Have a donut for gosh sakes

I hate exercising.  Tonight, while I was finishing my 300^th sit up (OK, it might have been the 4^th) I had an epiphany: exercise is stupid.   Sure the health professionals will tell you that if you follow the correct diet (whatever that is) and exercise regularly, you will probably die in your late eighties after recently having sex with a 20 something model.  Or it might happen in your nineties, right after you were base jumping in the tropics.  (Health professionals really know how to lay it on thick.) The reason why we listen to these experts is because we don’t want to die.  We want to put it off for as long as we can because the goal, for whatever stupid reason, is to live as long as possible.   Except when we see an 89 year old in real life, being pushed around in a wheelchair, a thin line of drool hanging out of his mouth and his vacant eyes staring off into space… then we all turn to the person beside us and whisper, “If I ever get that old, just shoot me.”  The lesson to be learned is that you shouldn’t bother whispering.  That old guy couldn’t hear you if you screamed in his ear.

Many of you are probably saying, “Frank, even though you have beautiful eyes and a sexy dimple when you smile, you’re wrong!  Exercise is important!  And my grandmother is 94 years old and is so fit she can kick your ass!”  Well of course she can because I’m exhausted from doing 4 sit ups.   No, the point is that we are always told to eat right and exercise and that will give us a greater quality of life plus you will long enough until they come up with a cure for death.   It will probably be made by the guys at Pfizer who were trying to invent a pill that makes an erection last 3 weeks.

As I lay on my back at the gym, listening to the sounds of all these exercise nuts around me, pumping iron and making noises like they’re in the midst of an orgasm, I thought of two people:  Keith Richards and Jim Fixx. 

Keith Richards, as we all know, has drank, snorted and injected every vile chemical known to man and yet there he is, almost 70 years old and still rocking out.  Sure, you may say that he looks like he’s 128 years old but c’mon, he was ugly when he was in his twenties.   The argument could be made that he is an exception to the rule but my response is, “Is there even a rule?”  Despite all the posturing, no one knows why some people live longer than others.  It can all boil down to genetics but if that’s the case, then nobody is going to buy another exercise book or spend all their money on pills, potions or powders.   As an example (and a true one to boot) no one has found out definitively what causes cancer and yet experts everywhere seem to have a million theories on how to avoid it.  The fact is, no one knows and not knowing is what scares us.  The number 1 cause of death is… life.   We live, we die.  Of course it’s sad that you (yes, even you!) will die.  Even more sad than that, the greatest tragedy of all is that I (yes, even I) will die.   So instead of focusing on that (because it’s really depressing) let’s focus on quality of life.  But that’s where you smart asses all say, “Exercise and proper diet improve the QUALITY of life!”   Yes, not eating delicious foods and settling for things that taste like cardboard really is the spice of life.  No sugar, liquor, tobacco, salt, chocolate or fats… way to live it up baby!!  

The thing is, we could all get hit by a bus tomorrow.  Of course, tt would have to be a really big bus to hit all of us and we’d all have to be in the same place at the same time, milling around in the middle of a really big road and then this huge bus comes out of nowhere… anyway, I haven’t thought this through enough.  Oh yeah, the point is, we should just be happy.  So there.  

Oh, if you’re wondering about that other guy I mentioned… Jim Fixx.  He’s the guy that wrote “The Joy of Jogging”.  He died of a heart attack when he was 52 years old… while jogging.

 

Joy to the world! It's the zombie apocalypse!!

With Christmas just around the corner, it only makes sense that I write a little something about zombies.    For the record, I hate zombies.   In general, I hate horror movies.  I find them unoriginal, banal and  stupid.  Also, they give me nightmares.   Horror movies can be just about anything: axe wielding psychopaths, creepy little girls who later in the movie end up with terrible dental work, but one of the more common themes lately has been about zombies.  Not one or two zombies, but thousands of them, tens of thousands, maybe even millions of the undead, walking around aimlessly with vacant, undead expressions, grunting in their primitive zombie voices, seeking out human flesh to consume.   Which of course brings me to Christmas shoppers.

Oh wait, I haven’t finished with the whole zombie thing yet.   Zombie movies began with the simple premise of a small group of people running away from a horde of zombies.  They would hide in farm houses or shopping centers and they would end up surrounded by zombies who they would have to kill.   Nowadays the zombie movie (or television show) has evolved into something much more sophisticated: like a small group of people running away from a horde of zombies.

Apart from the running away, the other central theme of zombie entertainment is about killing the zombies.  Great detail is put into the act of dispatching the undead… bullets to the head, axes to the head, any sharp implement that is laying around to the head… blood gushing, bones crunching, gore spewing… you know, the usual aftermath of zombie diplomacy.   Even more than running away, this theme is dominant and crucial to any zombie masterpiece.  It’s crucial because therein lies the attraction for the zombie enthusiast.   So obviously the question truly is what is so appealing about that?  What makes a zombie fan?  It’s quite simple: zombie fans are psychopathic murderers.

We can all publicly agree that killing people, especially in large numbers, is just plain wrong.  We shouldn’t go around shooting, stabbing or decapitating people.   That would be rude.  We would never cheer for people for who did that.  UNLESS… the people they are shooting, hacking and bludgeoning are already dead.  Then it’s just the right thing to do.  Since normal, everyday people are off limits, zombies provide the perfect outlet to satisfy the zombie fans bloodlust.  They cheer when a zombie is violently dispatched, they cringe with smiles on their faces, they get zombie-death boners from the scenes of carnage.   If you put all those elements together, I repeat my earlier posit that zombie fans are nothing but potential mass murderers.   It’s the next logical step for them.   I don’t mean to imply that zombie fans are evil, and I am definitely not saying that they are morons.  I’m not saying that, I’m writing it… this is a blog entry.  Duh.

So what can we do about this?  Obviously as concerned citizens, our duty is to watch for the telltale signs of a zombie fan (vacant eyes, bloodlust, low IQ) and put a stop to it before it gets out of hand.  Keep them away from sharp objects (replace all cutlery with plastic sporks) get them involved with cute, fluffy objects like stuffed animals (real kittens and puppies might be at risk) and always speak to them in a calm, soothing voice, avoiding big complicated words.   And remind them frequently that using guns, axes and chainsaws on other people is wrong.  Oh, and it wouldn’t hurt to also remind them that ZOMBIES AREN’T REAL!!!

