation looks a lot like Frosty the Snowman. (Except his eyes are actually burning coal embers…)
Other stuff…
I listen to the pod cast of Bill Maher’s “Real Time” quite frequently. Today he said something that really struck a chord with me. The easiest path to defeating the Republicans in the next election is to remind Americans that Bush and his cronies spent 4 trillion dollars on tax cuts for the rich, (like Paris Hilton), and on a war that still hasn’t managed to capture and kill Osama Bin Laden. That’s a lot of children left behind.
How many hot meals for the poor is that? How many reconstructed homes in New Orleans? This is despicable on a level that can’t even be fathomed. Go ahead and try… I bet your brain freezes in the process. Why Americans haven’t risen up with torches and pitchforks and run this lunatic outta Washington is beyond me.
In fact the actual price of the war on a per basis is 10,000 dollars. Per minute! Imagine what the poorest family in America could do with 10 grand. The prospects are staggering.
I got to thinking what I would do with 4 trillion dollars. Here’s my list:
1) I would find permanent housing solutions for the people of New Orleans.
2) Schools are dramatically under funded. They need books, computers, and teachers that are paid fairly for the work they do. Most teachers are buckling under the weight of too many kids and next to no support.
3) I would help the people of Afghanistan. Since the invasion, their infrastructure is fucked. A decent quality of life would make the Taliban seem much less tempting I should think.
4) I would actually make a sincere effort to capture Osama Bin Laden. He is a criminal, and needs to be dragged in front of a world tribunal. I would also make a sincere effort to have George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Condi Rice, and Donald Rumsfeld arrested and charged with crimes against humanity.
5) I would rebuild Iraq. (Without the “assistance of Halliburton, or Kellogg, Brown and Root.)
6) I would sponsor a “Steel Cage Match” pitting right wing spin-doctors Sean Hannity, Rush Limbaugh, Anne Coulter, and Bill O’reilley against every single heart broken mother of a soldier that was lost in Iraq. Those hate-fuelled cocksuckers need a smack down in the worst kind of way. Hell Hath no fury like a mother with nothing left to loose. I’ll put the whole wad down on Cindy Sheehan. I find it easy to picture her holding Coulter’s head face down in a puddle of murky water. (I almost find a comfort in that image.)
7) I would buy Kim Jong ill out. With that kinda dough, you know you could take over North Korea. Let’s face it, the man’s whacked, but everybody’s got a price… right?
8) I would pay all the campaign expenses for a run at the presidency for Willie Nelson and Kinky Friedmen. That’s an America the world needs.
9) I would make all HIV / AIDS drugs free for all that need them.
10) I would buy FOX, and give it to Al Gore. (Just to watch Rupert Murdoch shit himself.)
11) I would hire Ralph Klein, and make him get drunk and dance for me. (Oh Yeah, and I want him to sing too… “Buffalo Girls won’t you come out tonight… Come out tonight… Come out tonight…”)
12) And lastly… I would throw a kegger the likes of which no one has ever scene.
Anyway… That’s it for now… More to come as I think of it…
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Better Late Than Never...
The last several weeks have been super busy. Between touring, working and somehow managing to buy a new car, I have managed to run myself ragged. Happily Christmas is coming soon, and I’ll be able to slam on the breaks for a week or so.
For those keeping up, Cranbrook was okay. The shows were pretty much what I expected them to be. Friday sucked, and Saturday was great. Batting .500 is par for the course there.
The new car is great. Erin and I plunked down the cash for a new VW Golf. It rocks. It’s a like having a little silver rocket. I took it on the Deerfoot the other day, and I must say it handles like a dream. Those crazy Germans sure know how to build a car.
This past weekend was a little taxing. I went to Grande Prairie. It can best be described this way: Two days, three shows and 1400 clicks, with little more than a migraine and a few dollars to show for it.
Friday went swimmingly, and the first show on Saturday, which was a corporate no less, went quite well. The later show started out with promise, but descended into hell in just under 20 minutes. Somehow I lost control, and wound up having to fight off three hecklers. I would have been better off if I had just punched myself in the nuts over and over again for the last ten minutes or so. It really would have been easier, and ultimately less painful.
