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

Urban Update - Suburban Swine Flu Cripples Cannibal

“An exotic flu strain identified in Hong Kong appears to have crossed from pigs to humans, triggering memories of a global flu pandemic which killed 20 million people in 1918.” – BBC NEWS Online Network

I am sick as a dog. At first I was unsure who to blame for gifting me with this ever so pleasant illness that’s kept me under quarantine like the “Outbreak” monkey for the past 48 hours, until I did a little research on something called Streptococcus Suis or “Deadly Swine Flu”, and it all became so obvious.

The World Health Organization defines Streptococcus Suis as a species of bacterium found in many parts of the world where pigs are raised. It is most adapted to domesticated pigs. Predisposing factors are found in pigs reared in "suboptimal" conditions, for example poor housing with inadequate ventilation. This is compounded if pigs are raised under "intensive" conditions that can cause stress and subsequent immune suppression. The most important risk factor in acquiring the infection is contact with pigs or uncooked pig products. Prevention of the disease in humans depends upon control in pig populations. WHO recommends that pork should be cooked to reach an internal temperature of 70°C, or until the juices are clear rather than pink.

So, thanks Dark Pig for sharing your sickness with your long time people eating pal, perhaps next time we meet I should ensure that your “juices are clear rather than pink” before we go comic book shopping together. You bastard.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm back to my Neo-Citran & NyQuil induced coma.

iPod played "Aerosmith - Sick as a Dog" while posting

Mind If I Sit This One Out?

Wrote a reasonable bit about being a possible light flow Misogynist in my youth and its present day parallels, but I’m far too exhausted to proof read it, much less post it. When Lennon (the Beatle, not the Communist) wrote “an’ I been wurkin’ like a dawg”, he must’ve felt like I do at this very moment. I’ve had a week where every day I woke up I seriously believed it to be Thursday. That’s right, only one more day until my first full weekend away from work in almost 6 weeks, but then it turned out to be Tuesday all along – Fawk! I felt a little like Bill Murray in “Groundhog Day”, reliving the same day over and over again – but not really making any headway in or out of Andie McDowell’s panties much less life itself. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to sit this one out, but I’ll be back next week just in time for the Dark Pig up there on the right to awaken from his drunken masturbatory slumber known as the Olympics. Ciao Babies and remember that a Misogynist hates every bone in a woman’s body… except his. So at least you have that to look forward to if not wiping Pig puke from your loafers.

As an added bonus, those of you who truly wonder what I look like need wait no longer. Simply scroll down and truly understand why lady folk find me so very irresistible...

Click to enlarge... as usual ;) (if it still works) and once you're done wiping the saliva from your keyboard go ahead and muse about how hot I am below. Notice that I AM wearing protection and that I'm ribbed for your pleasure.

iPod played “The Cure – Friday, I’m in Love” while posting

The Company Ink, Smurfhouse Dink & What The ChickenHeads Think

Much has been said about incessantly dipping ones wick in the company ink, especially when said wick shouldn’t be “writing” but “working” in the first place - but I digress. Other than a scholastic environment, what other place is there that collects similar simians in constant contact (like a professional Petri dish) and often “forces” them to interact with one another for an extended period of time? In the wilds of free time, that girl on the other side of the office that smells like Vanilla pudding would never catch your eye (much less your nostrils), but through the seasoning of daily interface you know that she shaves her pubic hair in the shape of an intricate down turned arrow, an ever obvious landing strip for tequila touched nights inside her tights. Color me intrigued all of a sudden. Some of the folks who populate this office tower spend more time here than at home (1/3 or more of your life will be spent around the orifice, I mean office), those of the single variety find it easier to meet people in bite sized trips in the elevator than between the walls of a seedy bar, and why not? Sexual sleepovers make for pleasant car pooling conversation the following morning, does it not? With an ever growing number of inter-office newlyweds evolving beyond quickies atop the photo copier, boardroom adventures and/or secretarial secretions - obvious trappings aside, why is office romance still seen as such a bad idea?

I’ve always been guilty of skirt chasing on the job, right back to my first employment emission in fact. At fourteen years old I did the backseat fumble with a morning shift waitress behind the greasy spoon diner that employed me. My dish panned hands clasped longingly at her bean bag breasts as they beat down about my face, her ashtray haunted breaths blowing hard on my acne spackled cheeks. She offered me a ride home that chill December afternoon when both the shift and I had “ended”, but little did I know that the journey would have invariably led me here, to the same fucking conclusion with nothing but road in either direction. Now where’s that map? She avoided me after that, and who could blame her, I still had petrified egg yolk under my fingernails from platter scouring all morning.

The pimples and egg yolk were long gone when I worked at the video store, damn near a decade ago, and was the worst of my uh, ink blots. Having been bed buddies with most of the staff and a spattering of customers in just under two years (present gal pal included in latter company) I was eventually reprimanded and shit canned for making salty pancakes with the assistant manager after the corporate Christmas party (I thought it was because I told the district manager that he took a shot in the mouth to get his job – who knew?). While I was working there though, it was a good thing that the hiring manager was a close friend of mine - undoubtedly loyal or oblivious to my choice of conquerable co-workers, he just kept bringing the babes on board. What was a boy to do? It was here that I experienced my first and thankfully only threesome. With both of them being co-workers and best friends (the darker of the two being my girlfriend at the time), I not only mined the inkwell itself; I spilled it all over the fucking place. Long story short (very short), I ended up losing both of them. As soon as our extraordinary experiment had ended; they turned on each other like demon dogs over a warm kitten casserole. They both quit within a few weeks of one another and from what I gather they still won’t talk to each other, it was certainly an experience I would never feel the need to recreate, no matter what immortal fantasy it might have quelled.

Now that I’m in the corporate environment, it’s truly no better than when I was in junior high. When it was learned that relationship woes were in the wind for me and my lady friend a while back, the interest level in your friendly neighborhood cannibal rose beyond my worth in people parts. “Chicken Heads” as she calls them, continue to corner her on a daily basis, trying to scramble up whatever information they can on me/us to fuel the fire of the gossip apparatus firmly affixed to their arse ends. Interested parties dispatch mutual friends to try and learn what will catch my attention for a potential suitor, suddenly women I’ve never spoken to are coming out of the woodwork digging up dirt before the casket’s even been filled. The rumor mill as it were, is chewing up so much shit on me that I wouldn’t doubt if I start to stink of it soon. As I hear this stuff around the office (and by hear, I mean second hand – under the radar) it makes me wonder if this office romance thing is even worth the aggravation. If what I’ve been hearing is true, I’m fucking some chick I’ve never even met or heard of, dating one of the executive leadership team (which should prove wonders for my advancement opportunities) and apparently, if what they say is true; I’ve been married! Twice! Well if I’m getting all kinds of sex from strangers, at least I should be enjoying it, wouldn’t you think? Hell, I'm even getting jealous threats from a girl I went out with once (but she was a cheap date at least).

My boss is starting to catch wind of my fictional “escapades”, the verdict is still out on how that one translates.

When the notches in your bedpost surpass your age, I think a revaluation exercise is in order or perchance a new bed (balancing atop matchsticks at this point). The Company Ink? It may taste like chicken, but it doesn’t bleed Swiss Chalet sauce anymore, it’s nothing but pus and battery acid from what I gather. For some reason they feel the need to talk about me, and I don’t even own the farm yet much less know what the fuck language those chicks are speaking.

iPod played "Harlequin - I Did It For Love" while posting

Growing Older but Not Up

On January 25th, 1999, the first successful hand transplant took place in Louisville, Kentucky and everyone knows that I like good hand job on my birthday.

Immortal screen legend Ava Gardner died of Pneumonia on this day, Al Capone kicked the can in Miami Beach, Charles Manson (who actually shares my first name) and three of the Manson Family females were convicted of murder in the 1969 slayings of seven people - including Roman Polanski’s wife, Sharon Tate. Virginia Woolf and Lee Van Cleef were born, as was director of the classic chiller “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre”, Tobe Hooper (those who know me personally - please slap palm to head in revelation recoil). Opening statements of the oft celebrated miscarriage of justice known then as the O.J. Simpson trial were heard on this day. In 1994 Mister(ish) Michael Jackson settled the first of his ongoing child molestation charges (had he taken his own advice and “Beat It”, this would’ve never been an issue) and If I haven’t yet mentioned it, I was born on a chill winter evening in New Brunswick, Canada, to people that couldn’t keep me - Illustrious company indeed.

That’s right choice cuts and precious pieces; this cannibal was subsequently spat into the world on this very day sometime after the last ice age but before the first Star Wars movie. Abandonment issues? Quite possibly due to adoption when very young and later crippling questions of not being “good enough” for a pair of horny teenagers who more than likely conceived me in the back of a salt licked Volkswagen as the surf churned the swell of good intention back out to sea. I was presented with a handwritten letter from my “mom” when I was 18 (upon her instruction, don’t imagine she was much older than me at the time she wrote it), my parents gave me the note fearing that now that I was old enough I would venture out and find her - reconnect the bond of genetics – reignite the kindling of bloodline to the pyre of progression and forget their input into my evolution. I read the letter alone in my room, wandered back up the stairs wiping saline streams from my cheeks and vowed that “as far as I’m concerned, you are my real parents” and tossed the letter on the table where my mom and dad both sat. They looked so concerned, but when the paper hit the oak of the privileged table from which I ate a few thousand times, their faces melted with relief. I knew that I had made the right choice and proceeded to go get drunk with my friends, pound my girlfriend into waterbed of privilege and begin life as an eighteen year old suburban cannibal on the road to this very juncture.