As for Christmas shoppers…  

Sample chapter....

K, this is a sample chapter from the sequel to my first novel… how exciting!   Watch for it – coming soon to flea markets and second hand thrift stores in 2013!

       

                                   The Red Bike of Destiny

Or

How I found Enlightenment through Eating French Fries

CHAPTER ONE

This story is completely true.  Not even the names have been changed.  The way I see it, everyone in this story does something rotten at one point or another, and we should all own up to it, not hide behind some made up name.   It’s all about accountability, and making sure that the public is aware of our heinous deeds. 

 

For the record, my name is Brock, Brock Manly. My fiancée’s name is Golda Sweetbody.  Ha ha… just kidding.  But if we ever did decide to legally change our names, those would be the ones that I would choose, because let’s face it; I’m cool like that.    Plus, I have the dorkiest name in recorded history.  It’s Zachary, which isn’t so bad, but once you add the Kinfleisich to it, it isn’t pretty.  So that’s me, Zachary Kinfleisich, and if my fiancée had any sense, she’d make me change it to Brock Manly so she wouldn’t get stuck walking around with a last name like mine.  She says she doesn’t mind though.  Go figure women.

 

Cynthia (that’s my fiancée, Cynthia Tiernan) is really gorgeous.  I mean she’s like this knock down, drag out beauty of a woman.   I’m not saying that to brag, because when we walk around in public, everyone takes a look at us and thinks, “That guy must be rich.”  Which is their witty way of saying, “That guy is way too homely to end up with a woman like that.”  And they’re right; I am way too homely to end up with Cynthia.   But if you’re still away figuring out women, then while you’re at it, go figure love.

 

From my end, it’s a no brainer, because she’s hot, and to rub salt in the wound, she’s the rich one, not me.   She’s also smart and funny and a whole bunch of other things that add to her being quite the catch.  All signs point to me being in love with her, but what’s her story?  Is she nuts or something?  Yes, but that’s not the reason.  So what could it be you ask?  Is this homely writer with a goofy name some kind of sexual dynamo who can seduce any woman?  Probably, but the real answer is this: Magic.  To be more precise, Magical Destiny is the reason we’re together.   You see, we fell in love after knowing each other for only a few days and a year later, we’re still together.  Despite me being almost invisibly average in both looks and personality, she still maintains under oath that she loves me.  I hope that gives you some inspiration in case you’re some average looking person desperately in love with someone so amazing that you think it’s impossible that they could ever love you back.  It could happen, it could be Magical Destiny.   Or you could just be some weirdo stalker without a hope in hell.   If that’s the case, stop it right now, before they slap a restraining order on you.  

 

In my case, it really is Magical Destiny.   I know because we’ve been through all the trials and tribulations of a budding romance and survived long enough to actually be at the stage where we’re planning our wedding.  At least Cynthia is, because planning for weddings is just one more thing that I’m useless at.   It’s all been up to her, doing all the phoning around, calling caterers and wedding planners and setting up these elaborate wedding scenarios like the two of us getting hitched in front of a waterfall, or in some grand church or something involving a horse drawn carriage.  The best idea was to hold it in a two-minute wedding chapel in Vegas.  By the way, that last idea was mine, and it didn’t go over well.   I guess I’m not the most romantic guy in the world.

 

This is further proof about the whole Magical Destiny thing, because this dreamboat sticks with me even though I can’t come up with even one romantic wedding scenario.  I should pause here and give you a warning: If you’re one of those people who gets all antsy when confronted with things like Destiny and Magic and Things Otherworldly, then you better stop reading right now and go watch some TV, because this book is just rife with that kind of junk.   Don’t feel bad if you have to quit reading, because I used to be just like that.  I hated all things ethereal, metaphysical and spiritual, but all that changed when I met Cynthia and her brother.

 

Her brother is dead by the way and I’m not going to rehash the whole story behind it.  If you’re at all interested, you can go read about it in a fabulous tale called, “The Infallible Heart of Andy Tiernan”.  A book, as some critics have said, “Is the most important book ever written, way better than War and Peace.”   Truthfully, no critic has ever said that, but if they did, they would be one hundred percent correct.

 

Anyway, this new, fabulous tale (which at this point (3 pages) is already way better than stupid War and Peace) takes place just as Cynthia was at the end of her rope with me in regards to the whole wedding planning extravaganza. 

 

“Do you like these table arrangements?”  She asked while I was reading a copy of Mad Magazine.

I glanced at the glossy display in the much brooded over bridal magazine.  “Yup.”

She immediately rolled up the magazine and swatted me on the side of my head.  “You didn’t even look at it!”

I sighed, “Cynth, I trust your judgment.  I honestly have no clue about any of this.”  This was about the eightieth time in the past month that I’d made this confession.

“Then get a clue!”  She snapped.  “We’re not planning MY wedding, we’re planning OUR wedding!”

“But all that matters is that I’m with you…”

“Don’t try that old “all that matters” crap again!  This is important to me!”

“I know that, but…”

“The wedding is in three weeks!  You haven’t given one piece of constructive input into the whole thing.  Tricia, Beverley and Sue have been trying to get you involved but you won’t even…”

Tricia, Beverley and Sue were Cynthia’s bridesmaids and you never saw a more annoying pack of pruning, pastel preppies in your life.  It was like they were created for the sole purpose of squawking and nattering over bridal magazines for their entire lives. 

 

Cynthia cut in on my annoyed reverie, “You haven’t even decided on a best man!”

“Of course I have.”  I said with a surly tone that I felt was pretty appropriate.  “Bobby’s going to be my best man.”

“BOBBY?”  She practically screamed the name.

“Sure, why not?”

“How can he be your best man?”

