Pamela Anderson at the Juno Awards

Expect the ratings for this year’s Juno Awards to climb.

In a move widely being regarded by the Canadian community as “bold”, the Juno Awards have chosen the buxom Ms. Anderson as their host. Representing the core Canadian values of “smily” and “warm-blooded”, Pamela is expected to bring in droves of adolescent boys, who would normally be decapitating pigeons and huffing liquid eraser on a Sunday night.

“This is huge for us,” says Chris Topping, manager of public events for the Canadian Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences (CARAS).

“I mean, let’s face it, most of our fiercely Canadian female singers just aren’t much to look at. Alanis Morisette, Sarah McLachlan, don’t even get me started on Jann Arden,” added Topping. “Sure, we’ve got Shania, who’s a looker, but we’ve already used her, plus we don’t want to be pegged as a loser country because of her pop/country hybrid music. We’re in lame enough waters as it is.”

When asked about the event, Anderson (pictured topless at left) claimed that she is extremely honoured to be able to showcase her remarkably ample bosom in yet another venue, particularly one so patriotically affiliated.

Pimpin’ Ain’t Easy–BUT IT SHO’ IS FUN!!!

"Dammit HO!!!! Das all the money you brought me!?"

Eustace wound up and laid a back-hander on the side of Chipita's head. Her silken hair followed the motion of her head as she fell to the grainy concrete of the parking garage. As much as his abuse hurt Chipita, it hurt Eustace a thousand times more inside. If there was one thing pimpin' wasn't, it was easy.

"Eustace baby, you know I loves ya," gasped Chipita, looking up at Eustace with salty eyes.

"Den why do you treat me like dis' baby? You know I look out fo' ya, don't I?" Eustace asked. Chipita nodded.

"You know I won't let anybody hurt y'all…dey be messin' with Eustace Jones if they be messin' wit' my hos," Eustace continued. Chipita nodded again. "You just betta have my money by FrIZday, HO!!!"

Chipita nodded once more, got up off the ground, gave Eustace a peck on the cheek and stumbled off. Eustace maintained a hard stance as he watched her leave the Eaton Centre's parking garage, or his "office", as called by the pimpin' industry–one of the world's oldest industries.

As soon as the garage was clear, Eustace fell to his knees and began to sob. Masses of tears streamed down his face until his frill collar was soaked.

"Man, I gotsta get myself a pint o' Strongbow. DAMN!!" He wiped his face on his velure cloak and slowly got to his feet..

For the second time.

You know when you're looking into a bottle to see if you got the last sip, and someone accidentally bumps into you?  Then the neck of the bottle gets mashed into your ocular cavity and you're forced to seek medical assistance?  The problem is, one eye is blinded, and the other is swollen with tears making it hard to focus, so you're left crying on the floor either until someone arrives and hears the screeching, or you pass out from shock?

That's the worst.

Quality Party Banter

I may be unprofessional at times, but I assume others find it extremely endearing. A scene from last night's party:

Me (standing behind our little coat-check table talking to the coat-check girls): "Hey guys, we're gonna be having the speeches soon if you want to come in to the—SHIT, my fly's undone. (Fixing the problem) This suit is great, but the fly has this problem where you zip up and sometimes the teeth come undone from the bottom up, making you sort of have to zip down then up again to make it catch one more time (gesturing). It's like re-cocking a shotgun."

Girls: (continue taking guests' coats)

Me: "I don't know, maybe I'll have to pin it at the bottom. Or something."

Girls: (hanging up goats)

Me: "Yeah, so remember to come inside in a few minutes for the speeches."

I love parties.

You look meritorious.

I’ve been out of commission this week due to the planning of a large business reception that took place last night. A few big-name Canadian socialites attended (one of the sons of arguably Canada’s most famous Prime Minister–no, not the universally reviled Ben Mulroney), and the hors d’oeuvres abounded.  I was in my sharpest suit, teeth freshly shined and ready for some hardcore liaising and schmoozing, two honed skills I’ll step up to defend if anyone wants to challenge…   that’s what I thought.

Anyway, I must say, all of my office co-workers (there’s only 8 of us, I being one of only two gentlemen) were cleaned up very nicely.  People were looking good, in short.  Lo and behold, out comes the “Nick, you look very spiffy tonight.”

Can someone, anyone please explain to me the genesis of this word, “spiffy”? Is it a compliment, or is it a way of pointing out the obvious, that someone is dressed up in a more fancy way than they would normally dress?  Is it for people who don’t want to go as committal as “you look handome” or “nice suit”?

