A place for a cynical person to write his cynical petty little thoughts and musings.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

The Horrifying Travels of Winnie The Pooh

Winnie has been all over the world and has encountered many a danger. Dangers worst than the Huffalump, or being stuck in a tree. Let’s take a moment now to view a few photos of Winnie’s journey across the world.

We begin in Madagascar where a wild cat has pounced and quickly devoured our friend Winnie. We see Winnie is pleased with the situation as the rough tongue of the cat moves across his upper torso and makes him feel loved for the first time in his life.

Next Winnie is off to a Maine beach, where he got crabs. Not that type of crab you filthy bastard! While eating some of the smaller variety this fellow took revenge and snapped Winnie up. Winnie’s smile is due to the fact he has melted butter in his pocket and plans to eat his way out, while doing his best backwards impression of an Alien being born.

Then it’s off to the Land Down Under, Australia where this bloke jumped Winnie and scarfed him down. Winnie is as shocked as we are, mainly because he too can’t identify this strange animal.

Wild Africa, and this time a giraffe. No worries though, Winnie’s head is bigger than this fellows throat. The giraffe will slowly choke to death and Winnie will crawl out free as a bird.

“Ha, ha! The lion’s stomach acid tickles my toes!”

Then to the frigid waters of Alaska where Winnie went clubbing seals. This fellow didn’t care to watch his buddies beaten to bloody pulpy pups and ended it fast. “So cold, hard to stay awake… mustn’t fall asleep.”

And as in the circle of life this Orca eats the seal that ate Winnie. Winnie smiles in spite of himself at the absolute absurdity of the situation.

While in southwest Asia this goat stampedes towards Winnie, opens it’s gaping maw and swallows Winnie whole. This goat, as can be seen by the distinctive markings on it’s chest is a member of the Numbobby Cult. A sect that believes true inner peace can only be found by being in the mouth of another species. Winnie tries to meditate upon this as his foot slowly snakes down the goat’s small intestine.

Back in The Hundred Acre Woods Winnie realizes the sucker he’s been all his life and borrowing a page from Dr. Hannibal Lecter kills and skins Tigger to wear him as a disguise. “Now where is that little fucker Piglet… I wish to wear him as gloves.”

Saturday, May 5, 2007

Fight To The Death- Or To The Kitchen

It's a beautiful day in the land of broken dreams, so I went out on my bike to pick up some toiletries. I only do such things on a beautiful day, which means I'm one stinky bastard come winter.

I got home and collapsed on the couch. A twenty-minute bike ride to the Shopper's Drugmart can really take it out of you. I heard noises upstairs of banging around and general scurrying. Our cat, Smudgie had moved into crazy time. Crazy time is when a cat's eyes go as big as saucers and for no understandable reason the cat charges around the house in a gallop with the odd howling meow. I looked at my watch. 1:00PM, crazy time was early. This primal type of behaviour doesn't usually happen until after dark. I didn't think much of it though.

I heard him coming down the stairs behind my head. Usually if he's coming down when I get home it means he's looking for a lap to curl up on. Craning my head to look up the stairs I noticed my white with butterscotch dotted cat looked abnormally gray. Upon closer inspection Smudge had gained a ringed tail and pointy nose. Slowly it all came together, it's not crazy time, Smudgie is indeed white with butterscotch dots, had a regular cat like nose and was in fact not a raccoon.

I jumped into action grabbing the raccoon’s mortal enemy, the broom. Or as I like to call it my broomstick-boomstick and raced upstairs. The broomstick-boomstick is also an enemy of bats, stray cats, children who steal pies that are cooling from my windowsill and dust bunnies. The broomstick-boomstick has no known predators itself. At the top of the stairs was my actual cat about three times his normal size, and shedding everywhere. Much like a blowfish the cat puffs up to scare intruders, then irritates their allergies. It works on both raccoons and in-laws. I grabbed Smudge who was as stiff as a board and threw his hissing hair shedding body into the study.

