Happy Barfday

Sunday is my birthday of all things.

There comes a time in life when birthdays sort of stop being a celebration and start becoming a pathetic parody of itself to a certain extent, wouldn’t you say? “Wow, you’re still alive?! Let’s party!” These days I get embarrassed by all the attention frankly, and coming from me that’s indeed saying something. I’m not sure when the tide turned on that shore since I’m an attention whore of the highest order for the most part, but over the last few years the event has lost more than it’s share of sand from the birthday beach. If I’m in the center of the circle, I’d rather earn it honestly than collect it for simply surviving another year (and by “earn it honestly” I generally mean act a fool or shift into “Entertainment Mode”, you get the picture). Since it’s in January, exactly a month after Christmas, and because I generally get spoiled rotten at the feet of the flashing tree, this year my wish was to tie it all into our Superbowl festivities a week later. Since we’ll have a house full anyway it just makes sense to push it out a weekend, have the game as the focal point and sew “Me” day festivities throughout the afternoon/evening. It’s the pint glass atop an otherwise already perfect place setting.

Sounds good to me.

We’re handling the birth day itself from an entirely different angle this year; we’re going on the run, making a break for the mountains to get away from it all for a few days. She won’t tell me any specific details, but from hints gathered like carpet fluff after wearing new pajamas pants, that’s what I’ve been able to collect. A cabin, a glass of scotch, our son playing around in his portable prison and the wife in some saucy outfit. Perfect.

Have a good weekend.

Evolution of the “Douche Bag”

I guess it doesn’t mean a German Satchel after all.

Whether you are from North America, Korea or anywhere in between, whatever language you speak, there are words therein that are better left unsaid. Some abhorrently nasty while others completely unremarkable yet immortal for some strange reason. Forgotten words, forbidden words, casually crossbred terms and pop culturally unsound expressions that keep coming back again and again after a cyclical life/death scenario. Then there are those terms that make the resurrection reel but never seem to phase out of the common vernacular whatsoever, they just hang around like some sort of textually transmitted virus. Scratch all you want, this venereal verbiage just isn’t going away any time soon.

I went out for “Indian food” with a group of guys from work the other day (imagine my surprise when “let’s go for some Indian” meant Butter Chicken and not some spicy middle eastern delicacy with a hint of Chanel purring in front of me on a platter – who knew?). Nevertheless, the gents and their Butter Chickens were planning a drink-up after work to see a colleague off to a new position within the “Kompany”. When I dutifully informed them that I was not going to be attending this fine function and was in fact headed straight home to hang out with the mother and child component I was met with the following; “C’mon man, don’t be such a Douche Bag”.

Douche Bag.
“An individual who has an over-inflated sense of self worth, compounded by a low level of intelligence, behaving ridiculously in front of colleagues with no sense of how moronic he appears.” A douche is also reported to be a device that directs a spray of liquid into a bodily cavity for medical or hygienic purposes.

Interesting, I vehemently deny the first definition, though I am most certainly guilty of being equipped with the latter. I am still unsure of its medicinal qualities at the present time but can assure you that tests are ongoing, so watch this space for updates ;)

As I made my way back to work I got to thinking about Douche Bags of all things. Not about how I chased my friends around the house with one when I was a boy, unaware of what it actually was at the time, but how the term seems to have been clawing its way back into popular culture for the past few years now and has somehow become conventional. I couldn’t be the only one to have noticed the terms incisive resurgence; it’s been showing up regularly in sit-coms, on late night TV, in periodicals and of course smeared all over the blog roll like so much murky bag water. “The Lexicon of the Lascivious,” I thought, “growing fatter still on the pork of the past”. Then it occurred to me; “What if this swine never left the pen in the first place?”

In a televised “Saturday Night Live” skit from 1980 entitled “Lord Douchebag”, we meet Lord and Lady Douchebag as they are formally introduced at a lavish ball followed by boisterous laughter/applause. Harry Shearer’s character approaches; “Well, well, well! I am so frightfully glad you two could come, I was just asking Lady Salisbury ‘Where the devil are those Douchebags’”. The skit then hints at the invention of the aforementioned hygienic apparatus by none other than its namesake right down to Lady Douchebag (Gilda Radner) requesting that “just some vinegar and water” be added to her salad. Laughs abound and a new expression injects itself into the pop cultural cavity (I have since been informed that there are in fact earlier examples of the expression but I think this is one of first instances of it being broadcast to the masses).

“E.T. The Extra Terrestrial” (1982) has mention of it. “Revenge of the Nerds” (1984) has it, more recently “Super Troopers”, “Signs”, “the Happening” (Shyamalan must actually be obsessed with said item or in fact be one himself), “Team America: World Police”, “South Park” (not surprisingly), “Cloverfield”, “the Departed”, “Toy Soldiers”, “the Sopranos”, “Curb Your Enthusiasm”, “Entourage”, “American Dad”, “Family Guy”, “Charlie Wilson’s War”, “Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist” and in countless other media presentations. Jon Stewart used the term “Douchebag of Liberty” on the “Daily Show” a few years back for example. Online there are instructional guides on “How to be a Douche Bag” or self diagnosing manuals like “Are You a Douche Bag?”, there’s a “Museum of Douche Bags”, YouTube playlists featuring “Douche Baggery”, an award for “Douchiness”, "Hot Chicks with Douchebags", accusatory Facebook groups, a seemingly endless array of pictures highlighting upstanding members of the “D-Bag” community. The term is fucking everywhere and always has been from the looks of things.

Some words need to die, you’re thinking of some right now that you would love to never hear again… add “Douche+Bag” to that list if you will. To be honest, it’s not that the term offends me, nor does it get under my skin like some people. As a lover of language though, and having recently used the term some 25 times in the past few minutes alone I can truly say that I feel pretty damned stupid. One might even go so far to say that I feel like a “Douche Bag”, which would denote the following; “Douchie is as Douchie does”.

Obama-Lama-Ding-Dong & the 49th Parallel Mix Tape

We Canadians heart President Elect Barack Obama.

I’m not very good at politicking, when I think of going to the polls, I’m thinking about heading to a strip bar to dine on some dancers, but something happened to me during the last American Election – I went all Snipes Sciorra there for a bit. Canadians held an election during this time period as well, but like most things we do, it more or less went unnoticed by our beloved “Bottom”. So imagine our delight when Mr. P.E.B.O. decided to renew the long standing tradition (that is until Bush took office) of selecting our giant frozen anus of the world to make his first official state visit. I think the entire country popped a collective vein in their respective genital regions and we all set about furiously cleaning the country from top to bottom and not just the sweeping dust into the rivers or vacuuming around monuments kind of clean… we’re talking a top to bottom, renting of a Rug-Doctor kind of clean.

We’re like the big brother who’s been watching the little brother take all the glory but at the same time we shake our heads in disbelief as he defies logic again and again, dragging the entire family into the shitter along with him. We can only look on in horror as he goes off on some unfounded tangent, but who’s worse - The over-aggressive little brother who gets all the girls or the overtly passive, perchance lazy bigger brother who’s maybe just a little too docile for his own good?