If somebody looks good, you tell them that.  The end.  Don’t worry, it wont be misconstrued as romantic intention or unwanted flattery.  It won’t lead to a chain reaction of sexual tension that will culminate with you or I spread eagle over the paper shredder (the ramifications of which are astounding in and of themselves).  And it certainly won’t lead to anything more than a “thank you”.

But if you tell me I look spiffy, I’m more tempted to say either “I know” or stay silent, causing an awkward silence that may once again lead to the paper shredder.

The end.

The Nativity

Today I have completed the 26th year of my life with great relish. On the day of one’s birth, one must take stock of one’s accomplishments and prepare to change or stay the course for the future year.

Here are some things that I’ve discovered with one extra year of knowledge:

1. I am physically incapable of biting through a pencil.

2. Back to the Future II is my favourite Back to the Future.

3. I have at my command the wisdom of the ages.

Here’s to me!

How does a boy pee?

It’s the most darling thing possible. On checking my blog’s stats today, they reported to me that someone had stumbled onto my site while searching in Google for “how does a boy pee”. Oh, my, the little darling!

What innocence! What bright-eyed wonder! That little girl is a treasure! Playing marbles in the early springtime sun, when she overhears: “Boys don’t pee sitting down, stupid!” This sends her little mind reeling. At home that night, her parents give her a half-hour of supervised “inty-net” time to look at pictures of penny-whistles and moonpies. When mommy goes to change her tampon or something, she secretly sneaks a peek at google, “the grownup page”. She only has time for one question: “how does a boy pee?”

And, unfortunately, for her, she only has time to click on my link, when there were so many more authorities on the manner in which pee comes out a boy’s urethra. Instead, she’s brought into a world where vaginas speak freely, monkeys play pro sports, and mysteries take place in five seconds or less.

Oh, little girl! I never wanted for it to be this way! You should be finding out about the world through My Little Pony, The Popples, and watching a boy’s pee-stream behind the porta-pack.

Oh, sweety! Let’s forget you ever found this vortex of depravity and cynicism. Let your wonder of the phallus blossom and grow until such a time where you are either sick of seeing them or physically unable to accommodate one. Until then, may you continue to ask of the world the dearest questions. And may the answer to those questions be only ones that you can mispronouce in a cute way.
Muse on, my dear! Muse on!

The Second and a Half Circle of Hell

Today is a special treat in my office, if you consider ‘treat’ used in the context of: ‘I have a special treat for you, Mr. Bond.’

In my building’s apparently endless renovations, there have been many sights, sounds and sensations to cherish, from the freshly-painted lobby smelling like a rubber beachball, to tender pieces of drywall ceiling falling onto my head just outside my office door. The fruits of this expert craftmanship are not without their downside, however.

Today, for instance, there is a man in a window washer scaffold directly outside my floor (well, slightly above–this is relevant because his position affords me a breathtaking view of his crotch, steadily at work). To give credit where credit is due, the man’s job (where a bad day for him could include his small intestine spilled onto the pavement below) is considerably more dangerous than mine (where a worst-case scenario day would be accidentally putting a stapled sheet into the photocopy feed).

But the cacophony that this man is able to produce! That, in itself, is a art. I mean, this guy’s making sounds that I heretofore had never even equated with the trade of construction. From some sort of a double hammer that creates a heart-beat like rhythm, to abnormal squealing, to comically flatulence-based drilling sounds, I wouldn’t be surprised if this guy has a night job as a foley guy for sports bloopers videos. ziiiiiip-boioioioing!

Then, as I am wont to do, I began musing about philosophical conundrums as the noise reached a fevered crescendo. For instance, this could very well be one of Satan’s more creative punishments.

One is plunged into an office with a career-making-or-breaking article deadline half-an- hour away. As you type empassionately and determinitely, a black scaffold rolls down outside your window and begins its demonic chorus of scratches, bangs, screeches, and twangs, just keeping you on the brink between concentration and insanity. As the clock ticks closer to your deadline, the soundscape becomes more voluminous and intense and imposes itself into every corner of your throbbing mind. And then the clock strikes five.

Hell’s projectionist then cuts to a scene of you getting fired and humiliated in front of tanned coworkers and buxom secretaries. You exit the building into the rainy Chicago night and throw youself in front of a street sweeper.

Then it begins all over again, your ambition and focus as sharp as ever.

I think this punishment would work best for corporate frauds, but also for people who got sent to hell for being poor.

Back in the Mix

Ok, my whirlwind trip to Toronto out of the way, I am ready to really buckle down here in Ottawa and produce some exceptional, award winning work for the loyal reader base I have.  Quality work like the following:

Shake it shake it to the East

Shake it shake it to the West

You’re the one…um…that I love…best…

hmm….