To those drunken mullet headed fuck wits, and you bloody well know who you are. I have only this to say. I HOPE YOU FREEZE TO DEATH IN THAT CRAP HOLE YOU SLITHERED OUT OF. JUST BECAUSE YOU CAN’T READ, OR LISTEN, OR PROCESS THOUGHTS IN A COHESIVE FASHION, DOESN’T MEAN THAT YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO DISPLAY YOUR IGNORACE. I DON’T WANT OR NEED YOUR DRUNKEN BITTERNESS. I HAVE PLENTY OF MY OWN.
Other stuff…
Pammy Anderson’s pulled the plug on her 16-week marriage. Jeez, way to stick it out Pam. (After like 3 wedding ceremonies too…) now that’s what I call tenacity. With that kind of wherewithal it’s of little wonder that my kinfolk are still savagely clubbing seals. She’s truly become a fantastic little homegrown train wreck. Come home, our hearts have swelled with pride. You’re like our very own, less talented Britney Spears. But it could be worse I suppose. You could be our very own, less talented Pink.
Still more stuff…
I’ve been enjoying the fallout from the walloping Bush took in the midterm elections. He still looks pretty shell-shocked. (PTSD for the GOP…) The rats are jumping off this sinking ship faster than Ben Johnson in the middle of a steroid fuelled rage. Rush Limbaugh practically kicked baby Bush in the shins. He couldn’t have distanced himself any faster if he had been the fastest chicken in the slaughterhouse.
Seeing Rick Santorum fuck himself out of his seat was splendid too. His bigoted, anti gay, “women should be barefoot and pregnant” ass finally got the good old-fashioned hate fucking it so richly deserved. Pennsylvania should beam with pride that it has finally stepped into the late 1970’s.
Anyhoo, More to come as I think of it.
For those keeping up, Cranbrook was okay. The shows were pretty much what I expected them to be. Friday sucked, and Saturday was great. Batting .500 is par for the course there.
The new car is great. Erin and I plunked down the cash for a new VW Golf. It rocks. It’s a like having a little silver rocket. I took it on the Deerfoot the other day, and I must say it handles like a dream. Those crazy Germans sure know how to build a car.
This past weekend was a little taxing. I went to Grande Prairie. It can best be described this way: Two days, three shows and 1400 clicks, with little more than a migraine and a few dollars to show for it.
Friday went swimmingly, and the first show on Saturday, which was a corporate no less, went quite well. The later show started out with promise, but descended into hell in just under 20 minutes. Somehow I lost control, and wound up having to fight off three hecklers. I would have been better off if I had just punched myself in the nuts over and over again for the last ten minutes or so. It really would have been easier, and ultimately less painful.
To those drunken mullet headed fuck wits, and you bloody well know who you are. I have only this to say. I HOPE YOU FREEZE TO DEATH IN THAT CRAP HOLE YOU SLITHERED OUT OF. JUST BECAUSE YOU CAN’T READ, OR LISTEN, OR PROCESS THOUGHTS IN A COHESIVE FASHION, DOESN’T MEAN THAT YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO DISPLAY YOUR IGNORACE. I DON’T WANT OR NEED YOUR DRUNKEN BITTERNESS. I HAVE PLENTY OF MY OWN.
Other stuff…
Pammy Anderson’s pulled the plug on her 16-week marriage. Jeez, way to stick it out Pam. (After like 3 wedding ceremonies too…) now that’s what I call tenacity. With that kind of wherewithal it’s of little wonder that my kinfolk are still savagely clubbing seals. She’s truly become a fantastic little homegrown train wreck. Come home, our hearts have swelled with pride. You’re like our very own, less talented Britney Spears. But it could be worse I suppose. You could be our very own, less talented Pink.