To that end, we are so very desperate to get Mr. Obama’s attention when he stops by that we’re actually making him a “mix tape”. This is not a joke;

“Canada's CBC public radio has plans to teach US president-elect Barack Obama a little more about his northern neighbor, with an inaugural compilation of 49 Canadian songs”. 49 songs from north of the 49th parallel so to speak, how very clever. Obama's "playlist could definitely benefit from some Canadian content, especially given the depth of our musical offerings -- spanning a wide variety of genres and representing our culture from coast to coast". Also adding that; "We're excited about the new president and we want him to be excited about us, so we're asking our audience to help compile the list of our most definitive Canadian songs!"

Unreal.

Based on the 100 pre-selected songs you can choose from that are deemed “Obama enough” to represent the Great, White North; we as a country are perhaps taking this “brotherly love” thing a tad too far... we are in fact trying to get into his nicely pressed pants if these titles have anything to do with it:

· Lover’s in a Dangerous time
· Big Feeling
· Closer to the Heart
· Let Your Backbone Slide
· I Feel it All
· Rise Up
· Rise Again
· Rise Up My Love
· Takin’ Care of Business.
· I’m Going Up a Yonder
· The Truck Got Stuck
· Helpless

When you arrive, Mr. Obama, we’ll greet you with a sled full of Molson Canadian beer, a cooler packed with back bacon, fresh maple syrup and this “Mantie” removing mix tape. Watch yer arse Obama, we Canadians are quite obviously hot for you, bring a "change" of pants.

Doesn’t he look delicious?!

Phtalate-Free Phemale Fun Down Under

It's no secret that I love writing about the perversions of the populace, not only is it an excuse to do some side-splitting “research” but it also serves to lightly lubricate my own little quirks making them a little easier to swallow. Now, I don’t believe that I belittle fetishists in any way, shape or freaky form, in fact when I’ve dropped a word or two about them in the past, I think I’ve handled the subject fairly delicately (here and here for example). Two years ago I was even commissioned to paint a triptych for a local couple featuring some fairly elaborate BDSM concepts (they had me over to discuss wall space, color palette and whatnot and I never once said a word about their custom converted walk-in closet or the newsletter published from their home office). Having said that, some folks just need help.

As you may have already heard, the fine folks down in Sydney Australia have themselves a brazen pervert on the walkabout. An unidentified man has broken into three local adult shops, had his way with a blow-up doll at each location and then ditched his “plastic conquests” in an alley nearby. So, some kinky kangaroo blows up a defenseless doll, forces himself upon her freshly inflated flesh and unceremoniously abandons her like yesterdays zip-lock. Word is that the doll of choice at each grime scene is named “Jungle Jane”. I did a little research on the synthetic sex object to see if there’s a leak:

Sexy and Wild Jungle Jane will love to join you in bed and make you scream for more!• 3D formed face• 3 succulent holes• large breasts with hard nipples• Tarzan bra top• Sexy tarzan skirt• Luscious pouting mouth• Juicy (meow meow)• Succulent anus• Phthalate-Free

Well that explains everything, Phthalate-Free fetishists unite!

I don’t think there’s a coalition against love-doll violence out there, but surely this individual is capable of more heinous acts wouldn’t you think? What if this Phthalate-Free loving lunatic decides to pad his sinister resume with a real person? What drives a man to break into not one but three different stores, pilfer a plastic person of a specific kind, use it/her in a rather unpleasant way and essentially leave it/her to die in an alley... deflated, dirty and defiled?

At first it wouldn’t be hard to pass this guy off as a potential prankster carved from the totem of fraternity lore (one more junked up Jane and you can join the I Felta Dawl frat) but maybe something much more sinister is at play here. I don’t believe that fetishism is a disorder, but perhaps it’s been seen as a detriment for so very long that admission equates infection. A quick peruse through the modern theory of fetishism and you come out with the theory that it’s a “normal variation of human sexuality” and that material fetishism is the most rampant noting that; “just because many men are attracted to women in high heels does not necessarily mean there are many women attracted to men in construction boots”. So what of our abstract Aussie and his Wilma Flinstone fixation? He’s a thief, obviously, but what of the ethical treatment of Phtalate-Free Phemales? What do they prefer? Who speaks for them?

The Meatrix & The Common Sense GPS

Back when I birthed this “blog” it was more of an experimental outlet, another kilowatt of power to an already reasonably prolific creative machine, but that’s been discussed at great length so I won’t drop the gears back and make you sit in that exhaust once more. Just the same, some things bear repeating, especially when trying to dust off the engine and get it running again. After a fluid check, I may have the unit road worthy but not much more, it certainly wouldn’t pass any inspections along the way but it may serve to get me from point A to point B, if all goes well and if you’re willing to come along for the ride.

I adopted the Urban Cannibal moniker to try and look at things from another perverted perspective, split the atom so to speak, not so much of a self reflective cell but one that’s aware of the other enough to comment on behalf of the other while injecting some new twists to the development phase. Somewhere along the way it took on a life on its own, as life often does, and the whole experiment became overtly personal as wave upon wave of “lifestuff” piled up in the arteries forcing me to address them whether I wanted to or not… and then my son came along.


A baby cannibal does everything he’s supposed to; he fills enough diapers to satiate an excrement eating whale, laughs at every little thing his dad does like the most amusement starved studio audience and makes you think about things before you do them. Who the hell brought that bitch “Consequence” to the party? I promise I won’t start droning on about my own mortality and whatnot, that casket’s been closed for quite some time, but since this space is one for self indulgence I’ll just say this; his voice is pretty loud for a little guy who can’t even speak.

OOooOO pretty deep, eh? Whenever I’m about to venture off into something overtly stupid, this big little voice chimes in to reel me back in and plot the safe route for me. A common sense GPS, something that I’ve been missing out on for quite some time from the looks of things. It’s one of those “had been lost for so long that I figured I knew where I was” clichés, like “The Matrix”, but in a cannibal’s case perhaps “The Meatrix” if you will: “Tank! I need an exit!”

That being said, I am still entitled to my own unfiltered voice, so to speak, am I not? Say what I need to without thinking that I’m raining shame upon him in any way? Certainly I can’t be expected completely alter my way of thinking much less the way I present such things or do I?

Where Fire Meats Desire

Being a cannibal (uh-huh), I don’t have to imagine what a person might smell like had they been charbroiled, draped in processed cheese, lathered in luscious condiments and stinking of great greasy deliciousness. Fortunately, fast food behemoth and purveyor of pounds “Burger King”, looks to have taken away the guess work for all of you non people eating types with a new body spray that’s recently hit the market called “Flame”. Now you too can indeed smell like “America’s favorite burger”, that being the Whopper presumably, “Behold the scent of seduction, with a hint of flame-broiled meat”. Don’t believe me? http://www.firemeetsdesire.com/

Yea, I thought it was a viral marketing ploy as well, the fact that I’m writing about it (and all two of you are reading it) more or less adds weight to the theory (but fortunately not your mid-section – ba-doomp). Sadly, I may be a victim myself when you consider that I’m salivating uncontrollably and may in fact have to cash in my lunch chips for a trip to the ol’ royal court of large arses, not for a Whopper mind you, but to try and snack on one of those extra greasy teenagers behind the counter.