Whatever, let’s see you do better. 

The Simpsons with Pink Skin

Well, they’ve finally done it. And I couldn’t be happier.

My favourie is the fat guy dressed like Barney when Bart is skating on the street. The next challenge, doing the Animaniacs intro with real live people. Come on, people, get to it!

Seein’ the CN

Hola, amigos! Todo bien?

I am currently in the big Toronto, attending a conference for work this week. This explains my conspicuous lack of writings over the past few days, as Internet access has been scarce for me. Tonight, however, I move into the Radisson Admiral Harbourfront (I had heretofore been staying with a best friend), where there will no doubt be access for a young writer like myself. At that time, expect to see some great things.

I just would like to thank you all for your constant vigilance and loyal dedication.

On another note, bums in theis city appear to be becoming more and more precocious, the little scamps! Just Monday evening, my friend Step and I were enjoying a stroll on Queen street, looking for some good Pad Thai. We stopped in front of a restaurant window to look at the menu posted outside, and just to our right, a giant of a man lumbered up to the window and began shouting to an elderly couple eating with what appeared to be their adult daughter. Not shouting, but screaming political propaganda and obscenities like “I WILL EAT YOUR CHILDREN! DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’VE FUCKING DONE TO ME?! NOBODY KNOWS WHO YOU REALLY ARE! YOU’VE SLAUGHTERED BLA BLA BLA”

I wasn’t quite sure if he was yelling at the family, or perhaps some unseen image of george bush on the television or something. At any rate, Step and I kept perfectly still while he completed his diatribe, hoping to not get disemboweled by a broken bottle of Japanese Cooking Alcohol.

Of course, when he finished and trudged away, we immediately opted to go into the same restaurant and get the seat next to the accosted family.

Step: “Would it be too forward of us to ask you what that was all about?”

Elderly gentleman: “I guess he had some things to get off his chest. Other than that we’ve never seen him before.”

Me: “So you didn’t actually slaughter his children?”

Things my Brain Makes 4

• I think sending me to Hell would be like a waste of a seat. I mean, I’d probably go into it with a negative attitude anyway, and I probably wouldn’t get as much out of it as, I don’t know, someone like Jeffrey Dahmer or Buffalo Bill from the silence of the lambs. I mean, I’d probably be there, participating in the torture and peeling flesh only half-heartedly, perhaps even slightly envious of the serial killers and the cult leaders who could give their all when it came to screaming for mercy for their sins. Meanwhile, I’d be thinking about all the better sins I could have committed if I knew I was going to come to Hell anyway, for, like, using God’s name in vain or bearing false witness against someone or other.

• What if, instead of pornography, the rapid spread of the Internet had been driven by a need for, say, embroidery and embroidery-related media? Boy, what a different world we would live in. It would be more ornate, for one.

• Mickey Mouse, while one of the most beloved cartoon characters of all time, is also one of the most boring, hands down. In order to spice things up, Disney ought to take him back to his species’ roots. By throwing Mickey back into the pestilential world of street mice, we’ll see him apply his knowlege of adventuring and buying flowers to real-word situtations. As an anthropomorphic mouse, he would instantly establish himself as a leader among the others, helping them gather greater quantities of food and spread disease further than they had previously thought possible. After such an ordeal, he would return home hardened by the world, but unmistakably a better and more passionate lover to Minnie, having honed his skills on numerous gutter females.

• The human body is a testament to the wonder of nature. Billions of cells working in concert, internal systems functioning in unison, providing us with energy, warmth, intelligence and the ability to watch an episode of Oprah or hire an accountant to file our tax return.

Formatting Shocker!

It has come to my attention that those of you viewing this page on Microsoft Internet Explorer are seeing a perverted version of my careful formatting where pictures are concerned (I don’t know about the Netscape users, or the Safari users, or yada yada yada). Instead of the loving word-wrap next to pictures, a great leap of blankness is produced to the right of every picture before the next paragraph begins.

Rather than take the time to understand the problem and work with you in a spirit of growth towards solving it, I will instead cast the finger of blame squarely at my readers! It is you who have failed me!

You see, all of the work I do on this blog is done on Mozilla Firefox, as I grew tired of the incessant crashes of Microsoft IE, and the uninspired layout. For those of you who have not heard of it, or are reluctant to make the switch, shame on you. It’s an exceedingly better browser in ways you never dreamed possible. For one, you can open up multiple “tabs” inside the same browser, a feature that I can no longer do without. As Mozilla says: “rediscover the web”. Do this. Download it for free here, install it and be done with it. You’ll be navigating the web quicker and more intuitively than you ever expected.