“He’s my…” I was going to say that he was my best friend, but the fact is, I barely knew him.  He was a forty something no talent dried up lounge singer from Las Vegas.   Not that those facts stopped him from being able to be my best friend.  The truth was, in the year and a half that I knew him, I think I’d only talked to him about 3 times.  And each time we spoke it was because he wanted me to lend him money.   To make matters worse, I hadn’t even spoken to him about the wedding.  I tried reaching him through this run down dive of a nightclub in Vegas where he used to work, but he’d left without a forwarding address.

 

How sad is that? you’re probably thinking to yourself.  This loser doesn’t even have a single solitary friend better qualified that some old hack from Vegas to stand up and be his best man.   Normally I’d argue with you, but you’re right, it is sad.   Cynthia didn’t quite share your sympathy though.

 

“He’s a creep!”

“Well yeah…”

“And there’s no way he’s going to be your best man!  Why not James, from school?”

“James?”

“The tall guy!”

“If you have to remind me who James is, he hardly qualifies as a friend worthy enough to be a best man.  Should I just go up to and say, “Hey tall guy, what are you doing on the 15^th?  Want to be my best man at my wedding?  I’m Zach by the way.” If I even asked him, he’d think I was the biggest loser to ever disgrace the planet.”

“How about…” She paused to think of someone else and then she looked at my cocked eyebrow and figured that I was looking smug, like I had just won an argument.  

“You’re looking awfully pleased with yourself considering that you have no friends.”  Sometimes Cynthia can be cruel.  It helps to balance out her looks.

 

“I’m not pleased with myself!  How pleased would you feel if you didn’t have anyone decent to be your best man?  It’s about time you faced up to the fact that you’re marrying a loser.”

“Aw Zach,” she said soothingly.  “I knew you were a loser from day one.”

I ignored her last comment. “I’m just not a people person!  People annoy me!  You know that!”

“Do I annoy you too?”

If I was an honest man I would have answered yes, there were a lot of times where she did in fact annoy me.   Thankfully I’m not that honest or stupid.  “Of course not.  I love you.”

“Then pull your head out of your ass and get with the program!”

Friendless losers with hot fiancées have to take this kind of abuse all the time, so I shrugged in response.  Then suddenly I had an epiphany.  I’m sure my eyes were glowing with excitement as I said, “I heard about this wedding where it was reversed.”

“What was reversed?”  She asked suspiciously.

“The whole best man thing.  You see, the groom was best friends with this girl that he’d known since they were little kids.   The girl was a lesbian or something, but that’s not important.   Coincidentally the bride was also best friends with a guy that she’d known since…”

“So the girl was the best man and the guy was the maid of honor?”

“Exactly!”

“But you’re not friends with any girls.”

“Yeah, but maybe you could lend me one of your bridesmaids and get some guy from work who can be in your retinue.  That way…”

“LEND you one of my bridesmaids?”

“And to balance things out, you could get whatshisname to be…”

“That has to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

I scowled at her. “First you complain that I’m not putting any effort into the wedding…”

“And these table arrangements…” She began, but I cut her off.

“I don’t care about the table arrangements!”

 

It was her turn to cock an eyebrow at me and I knew that I had said the wrong thing.  She didn’t wait to hear what my next lame line was going to be and she stood up and marched out of the living room and down the hall.

 

That’s the downside to my theory.  You think that if you’re with someone because of Magical Destiny then you don’t have to do squat except tiptoe through the tulips and everything will always be sunsets and slow dances, but the truth is, any relationship takes work.  So I stood up and sullenly marched down the hall, up the stairs and went into our bedroom.   She was lying down on the bed, the bridal magazine clutched like a stuffed animal. 

 

“Cynthia…”

She glared at me, which caused me to lose my train of thought and stand there like an oaf.  “What is it?”  She snapped.

“I love you.”

“Big deal.”

“That hurts.” I said.

“If you love me, you’d care about this.  You’d realize this was important and get off your lazy butt to help me.  I’m beginning to wonder if you even care about marrying me.”

“Of course I do!  But as a guy…”

“Don’t give me that ‘as a guy’ crap.”  Suddenly she changed the topic to one that I wasn’t at all comfortable with.  “Your father called again.”

 

The only good thing about her bringing up my dad was that it took me off the defensive.   I don’t have a lot of fondness for him as he ran off with his secretary when I was 13 years old and I hadn’t seen him since.  

 

“So?”  I said.

“I think you should talk to him.”  She said with softness in her voice that usually made me melt.  I remained firm though.

“I think he should hurry up and die.”

“You don’t mean that.” 

 

I walked out of the bedroom but Cynthia is pretty quick and by the time I reached the stairs she was right in front of me, stopping me from going any further. 

 

“He wants to come to the wedding.”

“You talked to him?”  I asked, feeling blood start to rush into my face.

“Of course I talked to him.  I told you he called.  What did you expect me to do?  Hang up on him?”

“I would have.”

“I’m not the one with the issues.”

“I don’t have issues!”

“OK sweetie.”  She said, as patronizingly soft as possible.

 

I went around her and stalked down the stairs.  Of course I have issues.  I don’t have any friends, I’m estranged from my father, I live in constant anxiety over being engaged to a superior being and to top it off I was being vilified over how much of a dork I was.   I went straight back to my MAD magazine but not even the C.S.I parody wasn’t making me feel any better.   I angrily flipped through the pages for a few minutes before accepting the futility of trying to feel better and went to the kitchen.  I began rifling through the drawers looking for my nicotine gum but instead found an extremely old, rumpled pack of Turkish cigarettes that Cynthia’s brother used to smoke.  I grabbed the pack and looked around guiltily.   Cynthia was still upstairs so I began to tiptoe out the side door to the garage. 

 

Once safely sequestered, I took a cigarette out of the pack and it was so dry that little bits of tobacco fell out the end of it as I held it.  I lit it and took a deep drag, then let out a belching cough of acrid smoke. My lungs felt like they were on fire and my stomach began to roil with nausea.   The really stupid thing is, it made me feel better… for about 2 drags and then the nausea started taking precedence over the guilty pleasure.   I didn’t butt it out though; I just held it between my fingers at arm’s length, letting out little puffs of breath to blow the smoke away.  I sat down on the steps and looked at the orderly garage, my eyes sweeping over everything but absorbing nothing. 