“Flame” is made by Demeter, the very real fragrance company behind such other great cannibal friendly scents as “White Russian”, “Sushi”, “Sex on the Beach” and “Funeral Home”, the latter of which described as the “a blend of classic white flowers: lilies, carnations, gladiolus, chrysanthemums with stems and leaves, with a hint of mahogany and oriental carpet”. I’m not entirely sure what an “oriental carpet” smells like but I’m pretty sure it smells the same as a white girl’s carpet, more or less.

Add some of THOSE to a value meal and you’ve got yourself a rock solid franchise.

Two Thousand & Whine – Chapter One

Slowly trying to grease the wheels on the old brain box and get it moving toward something productive here, as uninspired as it may seem, I’m going to try and load it up, position it atop the hill of intention and run you all down with some obligatory thoughts on the new year or perhaps my place in it. Wow, if that warm and snuggly hug of an introduction doesn’t grab you and give you that “Ahoy! Welcome aboard” feeling, then I don’t know what will, but welcome aboard just the same. Since I’ve lost pretty much all of my regular readers, including myself I might add, I’ll need your patience while I try to ease back into this, if you don’t mind. Being a blog monk for so long is taxing on the typing utensils much less the messed up mechanics that make it all run. Don’t worry, I’m not going to force it, but if I get a little rough the safe word is “Mannerspielplatz”.

Sadly, I’m still a corporate citizen, so my writing life has been relegated to “suit speak” which not only burns the creativity couch off in the corner but it also takes the ashes, applies it like war paint and proceeds to curb stomp your ambition as well. I know, I know, with the world gone asunder I should be grateful to have gainful employment much less one that allows me to raise my son “properly” but it eats away at me like some overzealous parasite, leaving nothing but a featureless husk.

Musically I’ve flat lined, as has my illustrative output. Feature film making has been modified to documentarian of the big life in little diapers and the blogroll came to a complete stop as well, obviously. It’s not like there wasn’t life to comment on; Obama, Facebook, Burger King body spray, it’s just that time got the better of me as did discipline, or lack thereof. I have words for you, just trying to work out the language. Soon my precious morsels, soon.

*Did a search for the above photo to warm things up a little around here, maybe draw attention away from my grammatical missteps, either way, I was somewhat shocked along the way by how many people seemingly burn couches as a hobby. Entire groups dedicated to the art of incinerating their sofa’s. I’ve been gone far too long, the freaks have indeed moved on without me.

Suburban Son

Damn near a year since my last stop here.

Not much has changed in this corner of the blogosphere. My secret self hasn’t snuck downstairs after I’ve long gone to bed to wax poetic on life, love and leisure while I twist about in secret sheets upstairs unaware of what keys are being struck below. Wasn’t entirely sure what I’d find once I found my way back here. A carcass stripped of all but old meat? Even the wild dogs of occasional opportunity aren’t left with much to chew on I’m afraid, just the mangy taste of the putrid past. A meal that’s not entirely proud to serve.

Things have changed, but not here, a fossil etched in text just waiting to be rediscovered, perused and cross checked for relevance. Browsing back on what I thought was important at the time is a moving accouterment on the shelf of curiosities that spot the collection plate I call experience. I’ve always been a sloppy self documentarian; kept notes, collection pieces, drawings, paintings, audio, video, snapshots and run on sentences my entire life. Trying to find meaning? Perhaps; or maybe just waiting for a defining moment to shift these aging gears and give meaning to an otherwise pedestrian life.

My world is a different place, I hope yours is to. No, I haven’t found God nor have I stumbled upon a street car of Canadian Pesos, much better than that...

I’m a dad.

His name is Presley, and he is my favorite person.
Four months old and the very reason I crawled from the ooze of development (maybe not entirely of course, but at least I have the odd flipper/tentacle up on the sand – anything might be considered an improvement or at very least in the right direction).

Caustic Cannibal & the Woeful Women of Planet's Past

The Dark Pig and I talked about our little blog spots this past weekend, no we weren’t proudly projecting our sick scrotum spots on screen like the Puppetry of the Penis people or anything like that, we were waxing poetic about this peculiar place, so I figured I’d stop by and see if my space had been dismantled.

It turns out that it stands proud like a morning erection so I figured I’d raise a flag on it and see if the wind still blows around here.

A tumbleweed here and a tumbleweed there perhaps, but at very least indulge me for a moment and pull up a chair while I work one out in your face.

You thought my last year was a wild one? This one, though certainly a little more low key and devoid of double divorce (figuratively, not literally), is looking to at very least be on par for life indulgent events, enthralling acts of eroticism, neurotic displays of peacock precision and the weary eye of the wandering cannibal forever seeking his next meal. UC, a gynecological gypsy? No, still a skirt chasing suburban sycophant though who likes nothing more than a margarita morning, soft skin at my side and a forum from which to cast my dispersions, dictatorial direction and doodles. I’ve been a busy boy to be sure. New loves, new loathes, new grudges, new clothes. Still haunted by a past that for some reason is faster than my future, though certainly not to the extent that it once was, but once in awhile the specter of the previous makes a u-turn and winds up lost on the crescent of the present. No choice but to give it directions at this point, maybe offer it one of mom’s cookies for the road.

I’ve done some good and I’ve done some bad, but I guess “I did it, myyyyy wheyyyy”.
Greedy, overwrought, overbearing, orgasm addict? A calloused cannibal with an emotional handbag stuffed and sewn with the sins of the salty sword? Why do the woeful women of the past always try to make claim to a new future with such a creature?

Suburban Signoff & A Return to Relevance

Here’s a funny story. It would appear as if a solid year of my life is displayed here before you like a roadside dissection or a prostitute short of a rent check. Reading over some of it, or more importantly some of you reading over it, has made me realize that its relevance is no longer, well… relevant. The long and short of this hairy tale is that I’m taking this thing down over the next few days, going to archive all of this nonsense for my own personal satisfaction and delete the site from existence. A whole year of my inane babble, thousands and thousands of words and only one realization; after all is said and done, the only thing to do is look forward. Thanks for reading, whether I wanted you to or not, and I hope at the end of the day you enjoyed your stay with this Urban Cannibal and his year-in-the-life presentation of suburbia gone sideways.

If I don’t miss you already, I’m sure I will in time and if you ever come across my plate someday, I’ll be sure not to over season any of you, you’re all far too savory to spoil.

I Guess My Work is Here is Done

Too busy to even think about blogging about it, so I guess this is goodbye. For those in the know, I'll tag you via e-mail or by phone or even on the golf course, for those not in the know (or no), enjoy your stay and thanks for stopping by. If seeking a nice read, may I suggest the Dark Pig, or perhaps Spanky could hold your beer while he tells tales of surbuban woe. There's always the eternally entertaining Meg to keep you busy and JAG is always good for some west coast insight (pending link approval). Of course, the Pig and I are eternally grateful to ol' Serena without whom we'd have half the readership we both have (that includes the both of us and like both our mom's, she's let us leave the nest with minimal interaction). I'm still reading from time to time, but I'm going to miss you guys, my pseudo community.

*Jag, no link to your site 'cos i'm unsure if you want it shared based on your previous "encounters" which forced you from your regular home. Demons be damned!