Still more stuff…
I’ve been enjoying the fallout from the walloping Bush took in the midterm elections. He still looks pretty shell-shocked. (PTSD for the GOP…) The rats are jumping off this sinking ship faster than Ben Johnson in the middle of a steroid fuelled rage. Rush Limbaugh practically kicked baby Bush in the shins. He couldn’t have distanced himself any faster if he had been the fastest chicken in the slaughterhouse.
Seeing Rick Santorum fuck himself out of his seat was splendid too. His bigoted, anti gay, “women should be barefoot and pregnant” ass finally got the good old-fashioned hate fucking it so richly deserved. Pennsylvania should beam with pride that it has finally stepped into the late 1970’s.
Anyhoo, More to come as I think of it.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Some Thoughts on The Aftermath...
I was tickled pink at hearing Bush announce that Donald (The soulless ghoul…) Rumsfeld will no longer be the secretary of defense. Better still was listening to him try and placate the public, who dropped a bunker buster on his political majority. Seeing Bush grovel at the new Democrat masters was lovely. It was clear to all who watched his new conference this afternoon; George’s world has been rocked. (It’s about fucking time…) You’d almost swear he developed a nervous tick overnight. At least he didn’t start pouting in public. (I bet he called his mommy though…)
However, the best piece of news coming from the election yesterday was the crushing defeat of Rick Santorum. Finally that hate monger has been put in his place. His political career has been eviscerated. Now he’s nothing more than human chum. Hopefully he’ll slither back under his rock, never to be seen again. (He kinda reminds me of Golem, but in a thousand dollar business suit…)
Perhaps a new day really is dawning in America. Mind you, putting this bit in the president’s horsey mouth smacks more of protest than of any sort of real desire to change. The Democrats aren’t really all that different than the Republicans these days. (Other than they have unwillingness to engage the later on the same level.)
Can these “Shiftless” Liberals really begin the undo the damage caused by the last six years of greed orientated Conservatives? Who knows, but as near as I can figure, anything’s better than another day of unrestrained Conservative external policy.
Regardless, Bush has been refocused. He’s now officially a lame duck. He’d be better off now by turning to legacy projects and letting the real governance be handled by those newly elected folks who are still excited to be headed to Washington. (For some reason I picture them whistling while they work…)
However, the best piece of news coming from the election yesterday was the crushing defeat of Rick Santorum. Finally that hate monger has been put in his place. His political career has been eviscerated. Now he’s nothing more than human chum. Hopefully he’ll slither back under his rock, never to be seen again. (He kinda reminds me of Golem, but in a thousand dollar business suit…)
Perhaps a new day really is dawning in America. Mind you, putting this bit in the president’s horsey mouth smacks more of protest than of any sort of real desire to change. The Democrats aren’t really all that different than the Republicans these days. (Other than they have unwillingness to engage the later on the same level.)
Can these “Shiftless” Liberals really begin the undo the damage caused by the last six years of greed orientated Conservatives? Who knows, but as near as I can figure, anything’s better than another day of unrestrained Conservative external policy.
Regardless, Bush has been refocused. He’s now officially a lame duck. He’d be better off now by turning to legacy projects and letting the real governance be handled by those newly elected folks who are still excited to be headed to Washington. (For some reason I picture them whistling while they work…)
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
When You Wish Upon a Star...
“All endangered species leave endangered feces,
If you knew how bad they smelt, you would gladly
Take their pelt…” – Corky and The Juice Pigs
Open Letter to Paris Hilton.
Dear Paris,
It has come to my attention via MSN that you desire to have a star on the Hollywood walk of fame. Once I wiped my eyes, caught my breath, and generally regained my composure, I quickly began to realize that you were serious.
First off, let me say that it’s entirely more likely that Hitler would get a tree planted on the path of the righteous in Jerusalem, than say… you getting a star on the walk of fame. That may sound harsh, but it’s the gospel truth. This may rain on your parade, but at least it’s not a golden shower. (For once…) Your 15 minutes of fame has already lasted too long. How you’ve managed to stretch it this far is a miracle onto itself.