The raccoon had retreated into our bedroom, and was riffling through my underwear drawer, like the perverted abomination of nature he was. I cocked the broomstick-boomstick and let loose a stream of floor slams. He ducked and lost eye contact. It looked like he had gone under the bed. Great, if he finds my old Playboys under there, I’ll never get him out. Unless I get lucky and he’s one of those rare gay raccoons. It was my lucky day, he was. As I shoved the broomstick-boomstick under the bed he darted out behind the window curtain. I drew my blade and was about to strike when I remembered my training as a thespian, I couldn’t risk killing the King’s advisor, Polonius, so I yelled profanities until he came out.

Raccoons are all of the Christian Right and hate any profanities. So I started screaming about how abortions should be legal, the war is really about oil and evolution must be taught on our schools. It worked, the raccoon was so offended he darted down the stairs, through the kitchen and out on the balcony.

I followed; he was now hiding under my wife’s bike, presumably trying to cut the locks to make off with it. Two years ago someone ripped off her bike. Now I had a suspect. Using the broomstick-boomstick I frightened him to the edge of the balcony. We faced each other eye to eye, for a brief moment I had respect for my enemy. This creature who was raised in the alleys and the muck, so desperate to have what I did, a home, a family and a very puffy cat. I snapped out of it and yelled, “Don’t you ever come back here!” and poked at him until he fell onto the tree and scurried away. My family was safe. I was reunited with Smudgie and we celebrated our victory with a cold beer. Smudgie’s shaken, it’s gonna take some time for him to get over this. As I type he is still checking ever nook and cranny in the house. We may have to move from here and start over…

Blood thirsty fiend

Saturday, April 21, 2007

Comedy Review- Smokin' Aces


Starring: Jeremy Piven, Ray Liotta, Ryan Reynolds, Ben Affleck, Alicia Keys

With a nod, or perhaps a slap to the face of Quentin Tarantino comes Smokin’ Aces. The film’s concept is a simple one. Jeremy Piven playing basically the role of Jeremy Piven is a magician named Buddy 'Aces' Israel with a primadonna complex and some lame card tricks. Through a very fast flashback we see that he rose from being a Vegas lounge act to mafia leader in what seemed to be a matter of weeks. And that folks is all the character development you’re gonna get. For immunity “Aces” goes to the FBI to rat out another mafia boss Primo Sparazza who’s story we learn from another 30-second flashback, and if memory serves he never utters a line of dialogue in this entire movie. This prompts a bounty of a million clams on Aces head and 7 hit men/women of various wackiness come a runnin'. Their character development consists of that’s right, you guessed it, 30-second flashbacks! Conveniently, each time a new character emerges their name appears in subtitles beneath them. Good thing, because it you closed your eyes for a second you’ll miss it all.

The problem with this film is that you never get any time with any character, thus never giving a flying fuck about any of them. Even the good guy FBI agents, Ryan Reynolds and Ray Liotta get little more than a few minutes of dialogue with each other, but come off as a 2 dimensional picture of an FBI man.

One group after Aces is three-bail bondsmen lead by Ben Affleck, who are quickly put away with by the more psychotic hit man group. The least experienced of the three survives and ends up in the country with a white trash grandma and her ADD karate loving erection prone grandson. I’m not sure why this side story exists since it doesn’t seem to have any bearing on the plot, nor does anything get resolved. In fact the movie loves not resolving things. After seeing it you’ll lie in bed at night and say to yourself, “I wonder what happened to that character?” then before drifting off to sleep you’ll remember that you don’t really care.

About three quarters into the film you see what you really came to see. Mainly hit men tripping over each other and killing one another in fun and fantastic ways. And for a few minutes you forget that you don’t care about anyone here and enjoy the senseless violence.

There are some laughs in this Comedy/Action. Though the characters are very 2 dimensional, the laughs are born out of their perchance for violence, and what is supposed to be snappy dialogue. We’ve seen it before, people about to commit crimes of violence and talking about things unrelated. There are two female assassins that are particularly enjoyable to watch as one extols the rhetoric of feminism before getting ready to blow off people’s heads.

The major issue here is that no one actor gets enough screen time to make a meal out of the character they are given. It’s got a lot of talented performers, but it’s like being on the bus with them. It’s cool to see them there, just not all that entertaining.