I'll return in some way shape or forum, likely through an experiment the Pig and I have develloped, but in the mean time, thanks for reading and I'll miss you rotten buggers like Chalet sauce over a quarter chicken dinner. It's been quite a year, who would've thought it would've all worked itself all out for the betterof this people eating person?

iPod played "Joel Plaskett - Lying on the Beach" while posting... for the last time. (thanks for the intro Pig :)

The Jason Agent

Pig, here's a head shot of that Jason Voorhess illustration I did in Flash. He's a fully realized model right now (even sans mask) and works fairly well in animation tests. I'm working on the Jeremy Piven and Ron Jeremy models as we speak, when they're done I'll need to steal you for a weekend and try to realize this short subject of mine - "The Jason Agent"

He's Coming Out - The Rainbow Erection

Ever wonder what it's like to be a closeted homosexual? I consider myself to have at least one finger on the pulse of the pop cultural side of the Internet (perchance another finger in an outstretched eye socket), so when a website comes across my path that is just as informative as it is socially relevant and just happens to be the weekly ramblings of a closet queer on the verge of a personal/penile revolution, I’ll read what the little pink lady has to say no matter how crass.

Now I may not agree 100% with the way this man lives, but he most certainly has a way with words (even if more often than not he’s expressly crude with very little reason to be – perhaps another outlet that will mellow once he’s “out” or in fact his own "outlet" has been invaded). Just the same, I applaud his choice to embrace who he is, it likely hasn’t been very easy remaining a hidden cock chugger and salty shot sucking fairy (I use these words only to illustrate how truly cruel some narrow minded folks can be), but at least he’s becoming free - free of ridicule, free of the semen shielded shackles that have held his heart fast, free of the need to hide behind a blog. Come out, come out wherever you are! Grab that man hammer and build yourself a tower (of ivory blow if you must) from which you can proclaim your queerness, spark the sequins of sexual liberation and maybe even take a rod in the poo hole, whatever floats your boat my friend.

Best of luck, Pig.

iPod played "Lemonheads - Big Gay Heart" while posting

Tommy Brodribb on Windtower Mountain

Hey little guy, though I heard that hasn’t been the case for quite some time now, just one question, what were you doing up on a Kananaskis cliff face in the first place? Are you not still 6 years old? Mom told me what happened tonight and I feel ill that no matter how long it’s been since I’ve seen you, I would’ve done what I could to have kept you around.

Your big brother and I used to torment/beat down upon you incessantly, because at 5 years your senior that was our birth right as bigger boys, and yet you somehow managed to evolve into some rock climbing guru from all of that, likely a towering behemoth from the sounds of things and not the stunted stoolie you are on the marquee of my brain bowl-a-rama.

You were a brat but you came about it honestly and when you squealed on Dan and I for having unearthed your dad’s vintage Playboy stash circa 1981, we thrashed you pretty good.

They call you a man in the newspaper article, could that be right? You mean you’re not the melon head who used to warn your sister that we were coming up from the basement with loaded squirt guns to douse her and her pimple spackled friends in Barbie Land?

In the article and on a few rock climbing sites, your dad’s quoted as saying that you died “doing what you loved”, well man, if that was the case I wish you could’ve squealed on Dan and I one more time for good measure and then you could’ve kicked both our asses and close the loop eternal.

If I ever make it north of hell, I hope you’ll throw me a line from up there man, I’ll buy you a pint and you can tell me all the stuff I missed out on. I have to warn you that I’m afraid of heights though, a scared old guy without a pilot light.

Goodnight little guy.

iPod played "For Dollface" while posting

iPod played "For DarkPig" whole posting

iPod played "For JAG" while posting

iPod played "For Meg" while posting

iPod played "For Spankey" while posting

iPod played "Wilco - Say You Miss Me" while posting

Foot Job? Rubbing Paws for Pubis & Bob Sagets' Amusement

Reason #79 for why I need an editor

The foot and ankle contain:
26 bones
33 joints
more than 100 muscles, tendons (fibrous tissues that connect muscles to bones) and ligaments (fibrous tissues connecting bones to other bones)
A vast network of blood vessels, nerves, skin and soft tissue
1 confused Cannibal

As mentioned in the comments section a few days back, I was propositioned by a potential gal pal for a foot massage because the towering heels she wore that day made her feet hurt. Well, fashion over function argument aside, I began to think that foot massages are way too serious a step in the relationship direction for this people eating person at this time so I waffled a bit, found it odd that I’d roll about in the sack with her but considered a tootsie touch to be almost like wearing white after Labor Day or lawn bowling with a Lepers’ skull. She said a few weeks back that the moment she knew she was comfortable enough with moi to allow safe passage through her panty portal was when we were sitting on the couch at her place and I played with her toe ring for a whopping 8 seconds (toe rodeo?). I was forced to examine my history of foot fondling and my place within its weird world.

Foot & Mouth Disease?

Some people are very strange about their feet and yet to others they’re practically an erogenous zone all on their own with each toe being a receptive (read clitoral) creature begging for attention. That said, when I was a teenager I was digging on a girl pretty bad (the girl next door in fact) and when I finally got her over to my parents basement I was trying my best to be the lay of her young life, write my own ticket to the Penthouse Forum hall of fame, cash in my cannibal chips and etch another portrait for my portfolio of perversion. I drew tongue glyphs detailing my sordid wants on her inner thigh like sexual scripture, kissed her well defined calves and then something strange happened; I ended up with her foot in my mouth. Now, as odd as that sounds, as soon as I rolled my tongue around her baby toe she lost her fucking mind. I stopped for a second and panned my eyes up her body to see her writhing about like a wounded ant under a midday magnifying glass. “What fresh hell is this?” I thought (or perhaps it was just simply “holy fawk!” at the time), was she getting off on this? No time for questions young grasshopper, just eat toe until your jaw locks up.” Other foot, other foot”, I thought. Grabbed her leg and licked the entire bottom of it. Hello heel, arch and Hallux. What’s this? Got something in my mouth, lint! Can’t stop now I got her right where I want her. Take one for the team, consume lint. I’m a cannibal in training dammit! I ingest her ill begotten fluff.

She continued to flip her lid and I figured that if I can’t mail this letter without licking the stamp I might as well spend the day down here until she grabbed my head, said that she’d had enough and asked me what I thought I was doing. I said “aren’t you having a good time, baby?” To which she replied “what’s with you and my feet?” My young brain began to swim, not enough life boats. “What?”

She was one of them. Hated to have her paws pawed, she was writhing out of anxiety or quite possibly embarrassment on my account and not from the erogenous tug of your clueless host (yes Pig, I said “tug” get over it). I had her foot in my mouth people! Had Bob Saget been presented with a video copy, I’d have surely won the grand prize that year.
---

In fairness, I have rubbed the odd foot since then, but more out of courtesy or relationship reasoning, up until this last week of course, found myself at the Body Shop on Thursday buying peppermint cooling foot lotion for what equates to a kings’ ransom to dutifully fulfill said request.

She was on her way over to watch the latest and greatest addition to the horror movie collection, play bed bunny to my cannibal carrot and I hadn’t yet told her that oft requested foot massage was also in the meaty mix. After her arrival we talked a little about the topic du jour – “hand jobs” and she said she can’t remember ever giving one, she just “goes to town on it”. Can’t be all bad I think (which town does she go to so I can stop by?), so after a pint I said that I had something for her and passed her the bottle of million dollar foot sauce. Her face lit up like a drunk after a long luxurious piss in a dark alley.