Birthdays have never been easy for me, an alkaline allusion, like chewing rust from the ancient nails that crucify me to the cross of development; I valued youthful exuberance above most anything and therefore felt leery of aging to the point where some in my intimate circle still have no idea how old I am. Well, I am now but a sliver over thirty and the farthest thing from a traditional adult that you’re likely to find. The Pig and I went collectible and comic book shopping over the weekend and over a pint spoke of how happy we both were with our station in life (more or less). We truly never thought we’d make it this far. On summer nights by the pathetic current of the suburban puddle, all but a catapults reach from his house, we’d drink over carbonated domestic beer (price point driven lager purchases rarely make the grade but did the job), it was the conversation that was dutifully intoxicating not the swill we poured down our throats much less the stale underwear drawer hidden cigarettes we’d inhale. We all dreamt of escape (save one of us) and sure enough we all did, only to end up right back where we all started from, but under the guise of a different city. I think in the back of our muted minds at the time, we all knew that the circle of life was more than just a song from a movie that girls made us watch before allowing us to perfect the bra strap fumble, there was indeed something satisfying about coming full circle even though we thought it was a square all along.

Back when 30 was double my current age, I used to say that my friends and I had our entire lifetime to live again before we saw this side of the horrendous hill, much less the cemeteries collecting down at the bottom. It was impossible to imagine multiplying your entire life by two - now it’s come and gone like a fart in the dark or puppy love on a bikini beachfront bar. It’s nice to feel like I’m just getting started again, not unlike the first day after high school, an infinite ocean of possibility pickles bobbing around inside the wide mouth jar of the imminent. I’m just now starting to figure out the mechanics that hardwire this corpus of mine, the fuel I require to function and the ultimate limits as to not void my warrantee in this place. I can’t change who I am, nor would I want to for the most part, which is something that no 15 year old could ever boast. Was my last year a very unstable one filled with soul demolition, erogenous errors and measured repentance? Reading back on previous posts it would certainly appear to have been the case, but at the same time I’ve got that spark back. Something that I thought had been misplaced beneath the rubble of youth – reduced to pebbles under the ponderous bulk of personal pressure and societal suggestion. One of my all time favorite musicians once sang that you “can’t start a fire without a spark”; I used to think it was about foreplay, now I think I see where he was coming from.

--
A few years ago I learned that my once fiercely Asthmatic father told my mom before marrying her that he would never put another person through the agony of not being able to breathe. He urged her to adopt instead of spawn genetically – breaking the affliction chain. As an alternative to putting a child through the genetic ringer and coming out with Asthma even by chance, they chose to pluck me from oblivion instead (or the back of a Volkswagen, whichever you prefer). Such a selfless act on both their parts made it all clear to me; I wasn’t in such a bad place after all and if I’ve somehow managed to collect a few traits from them along the way, I’ll do just fine.

My dad shares this birth day with me, he’s vacationing in Mexico, Happy Birthday Dadio and thanks for everything, and I do mean everything.

Ipod Played "The Birthday Party - Deep in the Woods" while posting

The Bot Came Back – Hardwired Honey & The Feminine Fuse Box

But the Bot came back, the very next day.
The Bot came back, he thought it was a goner.
But the Bot came back, it just couldn't stay away.

I knew it was a good idea to have that home drawn GPS tracker installed behind that bionic babes ear gadget.

Less than a week after the fine female machine had slipped through the fumbling French fingers of this human consuming suburbanite, there was a feminine clank at the front door. It was my precious (or precocious) little lady device, returning from her short circuiting retreat of sorts. Her polished frame matted with regretful grime, her apology apparatus most certainly over clocked and determined arms outstretched – her wild eyes scanned my face for an ultimate answer - somewhere in the grid she would have me take her back in.

I would indeed allow her to return, but we’d need to work out some of the bugs first. I guess a curiosity circuit had blown somewhere inside her and I’m unsure if I’d ever be able to afford it if it fried on me again. Blown a feminine fuse, if you will.

The Pig says that he likes her more than most of the Fembots I’ve paraded before him in the hardwired past (not just the standard pleasure model this time around). At least this one runs on a personality matrix that may have a few frayed circuits on the board but she’s still a far superior piece of machinery than what most have to operate. I might also add that she has really spectacular buttons and her “on” switch is a marvel of modern technology. If she had indeed come with an operators’ manual, it would’ve been the one missing a few coffee soiled pages in the middle or had been so overtly technical in parts that I could’ve been forgiven for having no clue on how to maneuver her in times of turmoil (much less what oil to use). How was I to know what her maintenance schedule was or what Consumer Reports had to say about previous models in the line? Maybe it was wrong of me to hack into her primary operating system and make changes to her structural code without having all the answers. I should’ve never held her to the same technical standards of operating systems past – she works differently and I should know this.

I suppose if it all works out one day, I’ll tell the kids (Nuts & Bolts) that I sent her to the shop for a week to have her mainframe rewired, compassion emulator lubed up and valves rinsed in a savory solder solution way before they were built. She’d laugh in that boisterous way of hers (which reminds me, I should’ve gotten her volume capacitor reduced in size) and we’d collect over a plate of steaming people parts, a glass of blood red beverage and pre-programmed suburban conversation.

I wouldn’t have it any other way, Baby Bot.

I know now that you simply needed to recharge, but I would’ve plugged you in sooner had I known any better. I hope they didn't fuck with the porno production programming - that took me a long time to upload.

iPod played “Alice Cooper – Woman Machine” while posting.

Stay Puft & Humbled: Homemade Suburban Porn - the Cure for Masterbation

One night in Suburbia

I’ll address a few potential concerns before I start, first off, my Ex knows that I’m writing this and was a willing participant in the subject at hand. Second of all, she reads my inane babble and is dutifully aware of my intentions. Thank you.

Check off another lofty life goal for this city dwelling people eater, my great white ass is forever preserved in the annals of amateur pornography and I’ve never felt better or worse about myself as a result. In what could be considered the Howard the Duck of self styled pornography, this Cannibal and his achingly attractive gal pal in remission spent the better part of Friday night with the unblinking and dare I say incredibly unflattering eye of the video camera watching us perform our time tested bed beating routine. Conceived long before we decided to take our relationship out back and drown it in diesel and doll parts, the old flame still made good on her promise of perversion and since we both longed for the production - why wouldn’t she participate? She looked utterly fantastic, like a pair of alluring silk panties draped over a tapped keg. Then I show up in the shot and it’s like she’s getting man handled by the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

We had (have) several film projects on the burner, but this one I thought might be fun to do first since, well, she was moving out on me in two days anyway, looked really foxy and we both knew the “script”, no time like the present. We had been talking about it for weeks and the project was becoming more and more of a Hindenburg on the horizon, with nothing but obstacles littering the landscape until the night itself arrived and everything – ahem – inflated accordingly. A few pints and a burger later, we were in the sack with the camera rolling (took some incredible still shots as well) and I was on top of the world (if she doesn’t mind being called that), until I saw the footage later.

A Humbling experience to be sure, seeing yourself in the third person, engaged in the sex act with a beautiful woman - there was physically nothing arousing about watching me paw this poor little kitten (save for the kitten herself) and one wonders why she’d even subjected herself to my “man-thing” even before the notion of recording it. From the new vantage point it was most certainly an event; seeing our tattoos catch the warm glow from the lamplight, our quiet whispers barely audible above the faint slap of our skin colliding or the devils hieroglyphics inscribed in the lace of her stocking tops. She was so gorgeous – “come back to bed” she purred while I got up to move the camera to accommodate our next position. It melts me every time I see it or even think abou tit (hee hee - happy accident); up on all fours, pursuing me to the end of the bed - the most beautiful smile you’ll ever see (yes, her REAL smile - perverts). Then there was me, every guy likes to think that he’s Dirk Diggler in the denim department, but when you see it on TV it’s a different story (and I have a BIG fucking Widescreen TV). Fuck. Every woman who told me that it’s “pretty big” is a fucking liar. I’m built like a Smurf house! I make jokes, “I have the French curse – big nose, little hose”, I had no idea that it was quite possibly true, no wonder my bedmates past find the joke so bloody amusing.

We shot for about an hour; catching different angles from our repertoire (one of which was a Hobbits eye view of my scrotum, quite a hideous contraption - I should join Puppetry of the Penis), getting master shots and such and then I got a little carried away and “lost” my concentration. Take two occurred a few hours later.