 

I didn’t want to have to deal with my father, or the wedding, or God forbid the big issue of what I was going to do with my life after graduating with my Bachelor of Arts degree that would take me however many more semesters to finish.    I was just about to have another drag on the cigarette when the door behind me opened and I turned to watch Cynthia delicately step down the first step and sit beside me.   I didn’t even try to hide the cigarette, which would have been a pointless exercise in any case.  I waited for her to make some kind of caustic remark but instead she reached over and plucked the cigarette out from between my fingers and took a long puff on it.   She grimaced as she exhaled a long blue stream of smoke and said, “That’s awful.”

“I know.”  I said in a quiet voice.

She handed the cigarette back to me and I resumed holding it away from me like it was a dead snake or something. 

“I’m not going to give you a hard time about your dad.”  She said in a soft voice.

“Thank you.”

“I’m not even going to harp about the wedding plans.”

I didn’t say anything because I was waiting for whatever horrible new issue she was going to launch at me.

She sighed, “I’ve been difficult.  I know that and I’m sorry.”

I stared at her in shock and she gave me a little smile.  “Don’t look so surprised.  I realize when I’m being… y’know.”

I nodded, still in shock.  I lifted the cigarette to my lips and took a drag, then immediately launched into a mini coughing fit.   Cynthia rubbed my back until it subsided.  After I took a deep, cleansing breath I said, “You don’t have to apologize, I know that I haven’t kept up my end of things with the wedding and as for my dad… well… it’s tough.”

“I know it’s tough and it’s unreasonable of me to expect you to deal with these issues and the wedding and everything else.  I know that wedding planning isn’t one of your strengths and to be honest, you’re just in the way around here.”  She cast me a sideways glance to see if I was offended but I really wasn’t.  Given the choice, I wished that I could take off for three weeks and show up five minutes before the ceremony.

“The girls and I can take of everything and…”

“What?  I asked, even more taken aback.

“Yes, I’m giving you a pass.  You can take off for a week and let me get this stuff done.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“I wonder where I should go.” 

“Miami, Florida.” She said quickly.

Feeling my eyes narrow, I asked, “What?  Why?  What’s in Miami?” 

She pointed over the counter in the garage at the array of tools that I never used.  “For that.”

“Tools?”

“No, you dolt.  The car.”

Above the counter was a picture of a 1969 Cadillac Coupe Deville convertible. 

“The car?”

“I bought you the car as a wedding present.”

“Really?”  I said, standing up in excitement and dropping the cigarette on the ground.  I looked from the poster to Cynthia and then back to the poster again.  If you’re wondering why I was so excited, you’ve obviously never seen a 1969 Cadillac Coupe Deville convertible.  You should go on the internet and check it out as soon as this chapter is over.  I’ll try to finish up quickly for you.

 

 Cynthia was grinning at me and I didn’t even mind when I accidentally stepped on the cigarette in my stocking feet.  I gave a little leap and brushed the ashes off without the grin leaving my face.

“Are you serious?”  I asked again.

She nodded.  “It was supposed to be a surprise wedding present.  I know how you love that car.”

Wow.  What a woman.  I gazed at her with all the love in my heart and then 3 seconds later a small dose of suspicion came into my head.  “The car’s in Miami?  What’s it doing there?”

“The owner is there.  I bought it from a magazine and my cousin Charlie was supposed to drive it up here for the wedding but the only flaw is that he doesn’t know how to drive.”

“Who’s Charlie?”

“My cousin Charlie from Tampa.  My Aunt Carole’s son.”

I was drawing a blank. “And you mentioned him before?”

She closed her eyes in a sure sign of aggravation so I changed the subject back to the car.  “I can’t believe you did this for me!  A Coupe Deville!”

She smiled.   “So now you can fly down, pick up Charlie and drive back together.”

My glee began to dissipate somewhat.  “We’re driving back together?  He’s not a weirdo is he?”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously and her voice dropped down a notch.  “Why would he be a weirdo?  Are you implying that everyone in my family is weird?”

I shook my head quickly, not wanting to spoil the moment, “Of course not, it’s just the idea of driving 8 thousand miles with a complete stranger…”

She let out a little laugh.  “Charlie is perfectly normal and I’m sure you’ll get along fine.  The only thing remotely weird is that he’s afraid to fly.  He was going to take the bus so we’ll be killing two birds with one stone, you get the shiny new car and my cousin gets a lift to the wedding.  As for it being 8 thousand miles away, you really should work on your geography.”

“I should work on being a better fiancé.  This is the most amazing gift ever… I’m just dumbfounded.”

She smiled and gave me a kiss.  “You leave tomorrow.  No adventures this time though.”

“Absolutely not.”  I said and gave her a kiss of my own.

 

 

Let's be Serious

You know when something really awful happens and you feel terrible about it and you mope around and feel like crap but then something funny happens, and for that second or two you manage to forget the tragedy and just have a laugh?    But then, after your laugh you remind yourself, “Oh yeah, I shouldn’t be laughing because so and so just died!” and then you feel really guilty about laughing.   But you shouldn’t.  What you should feel guilty about is forgetting who it was that died and you had to refer to them as “so and so”.  

Bad things happen all the time, it’s a given, so why not have a chuckle when the moment presents itself?   I say go to a stranger’s funeral and just laugh it up, really loudly.   It can be very therapeutic.     Another great time for a laugh is during business meetings, especially when your boss is sharing some really bad news about losing capital or high SG&A adversely affecting the P&L.   I find that giggling throughout can really boost my spirit.  I often get depressed in meetings because I don’t know what an SG&A is.   It probably has something to do with something or other.    But that’s just an educated guess.