The best part of this film was the ending, where Reynolds’s character does something so unbelievably unrealistic the audience at once all says, “Yeah, right!” But then again I’m a sucker for a crowd of people being disappointed all at once, and once the lights in the theatre came up and I saw all the disappointed faces I had to laugh out loud.

Why You Should See It: Jason Bateman’s cameo, though completely irrelevant to the film is just damned funny and a touch shocking.

Why You Shouldn’t See It: It’s entirely forgettable and the actors are wasted.

Funny Factor: Some good laughs, but just doesn’t make up for the negatives.

What To See Instead: Check out Pulp Fiction for the violent humour, or watch It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World for a film that managed character development with dozens of characters that trip over each other.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Grocery Day

You know I enjoy shopping. Send me out for CDs, DVDs, books or gadgets and I'm great. There are two things I hate shopping for that is greeting cards and shoes. There are very few greeting cards that I feel are humorous enough to actually give to someone. I have never looked at a greeting card and thought, "Wow, this fart joke really encapsulates my feelings towards my good friend Tom." As for shoe shopping, well, it's just dull, plus those stores all smell funny.

The strangest thing to go shopping for is groceries. I do a fair amount of the grocery shopping in my household. My wife works from home and it just makes more sense that I stop on the way home for the food. There really isn't anywhere on my wife's commute from the bedroom to the office to buy much of anything. Occasionally the cat will have a Gucci knockoff handbag or Rolex with three x's, but how many of those can one family really need?

Shopping for food always seems a little futile. It's not like clothing or entertainment. Dole never comes out with a flashy new must have apple. You never see kids saving up to get that head of lettuce everyone is talking about. Basically you buy something that will either be gone in a week and you'll have to buy again, or it will turn into a pile of mush in the dark nether regions of your crisper.

I tend to stick to the things I know. Boneless chicken breast, lettuce, cucumber, buns, lunchmeats, bananas, grapes, soymilk and red/green/yellow peppers (all of which taste the same, don't be fooled). My wife likes the fringe or outcast food, like arugula or feta cheese. Cheese shouldn't crumble, and best I can tell arugala is an angry lettuce or something.

The most entertaining part of the grocery trip is always the checkout line. This is where I get all my news. From Britney Spears latest cootch flash to the whereabouts of the beloved Bat Boy. These are the things I read whilst the woman in front of me runs off because she forgot a lemon. My thought is that the second you put your purchases on the conveyor belt, its game over, you are committed. I'm pretty sure that's why many people have children, so that they can keep the place in line while the kid runs off to get the wrong type of spaghetti sauce again and again.

There is one cashier at my local supermarket who I call Slow George. He is dreadfully slow at the checkout. He very carefully examines everything you buy as he runs it against the scanner. I like to imagine he is looking at the purchases and imagining what kind of life you live. "Pizza, cola and sugary breakfast cereal- bachelor," or "3 bags of milk, 2 cartons of eggs, a 6 pack of Kleenex- mother of three," or "Cucumber, pepper squash, bananas, watermelon and a hand drill- pervert."

In reality though I think slow George is sizing up how he feels about the food, "I like ramen noodles, ohhh I don't like turnips at all, apples are nice. I wonder if I'll ever feel the touch of a woman. I bet a woman's breasts feel like apples. All smooth and clean with a sticker on them..."

The impulse items at the cash are pretty fantastic too. Chocolate bars and condoms. For the longest time I thought condoms were just chocolate bar holders. Cozies if you will. I would suggest getting unlubricated though if you are going to use them for this. Otherwise it makes your Kit Kat hard to hold on to.

If you want some real fun don't put that little divider down after your purchases. One of two things will happen. The person behind you will leave a huge foot long space between your groceries and theirs, or they will keep the stuff in their arms until yours have been moved through. As though your food is leprous, and their food might catch it. Or they are just plain stuck up and don't want their rhubarb cavorting with your hostess ding-dongs. Then pay for everything with pennies. People love that.

Saturday, April 14, 2007

The Future

That's what the good people at Perception Labratories thinks I'll look like as an old man. Handsome dodger isn't he. Try it for yourself here.

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

Help Save Smiths Falls!