Had I known that making this movie would not only preserve us in our sexual environment but also draw us closer together, I would’ve shot it months ago. “I had a really great night” she said the next morning as she prepared to pack up her things and leave my sorry ass, “me too”. But it was all too late. On the bright side, she wants to make more porn with me, and far be it from me to dissuade a stone fox from enjoying a Cannibal Brand noodle whipping for the cameras. Sign me up.

I have an assignment for you, set up your digital camera – still or video – and take a few pictures of yourself completely naked. It’s haunting… and not in a good way, no matter how hot you are. I guarentee that you will never look at yourself the same way again - quite possibly the cure for masterbation.

Peter North, Ron Jeremy and John Holmes? You have nothing to worry about, fellas.

iPod played “Duran Duran – Girls on Film” while posting

Tilt the Slot, Coins to Continue or Other Matter in the Meat Sauce

I guess the long and short hair on the camel’s back (beneath all the straw of course) is that I am a relationship junkie, pure and simple. Spoke with the Pig the other night and we determined that in the last decade plus, I’ve been single for all of about two months in total. That’s no small feat when you consider how very hideous I am, I guess a sense of humor goes a long way after all (that and a veracious sex drive). My old high school chums used to make light of the fact that I always had a lady in my life, rolling from one flipper to another like a masochistic pin ball. So what happens when you abuse a pinball machine too much? TILT! Casino slot machines can tilt when they’ve either run out of coins or if one is obstructing the coin hole. Tilt also happens to be a poker term for a “state of mental confusion or frustration in which a player knowingly adopts a sub-optimal over-aggressive strategy”. “TILT”; maybe I should get the term tattooed on my pale white Canadian arse.

For the second time in well under a ½ year, yours truly is no longer attached (“Tilt”); the frayed strand that held me hence has fallen away from around my throat and now collects dust among the bunnies. Single for all of about 5 hours this last time, I’m thinking that I should hang my soggy mittens by the fire a little longer this time out, maybe burn them all together in fact. I really went into this one with my pecker in power, convinced that this would be the first passion perfect relationship to actually work. I’ve taken shits that have lasted longer and I had more at stake than I could afford to lose to the bowl gods. So here I am, “at the end of all things”, with a big, lonely house to pay for and no want to share my space with a roommate. Why so hard this time around? Because I didn’t have time to mourn my parting with “The Wife”, I’m now forced to deal with the loss of both of them, a collective that truly stings like a crooked quill through the soft flesh of your right nipple.

I’m an intelligent guy who rarely makes flakey decisions that leave any lasting crust on my life pie, so why the sudden tilt? I spent so much energy convincing those around me that I was right and that if they didn’t like the situation or choice of partner - they could indeed take a long, hard, suck on my arse. Most were true to their friendship with me and convinced themselves that I knew what I was doing despite what it looked like, it turns out that they were right all along and looked ill to all but me. I was a fool, blinded by the allure of being hunted, believing our own hype even after admitted hesitations, I not only bought the illusion – I believed it myself. So what happened to me? Well, I’m a relationship junkie.

One of the hardest things I’ll ever do is not get a girlfriend; my friends think that it’ll be good for me to be alone for a while, maybe I’ll get behind some of my ambitions instead of longing for their completion. Sex doesn’t look like it’ll be a problem; in fact some peripheral princesses are more than happy to just “fool around” from what I gather. So what to do? My buds tell me that I’ve truly got the best beef on the barbeque, but I guess I want more, I want the sauce too. I guess I’m going to just hang about and see what happens for a change, perhaps be a slut for a bit. Thank Gord for women with bad taste in men - an (astoundingly forward) woman in this office has been waiting for me to be returned to the shelf, amazing. With my luck she's another fucking lunatic. Please insert coin to continue?


UPDATE:

Submitted for your diagnosis, the following unabridged but identity scrubbed transcript from inner office communicator. Another psycho in the stew, another passion pickle to play with or simply a grammer challenged chump? You decide and let me know, but please keep in mind this this is a piece of my strange little life, so be gentle with me.

UrbanCannibal: Hi, sorry if my compliment was a little out of line, I’ve been a real dope lately
Psycho?: are you kidding, if i knew all it took was a pair of cowboy boots to get you to talk to me, i'd of bought them months ago!
UC: I've talked to you!
Psy: ya about my system errors! actually, you did catch me off guard. i like being caught off guard
Psy: im glad you took a peak, cause ive taken a few of you
UC: You need a stronger prescription on those glasses of yours
Psy: how humble of you, you know, that only makes you sexier
UC: That word and I don't often collide. You're a strange lady
PSY: i dont think im strange...maybe a little too forward though. I hope I havent made you too uncomfortable but i had to say what i had to say
UC: I'm not uncomfortable, if it wasn't for women with bad taste in guys, I'd get nowhere with them - haha
PSY: that was funny
UC: You gotta have a sense of humor with a mug like this
PSY: i actually think i have fantastic taste-you've got both looks and personality
UC: Oi? Geez, let me read back a little, how the hell did we get this far in one conversation?
PSY: its my charm i guess
UC: Perhaps. Let's change gears for a minute, How are you?
PSY: im good. how are you
UC: If I said "different" would that deflect that question?
PSY: the oppositte i think
UC: I should shut up then. Why so forward? Is it a hobby of yours?
PSY: not at all..i actually dont know why...i should be the one to shut up actually
UC: Why do you think you have to shut up? Silly woman
PSY: as long as i dont make you feel uncomfortable, i wont
UC: Not uncomfortable, I had my arse dumped over the xmas holidays, I think I could use a little "forward"
UC: Merry eX-mas
PSY: well, she obviously wasnt ready for a good thing
UC: A good thing? Darlin, you don't even know me!
PSY: yes but i have a gut feeling about you
UC: You're kidding
PSY: nope, im serious snookums
UC: I have to admit that I'm a little shocked, all this from a boot compliment?
PSY: i guess im kinda easy
hehehehe
kidding
sorta
no seriously kidding
UC: Wow, this is the best first conversation ever. Any more confessions?
PSY: yes well, im the best for firsts. confessions? always..you just have to know how to ask
PSY: what time are you here until?
UC: I'm here until around 7:45-8:00, et vous?
PSY: im done 5 minutes ago...the things you have me doing
already-staying overtime and all...my imagination doth run wild bout what you will have me doing by tomorrow
UC: I'm sorry to make you stay; we'll catch this conversation tomorrow.

Doth? Verdict? Please discuss and excuse any spelling errors

iPod played "Neil Young - Helpless" while posting

Effeminate Vodka Drinks & the Mental Millennium Falcon

No matter how many precious pennies of knowledge I’ve collected (or pilfered) from the peaceful pond of womanhood, I find myself surprisingly short at the candy counter more often than not; my understanding of their nature seems to continually evolve beyond my comprehension like an incessant mutation. Perfection is ever so slightly out of reach each and every time I’m upon an answer making my hypothesis instantly out of scope the nanosecond my neurons identify or attempt intercourse with it. The ladies continually surprise me, that and their obvious lack of eyesight or standards as it were, most especially when it comes to your accursed cannibal.

On a more or less unrelated subject, I understand Neil Young music now, can’t get enough of his old stuff. It makes me feel broken, but only in pieces can you see some of both sides at once.

Thanks to our effervescent (or is it “ever effeminate”) beverage pushing bacon boy, the Dark Pig, the ginger ale and vanilla vodka of lore snaps at me from a cocktail glass to my left while my parents’ gorgeous golden retriever lies curled up at my feet like a glorious pair of panting slippers. How fitting I think, a bitch at my feet, a stiff drink longing for my undivided attention and responsive keys at my ever numbing finger tips. A great man once said; “Great kid! Don’t get cocky!” I guess I owe my weird world a sliver of reflection from the bridge of my own mental Millennium Falcon.

The colors in the bowl are most certainly bright, but stir it up a little and the fetid rot from the bottom begins to reveal itself in the broth, to stir it in would surely serve no purpose but to make it all taste like shit, no matter the condiments, conditions or kisses. I guess in some ways, I’ve evolved beyond myself and have become something that they all told me I’d be or I’m doing it all to spite them just the same, I’m not sure which.

Dollface once said that I was “going through something”; I think that’s most applicable now. In the past I’ve been called a “saboteur”, meaning that I like to stir that very bowl whether or not it requires whisking. I’ve made some choices of ingredients that I perhaps should’ve avoided and I’ve over seasoned so much that the original taste is nothing but a mild suggestion.

I need to play my guitar more – write songs about something other than rough sex, flatulence or nostalgic nookie – reform my band or start a new one as a result.

Focus on drawing/painting again – try to avoid the “safe” route for fear of failure, push the boundaries and render that which not only challengers the viewer but the “arteest” as well.

I will finish the illustrations for book one of the comic series that the Pig and I created and stop trying to make it perfect (even though my shading is nowhere near as accomplished as what Jeff can do – talented dickhole).

Cut back on porn consumption (save for the homemade variety – but more on that later) – a blossoming fetishist is one thing but an outright pervert is another. I have a talent for finding the free stuff, no one should have to pay for Putty Tat

I have to finish at least three of the last 6 short films I’ve been working on (yes, including the filthy one that should prove to be quite entertaining).