And, what’s more…..you’ll be a man, my son.

(And a woman, my daughter, whatever).

Balance your Humours! with Millicent Forsythe the Second

Ah, the humours! The essences of which flow through our very innards! These four liquids, black bile, yellow bile, phlegm and blood, not only compose us, they shape our very constitutions. It is absolutely essential to the gentlemanly theatregoer or the delicate homemaker that their internal fluids be balanced in a upstanding manner, neither one being more greatly balanced than another.

In today’s hectic horse-driven world, it is so often taken for granted that one’s constitution will resemble that of a Warsaw Pole, though we more sensible English know that this is hardly the case! The moist London air, coupled with frequent trips to the den for bi-nightly opium binges, can leave one’s tender humours sorely in need of recombination!

Let it never be said that Millicent Forsythe the Second shews not care for the commoner! Quite the contrary! Here, for nary the price of a stagecoach waxing, I have provided for the ignorant masses a compendium of the choicest facts on the ever-changing nature of the human bodice. As a bonus, I have composed it in such a simple vernacular that even someone with the brain-pan of an olive merchant could comprehend.

If you find yourself switching between temperaments too often, then you have come across the answers to your plight! Let us delve into the body’s humours like a Dane into the Mediterranean.

Humour the First: Yellow Bile

Related temperament: Choleric

Do you find yourself wildly screeching at the chambermaid more often than not? Has caning impoverished children become more of a habit then a lark? You, my good friend, have an excess of yellow bile. Produced in the liver, yellow bile is that most putrid of fluids, hot and dry, resembling fire. My good man! The only thing for it is a prescribed cold bath. A frigid self-soaking has been shewn to greatly calm the levels of yellow bile, and assuage even the most choleric spirit. Let the canings continue, though only for the young who warrant it.

Humour the Next: Black Bile

Related temperament: Melancholic

Is the weight of the world crushing your already feeble spirit? Does the sight of an orphan eating a cup of rancid blood pudding cause tears to well up in your eyes? My god, man! Put away that tuppence! It’s not your place to change his lot in life…you’ve got an image to uphold! Rather, focus on the fact that you’re swimming in black bile! Produced in the brain and lungs, black bile is both cold and dry–not somewhere you’d want to be when the chips are down! My good man, rid yourself of that heavy fluid through a moist, hot compress or, for more pressing bouts of melancholy, through a healthy purge. Soon, fellow socialites will marvel at your insensitivity to those less fortunate!

Humour the Third: Phlegm

Related Temperament: Phlegmatic

Ah, the mysteries of a phlegm surplus. Find yourself couging, do we? It can be nothing other than the body’s way of telling you that it has some excess phlegm to expel. Lethargic are we? Exceedingly calm? You no doubt find yourself in the throes of a phlegmatic lull. Become a bastion of dryness and heat for this ailment! As this particular fluid is cold and wet, and generally expelled through the mouth, there can be no other choice: a good emetically induced vomit should clear things right up! Let it never be said that you were above self-induced wretching! (Note, expelling the sputum in small oral burts, while quite fetching, may only exacerbate the dull lethargy you are experiencing).

Humour the Last: Blood

Related Temperament: Sanguine

If the urge to sing and consume libations in quantities that would make Sicilians look like puritans, then I’m afraid you’ve forgotten yourself! Is the desire to fornicate singlehandedly outweighing both the urge to partake in your nightly Euchre and that of the subsequent foxhunt? My poor soul, you have an excess of blood, the hot and wet humour that is the cause of many an Englishman soiling his good nation’s reputation! We are not to be taken for Mediterranean pagans who do nothing other than consume wine and rejoice. A proper English life is one of temperance , tongue-cluckery and pomposity, and leaves no room for the Latin vices of song and dance. Get thee to a barber-surgeon at one, and have at minimum three pounds blood withdrawn with the aid of leeches. With that done, you will quickly regain the constitution of a properly-schooled Londoner.

Conclusions:

There is something to be said for balance. For every savage in the world, there is a properly comported Brit. For every Slav, Chinaman, or Hindu there is a proud Welsh, Scot or Englishman. For every choleric outburst, there is a sanguinous loining. Using the above guide with the proper and attentive combination of diarrhoea, purging and blood expulsion, your internal fluids will be a beacon onto others and the envy of every Protestant blessed enough to cross your path.

Though my Christian name may be that of a girl, by calm masculinity has once again prevailed. This is Millicent Forsythe the Second wishing you the greatest of equilibrium in your humours!