Yanks eat wierd
This weekend I had the privilege of attending an American wedding courtesy of my cousin Lacey whom I barely know. I was really going because my sister was allegedly showing up, a sister whom I barely see, for this wedding of my cousin whom I barely know. Irony comes in the form of bare disappointment when she (the sister) inexplicably cops out and I am left to enjoy the company of my brother (a plus), my Mormonly mother (a minus), and about 50 other relatives that I had never met. Parents-to-be, spare your spawn a world of awkwardness and keep the mini-me’s to a minimal numeral. Much anticipation and false interest can be prevented with plain, straight-forward foresight.
“Hi. We’re related, but frankly, there’s too many of us for me to give a damn about you. Nice to meet you though.” The unspoken speaks for itself.
The union was short and sweet, and after a rough hour of post-union familial banter we were off to the reception for grub. Shamefully no alcohol was served, but Mormons don’t drink booze now, do they? They don’t drink caffeine either, but then what’s this? Diet Pepsi? Dr. Pepper? Score one for me! If I can’t get sloshed I can at least get overly chatty and excuse myself early just as easily. All the crying babies running around got to me pretty quickly too. The thing was, however, that it seemed they were all raised communally, or more specifically, a teary-eyed child could run up to any given adult and receive instant comfort and consolation. They were so trusting with their kids, hell I could have made a few bucks on the black market.
“Your over-confidence is your weakness.”
“Your faith in your friends is yours. Conservative babies! Come and get your conservative babies while they’re still in disciplinable tears! I’ve got two-years, I’ve got four-years. No home is complete without subservient meat! Buy one today!”
Speaking of meat, there was no shortage to be found as far as wedding food went, and most of it was not of natural origin either. Luncheon meat in wraps, bulk-style chicken wings… I had, or rather was involved in a conversation in the line-up about how good the Costco meatballs were. Apparently their reputation preceded them. More aptly in my mind, if there was one food item on the table that gave off any premonitions it was the mysterious crock-pot filled with a barbecue/dark gravy like sauce with chunks of hot dog floating in it, evenly spaced to suggest that it was either a barbecue wiener stew or that those ahead of me had already filled up on the wiener part of it. It didn’t catch my curiosity in either possibility.
Afterwards I went to the movies with a cousin who I actually knew and one of her friends. We saw Julie & Julia. It was witty at best, but still far better than hanging out with my mom in her trailer watching something of equal or lesser enjoyment.
The Misadventures of Rudy McTavish
(co-written by J. Kemble)
There was once a man on the hill. His name was Rudy McTavish, and he had a giant rash on his forehead. One day he went to the doctor to get the rash checked out, and as it turned out, it was not a rash at all, but actually forehead herpes. This upset Rudy greatly. Very greatly indeed.
Infact, he found it so distressing he decided to eat a sandwich. It was the most delicious sandwich he had ever eaten… so succulent…so tender…he had almost forgotten about the horrible forhead herpes he had been diagnosed with earlier. But his anger quickly returned…and as his anger grew stronger…the herpes grew bigger…and bigger… until it reached his bottom, which he found terribly unpleasant. “Oh dear”, he said. And with that he let out a very large toot which bellowed through the streets, and all that remained was a smile on his face and glint in his eye…
Unfortunately the glint turned out to be another tumor, and so he used his telekinetic powers, which he just realised he had, to summon powerful healing aliens from another reality. And so they arrived in a giant tuna can shaped UFO which landed on his front lawn with a loud thump, waking most of the neighbors.
“We have come to heal you, Rudy,” said the alien leader, “but first, you must accomplish this task for us…”
“You must rub your belly and pick your nose simultaneously, while dancing the macarena… and give ol’ Nigel over here a quickie; he’s a bit desparate,” announced a second alien as he bit into a delicious slice of blueberry pie.
“Can I have some pie, too?” Asked Rudy.
“I’d really rather you didn’t”, exclaimed the alien.
“Aww, why not?” replied Rudy.
“It’s complicated…well. Not really. It’s just that it belongs to a very dear friend of mine and well..you see…it’s a very special pie…this isn’t an ordinary blueberry pie….oh no. This is much different. Very different indeed…”
“How so?” asked rudy as he scratched his balls.
“It’s intergalactic pie. And actually I just realised that it really IS complicated. So complicated that if your were to ever eat a slice, your head would explode from all the munkerballoobik energies in the delta quadrant of Xerxis. Look, it’s all a bit technical, but rest assured, your mission is clear. To find these pies and NOT eat them, one by one. Understand?”
“No,” said Rudy, letting loose a big fart from his anus.
“Neither do we, and so we shall leave you to your stupid herpe facial disease thing, which it turns out we actually can’t cure, cuz we’re not really aliens. We’re actually….”
“Stop saying actually,” said Rudy.
“No, shutup I’ll say what I want,” replied the alien.