Tell a gal pal that trying to kill herself twice in one year does indeed make her look like more of a failure than she originally thought and that if she dies I’m going to upskirt her corpse and post it on the internet – serves her right.

Figure out why my ex-girlfriend from 13 years ago is suddenly trying to get back in my pants again (even after having two kids elsewhere, so it’s not the cannibal custard she wants, but something else).

Unearth why yet another ex-girlfriend from seven years ago has suddenly been drawn out of seclusion to further haunt my dreams and thoughts after dumbly stumbling across a pile of naughty Polaroid’s we took and a stuffed shoebox of her discarded under things – does she want them back? Is she dead?

Apologize to the past “Wife” for the previous year, tell her what is really going on and that it really wasn’t her fault in the least. I’m an asshole, don’t deserve her attention and she’s truly better off without me.

I need to stop flirting; it gets me in nothing but trouble, I am a whore and women respond to that in a manner that befits such a thing – but it is fun nonetheless.

I need to understand or accept that everyone is not out there to get me and those that are probably aren’t worth my time anyway.

Listen to more Neil Young without allowing his shrill voice to drive me out the window.

I need to make the seat on my recumbent bike at least as comfortable as the couch so that I can out peddle my rising blood pressure.

Be a better friend, son and employee. Try not to be such a fuck up.

Thanks Neil

Playing poker with the Pig *NEXT* Saturday, I suck heavy at poker so I’ll be the one they all pick on and will likely lose all my money on a misplaced bluff but I think I need the night of debauchery, if only to reaffirm my place in the world (or in the Pig’s spare bedroom – my third home as it were).

iPod played “Neil Young – Four Strong Winds” while posting

And To All A Good Night

iPod played "The Crypt Keeper - Deck the Halls With Parts of Charlie" while posting

Up From the Asses – A Slight Return to the Groovy Grill

Hello Carnivorous Kittens and Cantankerous Kooks, it’s been a long and silent fortnight (with Flair!) holding myself from your glorious gaze (and occasional comments – ha-ha). Rest assured that your flesh flogging friend is alive and well in the solemn embrace of his suburban cradle, just blowing less blog bubbles from the backyard, that’s all. I’ve been a busy boy of late and had to temporarily tame the creativity crust around my pompous pile - Wear my big boy boxers for a bit, work out the dainty but daunting details that soil my favorite pair from time to time. The stubborn under stains of responsibility are all that hold them together anymore, that and the waist band of wasted wants.

You wish and whittle on the sour skin from around your professional intentions like an ever irritating hang nail that keeps catching on your favorite sweater. You wait to be recognized at your place of employment for the life you’ve shed at the bottom of the corporate ladder, for the skin that collects under your eyes like grocery bags on a wind swept fence. What happens when they acknowledge your work and reward you with a job that will surely shave years off your life due to stress? A double edged sword that most certainly presents a pinch when introduced to your nether regions, stick that sword up the corporate pucker of progress one too many times and you’re left with nothing but a big asshole, and that’s what I’m becoming (or reaffirming). A delightful dollop of dookie with nary a sink in sight, I am still a nice person, but I’m barking out orders like an over sauced military man at a gay bar. I have to defend technology when it fails; that’s like going to Edison’s grave every time you blow a light bulb and demanding an explanation.

Bum butter on toast will never taste like fine scotch from a brunettes beautiful belly button, no matter what color they both are.

The business bunnies can smell me on the commute now, like an ever fragrant crotch of crisp carrots. They think that I am one of them, a freemason or one of those guys who watch football for the cheerleaders. They look at me differently, like I’m a member of their country club, they know that I’m a business bitch but they can’t quite place my face at one of their poker games. I’ve been rewarded with more work, more reports and more responsibility for slightly more money, but I’ve been broken and I think that they can see that. Sense it.

I’m busier but I haven’t been happier in a long time (I haven't seen The Pig this much since High School). I’m taking steps in my life that I’ve always wanted to take but couldn’t. I’ve done some backtracking, but at least I know where I’ve been this time around. I promise that I’ll stay in touch a little more frequently and if I ever drop off the earth again I’ll make sure I send a few of you e-mails just to let you know that I’m still above ground for the most part.

I'd love to quit this job and work with animals, not the briefcase kind that'll fuck you over given half the chance either.

iPod played “John Lennon – Just Like Starting Over” while posting

The Commuting Cannibal's Succulent Sidekick & the Ringtone of Doom

I’ve never been one to embrace public transportation; this commuting cannibal prefers his territorial bubble to extend beyond two feet in either direction, something that a transit tube cannot hope to accommodate during peak periods. Unfortunately, this cannibal also likes to have dollars in his denim and with parking costs approaching $20 a day in the downtown core; I was most certainly feeling the penny pinch. I had to succumb to sardine-dom, swallow my pride for a ride on the ol’ bullet bus and prepare to breathe the recycled air of those around me. I wasn’t ecstatic, but on the bright side, this meant that I would no longer have to crawl my way through rush hour traffic and that I could more or less just coast along in relative comfort with little to no commute related stress. I would travel in a wheel bound coffin followed by a jaunt on the light rail train – joining the ranks of the caffeinated dead on their journey to add souls to the money machine – like so much coal or kindling to the fires of function.

My experience this morning was surprisingly smooth, unlike that of my succulent sidekick who found out that public transit can not only rob you of patience but it can also re-establish why $20 a day isn’t a bad price considering the transit toll on your sanity…but I’ll turn it over to my cannibal correspondent to elaborate:

“Christmas has come early.

This morning, like most woeful workdays, found me squeezed into a train compartment with 150 of my favorite strangers. The ride is always an unpleasant experiment in pushing the boundaries of personal space, but this morning was especially offensive.

While scanning the compartment my eyes settled upon one woman. She was looking at her cell phone with such glee I wondered if she had not just received a naked picture of her internet boyfriend (I thought I stopped sending her those quite some time ago – cannibal). I let my mind wander and began making up a story about why she had chosen to wear that jacket with those shoes and I wondered where her oddly colored purse fit into the mix, just as I had settled upon her mind set, IT HAPPENED.

I heard Christmas music.

Not regular Christmas music, but the offensive off key processed cell phone ring version. To my horror I realized that Dame Edna's cell was making the noise. I shot her a look that could have killed any assortment of shambling zombie or fast approaching foe but she seemed unfazed by my hatred. She continued. I thought I was going to cry out against her. I looked around for support from my fellow commuting dead, but nothing. I tried to will her to spontaneously combust, but again my mind must have been elsewhere because not only did she not burst into flames but she continued to scroll through each and every ring tone the phone had to offer.

Finally she settled on Jingle Bells (after listening to it 3 times) and gave us all one more piercing earful before she glanced around to train to see if anyone else was as pleased as she was.

We were not.

I am not a Grinch (though I do look great in green) but I think Christmas is going to weigh heavy on my small black heart this year.
I have resolved that I will keep it simple. Christmas will be grass roots for me. A Small tree, popcorn strings, surround myself by people I love and eggnog (surround yourself in eggnog, sounds like a photo opportunity – cannibal). Lots and lots of eggnog (sweet).

To the tone deaf commuter with terrible taste, I thank you. You have reminded me what the season is not about.”

So please folks, if you are a commuting soul in the festive mood, please be considerate to those charcoal souls around you and limit your ring tone experimentation to the bare minimum, especially when in the close confines of a train/bus. You wouldn’t want to ruin Christmas now would you?

iPod played "Dame Edna - Jingle Bells" while posting

Killing Halloween – Post Pumpkin Observations

The Great Pumpkin has come and gone, leaving you all with nothing but a gory Grinch. Allow me to explain.

Underneath the naughty nightie of North America, the Halloween merchandising machine (or Magic Bullet if you prefer) extracts an estimated 3.3 billion dollars in royal revenue from our rosy red rectums (this does not include “treat” sales from what I gather). Knowing this, it’s easy to accept that the bloated bean counters and cattlemen of currency will never truly bury All Hallows Eve beneath the land of the leaves - not until the day after its no longer profitable of course - so why do I feel so used? Sore like a morning prostitute left with nothing but a sock full of pennies and a bad case of rug burn on my forehead? On Halloween night, we were "visited" almost 100 glorious ghosts and gory goblins howling up at us from the veranda, prompting two trips to the local convenience store to replenish ghoulish goodies for the kiddies. Halloween is most certainly undead in our suburban neighborhood, but there was something wrong. It was as if someone had tipped the casket to reveal that it wasn’t Uncle Fester inside, it was bags of fake snow, spools of red ribbon and uneaten fruit cake added for weight.

I slipped out over the weekend to purchase some last minute Halloween horrors to amp up the sweet scares on the front porch and possibly snag a few bags of back up bars for the spooky specters (which still wasn’t enough). It was there that I was confronted by something truly frightening – Christmas crap – and not just a light dusting of it either. That right, October 28th and there I was, lost in an aisle of ornaments, snow blinded by old man Santa stuff and Frosty the Snowman’s charcoal stare. Halloween items were pushed to the clearance bins or hidden away at the back like unwanted step children at a fine family gathering. I guess that when the granddaddy of money making holidays is but two scant months away, they have to amp up the presentation, wouldn’t want us to forget now would they?

