Hole Grains

I started eating bran a couple of weeks ago. I eat a bowl of it every morning. Needless to say, my regularity has improved. There are few things as satisfying as a well-executed elimination. It’s like a symphony of nature, body, mind, spirit and plumbing. Everything comes together with the simple intention of moving cargo from one place to the other. Bran is like the Fed-ex of my ass. And make a saint of whomever invented that two-ply quilted toilet paper… I mean HALLELUJAH! Thanks to my Cottonelle Ultra, what once was a repeated effort of maybe 4 or 5 cycles can now be executed in 2. Although the bran keeps the whole process so damned tidy that I often just pull up my trousers and off I go. No need for swabbing the deck if you know what I mean.

Everyone should eat more bran.




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Light Shed

So you might have heard about this power blackout we had last week. I was diligently working on my computer when the whole world just turned off. While our ineffectual politicians waited for each other to do something, our brave citizens took matters into their own hands. Citizens engaging intersections where traffic lights had failed, to provide direction. Citizens wandering the streets aimlessly while clicking redial on their cell phones. Citizens jacking up the price of gasoline and water to make a quick buck. God bless this city.

While our chief of police praised the population for not inciting riots, frenzied survivalists pilfered the batteries from their love-aids to power once forgotten flashlights. It would seem that throbbing instruments of pleasure would take a backseat to the ability to navigate in the dark. Who knew?

Although I’m a little disappointed that this West Nile, Mad Cow, Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome afflicted town couldn’t even get their shit together to do some good old fashioned looting. I for one am ashamed to wear my I-MAPLE LEAF-TORONTO T-shirt when we can’t even unite to steal from business crippled by a lack of hydro. Where is this city’s sense of togetherness and mob-driven pilferage?

And so we lived through it…. But did we really LIVE through it?




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Puppy Love

I love my dog. I think that most “dog people” would share my sentiment…. Well I mean about THEIR dogs. Not MY DOG per se. They would love THEIR OWN dogs.

And Why not? Dogs are selfless and loving. They don’t hold grudges. They keep their genitals remarkably clean. I could say less for most of the people that I know.

My dog (Boris) is a big soul in a little body. He is a small Terrier who weighs in at a whopping 14lb but has the mentality of a 180lb Bull Mastiff. I’ve seen him go after birds, squirrels, chipmunks…even a big Chow Chow who lives in our neighbourhood. All this I might add, without any testicles. Yes, we had Boris castrated as a young pup.

Now here’s what I don’t get. What happens to the balls? I am too shy to ask my veterinarian.
But I must know!

So, I speculate.

The Top Ten List of “What Happens To Your Dog’s Castrated Testicles”:

10. Planted in soil and watered to grow new doggies.
09. Used as the shakers inside a Maraca.
08. Can you say “Two Scoops of Raisins?”
07. Chili Con Canine.
06. Strung into rosaries for blind children.
05. The Colonel’s Secret Herb - No. 6.
04. Those Bubble Tea ‘Bubbles’.
03. Falafel filler.
02. Organic Earplugs.

And the #1 thing that “Happens To Your Dog’s Castrated Testicles”….

01. Korean martini garnish!

Now we know.... now we know.




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Relations of Mass Dysfunction

I have heard people say that as you grow older you more and more start to act like your parents. I can’t imagine this happening because I can’t see myself having children. I don’t particularly like them. I didn’t particularly enjoy being a child and I CERTAINLY don’t see myself sharing my stuff with some mouthy, little ingrate.

Some of my friends say that I’m just not mature enough to have kids… that I simply don’t have the “urge” yet. I’m sorry, but the only “baby urges” I have are my seemingly frequent cravings for a nice thick cage-raised-baby-veal-chop . “Medium rare please…. nice and bloody… oh yes… yummy…. Just put it right in my mouth…. no need for cutlery or plates….”.

Sorry I just drifted for a second there. Oh yes, as I was saying… I don’t want to clean poopy diapers or teach the thing how to vocalize or operate bicycles or secure their shoelaces or any of the millions of meaningless tasks that every other idiot breeder has rejoiced in doing for the last 5000 years. Each of them acting as though they were the first primate to show their offspring how not to play with their own feces.

….Although, a small, formidable army of bitter, resentful miniature-me-types couldn’t be all bad could they? I could train them to rain on parades…to play Devil’s advocates… to be wet-blankets! I could litter the world with my own little throng of ill-tempered revulsion-filled progeny!

Dormant sperm AWAKE! Muhahahahahahah!



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Far The People, Off The People, Buy The People

What's the difference between being rich and being wealthy?

I equate 'rich' with the QUALITY one has in life and I equate 'wealthy' with the QUANTITY one has in life.

By my own observation....

One can be wealthy without being rich... take a guy like Kobe Bryant... all kinds of QUANTITY... still fucks around on his wife.

One can be rich without being wealthy... Gandhi hardly had clothes to cover his ass, was imprisoned constantly, barely ate and still he managed to free millions of people from the shackles of Imperial rule.

But is it possible to be both? Can one be a Pimp Daddy Gandhi?

And so my dilemma ensues...




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