I warmed the lotion between my palms and liberally applied it to her right foot, adding pressure with my thumbs, kneading with my palms and using my bass guitar playing fingers to spread out her lithe little toes - she began to moan a little, best proceed carefully I thought, Bob Saget might be watching. Her big blue eyes shut slowly and her hair washed over the side of the couch as her head rolled back. A sensuous smirk spread across her face like a splash of color on a white cotton sheet and then she began to squirm. My girl next door experience came back to me like a bad burrito, a pin prick in the dark, but it wasn’t like I was going to stick her foot in my mouth, not with all that peppermint lotion on it! Surely I’m doing every right, right?

No doubt about it, I hit a spot on her left foot a few minutes later that made her grab the remote, shut the movie off and drag me upstairs by the front of my jeans (poor me :)

Some say that a foot rub is like worshipping a woman like a goddess, others say that feet are filthy and only good beneath a Hobbit. Whatever theory you subscribe to, I have a feeling that this foot sauce will likely be the best million bucks I ever spent considering the treatment I got, which I think makes me a whore of some kind… and I think I’m OK with that.

Relationship question? What relationship question?

Whatever happened to the girl next door you ask, well later that summer she taught me how to drive stick in a parking lot, fortunately for me she knew way more about stick than I gave her credit for ;)

iPod played "Tenacious D - Fuck Her Gently" while posting

Slice of Southern Rock, a Thigh Rolled Cuban & the Lost Art of the Hand Job

Fucking Blogger's having an upload seizure again, so photos are to follow... eventually. Sorry.

Friend of mine returned from the sensual Cuban coast over the weekend, brought me back a few chewy contraband cigars - heard that Castro has his stogies rolled between the inner thighs of a virgin (is that what Clinton was after?), I briefly consider becoming a cigar or a communist and carry on with my day. As the smoke billowed around us I got a hefty nicotine buzz, in that moment it all made sense, all came together, that is until I felt like hacking my lungs up in my lap.

Had another good weekend though, watched the Western Conference finals with the Dark Pig and the Sheep Loving Scotsman, they both brought their bitches with them but left their wives at home ;). Their pooches sniffed incessantly at each others poo puckers which of course prompted as many ass jokes as you can count and only increased as the imported beer began to bubble over into our boy brains. “Do you want to know how I know your dog is gay?”

Earlier that day the estranged gal pal moved most of her stuff out of the house save for a few plants and some miscellaneous merchandise so it was nice to have the boys around, beer batter the world a little bit. I’m anxious to have my life back though – maybe this time I’ll get a chance to figure out who I am before I drag myself back to the alter of apologies for another aggravation assault. Today I had to blow the dust off of the “I’m not ready for a relationship quite yet” line; it’s been a long time since I’ve pulled that one down out of the attic. She said it sounded forced and that I should do what my heart tells me, I told her that once it’s been thawed she’d be the first to know what shape it’s in much less what it has to say.

--

In walked the Dark Pig this past sullen Sunday afternoon saying *“Oink, oink wrunk snort, squeeeeal.”
* “There’s a song I found that you just gotta hear, it reminds me of you”

And so it was that the Pig and I sat on my parlor couch, beer in hand (or hoof) and his new CD on the Xbox 360 seeping from the speakers. We did very much the same thing on smooth summer nights as tawdry teenagers; one of us would have purchased our newest “discovery” disc and would give it an urgent spin for the other, mutually devouring the sounds that would bookmark our memories like sonic cue cards.

This time out it was “The Drive-By Truckers” latest, more importantly a song called “Gravity’s Gone” (give it a whirl below).

As it played we had a discussion regarding the “death of the hand job” being quite possibly attributed to male demand for hummers. He looked over at me after taking a lovingly long swig from his beer bottle and said “I love us” and I think he was right. We talked about how that moment in time reminded us of the suburban basement of his parents house when we were not only embryonic entities but creatures in search of self. Like a good cigar when you hear the right song it all comes together and at the very least for the duration of the song it all makes sense without losing a lung.

As much as we’ve grown over the past decade we’re still pretty much the same guys we always were, only a little more confident… or just too late to change, but still aware of it all just the same. A good song can change everything except where you came from and I'm glad for that.

I also count myself lucky that he didn't ask for a hand job, it would've been sad to see our friendship end over such a small matter.

iPod played "Drive-By Truckers - Gravity's Gone" while posting

Lessons Learned & Lesions Licked

Assuming that you use your beloved blog space as a personal forum wherein you either air your dirty diary, skewer the world with a sarcasm stick or even just casually comment on the state of your life & times – by a quick show of hands, how many of you allow the persons closest to you actually read what you have to say? Hmm, not as many as I thought, allow me to expand on that.

This blogspot scenario started as a pseudo-sexual society experiment and is now nothing but a Cannibal Corkboard littered with my un-distilled mental moonshine, painfully obvious missteps and the secret seasonings I decide to mix into the meat sauce. I never figured that I would have the year I did much less have it documented in such a way, so is it now or was it ever appropriate for those directly linked to the tales I tell to be able to read them? In the past, the most recent resident of the Casa De Cannibal used to be a frequent visitor, now that she and I have officially parted ways like so much Red Sea, is it within my rights to ask her to stop reading me? She’s offered before, not wanting to truncate my creative kinks and oblivious output, I said no at the time but I want my forum back now. I need to be able to say what I want without feeling as though self censorship for the sake of another has more weight than what I really need to say (and no this doesn't mean dragging her name through the proverbial mud puddle).

Most recently we’ve been living separate lives and rightfully so, we’re different people than when we met even from last week it would seem and though we lived in the same house, we more or less just haunted each other. Occupied space at different times and on rare occasions where we did intersect is was hit or miss, hot and cold for the most part. So I have things to say now, outside of “us”, and she’s read some of it, needless to say she was none too pleased nor will she be even though we no longer cohabitate our lives much less the space we shared.

Yeah, I work through some of my kinks here, who doesn’t? But seeing as how this is just another avenue of expression, should I not be able to request that I retain that right?

Not fit to shovel shit from one place to another?

Another incredible multi-layered weekend behind and ahead of me, it’s amazing how busy you can keep yourself if you just put your mind to it and/or how much you can alter your path by a few well placed attitude adjustments. A few weeks back I decided to de-evolve back into my former self, my summer self, and keep as busy as humanly possible with as many people as possible. Given the chance, I’d likely just sit about like a can of congealed bacon fat so I made the decision to refurbish my support group, rejuvenate the network of friends into something healthy again and venture forth into the valley of the dolls once more – get my share of Barbie’s along the way.

…and why not?

This cannibal intends to enjoy his time on the single side of the fence, until it looks greener on the other side of course.

On an unrelated topic, this song goes out to the gal watching me write this. She smells really good, is standing way too close and I love it.

iPod played "Diamond Nights - The Girl's Attractive" while posting

Cuming this Weak? Text Sex Without the Emoticons

Just got home, too many tales to tell, will verbalize in due time, once I get my head around what the hell happened.

iPod played "Flaming Lips - Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots pt. 1" while posting

Resume of Red - The Tale of the Red Headed Teller

Red Week (Weak?) Continues!