I was oddly offended. I grabbed my full sized plastic skeleton (when I could’ve just used a real one from my cellar anyway) and casually made my way up to the check out counter, chewing it all up as a cannibal often does. The cashier was pricing miniature snow globes featuring the red menace himself, perched high atop his crimson sleigh - setting up shop in the white washed winter sky like a drop of blood on colorless cotton sheets. I await for her to shuffle her chores from the counter top and mention that I found it funny that it’s not even Halloween yet and I was being assaulted by Christmas stuff like it but a fortnight way. She nods at me like cashiers often do and presents me with her best pacification smile; “I know, it’s crazy, hey?” I wonder if she thinks that “fortnight” means spending an evening in a wooden shack, but I choose to carry on.

To truly test if she was paying attention I consider telling her that it probably meant less work for the marketing man-machines in head office to redesign/reprint signage stating “Welcome Santa!” instead of “Welcome Satan!” but she wouldn’t have found it funny even if they do both wear red suits. Christmas spending this year is expected to surpass 450 billion bucks, that’s enough get any son of god out of bed in the morning much less some corporate whore eager to beat us to death with him.

I left the store feeling like I had been bled dry and thought that maybe next year we’d be expected to hand out Christmas candy to Halloween kids at the door dressed like elves, snowmen and even the big red whore himself.

Ho Ho Ho... indeed.

iPod played "Tom Waits - Christmas Card From A Hooker In Minneapolis" while posting

Halloween Honeys: Paradise by the Pumpkin Light

Bless me Bloggers, for I have sinned.
It has been one week since my last confession.

You are all very well aware of my dark (or is it dork?) side, so is it truly a surprise that I love Halloween with every inch and ounce of my cannibal corpus and morbid man muffin? Halloween is my “holiday” of choice. You can have your rickety manger, pheasant feast and champagne toasts at midnight - give me my ghoulish gals, fright flick marathons and demonic delights by the pumpkin light. A horror holiday stuffed to the gory gills with paranormal paraphernalia and the idea that the other side of sanity has but one restless night to cut loose – color me blood red, baby, and hang your halo at the door. All Hallows Eve is upon us like a devil dog on a kitten’s cotton throat, and there’s only one thing that I love more than being surrounded by horror, and that’s to be surrounded by whores. Let’s face it; Hells lone night on earth is a leg man’s holiday wrapped like mummy’s mammarys on resurrection day.

Since I was but knee high to a dwarf, I’ve been fascinated by how ladies embrace their vibrant Venus and unleash their private prostitute on Halloween night. Almost like a cellular level contest for the lovely lassies of the land to dress as provocatively as personally possible. No matter how quiet, calm or collected they might be any other damn day of the year, when handed the chance to unfold the temptress inside, they seize it en masse and I gratefully accept the eye candy. Voluptuous Vampires, Naughty Nuns, Nymphomaniac Nurses, Saucy Secretaries, Succulent Super Heroines, sexed up nursery rhyme creations and Pop Tart Princess’ abound - anything to shield their identity or unbuckle the carnal creatures that writhe within. On this one night, a beauty being “dressed like a slut” means that she’s succeeded in her ultimate illusion, tomorrow morning it’s back to Sally Jo Pastry Chef but tonight it’s Sindy Sucksalot in six inch stilettos and a thigh high surprise. For some, it’s the only time they unhinge and wear anything remotely revealing, suggestive or attractive for that matter - and we all know that when a woman feels sexy, there’s a multifaceted overhaul in attitude that stands out like a grain of salt in a pepper shaker. Eternally enticing, like an angels orgasm on Sunday.

I’m an asshole, so I’ve literally never noticed some people until Halloween night when they’re at the peak of their perversion powers. Back in high school there was a wall flower woman who barely made a blip on the hormonal Geiger Counter (or the conversational one for that matter) and yet the minute she showed up at a party dressed in luxurious leg wear and black leather lingerie brandishing a rubber whip - she couldn't get rid of me. I chased her around like she wore a pair of pizza panties until she allowed me to add the pepperoni. She looked like a sadomasochistic Audrey Hepburn of Asian decent (with more beef on her bottom and less crust) so when she lashed me to the bed with said whip, I thought I had died and gone back to hell (good girl gone bad). I most certainly knew her name that next day, but wonder if she wished to have never learned mine, HA! I pawned my soul for a peek at her privates but sure enough, the following day drove her back to the wallpaper, somehow concealing our dirty little secret beneath it– A Halloween experiment between an undead French maid, a blossoming cannibal and a night to be naughty.

Hell, even guys dress like wanton women given half the chance on Halloween, something I too was guilty of back in the Rum-Dumb days of Art College. I dressed up as “Lil’ Bo Peep of the Street” in candy striped stockings, skin tight silken dress of red, fake breasts that spilled out under golden locks and coquettish face paint plastered across my manly mug. Not a pretty picture I assure you, and yet I’ve never had my ass pinched so much in my entire life – TWEAK! So what gives? How did a night of horror become an occasion to doll up and draw out the devils dagger from the sweet side of normalcy? Who cares! Dress it up darlings and let your freak flag fly high above or beneath you this Halloween, and if you see a goateed guy in a red dress, please make sure you rescue him from unwanted same sex advances. Buy him a drink, take him home and tie him to your bedposts - ask his name if you wish; “My name is Cannibal”. Smile shyly and say “It’s nice to meet you, I’ve heard good things” and let the games begin.
So what are y'all going to wear this Halloween?

iPod played "Planet Smashers - My Girlfriend is a Vampire" while posting

Masterblogger Awards – Wordiness Is Next to Worthiness

I still can’t believe that as of July 20th, 2005 (when UrbanCannibal was born) up until my last post, Wordy Wunderkind Serena had somehow managed to write 5,567 more words than me. If you’ve been unfortunate enough to have been exposed to my viral vocabulary and long winded prose since its inception, you will have injested 26,107 (91 pages, excluding comments) of my wandering words and let them run down the inside of your cranium like cold maple syrup (pooling somewhere around your pelvis I presume). As for our beloved blog broad Serena, she’s managed to unleash 31,674 (123 full pages!) such words trumping me on every count, save one. In your face Serena, I have 27 more paragraphs than you! Booya! I did it all from the comfort of my own home (or office) and didn't have to leave North America to collect such content, it's all right here in this neurotic little noggin. Yee-Haw!

26,107 words broken down for your pleasure (or mine at least).

• 2 instances of "fuck"
• 3 instances of "beef"
• 4 instances of "thigh"
• 8 instances of "stripper"
• 12 instances of "beer"
• 12 instances of "meat"
• 14 instances of "sex"
• 10 instances of "taste"
• 10 instances of "suburban"
• 15 instances of "porn"
• 15 instances of "horror"
• 21 instances of "wood"
• 22 instances of "pig"

As an added bonus, our little Serena has typed "fuck" 9 times more than I have, just thought you'd like to know in case you ever plan on having her meet your folks, you may need to have a bar of soap handy.

Self serving cannibal indeed, now if I could only find a platter big enough to serve myself. Thanks for reading, I love my purple people eaters (even if most of you are too damn lazy to comment :)

UPDATE

What’s this? An e-mail about not commenting on posts? let’s see what it says;

"Why would you not unleash your fury? I was expecting the full guilt trip"

Okie Dokie, I just can’t let this pasture go untended;

I’ve been bemoaning about lack of reader comments around here for quite some time, a lot of people stop by to peruse my long-winded prose (I have the stats to prove it) but I can only seem to draw interaction from a small but select group of purple people eaters (and that’s more than fine with me considering their caliber), but why is this? Is it because I write too much, my viral vocabulary putting people off? I know that I can be a little verbose, but why not throw me a thigh bone just the same? I see my readers everywhere; on the escalator, blasting the urinal beside me, at the coffee trough, sitting next to me in my car – you all put forth the effort to tell me how much you enjoyed my last post or not, quoting your favorite lines back at me to prove attentiveness or demonstrating your side of the fence on whatever issue I tried to mentally massage that day - and I truly appreciate that. So why not post your comment for others to respond to and put me out of my misery? Of over 26,000 words I’ve put down, some of you can’t even pull your digits out of your nose long enough to type me a word or two.

Just to be an arsehole, I've temporarily disabled comments, what do you think of that? What? Can't hear you.

iPod played "The Beatles - Paperback Writer" while posting

Luck Be a Lady Tonight & Make Sure She's Magically Delicious

I’m not naturally (or supernaturally) a superstitious cannibal, when presented with someone saying “knock on wood” I will proceed to either rap my knuckles on my skull or on my crotch cannon (“got wood?” hilarity ensues). No matter what Mr. Stevie Wonder might tell you, the only thing you get from a broken mirror is more than one reflective surface confirming how unattractive you are and the worst thing about having a black cat cross your path is that your dog might dislocate your shoulder if she decides to give chase (note my sincere effort to avoid a black pussy joke). As a horror fiction fan, I subscribe to the theory of superstition as a plot device but I’ve never let it roost in my real life until recently, which in itself is a mass of misfortune, all things considered.