Generally speaking, the people who receive a star on the walk have made some sort of tangible contribution to the entertainment industry. (Other than orally pleasuring a sleaze merchant in a home movie…) Let’s face it… So far your achievements have been somewhat dubious. Sure you’ve diversified since your first “on camera” performance, but let’s call a spade a spade here. It’s all utter shit.
Your mere musings about getting a star earn you a place in infamy. I almost admire that kind of gall. This total lack of shame is an unpleasant reminder of just how fucked Hollywood really is, and more specifically you are a cautionary tale to all those who would spoil the ever living shit out of their children.
You are like a Grim Brothers’ fairy tale come to life. You are a wolf in wolves clothing.
But let’s turn to your meagre offerings. Perhaps I’m wrong.
As near as I can tell, your music career can be best described as more artificial that Madonna’s intentions for adoption, (Fuck you Brangelina! You’re not the only ones who can get a pet African…) and that single sounds like someone smacking around a pregnant house cat with a rattan rug beater. Calling it a sack of crap is an insult to sacks of crap everywhere. It has almost caused my to question my faith in a higher power.
As for your achievements in cinema… The most inspiring moment to date has been seeing you get a shaft of wood lodged into your head (Somewhat ironic I would argue…) in the less than inspiried “House of Wax” (Equally ironic don’t you think?).
Everyone I know cheered when we saw that footage. We actually played it over and over again. It has become my Zapruder film. It brings a tear to my eye each and every time I watch it. Back and to the Right Paris… Back and to the right!!!
Watching you act is about as uncomfortable to me as watching “Deliverance” over and over again. It makes my stomach churn, and repeatedly forces me to avert my eyes. (Yet sometimes I have to peek between fanned out fingers…)
Television really wasn’t much better for you either. You and that dopey Ritchie kid’s adventures through the lands that evolutionists chose to forget about had little to write home about. Being the biggest cock tease in reality TV history leaves an indelible mark, but it’s hardly something to be proud of. For the record, it’s not HOT… It’s downright tragic.
You are a hateful, spoiled, and rotten. One-day karma will come a calling. Hopefully you’ll wind up as a permanent cast member on Hollywood Squares. Perhaps you’ll be one seat above Gordon Jump and one below the guy who played Mad Murdock on the “A-Team.” I can think of no better a punishment. The sooner you’re a footnote in entertainment history, the better for all of us.
If you really wanna leave a mark, how about starting a foundation for the victims of amoral, vapid, culturally bankrupt, wannabe stars who trample over those that they cannot fuck on their way up the social ladder.
No Star for you. Not now, not ever.
If you knew how bad they smelt, you would gladly
Take their pelt…” – Corky and The Juice Pigs
Open Letter to Paris Hilton.
Dear Paris,
It has come to my attention via MSN that you desire to have a star on the Hollywood walk of fame. Once I wiped my eyes, caught my breath, and generally regained my composure, I quickly began to realize that you were serious.
First off, let me say that it’s entirely more likely that Hitler would get a tree planted on the path of the righteous in Jerusalem, than say… you getting a star on the walk of fame. That may sound harsh, but it’s the gospel truth. This may rain on your parade, but at least it’s not a golden shower. (For once…) Your 15 minutes of fame has already lasted too long. How you’ve managed to stretch it this far is a miracle onto itself.
Generally speaking, the people who receive a star on the walk have made some sort of tangible contribution to the entertainment industry. (Other than orally pleasuring a sleaze merchant in a home movie…) Let’s face it… So far your achievements have been somewhat dubious. Sure you’ve diversified since your first “on camera” performance, but let’s call a spade a spade here. It’s all utter shit.
Your mere musings about getting a star earn you a place in infamy. I almost admire that kind of gall. This total lack of shame is an unpleasant reminder of just how fucked Hollywood really is, and more specifically you are a cautionary tale to all those who would spoil the ever living shit out of their children.
You are like a Grim Brothers’ fairy tale come to life. You are a wolf in wolves clothing.