Pay day is a happy time for me as I’m sure it is for most folks; coffers replenished with fresh funds and renewed hope that your job is at the very least pulling you ahead in style. It’s also a time for this Cannibal to go pay a few bills at the bank, yes friends, this cash cuddling carnivore has been slow to embrace the online banking philosophy, but I come about it honestly. At any rate, I saunter into the bank with a new shirt, newly shaved head and a mitt full of credit card bills. I take my place at the front of the line and await a financial nymph to call me forward, give me license to proceed with my transaction. A blonde walked her eyes over me as I stood there, I gave a smirk and she shyly turned away back to her customer. Hmm, I hope she’s my teller, ‘cos I’d teller to take me home and ravage me (yikes!). Just then this screaming hot redhead named Susan (it said so right on her left tit) comes out of the back talking to a co-worker, spots me, excuses herself from her conversation and makes her way towards a window workstation or transaction trough as I like to call it.

Dayam! Hang tight and I'll get you a fork.

Way out of my league - incredibly long legs, vibrant eyes and I’m not really a breast fanatic but this woman could make my bookshelves jealous. Sorry young buck, you’ll have to take this one on the bearded chin, yet another chapter in my Resume of Red - "these are not the droids you are looking for". She calls me forward; she’s got a very nice smile – wide with white teeth. I hand her my bills and bank card, she begins to process my request after awaiting my instruction; whittle down some weight from the cards. Her eyes roll over my screen info and she begins to make a few suggestions on flipping me to another plan which is more in line with my spastic spending habits - less fees means more please. Fine by me, save me a few bucks a month and then she applies a few more concessions to my account. Nice girl I think as the conversation continues, she’s most certainly a forward thinking creature, considerate of her clientele. She makes fun of the fact that I’ve signed up for online banking a few times and never once honored or even activated the administrative password with a 24hr lifespan. I say that I work with systems all day and that the last thing I want to do is come home and press buttons. Her smirk grows and she says, “Well maybe you haven’t found the right buttons to push” and quite obviously pushes her cannons toward me (if I were famous I would've autographed them for her - "To Poncho & Lefty, Luv U.C."). I laugh a little uncomfortably. She writes down my new account password on a slip of paper, I half expect her phone number to be on it, but it’s not. On with the show.

She turns back to her monitor and we continue our chat, she says “Oh, you go to Woody’s Taphouse? Which one?” referring to a small chain of watering holes in this neck of the woods. I must have had a puzzled look on my face at this point but pointed nonetheless at the tap house 100 yards from the bank door. “I work there on weekends” she continues, “I’ve never seen you there!” (hmm, scrolling through my transaction history?)

“I mostly go during the week, fewer yahoo's that way.”
“Yeah, weekends certainly have those.”

We carry on for a little longer and then she recaps all the things she’s done for my account and how I should now be able to this and that and then says “anything else I can do for you to make your life better?”
“Free beer is always nice” I mutter, sort of shocked that I got the nerve
“hmm, lucky for you I’ve been known to forget to charge from time to time”.

We say our goodbyes and “it’s been really nice to meet you” and off I go.

Ok, let’s examine the facts. This woman is a barmaid/bank teller who knows how much money I make, what my credit is like, maybe what my stock portfolio looks like, she knows I own a house and that I drink beer. Hmm. She must’ve also seen my horrendous spending at comic book shops, DVD's, Video Games and toy stores yet she still chose to bait her hook or did she? Do I "show up" next weekend with the Dark Pig in tow? Do I brush it all off as yet another red headed health detriment? Please advise? Another Bunny Boiler? Another addition to the Red Army? What about privacy invasion?

* In the past some people have figured that the theme song I post at the bottom of every blawg is a work of fiction. I can assure you that for the most part this is not true (98% actually) and to share these songs with you I figured I'd link to the song in question so you too can share in the music and read along to it should you see fit. Right Click and "Save Target As" or open it in a new window if you wish, either way let me know what you think and I may keep doing it if it all proves to enhance your enjoyment.

Due to space restrictions songs will only remain active for about a week to retain room for new material, enjoy!

This song is dedicated to my pal Cody, his woman and their newborn son, he just spent hours coming out and he'll spend the rest of his life trying to get back in, all the best.

iPod played "Dr.Hook - Lookin' for Pussy" while posting

Sex & the Shitty - One Cannibals Caustic Trip Below the Red Belt

First and foremost, I love the ladies, but it should also be understood that they’re as unhealthy for me as chain smoking inside a giant matchbook. Not to say that I’m without fault, I most certainly bring something to the equation, but in this day and age when I should surely know better I’m at a loss for a logical explanation for my actions most of the time, much less theirs.

Let’s say that just for a moment all the conventional rules of marriage were set aside and the grass roots/cellular level reaction to someone was the universal calling card of right and wrong. You meet someone out there in the wild world and this person ignites something atomic inside you, an ethereal blaze that illuminates the sullen corners of your core – a pin prick through the sheath of immortal dark or something jazzy like that. Better judgment skywrites warnings throughout your honey head, the beasts of best intention feast on the carcass of raw experience and you still find yourself at a loss for anything to say or even conceive that doesn’t include this person in some way, shape or form. Your synapse screams their name, neurons etch our their face again, fingers reach out to brush their skin and your guts ache knowing that he/she is out there somewhere without you. Why the hell should you not be allowed to be with this person?

Well, she’s unhappily married and submissively aware of it, that's why. Now before you sharpen those knives and ready my cadaver for the communion, I’m not a home wrecker, at least not this time out. I hate people like that, like me, self righteous bastards who feel that they’re owed someone like this when presented with an opportunity. But I’d do most anything for a sliver of chance to have her burrowed into my life eternal.

This is a woman who “dreaded the day” when I moved from the downtown tower to the technology spread out in the suburbs last week and “enjoyed every email, message, coffee run, phone call and every general encounter we have ever had”. Felling abandoned with nothing but thoughts of “what is this girl to do? Continue my daydreams and what ifs, I guess? As I have told you many times before I wish that things could have been different. I wish I could be yours, full time, no strings attached, but my life has always been the same story - A day late and a dollar short. I may have gotten jealous that one day, but you are (unfortunately) not mine to rule.”

“Try thinking of me once in while, and if your ever lonely just call.

MISS YOU FOCKER XOXOXO”

After a long (long) string of serious relationships that have eaten up the better part of the past 10 years, I’m now having to re-learn what it is to be a single cannibal in the city and for the most part it tastes like fresh flesh and a cold pint on a smooth summer night. Then 10 months ago I had this woman put in my path, a redhead no less – Cannibal Kryptonite as most of you well know, and it was sincerely one of those star crossed crocks of shit – we both knew it too, and our relationship has been pulsing in purgatory ever since. She once told me that “I knew you’d be trouble the first day I met you”, I guess she was right but who doesn't love a little trouble now & then?

Two dates this past Sunday and here I am bemoaning about red again, fawk.

iPod played "Bruce Springsteen - Read Headed Woman" while posting

The Curious Tale of Captain Codpiece & the Cannibal Who Loved Him

She looked up at me with those immaculate blue eyes and asked, “what’s with the old guy?”
"Gran'Paw & Galoshes?" I said.