Two months back my favorite sweater – a luxurious, black, zip up "Planet Smashers" hooded sweatshirt with a robust weight lifting Tiki emblazoned on the left sleeve – was disastrously misplaced and subsequently sucked into the Void of Vanished Garments (I assume it’s the first left turn after The Island of Misfit Toys, but that’s just an assumption). I felt violated, somehow my sweater had escaped and at less than one year old, it didn’t stand a chance out there in the real world. Milk cartons and “missing” posters would need to be in place, an exhaustive campaign mounted to recover my beloved hoody, who would keep my sweet, sweet sweater warm on those chill evenings of absolute autumn? It was my ultimate casual fashion accessory and I believe that its disappearance made my lucky life take a strange turn for the worse. I felt ultimately unlucky without it; its spell had been broken by this cannibals' carelessness. Maybe there was something to all of this horseshoe hokum?

Just last week another “lucky” item of clothing met with an equally distressing end. A T-shirt that I wore sparingly to avoid buffing its mojo, got a great blast of bleach on it or something equally exasperating. Unwearable, except as a nightshirt, the understated comfort of the garment and its charming crest would nevermore gather compliments from strangers and friends alike. On the front of the shirt was a little yellow dog with a fish in its mouth proclaiming how I felt when wearing it – “Lucky Dog”. It was an endearing image that any puppy lover would embrace (unless you’re a fish of course). I wore it infrequently throughout the summer and the term inadvertently became a mild nickname for me amongst casual acquaintances and die hard disciples, the little yellow pooch had made an impact. Now, the dog ain’t so lucky.

Cultures around the world place infinite faith in inanimate objects and trinkets to contribute chance to their daily lives and I don’t count myself as one of those folks. There’s a perfectly logical explanation for why these garments appeared to bring fortune, it’s because I felt good wearing them. If you feel empowered by compliments or what not, it emulates through your presence and makes people react differently to you as a result, which in effect turns the tide of perceived providence in your direction. I searched high and low for another Lucky Dog shirt (that was the same color) but found that all the summer stock had already been redeployed elsewhere (read: Void of Vanished Garments, will they never rest?!), my chances of replacement were now bleached beyond the original and I had just as much luck with the Planet Smashers zippy. Defeated and trying to defer destiny back to my derrière, I bought another shirt that had a solid vibe about it (which I currently wear) and states that I am “Almost Handsome” in light blue. It’s getting a laugh and that’s good, but maybe I’m just asking for trouble again, latching on to yet another shirt, awaiting yet another cotton curse.

UPDATE:
Skaank, who's been most privy to my bemoaning about Lucky Dog, has essentially spent at least 2.5 hours calling, e-mailing and generally harassing retailers trying to locate another shirt. It turns out that there’s only one left in North America and she somehow managed to secure it for me. I guess this “Almost Handsome” shirt is doing the trick after all or maybe it's just her?

The new shirt, same as the old shirt, will arrive next Monday, no word yet on its luck provisioning prowess.

iPod played "Frank Sinatra - Luck be a Lady" while posting

Fear & Loathing in Darth Vator – The Red Boot Diaries

Nothing gets under my skin like a territorial bubble invasion by some socially inept stranger.

I was on the main floor of the octagonal office tower in which I am dutifully employed; casually approaching the bank of six elevators that service the center of the building, I draw ever closer to the call button and prepare to extend my index finger. Up until this point all was going according to plan, I was alone in the hall and thought to myself that the long ride to floor 27 would be a quiet one – a time of reflection (or to check my reflection). My peripheral vision detects the presence of another person rounding the corner; I am currently unprepared to share an elevator with this person, ever more so after I collect his image in full. My head turns to offer a polite nod or insincere but cleverly cloaked good morning smirk, it is a man… wearing cherry red cowboy boots. Excuse me? Is there a rodeo room on one of these floors? My brow furrows a bit but I accept that I will share a few moments of my life with this man within close proximity. I ready my psychic defenses and press the button.

Once in awhile the elevator gods take pity on me, this was one of those times, for shortly after the button lit up to reaffirm that I had called the unit - three main floor elevators chimed out their arrival and welcomed us both. My mouth fell open a little and I gave thanks that this corporate cowboy and I would soon be parting ways, perhaps never to intersect again, I was pleased with this little piece of peppermint providence. I made my way towards the farthest open door which would surely guarantee that Buffalo Bill would chart a course to the unit closest to him. I entered my car and pressed (27), another little light, I like little lights; I always think that this one depressed key is that which destroys the Death Star with a welcome glow – Darth (ele)Vator as it were. I wait for the door to close. DING. Here we go; the doors begin to come together. I gently bring my coffee up to my lips for a sip when I am startled by a pair of hands reaching in at me from beyond the door panels. Safety censored elevator doors slide back open, parting like the boot red sea only to reveal Moses’ redneck cousin was behind it all. Two other perfectly approachable elevators and this Calvin Klein cowpoke choo-choo-chooses to invade my little life, forcibly fumble his way into the tiny space with me and boil my blood to bacon fat. I choke a little on my coffee and retreat to the back corner.

Elevator etiquette would dictate that when two parties are in the same unit, they should move to the back of the vator and select a corner to occupy, I guess that manual hasn’t yet made its way out to the barnyard because this fellow decides to stand right beside me. I squirm into the corner a little deeper. The doors close and the car begins its ascent, the cowboy hasn’t yet selected a floor to infect and I know he wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near my floor so I throw him a bone;

“Uh, sir? What floor would you like?” even offering to press the button for him.

He doesn’t say a word, he just reaches past me to press the floor button himself and since I had already destroyed the Death Star I have no idea what fantasy button he pressed. It looks like I’ll be making an unscheduled stop on floor 20... I always thought it smelled a bit gamey on that floor. So there we were, one cannibal and one uncultured cowboy sharing an elevator, its’ got the makings of a fantastic joke but somewhere between the ground and 2x10 floors up the punch line was lost on me. I stare at the numbers counting away on the panel above us as an eternity unfolds between micro-seconds. His stop approaches, my pulse quickens trying to work the bacon fat out of my arteries, he moves from my side to practically insert his nose where the doors meet. Three or four floors to go, I am getting anxious. Place coffee to mouth. Keep my cool kitten, you’ll be fine.

DING!

His cherry red boots carry the messiah of the mundane out of the elevator and away from my life. My shoulders ease down, breathing returns to normal and my trip continues incident free. I inhale the unshared air and curse the elevator gods for fucking with me again.

iPod played “Planet Smashers – Pee in the Elevator” while posting

Beyond the Valley of the Malls – One Cannibals Journey into Madness

I was waiting for Skaank while she got her nails and eyebrows done at a local esthetics joint and witnessed womanly exchanges that will haunt me eternally. First off, the nail salon was no bigger than a shoe box and being a broad shouldered bull in a china shop, I fit in there just as snug as you’d expect and second; how do you ladies deal with that acrid smell of putrid polish, pubis peeling and perfume? I had never been in such a place, this was something that women usually did on their own when they drop off the radar for a few hours leaving males to proudly pick their noses, eat grease and crank man music (like Neil Diamond, right Pig? HAHA). I had somehow found myself behind the lucrative lines of femdom with no recorder of any kind except for my beer addled brain.

While one of the ladies gingerly tended to Skaank’s airbrushing requirements, the rest of the little Asian estheticians were running late due to an “emergency” cuticle recovery operation which not only occupied one technicianista but three of them over time. It was like an operating theater, with each white coat cosmetologist chiming in – ‘I need a manicure bowl over here and 10cc’s of Acetone free nail polish remover, stat!” The cuticle queens circled the wounded woman’s hand like helpful hyenas armed with tools of the trade, precision puffs of support for the fallen finger and big hair (that was either full of girly gossip or the impossible knowledge needed to unlock the universe). I was stunned and half expected a pillow fight to break out, but today was not the day I suppose.

The manager of the place was a well proportioned blonde teetering on what must have been the most uncomfortable shoes known to man; she pranced about the place like a show pony – clop, clop, clop. I resist the urge to speak to her for fear of inane babble forcing me to scurry out into oncoming traffic. I consider picking up a stray copy of Cosmopolitan magazine – spot something about menstruation on the cover – I re-evaluate my choice and do not pursue the periodical. The operation now complete, the manager leads the little princess with the once killed cuticle to the couch beside me. They are chatting… I take a look out at the street, there is a bus out there that would make light work of me should I choose to bolt out in front of it. A big day of decisions, I choose to avoid suicide once more.

Both of them were poured from the same mould and I was in no way prepared to learn of their individual ingredients. They were attractive to a flaw (if that can be said). Footwear aside, the two of them had similarities beyond the teased hair (neither of which appeared to be authentic), excessive perfume that made my nostrils singe and sponge cake makeup application. With jeans like second skin and breasts that were as unnatural as the Olsen twins in a conversation about poverty the two carried on like they’d known each other since Christ was a child. For some reason Cuticle Cutie gives Manager Miss the go ahead to rifle through her purse. In search of something (the Holy Grail of Girls perhaps) the manager comments on each and every item in the posh looking purse stopping once to ask “you don’t mind do you? I’m a bit of a snoop” answered by a “no, not at all, blah blah blah”.