We shouldn’t focus on the bad things though.  We should rather focus on the annoying things, because those things we can complain about and that will make us feel better in a constructive way.   For instance, something that really annoys me is men who carry around shoulder bags.   A guy in a suit may need to tote a briefcase because there are probably important papers in there (probably about SG&As) but some dude carrying a shoulder bag (or man purse if you prefer) just screams “Douche Bag!”  Or maybe that screaming is just coming from me, usually from across the street, “Hey Douche bag, what are you carrying around in that shoulder bag?!?!  Your Goddamn lunch?!?!?!”   Because really, I only carry a wallet, my car keys, a pack of smokes and sometimes when I remember to take it, my stupid work Blackberry.   All that stuff either fits in a pocket or if it’s too warm for a jacket, I just carry them.   No man should have so much stuff that it necessitates having a purse.   So please do me a favor… the next time you see one of those guys with a shoulder bag, just tackle him to the ground (trust me, he won’t put up a fight – he’s carrying a purse for God’s sake) and rip that bag away and report back to me what he’s got in there.   If it’s more than 4 things, kick him in the ribs while he’s down.  And while you’re at it, throw a stick into the spokes of a cyclist, because those bastards annoy everyone.  I mean really, is that stupid mushroom helmet necessary?   And if it is, there is no way those awful shorts and stupid ankle socks are doing anyone any good. 

The lesson here is that when something horrible happens in your life, don’t try focusing on the positive things because that just doesn’t work.   Focus instead on the annoying things, because those things are much more real.   Not to say that positive things don’t happen, I’m sure they do from time to time… but instead of trying to convince yourself that every cloud has a silver lining (how can a cloud have a lining?  Is it supposed to be an outline or something?  I’ve never seen a cloud with an outline.   And why would a lining on a cloud (even if it’s made of silver) be of any value to us?   “Oh no, it’s raining, but at least that cloud is lined with silver… but I’m still getting soaked.”)   Where was I?  Oh yeah, so when bad things happen, distract yourself with things that are annoying… kind of like this blog entry. 

Another great idea by me

Many of us who have jobs are frequently required to interact with individuals who are most often known as, “that prick.”   “That prick” can also be described as, “that douche bag.”  They are easily recognizable as they can be heard defending their rotten natures with statements like, “I’m not arrogant, I’m confident.”  As you and I know, people who are confident never feel the need to declare that they are confident… they are just confident and therefore can remain silent about it.   So we’ve all known that individual and wanted to punch him in the mouth on a few occasions and possibly wished him harm in the form of a runaway bus “accident” or tragic combine “mishap.”  We are fully justified in those feelings so don’t let me catch any of you feeling remotely guilty about it.   

With that being said, isn’t it interesting that most of the time “that prick” turns out to be a guy.   Sure women at work can be all sorts of things that can begin with the letter B or in extreme cases, the letter C, but for the most part, “that prick” is a dude.  It’s just not right.   And how come only male children born out of wedlock are called bastards and illegitimate girls are not?  So with that revelation in mind, I declare that women are getting short changed in the world.   Something needs to be done to even things out!   Instead of forcing women to become “that bitch”, we need some other field where women can dominate.  

I know that I speak for everyone when I say that all jobs that require uniforms should now be done only by women.   There are many vital fields that provide lifesaving services like police, fire fighters, doctors, nurses and sexy librarians… it’s time that we realize that those functions should be done by the people that can do the jobs the best.   

Perhaps there are some of you (those who hate women and are violently opposed to equal rights) who will say, “What if you were trapped in a burning building?  One single woman might not be able to carry you out of there.”   That’s true but I’m sure 2 or 3 women could manage it quite easily and I am quite willing to practise that with them in order to save lives.    It’s time we stop making flimsy excuses in order to keep women oppressed!   

In fact, this is an issue that goes beyond women’s rights; this is about working together to affect positive change in our world!    Our whole attitudes would change overnight if only women were allowed in uniform wearing positions.    Right now when we get pulled over by the cops, we are filled with dread and panic, scrambling for our license and registration.   We could instead be scrambling to smooth out our hair and find a breath mint.    No longer would we view authority figures with disdain and distrust!   We could be viewing them with… well heck, we could be happy just viewing them.    Which of course brings me to firefighter calendars: finally there would be a real and viable reason to buy them!   

Oh sure, some of you (those same women haters) will accuse me of being sexist by suggesting that all of these jobs should be done by women.    Nothing could be further from the truth!   You say that men can do those jobs too.   Sure, so you can objectify those poor guys with your lurid thoughts!  I’ve seen you women gathered around fire trucks! Shame on you!  Let’s face it, men are unreliable, lazy and downright stupid.   Do you really want us to be responsible for your lives?  Of course not.    And while men are dominating the whole “that prick” field, which just isn’t fair, I say that women should rise up and take over all positions that require uniforms to even things out.    I would never want it said in this day and age that we are content to accept inequality and oppression.    Plus, with any luck, “that prick” will get pulled over by a policewoman and as soon as he opens his mouth, she tazes him to death.   It’s OK to dream.

The dark underbelly of Democracy's belly

It’s been said that a democracy is nothing more than two wolves and a sheep deciding what to have for dinner. Everyone pretty much agrees that a democracy is the best form of government because it displays “the will of the people” or at least “the will of just over half the people.” Obviously this can cause some issues when the mob mentality takes over and right or wrong, decides to screw over the minority. If you find yourself in a minority, you can then either a) just shut up and take your lumps or b) try to convince the mob that you shouldn’t be screwed over or c) some other option that I haven’t thought of.

Democracies are not all they are cracked up to be even though they often portray themselves as representing a caring society. After a few drinks, Democracies will also portray themselves as wealthy architects with wives that “don’t understand them”. In short, Democracies can be douche bags. But even when they are sober and they’re standing around staring at other societies’ breasts and telling them how much they care about people, Democracies ignore many of the problems that plague us all. To illustrate this irrefutable stance that I’ve taken (my stance is usually one foot up on a chair and smoking a pipe) let me point out two major issues that have yet to be addressed by these so-called caring societies:
1. Homelessness
2. Abandoned missile solos

I posit that we can solve both of these problems in one fell swoop. You guessed it, all we need to do is round up all the homeless people and stick them into those huge underground missile silos that the US government shut down. Apparently those silos are mostly radiation free and can hold a huge number of people and shopping carts. It seems like a no brainer to just hand out a packet of seeds and maybe a few chickens for them to raise and then voila, no more wasted space or smelly homeless people on the streets. Granted, many of them will not willingly submit to being helped, but that’s where caring societies are so efficient: they will care for people regardless if they want to be cared for or not. That is the measure of how much they are loved. Just like people living in faraway countries are often “freed” by having “bombs dropped on their heads.”