How I came across “Captain Codpiece”, the aged avatar I’ve been assaulting readers with for the past few months, is probably not unlike how most of you seek out a jpeg to spice up your content or whatnot; I turned to the Google Image Search for a quick and dirty solution. Back in February I was looking for a picture of two old men on a bench to illustrate the Dark Pig and I “sitting this one out”, so I went through an blind image search with varying degrees of “old men” activities as the root to eventually arrive upon an image of some half naked gray bearded oddity pulling a “Captain Morgan” beside a rock… in what appeared to be a gigantic rubber jock strap incidentally. Never one to shy from a challenge I clicked on the image and was brought face to face with a man I call “Captain Codpiece” (based on the two very obvious details above), the “humble host” of a place called “*Leather Oats” – a fetish farm of sorts where this rather homely looking senior citizen explores his inner tube and saunters about his creepy compound in custom costumes of leather and rubber… oh yeah, and he likes to over emphasize his junk with an infant sized codpiece (and by that I quite literally mean the body of an infant).

As regular readers know, I think fetishes are fascinating, so I read through some of his explorations to ascertain what the hell the deal was with this guy. To be fair, there’s no secks on the site (thank gawd, I think he’s into dudes anyway), but Harold claims to have archived well over 1000 images of his fine self wading around in kiddie pools, ornamental ponds, storm sewers and generally hanging out. Needless to say, Harold’s a strange guy, so rather than speak for him I’ll rip an introduction from his home page as to not misquote his intentions in any way:

Parental Guidance Required? My motto has always been, "It's Better to Conceal than Reveal", ever since I heard Dinah sing that to Doris! You'll never see frontal nudity nor sexually explicit acts depicted on my site! But, I guarantee you that I get into some pretty exotic gear. This is your warning that if you're under the age of consent, or have a low prudery threshhold, please push that"BACK" button on your Browser Now ! !

Yikes! Thanks for the warning Harold, but what you failed to “conceal” was a huge picture of your leather clad man pouch right above and beneath this caption. To each his own I guess.

Harold’s not alone in his little Rubbermaid fashion passion, not only is someone taking these photographs of him, incessantly it seems, but he’s had over 68,000 visitors since December 2000 (almost enough to get this Canadian Cannibal into galoshes). He’s been at his unusual diversion for a long time too; there are pictures of him from 1972 (!) dressed like a gay garden hose not to mention riding motorcycles, rolling around in the mud and setting up what appears to be a boy proof bondage den in his attic (paperboys and cub scouts beware). So to his credit, you can’t say that he jumped on the fetish bandwagon, hell, he was around when the first damn bandwagon was built.

So why the tongue in cheek obsession with this guy, why pepper my space with admittedly creepy pictures of this half naked senior citizen eternally thrusting his inflated jock at passerby? Well, quite honestly it makes me laugh, I love that he makes some readers mildly uncomfortable and there was literally so much macho man material to pilfer – he was an easy target as it were. That’s why it’s with heavy heart that I retire my adopted avatar, not out of respect for the man and his odd obsession but because I believe that he has a right to be a freak (he can't help himself). No longer will you see that lazy eyed rubber man gracing the pixels of this site or have him pop up in your inbox proclaiming his undying love for your rosy red rectum. Nope, the cod is with gawd, but next time you see a blown tire at the side of the road, think of Harold and try not to laugh yourself into the ditch, I have a long way to go before I reach 68,000.

Is it just me or does our gregarious geriatric look a little like Sean Connery from “the Hunt for Red October” except instead of commanding a nuclear sub he has it stuck down his pants.

*Actual name of website has been changed by one letter to avoid unflattering cross traffic through search engines, besides I wouldn’t want Harold to show up at my door one day and beat me down with his titanium wang now would I?

iPod played “Rick James – Superfreak” while posting

Digital Distraction - JAG Mondo Experimento

I often participate in these little exercises but have never felt the need to publish them for whatever reason; I guess I’d rather post pictures of a creepy old guy in a mighty codpiece than join in a communal activity of any kind (I’m such a snot). Nevertheless, here I am putting my best foot forward and joining JAG from “Babble & Angst” fame in her random song experiment (which I understand has been borrowed from some unnamed source;). Just the same, here are the results of placing my iPod on random and allowing it to broker some amusing if occasionally baffling results attempting to coherently answer some questions. As with JAG, these haven’t been altered in any way - they were recorded as played, painfully obvious on the first question in my opinion.

I have over 4600 songs on this iPod of mine, from most every genre, so we could be in for some unique or otherwise incoherent “answers” (not to mention a few hours). Nonetheless, on with the show…

(oh, and just for you JAG, there'll be no half naked geezer pics in this post)

Where is your office located?

Charles Wright – Express Yourself
The Slackers – Married Girl
The Planet Smashers - Hostile
Talking Heads - Psycho Killer
The Reverend Horton Heat - The Girl in Blue
Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers - Refugee
Bob Marley – Burnin’ & Lootin’ – may work
Judas Priest – Breakin’ the Law – close
Tom Waits – Please Call Me Baby
The Cramps – Miniskirt Blues

I give up on this one :(

What happens when you drink too much?

Burton Cummings - Break it to Them Gently – not bad
The Dead Kennedy’s – Too Drunk to Fuck (!)

What are your feelings about (President Bush) Stephen Harper(Canadian and all!)

Peter Weller – Wildwood (remix)
Bloc Party – Price of Gas (!) – We have a winner

What's your latest blog obsession?

The Rolling Stones – 19th Nervous Breakdown (!)

How do you feel about your separation?

Dr. Hook – Looking for Pussy (HAHAHA!)

Name a topical song?

Gordon Lightfoot - The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald (B.C. Ferry?)
Joe Strummer & the Mescalaros – Burnin’ Streets (not bad)
Paul McCartney & Wings – Live & Let Die (!)

Give me the obligatory cleavage quote:

The Legendary Shack Shakers – Blood on the Bluegrass
The White Stripes – We Are Gonna be Friends (HAHAHA!)

Fantasy Song #1:

AC/DC – Highway to Hell
Gun Club – Sex Beat (!)

Fantasy Song #2:

Chris De Burgh – Patricia the Stripper (!)

Describe your sex life:

Penetration – Don’t Dictate (!)

A Strange cross section of music indeed, what with Gordon Lightfoot and Judas Priest making an appearance along side Chris De Burgh? It looks like as soon as I got my music mojo working the experiment was over, still, there were some nice answers in there. Penetration? Sex Beat? Looking for Pussy? I did NOT make these up. Thanks for the content JAG, and as encouraged by her, please feel free to add one of your own to your site, just drop me a comment to let us know and please let your player do the work, anyone can make song titles up. Wait a minute? Who's that at the door?