I just discovered there is an on-line petition to keep the Hershey's Plant from moving to Mexico. Go sign it:


Tuesday, March 13, 2007

I Shut Herseys Down

Recently Hersheys the chocolate maker announced that they will be shutting down their Canadian Plant and moving it to Mexico to lower their costs. The plant is located in Smiths Falls, Ontario, my hometown. I grew up a mere two blocks away from the plant and every morning would awaken to the delightful smell of fresh chocolate that spread throughout our neighborhood. That was until the sewage treatment plant was built downwind of us. Then there was a weird cocoa poop smell. We were never sure if it ruined chocolate for us, or increased our love of feces.

Smiths Falls doesn’t have a lot of industry. The biggest employer was the Rideau Regional Centre, a long-term hospital for mentally handicapped people that were too sick or dangerous to themselves and others to live outside the centre. That hospital employed 800 people and is in the process of closing its doors too. Hersheys employees 500 people and is one of the very few tourist attractions in Smiths Falls, after all no one wants to visit a mentally handicapped hospital or it’s gift store, “I visited the Rideau Regional Centre and all I got was this lousy Congenital Minamata”

So we look at the numbers, 1,300 people out of work, plus the dairy farmers that provide the 39 million liters of milk each year to Hersheys and all the tourism spots and restaurant workers and associated businesses that will close in a town of only 9,000 people. If we estimate the numbers we come out with the percentage of the population in Smiths Falls unemployed by these two closures being somewhere around… fucked%. That’s right fucked%. A small town like this can’t survive such a hit.

Over the years I’ve known lots of people who worked at the Hersheys, it was a mainstay of high school students in the summer. Living just down the street I used to look at the door at midnight when the night shift was over and get caught up with my buddy Gord as he biked home after a long day. Friends, family and their family and friends have all worked there. There are quite a few couples and entire broods that depend on that plant to put more than just peanut butter cups on the table.

I have to blame myself for it though. The Hershey plant has always given free chocolate bars when you either took the self guided tour or went into the warehouse store and bought something. My friends and I would get on our bikes and head over to buy a Nut Milk Bar, the cheapest thing they had at the time at $0.45 and come out with three full sized free chocolate bars. That’s the only explanation I have for them needing to move the plant to Mexico to save money. I and my friends triple handedly broke Hersheys twenty years ago and they never recovered. I am dreadfully sorry to all the workers, farmers, truck drivers and tourism businesses whose livelihood I have unwittingly destroyed.

But on a serious note I hear a lot of people saying they will boycott Hersheys as a result of the closure. Please don’t do this, at least not right now. If they stop selling the chocolate now, they will lay off workers prior to shutting down the factory, your well-intentioned actions will do more harm than good for the workers there. They’ll need ever hour they can get while the place is open. The plant is set to close sometime in 2008, so please keep buying the product until then. Then move to Cadbury’s, at least they still have a plant in Canada.

Wednesday, March 7, 2007

Stranger, Why Do You Hate Me?

Last week I was on the subway homeward bound from the misery machine (my cute pet name for the office). I was laughing with my co-worker about something when a grimy man walked by, looked me in the eye and loudly and bitterly imitated my laugh.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I have always felt that mocking someone’s laugh is up there with the most hurtful things you can tease someone for. Laughter is joy escaping your body involuntarily, and then to have someone walk up to you and essentially say, “You sound retarded,” is a pretty hurtful thing.

I turned to my co-worker and said, “That was weird,” and continued talking. A few stops later we were talking about our weekend plans. I mentioned how my wife and I would be going futon shopping. The grimy man passed by again this time yelling at me, “Yeah right! Whatever!”

Now it would be a different story if he had been yelling at other people. I would then feel like part of a social clique. When you are the only one pointed out you feel more like a loser than anything else.

I answered him by saying, “See if you get to sleep over on my new futon. The couch is the best you’ll get!”

I started to get paranoid, why did this man hate me so much? Do I remind him of someone? Perhaps when I was in seventh grade he was the kid I laughed at when I heard over kids had put chocolate covered ex-lax in his desk and he gobbled it up. Maybe he was just around the corner and heard me laughing about it and has held a grudge all these years until it all came spilling out now during a chance meeting on the TTC.