Another possible solution for homelessness is to move them all out to the country. It seems that homeless people tend to congregate in cities and have deep urban roots. You don’t often see them hanging around corn fields. Maybe they do, but farmers may be just as loving as Democracies and shoot them and bury their bodies in fields when no one is looking. In any case, if we just transposed the homeless out to the boonies, then they could possibly get work as scarecrows or just laze away the day next to every 1976 Buick Skylark every made that are currently parked near the highway and adorned with hand painted FOR SALE signs. That would be gainful employment for homeless people. Or some farmers can shoot them.

I know what you’re thinking though, “That alone will not solve the abandoned missile silo crisis!” And you’re absolutely right; it wouldn’t take care of that problem at all. If we are too squeamish to jam a few thousand homeless people into massive underground crypts that possibly contain more than acceptable levels of radiation, then maybe we need to take a good hard look at ourselves and ask, “How would you “round up” homeless people anyway? Cowboys with lassos?” Because if we aren’t prepared to do the dirty work, to get our hands dirty and probably quite smelly too, to care about homelessness enough to darn well do something about it, then people, all I can say is that we ought to be ashamed of ourselves. Since I never want to be ashamed of myself for anything, my plan (sketched out on a napkin) is thus:
Roughly 45% of grown up type people vote so all I have to do is convince 23% of the adult population to adopt a law that states, “All homeless people will be rounded up and either dumped underground or sent out to a field somewhere, probably to die.”
“Ah,” you say, “Not even 23% of adults would vote for that. It’s unjust.” And that is where I would pat you on the head in a patronizing fashion and gently coo, “You are a naïve twit.” I would have a slick advertising campaign and have good looking celebrities make ads for me in which they smile and say, “Anyone that doesn’t vote for “Proposition Kill All the Homeless” is not cool or attractive.” Then hoards of people (23%) would say, “I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m not cool or attractive, especially after all that work I put in at the gym. I am going to vote for “Proposition Kill All the Homeless”, whatever that is.”
That would be democracy at work.

Condominiums! That’s what we can use those empty missile silos for. Or shopping malls! Underground missile silo malls! There, one problem solved.

Children are our future janitors

The other day while I was making sweet love to myself, I came across an article that stated that kids are much stupider than they were a generation ago. I’m not sure that I can agree with that bold declaration even though I have always felt that all kids are morons. Consider these alarming made up statistics: 2 out of 3 teenagers do not know how to spell their own name. 90% of all children under the age of 14 eat their own nose mucus. 4 out of 5 children born after 1995 hate their grandparents. I could go on and on about these startling figures but perhaps the greatest and most disappointing statistic is that three quarters of all kids under the age of 30 haven’t the foggiest idea what “three quarters” means. Of course, I could grumble disparagingly about “kids nowadays” like every other person over the age of 29 does but I just don’t buy into that kind of generational outlook. To listen to those grumblers you would think that they did their homework between shifts at the coal mine. I don’t believe the argument that kids nowadays are any more idiotic than any other batch of miscreant children from generations past. I can supply an example from my own past that begins with this shocking quotation: “Don’t go boogieing off.” Those were the words of a 12 year old bully, tormenting a future devil of handsome proportions, namely, me. Now that I’ve reached the ripe old age of maturity (roughly 19 and a half years old) I can look back through the years and face those awful, smelly memories of my youth. I’ve harbored a great deal of resentment toward that nameless bully who could turn a phrase so majestically. Maybe it was the threat of being pummeled by him and his gang of pre-pubescent thugs or it might have been simple jealousy over his grammatical skill, being able to turn the word “boogie” into a gerund. In any case, the scars run deep my friends, the scars run deep. Even though I’m not a day over 20ish, I can recall that fateful day with frightening clarity. The kind of gruesome clarity that makes for expensive therapy bills. I was a lad of 9 or maybe 10 and I’d just gotten a new bike for my birthday or gentile bar mitzvah or something. Come to think of it, I’m not sure the bike was new. But I do know, with shockingly accurate clarity, that it was summer. Or possibly autumn. I can swear that it wasn’t winter, because I was riding a bike. Anyway, there I was, young and carefree, riding my bike around the block like a young (9 or 10 years old) Steve McQueen, breaking all the rules and thumbing my nose at “the man”. (As a child, I was deeply opposed to “the man” – “the man” being authority, not necessarily that man who drove a van slowly past the elementary schools. That guy was OK because he had candy.) Anyway, all of a sudden a gang of ruffians appeared out of nowhere and the leader of the gang blocked my path. He demanded to know what I was doing, riding my bike with awesome skill around his neighborhood. I believe that my reply was no doubt witty and probably laden with subtext that would astound anyone who heard it but that ruffian was not impressed and after an exchange of delightful banter (witty, thought provoking, chock full of unique observations) he pushed me and my pant leg got caught in the bike chain and I fell over backwards. He and his gang of future Mensa candidates laughed and left me in a state of bloody elbow, torn pant leg and a lasting belief that kids are idiots and ought to be locked up. In any case, the moral of this story (because apparently you need one of those for everything you talk about) is that kids are not any getting smarter and something ought to be done about it. So get to it.