“Uhh…. what-ever!” said Rudy as he rolled his eyes in disbelief.
“Don’t you whatever me, bitch”.
“Oh no you Di-ent!”
Rudy became so angered, he didn’t hesitate to punch the alien right in the nose….. ….which he later realised was his testicals. But either way, Rudy had little patience, and what the aliens had failed to realise was that Rudy wasn’t exactly a fan of aliens that liked to try his patience… and so he ran off down the road flailing his arms in the air and screaming like a girl….until he reached the local shopping mall and decided to try on a pair of pants.
“Do these ones look good?” Rudy asked the salesman.
“They make your ass look a little fat,” the salesman replied in an uncharacteristicly blunt manner.
“But I like my ass to look fat. It makes me look very distinguished,” sobbed Rudy.
“Then these wishes three I shall grant you on the very first hour of the first day of your first born child…” expressed the salesman.
“Not interested,” Rudy said, and suddenly ran out of the store chasing a butterfly. Soon after he tripped over a sleeping homeless man and cracked his head open on the pavement. Nobody missed him. The end.
The Story of Reggie
Reggie woke up in a groggy haze to the hip hop stylings of 50 Cent playing from his tinny alarm radio. Saturday. 10:30 am. His mouth tasted like a monkey had shat in it, and in his drowsy state, he stopped and considered the possibility that one had.
Though he wished to sleep more and live out his dream life as an OG from the ‘hood, his full bladder forced him irritably from his slumber. He awkwardly stumbled to the washroom sporting a morning half-chud, and went about his business: urinating in the shower while brushing his teeth; usual stuff. He then put on his baggy clothes and gold chains slow and sexy, and spent 15 minutes posturing in front of a mirror. He was a skinny 18 year old male of English descent raised in a middle-American suburb, but in his mind, he was a black man with rippling muscles, hardened by a life of crime in the ghetto.
His phone suddenly vibrated and began playing the song “Candy Shop”, indicating a text message. It was his best friend, Joey. “Hey man I’ll pick you up and we smoke some GANJ! Ye-ah nigga!”
He arrived within a half hour, honking the squeaky horn of his Granny’s car from the street. Reggie went running down the stairs and out the door, ignoring his mother who had made him waffles for breakfast. “Reginald! Where are you going?! I made you waffles!! WHY WON’T YOU EAT MY WAFFLES???!”
“Shut-up, mom! You can’t control me! I’m gangsta! Ye-ah!” He yelled back at her, slamming the door, then flipping her off through the window.
He jumped through the open window of the car, and Joey screeched the tires loudly as he sped off, pissing off their next-door neighbor who had been peacefully enjoying a nice cool glass of tang on his freshly cut lawn.
They found somewhere quiet to park, and Reggie eagerly began to light his marijuana cigarette before Joey stopped him and said, “Reggie… I’ve gotta tell you something…”
“Eh?”
“This isn’t easy to say, but… I’m gay…”
“Uh… what?”
“Gay, Reggie, I’m fuckin’ gay.”
“Hahaha, yeah right, that’s funny shit man.” Reggie dismissed, becoming a little uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry man. I just needed to tell someone…”
“Yo man, you can’t be gay! You always mackin’ on the bitches, dawg! You iz a playa, like me!”
“I only did that to try to be normal, but I can’t lie to myself anymore.”
“Dude, quit messin’ around…”, Reggie said, getting a little mad.
“Sorry dude…”
Reggie paused for a few seconds, taking it all in. “So that’s it, huh? You’re just gonna go suck dick like some fuckin’ faggot now? Is that it?!”
“Well, if I met the right guy, then maybe…”
“What the fuck, man! This is un-fucking-believeable. How could you do this to me? What’s everyone gonna think when they find out I’ve been hanging with some big fucking queer-bait?”
“Reg, listen…”
“No, you listen you little bitch! You keep your fuckin faggotty ass away from me, got it?”
“But Reg…”
“Fuckin’ faggot!” Reggie yelled as he jumped out of the car and ran into the nearby woods, crying like a little girl. He felt as though the seams in the fabric of his reality were unravelling with a velocity that was no less than terminal. He had known Joey since sixth grade, and they had been best friends ever since. Years worth of memories were now sullied with the knowledge that his best friend was, and always had been, a flaming homosexual. His face was marinating in tears; he felt like vomitting. How humiliating.
He emerged from the forest nearby Gilligan’s Beer Store. His refuge. His salvation. He tried to compose himself, wiping his teary eyes on the sleeve of his hoody, and built up the courage to enter where he would face the scrutinizing eyes of the store clerk. Before he knew it, he was back outside with a 40 oz bottle of colt 45. Did the store clerk know already? Had she already made the grim association between him and his blatantly homosexual friend? It was impossible to say for sure.