Just before our stop he once again passed by and made a noise “blah-blagh-blah!” The man hated me so much he couldn’t find words to express himself.

We got off the subway to change subway lines and he was walking just ahead of us. He stopped a small Asian woman, pointed me out and said something more about me. I have no idea if the woman agreed with him or not. I was more concerned that he was recruiting people into his I Hate Jason Club.

My co-worker ever helpful suggested it might be my red coat, “He may be half bull or something.”

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Subway Offenders

There are many offensive things people do on the subway. This is only a partial list of some of the worst of those offenses and the punishment recommended for those that commit them.

The Pole Leaner
The Offense
Leaning against the pole with entire body, thus preventing anyone else from grabbing hold. The victims of this crime can usually be found rolling around the train like marbles as a result of not being able to brace themselves.

The Punishment
The Leaner is taped with industrial strength duct tape to the pole and every person on the subway gets to touch them.

The Seat Hog
The Offense
The Seat Hog feels the need to sit in the aisle seat regardless of it the window seat is empty. The worst offenders when asked to move merely twist in their seats 45 degrees forcing you to squeeze by them.

The Punishment
The Seat Hog is forced to sit in their aisle seat while one hundred large hairy men with only their underwear squeezes by them. The temperature is increased one-quarter a degree with each man, thus ensuring the last few will be good and sweaty.

The Stinky Guy
The Offense
For whatever reason this guy feels deodorant or cleaning one’s self to be a sin. He of course will sit next to you.

The Punishment
High powered fire hoses and being force fed bars of Dove Soap.

The Stand In
The Offense
This cheery little fellow stands obviously in the doorway of the subway and doesn’t move out of the way at any of the stops. Others are then forced to either squeeze by him or just plain miss their stop

The Punishment
If he likes standing in the doorway so much, perhaps he’d like to ride on the outside of the train. He will be strapped to the outside of the sliding doors and face the terror that is the subway tunnel walls two inches from his face and the train screams through them.

The Offence
Loudy likes music, Loudy likes music loud. Everyone else on the train is forced to listen to Loudy’s music for the duration of the trip. In extreme cases Loudy will sing along.

The Punishment
Loudy is placed in a sound proof chamber and has to listen to Cameo’s “Word Up” until the CD deteriorates in the player or offenders ears retract into his head.

The Fingernail Clipper
The Offense
Apparently this offender is so busy that he must use his commute time for personal grooming. He clips his nails on the subway producing that sickening snap noise and small pieces of his own body to go flying across the train, bouncing off other’s foreheads, into their drinks and eyes.

The Punishment
First the offender is dipped in a large vat of crazy glue and then is transferred to a large washbasin filled with other people’s toe and fingernail clippings and shaken for an hour.

The Giant Bagger
The Offense
This Sheba-like offender feels that there is no place like home, unless you are carrying every belonging you own on your back. His huge bag knocks others over like wobbly pins in a bowling alley. Due to the mass of the bag this fellow doesn’t even notice the chaos he creates in his wake.

The Punishment
He may only ride the subway if he is concealed in the giant bag himself.

The Sleeper
The Offense
The Sleeper is not only a dozy fellow, but he has the habit of letting his head flop down upon other unsuspecting passengers. He may wake up and wipe the drool off his chin, but you know he’ll be back on your shoulder again within five minutes.

The Punishment
The Sleeper is transported from the train without being awakened to the local zoo and placed gently in the loin’s den.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Woman On The Subway This Morning

Dear Woman On The Subway This Morning,

I’d like to apologize for my blatant lie to you this morning. You may recall that before you sat next to me you picked up a sheet of paper from the seat and asked, “Is This Yours?” I answered that it was not. This was a lie. The sheet of paper in question was a promotional wrap around cover for the Toronto Star, that announced in bold letters that the paper was complimentary as a gift from some company or other that was advertising their wares on the wrap around cover. I of course was reading the very paper this sheet was wrapped around when you asked me this question.

Firstly, I should state that it was not a complete lie. I did not purchase nor did I pick up that paper from a stand, it was on the seat before I got on the subway. Technically it is not my newspaper, however as I understand it possession is nine-tenths of the law. Which I suppose would mean it was my sheet of paper.