I'm sorry, I just don't know what's wrong with me, at least I don't have Boyz II Men on my playlist like some people

iPod played – “The Urban Cannibal All-Girls Band - My Front Bum Needs Tuning (So Bring Your Fork)” while posting

The Promotional Penis - You Taste Like Our Good Taste ™

While I try and wrap my head around the wisdom-free words I want to share and the manner in which I want them distributed - I’ve decided to whore myself out (once again) to the pimp of shameless self promotion (for lack of a better term). This fine line of fictional promotional items and the brand therein was actually created to publicize a comic/film project that the Dark Pig and I were (are) working on called oddly enough; The Urban Cannibal. Conceived as a dark comedy about corporate cannibals and their meat eating misadventures in the big city, the project was ultimately sidelined on a count of life evolving limbs of greater importance. When seeking a blog name last July, it seemed entirely appropriate that I should adopt the cannibal persona; I could work out some writing bugs, scrub the calluses from my grammar and just maybe find an audience out there… and then life happened and it ended up eating me instead. Amongst alkaline strippers, suburban mishaps and quite possibly enough material for a dime driven spin off of “The O.C.” (for arguments sake, we’ll call it “The U.C.”), I present to you some concept work for “Urban Cannibal©” branded merchandise. So sit back and relax in your UC© FeatherLITE©” housecoat, take a loving sip from your Collectors Edition UC© “Eat My Junk©” coffee mug and pursue the glorious goods. Please keep in mind that that we here at UC do not accept major credit cards, cash or money orders and only accept payment by way of naked pictures (or video) of female readers - speaking of which, don't forget to check out "UCHer!©" our new line of clothing for the gory gal in your life. Thanks for shopping with us and we hope that “You Taste Like Our Good Taste ™”

"Don't Forget To Floss" Thong Underwear part of the UCHer collection

Next post: "Sex & the Shitty - One Cannibals Caustic Journey Below the Belt"

iPod played "Tom Waits - Big in Japan" while posting

Knee Deep in the Lady Lakes Once More

JAG, don't be jealous, your turn will come ;) - You as well, Steve - Ha Ha Ha!

iPod played "Rod Stewart - Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?" while posting

A Cannibals Confession II – Blog Burnout & Broken Bonds (post #69 - tee hee!)

Well, it looks like our little secret society of blog buddies has nearly come to an end with JAG being the only one posting consistent updates, is it possible that the dreaded Blog Burnout is a real phenomenon? I haven’t updated in almost two months, Dollface (Serena) silent almost as long, Meg’s been buried under an undead sea of primary action items from her employment cemetery and even the mighty Pig’s pen has been hushed nearly a month now. I suppose our community has suffered some sort of Mayan fate or Atlantean catastrophe that’s wiped us all from the blog-scape. So what happened? It’s certainly not for lack of content; in fact I’ve juggled so many balls of late that I could give the girls on Cathouse a few pointers much less the Toronto Blue Jays.

Is it spring fever that’s brought us all to our knees? Mowing the lawn? Skirt chasing? Coming out of hibernation? Shaking collective cobwebs from between our toes and flossing them with blades of fresh grass?

So where do we go from here? My beloved blogsters, throw me a line. With exception of the Pig, whom I haven’t seen since poker night a few weeks back but can usually wrangle up when necessary, if this is in fact our finale or fond farewell to the blog beast, send me an e-mail address so I can keep in touch with you if your heart so desires. Dollface? Meg? I’m talking to you. JAG, keep writing and I’ll keep reading.

urbancannibal@yahoo.ca

iPod played "Freddie Fender - Wasted Days & Wasted Nights" while posting

Gag Me With a Witherspoon - Can One Cannibal Convert a Sausage Stinking Litterbug?

While out and about on one of my office escapes earlier this afternoon, on foot with coffee and copy of Marvel Zombies (4 of 5) in hand, I found myself at the corner in front of a large pharmacy awaiting the light to change. A rotund man-beast with a small bag from said pharmacy took his place beside me on the sidewalk; his breathing was labored and smelled of spoiled sausage. He was unkempt but not “of the street” if you know what I mean. I winced a little at the smell sharing and stared out across the street at some lithe little creation making her way across the road on the opposite side like a corporate Gazelle, “mmm, nice boots”. For a nanosecond, the man is no longer a bother, his odor eaten away at the sight of this afternoon sprite. I notice that Mr. Fat is also training his eyes on our prancing princess as she sprung from heel to heel sidestepping hungry puddles in waiting (wading). She reached the other side of the road and threw a glance over her spry little shoulder at her two corner bound admirers; I avert my gaze as trained to avoid detection, throwing my eyes below me – no clue what Mr. Fat does with his eyes but I assume they follow her all the way like a getaway meatball on a linoleum floor. Amongst the pebbles I spy a receipt lying right beside my shoe, the name of the pharmacy clearly visible on the top half of the upturned slip. I reaffirm that the man is indeed carrying pharmacy bag from said chain and decide to make a valiant bend to retrieve the receipt for the overweight stranger. This man is obviously not a healthy dude, and what if he bought the wrong kind of medication to cure him of spoiled sausage breathe and Fatassiticis? What then?

Receipt in hand I offer it to him and say “excuse me; I think you may have dropped this”. Good deed of the day is done, and well before supper time, I can get on with asshole practice much sooner today! He swivels his oddly proportioned mug in my direction and says “its myine, butt I dydnt drop it on axident”. I stood with the receipt in outstretched hand and realized that I just picked up this man’s litter. I felt a little like an ass, but why should I? Is the world his fucking litter box? “I dawnt knead itt anymore”. “Oh” say I. He hummed and hawed a little and ungraciously took the receipt from me, putting me out of my misery, crumpled it up a little and placed it back in the bag. The light changed, “fuck this” I thought, and proceeded to cross the street leaving Mr. Fat Litterbug behind, as I reach the other side I glanced back and saw that he still had the bag in hand and quite possibly making his way towards a garbage can to do away with the receipt or just carry on to his portly pleasing destination. Doing my part for the environment, keeping the city clean – That’s ME! I may eat people, but I know the value of a clean street corner.

The following is a public service announcement from your local broadcaster. “Hi kids, I’m the Urban Cannibal, reminding you to put trash in its place.”

I finished up with the cretins at the bank and made may way back out on the street, there’s the trash can. I consider looking inside its open maw to see if man-beast followed through with his garbage quest, but no, I’ll take his “wurd” for it and carry on, surely he saw the error of his ways.

Sure enough, on the next block I see a bag from local pharmacy on the side of the road; that same slightly crumbled receipt still stuck inside. He had removed his purchase from the bag and just left the whole mess right there on the street, what a savage. Faith in humanity extinguished once more, I pick up the bag and throw it out. Mother Nature bent me over twice today.

Speaking of trash, if Reese Witherspoon wins an Academy Award this Sunday, I believe we should all translate such an event as the first sign of the apocalypse. The Pig and I went to see director Kevin (Silent Bob) Smith a few weeks back on his entertaining but otherwise disengaging speaking tour and learned that my suspicions were indeed correct about the Legally Blonde bitch, Witherspoon is actually a super moose. He calls her Greasy Reezy Witherspoon (or something like that) and told us tales of how she’s such an incorrigible cow that she lords over people like Tim Curry at a transvestite convention. I always thought that there was something shifty about that broad. If she wins the little golden man, she'll likely use it as a dildo, the only positive I can put on this is that if she wins her career will likely fall off the rails like it has for so many before her.

For crapsakes woman, brush your teeth! Your puppy pulping chompers are the same color as your hair!

iPod played “Lynyrd Skynyrd – Sweet Home Alabama” while posting