He began compulsively gulping his beer and wandering around the neighborhood trying to collect his thoughts. Two 10 year old boys with toy laser guns ran past him laughing. “What the fuck are you laughing at? I’ll kick your fuckin’ ass!” Reggie yelled at them. Startled, they ran off and hid in some bushes. “That’s right, faggots! You better hide! This is my turf!”. He postured some gang signs threateningly.
He soon found himself at home, and the bottle of colt 45 was empty. Nobody else was home, so he drunkenly stumbled up to his room to cry. In between bouts of crying, he began to find that the surge of emotions was causing him to become overwhelmingly aroused. He reached into his pants and began tugging away angrily. He thought of Joey wearing a cowboy hat and sucking dick in the back of a pickup truck, then he thought of 50 Cent. He imagined he was kneeling before 50 Cent’s naked and sweaty body, pleasuring him with his mouth. “Ohhhh, I’m such a fuckin’ faggot…” he moaned, “take me to the candy shop, Fiddy!” He was close to climaxing when he heard his mom return home and wander up to his room.
“Reggie? Are you home? What are you doing in there?”
Nevermind that, he thought. Focus on 50 Cent. And with that, he shot a big wad of jizz right into his own eye, then aimed his second shot for his 50 Cent poster; right on 50’s chest. 50 Cent looked pissed off, as always. Just then his cell phone rang. He quickly grapped a grey gym sock to wipe the jizz out of his eye, and, breathing heavily, answered, “h-hello?”.
“Hey man, you sound out of breath. Are you ok?” It was Joey.
“Oh… um… what up?”
“April fools, bitch. Hahaha, you shoulda seen the look on your face!”
“What? So, uh… you’re not gay?” Reggie went to the sink to wash the rest of the sticky gunk out of his eye.
“Dude, come on. How dumb are you?”
“Oh! Shit dude… oh thank god you’re not a fuckin’ faggot!” he said, scrubbing his face red. “Man, I hate faggots. If I were a faggot, I’d fuckin’ kill myself. Now let’s go get some fuckin’ poon tang and beat up some faggots!”
“Kay, I’ll be by in a sec,” Joey responded and hung up.
Reggie turned to the poster, “this is just between you and me, fiddy”. He knelt down and licked his seed sensuously off of 50 Cent.
Just then his mom walked in, “REGGIE!! NOOOOOOOO!!”
“MOTHER!! DON’T LOOK AT ME!! NOOOOOOOO!!”
Just how bad can a band suck?
How about this much?
The Red Room was alive last night with the sound of tonal death to all open ears and minds. Those responsible: Vancouver “rockers” Tarl. Four ne’er-do-wells flopped around on stage representing their lack of individuality by playing the same four-chord “doodooka! doodooka!” songs that a plethora of bands before them have ground into mindless dust while a poorly blinged up frontman wailed about “tonight” and “alright” to an indifferent crowd.
The worst part of it all? Pre-recorded samples of lead guitar and back-up vocals. Solos would come in seemingly before the guitarists were prepared to play them, and on occasion the guilty one would simply turn around in an attempt to hide that he really had no idea what he was doing. Meanwhile those singing back-up were also obviously unprepared, and came in to the microphone too far behind to match what the vocals actually sounded like. It was like watching a whole band of Ashley Simpson.
My only consolation was to laugh at them, instead of with them, though that quickly faded and I was left with aching cheeks and even more sore ears. At least I was drinking.
The most baffling part of the whole yuppie-fest was that the band actually had a decent following (though you wouldn’t know it by the audience), an album and had shared the stage with such “great acts” as Nickelback and Finger Eleven (chortle). My conclusion is that at least two of the band members have really rich dads who are wasting a lot of money and don’t know it yet.
8 amazing things I have done that you should be jealous of because you are essentially inadequate in every conceivable way!
Yes, you heard me correctly, earth-meat. While you have been eating hot dogs and watching Friends reruns, I have accomplished the following, which I shall present as braggartly as I feel is necessary:
1. Played frisbee with a drunk goat, and won.
2. Found a banana that was remarkably reminiscent of Ted Bundy’s penis, and auctioned it on ebay for a hefty sum, despite the banana having aids.
3. Been arrested for juggling wine bottles in downtown Vancouver (i’m really bad at juggling, and had been warned multiple times); I then seduced the guard in order to escape my jail cell, and managed to get arrested again for doing essentially the same thing as before.
4. Jacked off in between two peices of bread and fed it to a homeless person. There’s nothing sluttier than a hungry homeless man.
5. Met the original Lassie (in a dream).
6. Took an 87 year old man’s virginity (also in a dream).
7. Individually married and divorced each of the Olsen twins without them ever knowing it.
8. Constructed a life sized model of the Starship Enterprise entirely out of quack grass and guinea pigs I’d murdered with a hammer, then promoted myself to captain and fought with the Klingons in my mind.
For further re-education, I urge you to order the imagination pills from our online store, and to order my book, Making Love to a Wet Sponge While Operating Heavy Machinery.