Love is not priceless, but it is expensive

This may come as a bit of a shock, but I’ve made the landmark discovery that beautiful women are often attracted to rich men. I know that this revelation may cause shock and indignation among both men and women but I think it’s time the truth came out. Apparently gorgeous women are alarmingly drawn to rich men because these gentlemen, despite being old, ugly and frequently hairy, have a lot of money. It would seem that things like good looks and personality aren’t all that important in comparison to having scads of money. Some of you women will no doubt say, “Money isn’t important to me!” I often counter that by saying, “Prove it by sleeping with me.” Of course they don’t so obviously that makes them liars. I speak from experience. One time, I encountered a guy with a huge protruding forehead, rotten teeth, a huge gut and he was a loudmouth jerk to boot. He was saying, “My girlfriend has a lot of hobbies.” And me, being the clever fellow I am, said, “Hobbies like making a fist, clapping, wearing a glove, writing with a pencil?” He gave me a blank stare and I felt like a twit when I had to explain, “I was referring to your hand being your girlfriend.” And then he said, “No, my girlfriend over there.” And then he pointed to the attractive young lady standing in front of his BMW. I felt like an even bigger twit but it all made sense. In defence of those shallow yet gorgeous girls, I posit that perhaps it is not the money itself that draws them to these often hideous troglodytes. Maybe it’s only what their huge piles of money represent: business savvy (even if they inherited the money or got it by being good at sports), motivated and driven (see above parenthetical statement), security for themselves, their children (and possibly the pool boy). This may be what draws them to these rich bastards who many times exhibit back hair or large protruding stomachs that make it look like they swallowed a whole sheep. Heck, maybe models end up with hockey players with missing teeth and 48 word vocabularies because they just love the game so darn much. You’ll notice that I have not used the term “golddigger” yet. I do so not because I just remembered, but because it isn’t fair to attach a label to these women. If I were to do so, I would have to come up with an equally unflattering term for rich guys who marry hot chicks and that would entail far too much work for me. Because yes, the fact is that these fat cats are equally shallow and just as guilty. It’s not like they chase these women because they are attracted to their sense of humor, their love of nature/animals/children, their nurturing spirits, their gift for paying thousands of dollars for shoes. Yeah, one pair of shoes. But anyway, the men are just as bad. I think what annoys me so much about it is that they are both playing a dishonest game with each other. The women pretend to love them for all sorts of reasons except for their money and the men pretend to adore them for all those other things that aren’t their boobs. It would just be so refreshing for these couples to exchange vows in complete honestly. Bride: “I love your money and when your blatant infidelity becomes intolerable, I will divorce you and take a huge chunk of it.” Groom: “I love your ass and when it starts to sag, I’m prepared to offer you severance pay in the form of a large divorce settlement so I can trade you in for a younger woman.” Hurray, true love!! Of course many beautiful women do not end up with rich men. Many of them could easily scoop up a rich guy but instead choose to follow their heart and marry for love. Although this displays a distinct lack of business sense, it’s awfully sweet to see. To these women I say, “Hey baby, what’s up?” And then their husbands beat me up, because that’s what true love does. It hits.

The CBC is a giant pile of crap

Recently, every single viewer of the CBC was polled on what they love about the government operated and taxpayer funded network. Eight of the respondents said they love the unique, Canadian perspective and the other four people said, “Hockey Night in Canada.” The delicate point, in case you missed it because you were watching “The Tudors”, is that there is no earthly reason why the CBC is still around. Before you go off on the need for culturally prevalent programming, let me remind you that TSN ably covers the NHL games. Because let’s face it, Hockey Night in Canada is the only reason that huge waste of taxpayer dollars is still around… that and the petitions from every talentless writer, actor, director, etc. that isn’t good enough to get a job in the States.
You may be wondering what had caused this deep irritation with the beloved CBC? What brought on this rant against this most hallowed of Canadian institutions? I’m so glad you didn’t really ask. It was the fact that as I was madly scanning the channels on my way to quality programming, I came across “The Don Cherry Story”, a made for TV (sorry, not TV – since no other channel would play that dreck) made for the CBC movie about a hockey commentator who apparently was a pretty average player, then a below average coach, who because of his colorful take on the game became a commentator (who is on the air about seven minutes a week for six months of the year). Don’t get me wrong, as a hockey fan I love Don Cherry’s commentary, but as a subject for a movie? Is this country that lame that we have to make movies about hockey commentators?
The answer of course, is NO! We aren’t that lame at all! We have a ton of movie worthy people, places and things that would suffice. But the CBC, in its bloated sense of self-importance, treating itself as the last defender of Canadian culture, doesn’t give a shit what it puts on the air because they don’t care if they have a viewership of twelve people, they make/take their money from YOU! You, you stupid taxpayer, you fund the CBC. You pay for the six figure executives and “performers” (currently over 100 of them) and you pay for the production of simply awful TV shows, radio programmes in foreign languages (I’m not even counting French), news programs that are so biased for whatever governing party is writing their cheques and of course disgustingly terrible made for CBC movies.
As humans (much more so as Canadians) we hate change. More so, we hate to admit that our culture is primarily derived from those idiots to the south. Because of these factors, we will never put forth any kind of outcry for getting rid of the CBC. We think that if we do, the ghosts of Wayne & Shuster will rise up and pelt us with beavers (and not the good kind, the kind with pelts – get it?) We feel like our identity is wrapped around maintaining our cultural icons. Which I get… but what I don’t understand is that as long as there’s a Tim Horton’s on every corner, we have our cultural identity in good hands and those good hands are wrapped around a double double. We just don’t need the CBC. So when you consider what our tax dollars are paying for (gold plated MP pensions and a huge health care suckhole) you should probably scratch the CBC off the list when you consider their prime time schedule: (taken directly off the tax payer funded website)

6:30 PM Coronation Street - Eps. #7688 & 7689
Peter has some stern words for Carla. Tracy's back. Marcus and Sean say goodbye to Dylan. Frank faces court.
7:30 PM Jeopardy (HD)
Join host Alex Trebek in the most honoured quiz show in television history.
8:00 PM Rick Mercer Report (HD) - Season 9 - Eps 6
Rick and opera star Measha Brueggergosman go whale watching on the Bay of Fundy in St Andrews, New Brunswick and Rick stays on the Bay of Fundy to go jet boating with New Brunswick Premier David Alward at the reversing falls near Saint John.
8:30 PM 22 Minutes (HD) - Series XIX - Eps 7
Alan Thicke joins us as guest host of our look-back-at-the-80's show! Special appearances by Ben Mulroney, David Suzuki, Bob MacDonald and musical guest, The Spoons.
9:00 PM Arctic Air (HD) (DV) - Series 1 - Eps 5 - Northern Lights
A drug overdose in a remote community leads Bobby and Mel to a disturbing discovery about Arctic Air's involvement.
10:00 PM The National (HD)
The award-winning live newscast anchored by CBC News chief correspondent Peter Mansbridge.
10:55 PM CBC News: Late Night
Coverage of your local late night news.
11:05 PM George Stroumboulopoulos Tonight (HD) - Guests: Clara Hughes; Dave Bidini
George interviews Clara Hughes and Dave Bidini.