But let’s turn to your meagre offerings. Perhaps I’m wrong.
As near as I can tell, your music career can be best described as more artificial that Madonna’s intentions for adoption, (Fuck you Brangelina! You’re not the only ones who can get a pet African…) and that single sounds like someone smacking around a pregnant house cat with a rattan rug beater. Calling it a sack of crap is an insult to sacks of crap everywhere. It has almost caused my to question my faith in a higher power.
As for your achievements in cinema… The most inspiring moment to date has been seeing you get a shaft of wood lodged into your head (Somewhat ironic I would argue…) in the less than inspiried “House of Wax” (Equally ironic don’t you think?).
Everyone I know cheered when we saw that footage. We actually played it over and over again. It has become my Zapruder film. It brings a tear to my eye each and every time I watch it. Back and to the Right Paris… Back and to the right!!!
Watching you act is about as uncomfortable to me as watching “Deliverance” over and over again. It makes my stomach churn, and repeatedly forces me to avert my eyes. (Yet sometimes I have to peek between fanned out fingers…)
Television really wasn’t much better for you either. You and that dopey Ritchie kid’s adventures through the lands that evolutionists chose to forget about had little to write home about. Being the biggest cock tease in reality TV history leaves an indelible mark, but it’s hardly something to be proud of. For the record, it’s not HOT… It’s downright tragic.
You are a hateful, spoiled, and rotten. One-day karma will come a calling. Hopefully you’ll wind up as a permanent cast member on Hollywood Squares. Perhaps you’ll be one seat above Gordon Jump and one below the guy who played Mad Murdock on the “A-Team.” I can think of no better a punishment. The sooner you’re a footnote in entertainment history, the better for all of us.
If you really wanna leave a mark, how about starting a foundation for the victims of amoral, vapid, culturally bankrupt, wannabe stars who trample over those that they cannot fuck on their way up the social ladder.
No Star for you. Not now, not ever.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
I like Touching My Balls...
Last night I did a show in Evansburg Alberta. The show went reasonably well, with only a minor hitch or two along the way. The crowd was nice, but not as rowdy as I would have expected. In every respect it was your typical rural town watering hole. (Although cleaner than most.) The first thing I noticed when I walked into the bar was a shrine to Dale Earnhardt junior. It was a little odd I thought, but not to be unexpected. People in small towns like racing. They love it in fact. The whole thing is lost on me.
I have to admit, I loathe NASCAR. I just don’t get it. Watching cars go round and round in a circle for a few hours is fucking boring. Truly I’ve a hard time imagining anything that might be more boring to me. I’ve sat through insurance seminars, and mid level marketing pitches that were light years more interesting. I would rather push needles into my eyes, and be forced to watch “Mary Kate and Ashley go to Europe” (The outtakes in Amsterdam are not to be missed! At one point Ashley gets sold by Mary Kate to a sex show for a carton of smokes and a mickey of Absinthe… And the hilarity ensues…) than ever spend an afternoon watching NASCAR.
But I digressed, after the show, the other comics and I sat with the owner of the pub, and proceeded to get blotto. It was nice to sit around a get shit faced and shoot the shit for a while. The owner of the venue likes comedy a lot, and has surprisingly very sophisticated tastes. He knew his shit, which is totally nice to see. It sure beats those venues where the staff treats you like a karaoke machine, or sees you as the latest form of trash they’ve been forced to foist on stage.
When I finally crashed out at the hotel, I wound up having a very strange dream. I dreamt that I was performing at a show, and things were going reasonably well (Not the odd part…) when suddenly the fire alarm went off. People started panicking, and for some reason the best I could muster was to stand there and jiggle my nuts.
People were screaming, smoke started to fill the room, and I just stood there with a big fat idiot grin, rooting around with my ball sack. It was the best I could do in the situation. That’s fucked. (That’s inkblot and straightjacket fucked!)
It’s important to note, that I did not panic. It was quite the opposite in fact. The world was burning around me, and I happily failed to see the sense of urgent emergency and impending doom. I was like Nero, but the fiddling was entirely different.