Aside from the usual small talk and tale swaps, Manager Miss somehow ends up throwing the name "MacDonald" into the conversation to which Cuticle replies; “that’s my last name!” Manager says that she knew that because “I'm a little bit psychic”. Where’s that damn bus?! A few photographs are found drawing forth yet another question from Manger Miss; “are you a dancer?”
“Yes!”
“What’s your stage name?”
“Paris” – hesitantly looks over her shoulder at me. What is she looking at me for?
“I used to dance” says Manager Miss “I was Christian Dior”
Paris? Christian Dior? Dance? Good lard! They’re strippers! It dawns on me that I just might have seen one or both of these women naked at one time or another. Holy guacamole, do they recognize me? I have a lot more hair now, there’s no way! Without a pint to my lips I’m unrecognizable! I rifle through my mental Rolodex of women I’ve seen naked – nope, nope, nope…. no
“Who was your agent?”
Agent? You mean strippers have agents? Are strippers in a union? I guess they would have to have a good benefits package for sore knees, performance mishaps and such. Can they write off lipstick as a business expense?

Paris (formerly known as Cuticle Cutie) says the name of her agent, I miss it – It’s probably Cosmopolitans fault, but I wonder if strippers have one week off a month when they’re menstruating? My thoughts trail off as Christian and Paris leave the couch and head off into another room for a “massage”, I wonder once more if a pillow fight is in the works, the two of them look back at me sitting at the front of the shoebox and I’m sure of it. Make it a good one girls, let the feathers fly.

Skaank (who I have seen naked, incidentally) has been beautified and is ready to roll, we make our way out to the car and I tell her my strange tale, she turns to me and says “I feel a blog coming on”.
You’re damn right, baby.

The preceding was reason #44 for why I need an editor.

iPod played "Chris de Burgh - Patricia the Stripper" while posting

I Made Linda Lovelace Gag - The Evolution of Porno People

I watched the rest of “Inside Deep Throat” a few nights back and I have to say that the history of American pornography fascinates me, if not its erogenous evolution then its stranglehold on society. Reading the book “The Other Hollywood: The Uncensored Oral History of the Porn Film Industry” you get an appreciation for how the films went from underground to mainstream despite those who tried to disinfect it (somehow winding up as a $10 billion a year jerk off juggernaut). Indeed the history of pornography is infinitely more interesting than the pubic product – man, I can’t believe I just wrote that.

“Inside Deep Throat” is a newly produced documentary on the creamy creation of the infamous filth film “Deep Throat” in 1972. It also details the controversy surrounding its initial release, how it introduced porno cinema to the curious mainstream and the eventual socio-political witch hunt that inadvertently made it an icon. Independently shot for $25,000 and grossing over $600 million to date it’s been described as the “Blair Witch Project” of smut, keep in mind that this was well before home video revolutionized (or demoted) the industry so punters had their bottoms in soggy theater seats to earn that mountain of money. The Hollywood elite rubbed shoulders with the creepy rain coat crowd and pushed the production into the upper echelon of perversion pop culture. Financed by the mob and featuring 23 year old Linda Lovelace, famous for her jaw dropping fellatio skills, the original film tells the “story” of a woman whose pleasure trigger is lodged way at the back of her throat. Innovative concept wouldn’t you say? It would make pizza pops and popsicles all the more enticing.

No matter what side of the fornication fence you’re on, you cannot deny that we’re surrounded by smut for better or worse. Blogster Meg will tell you that her mailbox has become nothing but a dumping ground for erogenous e-mails promising genital enhancement of the male variety, the Dark Pig will regale you with tales of how some folks are searching for Pig Sex on MSN and returning results with him at the very top of the list (if he’s not too busy playing with himself in a coffee shop he’ll share others) and lard help you if you ever type something remotely uncommon in a Google image search – quite a treat. If you’ve ever been to Vegas, chances are you’ve had some Peruvian kid smack his palm with porno pamphlets and offer them up to you and I don’t know a single person who hasn’t found him/herself in some forbidden web space at one time or another (accidental or otherwise). Smut is everywhere and I’m so incredibly desensitized to most of it as a result of its overexposure.

Skaank and I got to talking about how the internet has revolutionized or redefined how the populace perceives pornography much like how “Deep Throat” did in its time. One wonders what’s next. What evolutionary step will the dirty industry take to further push the bountiful boundaries of decency or dollars? In 1972 Throat was a success mostly because of Linda Lovelace’s rather accommodating oral capacity, it was something never before seen. Some of what can be “seen” out there now will make your skin crawl away and die (but I’m sure someone would find that oddly arousing as well). Unlike most trends, porn never seems to revert back to the old ways, it’s forever developing into… something. I am frightened that our children may one day think that the missionary position is nothing more than a clerics’ point of view as they head off to the perversion clinic to have more ribs removed allowing for further personal fellation fun - a breed of Porno People.

iPod played "Pornosonic - Cream Streets" while posting

Disarray is the Order of the Day

I’m in the middle of relocating to the suburban wastelands of the south so this will sadly be my last post until sometime next week. In the meantime, if you’re just stopping by, are new here (enjoy your stay) or have somehow exhausted my incessant alliterations - I highly suggest reading up on some of my blog buddies linked to the right. They’re all clever bunnies with insightful cotton tails and curious carrots worthy of your time.

iPod played "Billy Joel - I'm Movin' Out" while posting

The Adventures of Cannibal Boy & the Misplaced Mission of Manhood

This is a place where "Tool Time" means something completely different.

Time to hoist up my linen trousers, starch my corporate collar and press my silk boxers - it’s time to be a man.

Alternate opening:

Time to slip on my dirty denim duds, work the cobwebs from my well worn work boots and slip into my favorite grubby sweatshirt - it’s time to be a man.

Whatever your finite definition of “man”, I guess I have to evolve into such a creature – a masculine maturity mammal, an animal of absolute advancement – big shoes to fill when you’re a scared little boy in search of sole. “Talking shop” a few months back, the Dark Pig (shown here) and I had stumbled into a conversation that we’ve had many times in the past but never with such vigor or impact. We both realized that what our dads brought to our little lives (and still do) can never be matched or ultimately equaled by what we’ll potentially share with our respective spawn in the future - quite a revelation if not a disconsolate one.

Our fathers are of the old school pool (not from the piddle pond we’re wading in) – they are break the mould kind of men, larger than life lads – mechanically minded super construction masterminds of unequalled strength, humor and humanity. What do I have to contribute to a child? I guess it’s all of the creative variety over the practical pieces. Where dad would build a television stand of solid oak and glass, I’ll be able to teach a rug rat how to build a horror movie to display on housed television (if we can convince his/her mother to play victim). Where dad would be able to fix a vehicle with a matchstick, chewing gum wrapper and lint mined from the depth of a sock drawer (MacGyver is a pussy!), I can rebuild the computer that will allow me to e-mail him for advice on how to salvage said vehicle. My father can draft up the most elaborate construction plans right down to the last nail but ask him to draw something organic and he’s at a loss whereas I can illustrate the most succulent lopsided breasts right down to stray nipple hair.

Maybe they’re right when they say that new breed males are doomed. I mean, nothing is more satisfying (read: frustrating) than having dad ask me for help with some technology issue or aspect, it’s like the reverence wreath has been passed but that can only take a person so far. As I surveyed how much work needs to be done on the purchased property I couldn’t help but think of how much I need my dad’s help and that no computer in the world can undo the mess the previous owners made on the walls in there (damn you Trading Spaces!). I’ve spent countless hours of my youth holding a flashlight over my dad’s shoulder while he worked on… whatever, and I have no clue on how to do any of it (except gallantly hold a flashlight aloft or fetch tools) . Perhaps I should’ve listened when he said countless times, “pay attention now, son. You’ll own a home of your own one day”. I hate that he’s right all the time.

Favorite lyric of the moment, David Gray – Flame Turns Blue: “I’m in collision with every stone I ever threw and blind ambition where the flame turns blue.”

Dad loves music but has no idea where my instrument of choice, the bass guitar, fits into the mix since all the music he listens to was back before the bass was considered a rhythmic necessity. This makes me sad.

iPod played "Dirty Vegas – Days Go By (Acoustic Version)" while posting

Parents Just Don’t Understand – On the Ropes Without an Adrian

I guess the long and short of it is that all any parent really wants is to have their children be happy, unless of course you’re my parents of late, in which case you second guess child at every turn and assume that Mr. Halfwit is at the helm of a head without direction. Frequent flyers to this meandering mess will know that the “wife” and I have decided to head our separate ways but what you don’t know is that I not only have to hold it together with the “wife” but I’ve found myself trying to pacify my own fucking parents at a time when I should be the one soother sucking.