Seriously, Coronation Street?! First of all, you can watch it on the BBC (let the British pay for that shite). Secondly, I hope Carla isn’t too put off by Peter’s stern words. Sounds like heady stuff.
Jeopardy? You can watch it on a channel that actually has to sell advertising to make money. “I’ll take “a billion dollar crap sandwich” for $200.” and the question is, “What is the CBC?”
Rick Mercer. I’m sorry, you aren’t funny enough to pay to visit the Bay of Fundy. But since you’re there, please stay.
22 Minutes. I wonder how much this crappy show costs per minute. Probably a lot to pay for high end musical talent like The Spoons.
Arctic Air. I can watch real Ice Pilots on the History Channel, which leads Bobby and Mel to a disturbing discovery about how no one watches their show.
The National: Um, other channels carry the news, right? You do know that “award winning” means a Gemini right? Didn’t the CBC invent the Gemini’s?
CBC News: Yay, more news coverage. Apparently every network has a news channel… if there was no CBC, we would only have 87 other news channels to watch.
George Stroumboloulopoulos Tonight: When did George wake up one day and decide he was too smart for Much Music? Don’t get me wrong, I need to know what’s going on with retired Olympian Clara Hughes and Dave Bidini (whoever that is). I like how they actually have to explain that George is interviewing them. Would Clara Hughes just skate around the studio and would Dave Bidini… (seriously, who is that guy?)

So there you go… if that is programming that you want to pay for, then please get off my planet. Oh, and please do not support my Blog, I’m shooting for government funding, (or possibly a movie deal).

Chicks with Tattoos

It’s time for me to finally set the record straight on tattoos. In order to tackle the issue head on, or as the Greeks say, “straight ahead”, we have to understand the history of tattoos.
During the Middle Ages or thereabouts, there were many vicious tribes at war: The Visigoths, the Eskimos, the 49ers and the wicked Haiku to name but a few. In order to terrify their enemies, they went into battle singing romantic pop songs by Adele but sometimes when they were faced with even more vicious foes who didn’t allow themselves to be fazed by single themed lyrics, they needed something more, so they would also bring weapons like axes and stuff. While they made war, others made love and thus babies were invented and this ushered in the glorious Renaissance, known for its majestic paintings, sculptures and troubling Sudoku puzzles. Then, when art was at its apex, some sailors landed at port and the very first thing they did was visit some prostitutes. To commemorate the venereal diseases they both gave and received, they would adorn themselves with tattoos, because after the dirty sex, there was nothing else to do except sculpt or invent weird looking helicopters like the kind that DaVinci would fly around in.
Fast forward to the twentieth century and all of a sudden, bikers and sailors alike were still getting awful sexually transmitted diseases and with that hurdle to overcome, they would get tattoos so girls with daddy issues would flock to them by the hundreds. These girls soon saw that if they wanted to be treated equally they would have to get tattoos as well and thus started the great butterfly tattoo trend of the nineties, which segued into the Chinese letters that translated into “Forever Love Happy Happy Fun Chevy Nova” which they would get tattooed onto discreet areas of their bodies that would only be seen by those fortunate dozen or so guys who would have sex with them. But that wasn’t enough… because soon hidden tattoos only seen by boyfriends or drunken one night stands would need to be displayed on wrists, ankles, calves and then, oh glorious Renaissance Part Deux, the neck.
Now that you know the history of tattoos, you may be wondering, “Frank, you handsome devil, why don’t you care for tattoos, aside from the fact that they are dirty and gross?” Well, the answer is that I like tattoos as long as they are on men. “Oh Frank, you highly intelligent but still incredibly sexy fool, that’s completely sexist! Why are tattoos on men a good thing, but not on women?” I’m glad you asked…
The reason why I do not like tattoos on women (and yes, I know that I am offending 99.9 % of you now because that’s how many of you are inked), but the fact is, I like naked women. A woman who is tattooed is never naked, there’s always something covering their skin. It’s like you see a gorgeous naked chick and say, “She’s really hot, but she would be way hotter if she just threw on a sweater.” A tattoo is like a piece of clothing that you can never take off. (Obviously I feel that men should be completely tattooed, particularly over the wiener, so I never have to see that stuff in locker rooms or movies with Harvey Keitel, Kevin Bacon or Jason Segel). But for women, wherever they have a tattoo, it’s a like they’re covering themselves with a glued on Argyll sock.
Granted, I don’t know much about fashion, since it looks like I cut my own hair with a Bic lighter, but I do know that applying a permanent design on your skin is not a good idea because no matter how much that design means to you now, in a few years you’ll say, “I used to feel very strongly about forever love happy happy fun chevy nova, but now… meh.” And at that point, you’ll wish you just bought a t-shirt of it instead of permanently etching it into your skin.
Now I like to pride myself on my easy going nature, my live and let live attitude, my joy of life or as the French say, “Je ne parle pas Francais” but in this regard I have to be steadfast in my unyielding belief that naked chicks are way cooler when they’re naked. Women, do not cover yourselves, be proud of your nakedness when nakedness is called for. And don’t delude yourself into thinking that a tattoo will make you unique (well, as unique as everyone else that has one) or being “edgy and cool” because being edgy and cool is what happens on the inside, not on your skin. And as a final parting shot, soon tattoos on chicks will go out of style and if you get a tattoo, you’ll really be dating yourself. Soon younger, cooler chicks will look at you and remark, “Holy, you must be old, because those went out of style, like, 5 years ago.” Which is why I am starting up my own laser removal boutique… call now for rates.