The dream really bothered me. I’d like to think in the middle of chaos I would react in a fashion that’s dictated by the moment.
But in a strange way, this dream is kinda like how I imagine George Bush reacts to a crisis. Given that he looks like a cross between Glen Quagmire and Alfred E. Neumann, it’s really not hard to imagine him playing pocket pool in the middle of the maelstrom.
This is what I picture in my mind’s eye. Condi Rice spinning in a circle, screaming something like “Sweet Jesus, We’re all gonna die…” and Donald Rumsfeld running around with a fire extinguisher barking out “Outta my way, I’m a fucking hero you bitches…”
Dick Cheney is putting his “Emperor” from Star Wars robes on, while rubbing his hands together like Golem. “Soon the precious will be mine… Muahahahahahahahahaha!”
And Georgie boy is just standing there having a good ole Texas style root at his berries.
Now that’s what I call “The Leader of the Free World.”
Good news, only two days left until all those evil fuckers get a massive shake up. Soon George will be an early lame duck, and congress will be run by shiftless Liberals. This will likely not change the amount ball massages in Washington, but at least the Republicans will be castrated.
End of Transmission.
I have to admit, I loathe NASCAR. I just don’t get it. Watching cars go round and round in a circle for a few hours is fucking boring. Truly I’ve a hard time imagining anything that might be more boring to me. I’ve sat through insurance seminars, and mid level marketing pitches that were light years more interesting. I would rather push needles into my eyes, and be forced to watch “Mary Kate and Ashley go to Europe” (The outtakes in Amsterdam are not to be missed! At one point Ashley gets sold by Mary Kate to a sex show for a carton of smokes and a mickey of Absinthe… And the hilarity ensues…) than ever spend an afternoon watching NASCAR.
But I digressed, after the show, the other comics and I sat with the owner of the pub, and proceeded to get blotto. It was nice to sit around a get shit faced and shoot the shit for a while. The owner of the venue likes comedy a lot, and has surprisingly very sophisticated tastes. He knew his shit, which is totally nice to see. It sure beats those venues where the staff treats you like a karaoke machine, or sees you as the latest form of trash they’ve been forced to foist on stage.
When I finally crashed out at the hotel, I wound up having a very strange dream. I dreamt that I was performing at a show, and things were going reasonably well (Not the odd part…) when suddenly the fire alarm went off. People started panicking, and for some reason the best I could muster was to stand there and jiggle my nuts.
People were screaming, smoke started to fill the room, and I just stood there with a big fat idiot grin, rooting around with my ball sack. It was the best I could do in the situation. That’s fucked. (That’s inkblot and straightjacket fucked!)
It’s important to note, that I did not panic. It was quite the opposite in fact. The world was burning around me, and I happily failed to see the sense of urgent emergency and impending doom. I was like Nero, but the fiddling was entirely different.
The dream really bothered me. I’d like to think in the middle of chaos I would react in a fashion that’s dictated by the moment.
But in a strange way, this dream is kinda like how I imagine George Bush reacts to a crisis. Given that he looks like a cross between Glen Quagmire and Alfred E. Neumann, it’s really not hard to imagine him playing pocket pool in the middle of the maelstrom.
This is what I picture in my mind’s eye. Condi Rice spinning in a circle, screaming something like “Sweet Jesus, We’re all gonna die…” and Donald Rumsfeld running around with a fire extinguisher barking out “Outta my way, I’m a fucking hero you bitches…”
Dick Cheney is putting his “Emperor” from Star Wars robes on, while rubbing his hands together like Golem. “Soon the precious will be mine… Muahahahahahahahahaha!”
And Georgie boy is just standing there having a good ole Texas style root at his berries.
Now that’s what I call “The Leader of the Free World.”
Good news, only two days left until all those evil fuckers get a massive shake up. Soon George will be an early lame duck, and congress will be run by shiftless Liberals. This will likely not change the amount ball massages in Washington, but at least the Republicans will be castrated.
End of Transmission.
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