So now that I have apologized, and I do hope you forgive me for my grave indiscretion, I do have some explanations as to why I lied, which I have listed here:

a) The way you threateningly waved the sheet of paper around when you asked if it was mine took me off guard. I felt a little bit as though I was back in grade school and the schoolmarm had confiscated my button of with the picture of pop star tiffany with no top on. Perhaps the flashback to this time triggered something deep within and I was afraid you would call my parents.

b) I was ashamed that I had to take a “complimentary paper” rather than shelling out the $1.25 for the regular paper. What would you think of me if you knew I was too cheap to purchase the newspaper?

c) I was already embarrassed I had laughed so hard at the Marmaduke comic. I mean really, when will that dog learn he’s not supposed to be on the couch?

As you can see all are very valid reasons for my covering up of the truth. I hope you find it on your heart to forgive me for the lying and for snatching your purse when I got off at my stop.

Sunday, January 7, 2007

Santa, Why Do You Hate Me?

Yum! Look what I got in my stocking! Gourmet Jelly Beans. Delicious. Need sugar fix. Must eat them all! Munch, munch, gulp, gulp.

Oh, they are sugar free! I have put on a couple of pounds since the holidays started. I guess Santa noticed, though he's one to talk... that fatty! Oh well, gorging on sweets guilt free is always good. Wait, what's that writing in the corner of the box?

Stomach discomfort? I suppose that's fair if I ate the whole box in one sitting. Laxative Effect? Ah, that's just a precaution. I wonder what it says on the back of the box?

Oh no. A recommended dosage of jelly beans? This is not good. Stomach rumbling... things brewing inside. An evil brew. Not a good Christmas. Must go to little boy's room. Damn you Santa, Damn you!

Monday, January 1, 2007

Thanks For The Sweater

Dear Grandma,

Ever since I was a little boy you always told me that I should write thank you notes for any gifts I receive. And I have always heeded this advice because you have always been an inspiration to me. Which brings me to the reason for this letter. I would like to thank you for the lovely sweater you gave me this year.

I realize it is not easy for you to go out and shop for Christmas due to your arthritic knees. I’m sure that while in the store there were many different sweaters for you to pick from. It must have been quite the inward battle between a plain colored sweater and the one with flying reindeer over a city. The sweater you ultimately chose.

It’s perfect by all means. The blue background matches my eyes, the red building matches my hair and the buildings will always remind me that I live in a building much like the ones depicted on this whimsical sweater. The purple one most closely resembles my own detached two-bedroom townhouse, except of course my house had white siding and is not made of scratchy acrylic yarn by small children in China.

Although I have never seen a real deer, nor ever mentioned one before to you, you somehow have detected this would be my favorite animal worthy of displaying across my chest. Perhaps you feel this is my spirit animal. I will consult my local shaman to confirm this fact. And they fly, how magical.

Normally when one sees a number of flying deer chained to one another it is followed by a sleigh with that Jolly Old Man. No, not Grandpa… ha, ha. We both know he’s dead. Of course I mean Santa. I can only conclude that his absence is a comment on how consumerism has hijacked the Christmas season. The reindeer have cast off their bonds of servitude to the great God, Wal-Mart. And you know how much I hate big conglomerates and their shoddy merchandise. The fact you bought this sweater for me is just the sort of ironic twist mixed with a political message I would expect from you Grandma.

I’m not sure when I will have the opportunity to wear this sweater. Perhaps during hunting season I will wear it for a week. Trudging out into the forest gun in hand, I’ll wear the sweater. The other deer will see it and think, “What fun, deer who can fly! Maybe I’ll try and make friends and learn to fly myself.” Then when they draw near I can blast the life out of them. That’s a whole two weeks a year I’ll be able to enjoy this piece of clothing you have thoughtfully given me. Now I just need to buy a gun and develop a taste for deer meat. I hope that it is machine washable so I can get all the blood off of it.

Anyway Grandma, thank you for the thoughtful gift. It is only rivaled by your birthday gift to me of the cat sweater, which of course I wear during cat hunting season.

Best wishes and Happy New Year.



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