My Mom has hated every single girl (save two) that I ever brought to the cannibal cave to meat her (or was forced to introduce to through some awkward event). In my teens, Dad called every single one of them “Jenn” because every second or third one of them through the testosterone turnstile was named as such – or so it seemed (one even adopted the name to deflect embarrassment for an entire weekend). Show up at the house with one too many hickeys or badge of honor back scratches in a fortnight and the folks would probably have a fairly skewed opinion of the lass long before they’d even met the poor princess - much less give her a chance to prove them otherwise.

In stark contrast to this pretty picture was the “wife” who not only won my parents over but now that we’re on the ropes (or in the dressing room by now) they seem to still be in her corner. We’ve most certainly taken an emotional beating but for whatever reason the favor of the crowd seems to be with her and that no matter how many bruises I’m nursing, I’m left to fight this on my own (friends aside of course) with gloves of gravy skin. Where’s Burgess Meredith when you need him? Yo, Adrian! I’m black & blue with a breakup and parental back lashings without even buying a bloody ring - imagine if we had gone the full four rounds (Marriage, Kids, Dog, and Death).

I can appreciate why mother would have concerns over our conclusion but that’s no reason to pour derision over said decision when it’s our lives we’re trying to salvage and not hers. Sure, one less seat at the Thanksgiving table will stand out like a grain of salt in a pepper shaker but isn’t our happiness more important than seasoning? As for my Dad, he’s still on my side but I get the feeling he’d be more comfortable in the middle (say Hi to Malcolm for me). They believe that this is all my fault, and to some extent it is, but if what I’m guilty of is questioning my happiness shouldn’t that be enough to win their favor?

I do believe that is the first time I’ve used the big "F" word in a blog. Those that know me will find this most amusing, for the rest of you keeping score that's 22, 308 - 1.

Will Smith was right. Who knew?

iPod played "Survivor - Eye of the Tiger" while posting

Back to the Future & the Beer Born Ballet Hippo

As promised the Dark Pig and I took leave of you all on Saturday night to partake of some pints at a local joint that was but a kidney stone throw away from his pig pen, what we didn’t expect was that they had somehow turned the pub into a time machine without telling either of us or alerting the media for that matter. I’m all about riding the retro bus (hell, I still spin records, wear Aviator sunglasses and have sideburns that’d make Priscilla Presley drip like a faucet) but what we encountered as we strolled through the pub was unlike anything either of us had ever seen, an honest to oatmeal interactive 80’s experience. In my last post I mentioned “Weird Science” and Anthony Michael Hall, well unbeknownst to me; we had somehow found a portal back to that very time – 1985. Hair piled to the ceiling fans, unlaced high top sneakers, Leopard print Lycra, slouch socks and a waitress in leg warmers… and I said “pardon”? Had we been less intoxicated we may have made plans to turn the place into an 80’s theme park, kind of like Jurassic Park but with stronger fencing to keep the bar bimbos and grease monkeys away from the tourists. Our mouths fell agape at the display before us, but that was just the beginning.

The Pig and I are keen observers by nature so we found a table that appeared to have the best vantage point of the place and proceeded to pulverize our livers - laughing hysterically at the pickled patrons below like party plankton in a Petri dish. Highlights include seeing a tubby gin blossomed cowboy literally ask every dame in the bar for a “dance”, a cougar in Leopard print top stomping her Peggy Bundy style heels on the hardwood stage floor as if trying to perform some trailer park flamenco and a table full of female fondue flavors with nothing but dudes lined up to dip their berries in the bowl. The Leopard print princess got into a screaming match with her date/parole officer/sugar daddy right in front of us and at one point ran from the pub in tears only to return some time later no worse for wear while her date sat as numbly stunned as the rest of us. I’m not even going to mention her other gal pal who had Lita Ford hair-do and just as much luck with the man at her table. Scary shit.

Speaking briefly to the guy and his gal beside us about a woman that looked suspiciously like David St. Hubbins (Michael McKean) from “This is Spinal Tap” we were astonished to find that they were just as shocked that we’d all somehow ended up in a time warp. “Doesn’t Blondie over there look like David from Spinal Tap?” to which he replied “I dunno, I thought she looked more like Dee Snyder (from Twisted Sister)!” I nearly made a puddle I laughed so hard. So here we were, four folks stuck in some bizarre pocket of twisted time with Dee Snyder’s love child mere meters away.

The sights and sounds of a place transplanted twenty years in the future, very odd indeed but it didn't end there.

---

Part II

The pig and I were minding our own business, watching our persistent but portly cowboy try and smooth talk some odd looking female a few tables off when said femme spots us. She blew off the decrepit cowboy and began to approach us, had our knees been less lubricated with wobbly pops we may have made an escape out the window, but we stood fast, perhaps thinking she’d offer us free beer – she did not. We had gathered a few chairs to prop our feet upon and subsequently create a wooden wall between us and… well, everyone else, but this broad just up and takes my chair, sits her bulbous ass upon it and begins to speak; “Moo” – (it could have been “Hi”). “Howdy” I say and we strike up a conversation about horny cowboys and would she have let him calf rope her if he were thirty years younger or had she skulled a schooner of Looser Lager upon his bow legged approach. Somehow we chat with this person for a few minutes (perhaps still waiting for free beer to appear) when this other lassie saunters over to the table. We realize in tandem that the cowboy should’ve held out for this woman, she had a face like Mr. Ed the talking horse, perhaps his prairie perversions would’ve flown with her but even cowboys have standards I suppose, and no one would want to see him ride this filly off into the sunset (not unless it was off a cliff).

All went well I suppose (no beer arrived and our pints were dry) until Mr. Ed started to talk about how much she puked the night before and what it was she had “lost”, the pig and I exchange glances – we must plan our escape. The other party crasher chimes in with a retching tale of her own – to look at her one would suspect that she’d never said no to a meal in the first place much less allow a morsel to flush away into oblivion. We were dumbfounded. The leg warmer wearing waitress comes over and asks if any further drink orders will break-dance her way… wait… wait… no beer (I try my best puppy dog eyes on her - she must be a cat lover - Damn!). We had enough, the Pig put his hoof down and somehow offends Horseface by referencing her vomiting anecdote (something about a piece of toast) and we giggle. She storms off, but the one remaining barnyard refugee starts to tell us that she’s also a dancer after we comment on the waitress’ attire choice and we pretty much lost it and made a break for the exit.

Aside from Disney's Dancing Hippos in Fantasia, there’s no real need to examine that evening any further except to say that I spend far too much time with farm animals, know far too much about the toilet habits of two complete strangers and had a really great time.

Am I the only person still alive that wanted to bone a Solid Gold dancer?

iPod played "Bowling for Soup - 1985" while posting

The World Is My Oyster & I Want to Shuck It (with or without Anthony Michael Hall)

When faced with a hook up (or break up for that matter) back in High School or prior to, wasn’t it mostly what your friends thought that mattered? I consider myself still an Adult in Training for the most part so a great deal of that mentality still blossoms in my brain - but there’s a wee little group of cranial caterwaulers screaming to high hell about both beings needing to end up a little better as a result of one another and blah, blah, blah. Can’t deny them I suppose, but now that I’m “suddenly single” for the most part, I want to lash out and act a fool (which I don’t mind saying I have plenty of experience doing) and regain some misplaced youth somewhere along the way. So how many of the rules have changed since I was last in the game? Is my cue stick still able to perform on the hole?

Back in my formative years of the female frame, long before I knew that a woman had more to offer than confidence cuddles, pseudo-sexual esteem and bed head; it was all about making my friends jealous at any cost. The Dark Pig will tell you that I took beauty over brains more often than not, but the truth is that we all took what we could as it became available (but if she was a stunner by some dumb luck, the boys would stew like beef in a broth of hot hormones - no matter how uninformed she was). Now days, if I were to parade some bimbo out in public in front of my friends they’d not only lash her with their wit but they’d surely chastise me for having subjected them to her inane babble. Not that pretty girls can’t be smart, in fact that’s a statistic that’s thankfully changed for the better from what I gather, but you still have to admit that bubble babes are still out there just waiting to make a nice guy look like an idiot in front of his friends.

The gal pals of some of my buddies are already trying to set me up with their single friends if you can believe it. I’m fresh out of the fryer; the last thing you should do is stick me in your mouth right away. Thankfully my friends are deflecting most attempts but I’m sure one will slip under their radar at some point which will undoubtedly make me look the greasy fool. I’m certainly flattered by the attention but let me drip dry a little before covering me in condiments.

Maybe this is the time to make a woman like the boys did in “Weird Science”, but with less pubic hair than Kelly LeBrock (unless she’ll allow me to clean my sink with her pelvis) and more brains (she did marry Steven Segal, after all). The Pig and I will collect over a bottle of rum and try to make a woman. We’ll wear bras on our honey heads, listen to some “Oingo Boingo” and party like its 1985.

... and yeah I know I'll "never make supervisor with that attitude".

iPod played "Oingo Boingo - Weird Science" while posting

Kicked in the Taco & a Side of Sour Cream Dreams

I apologize profusely for the lack of regular urban updates this past week (it’s nice to know you care) but I think that John Lennon put it best when he sang that “life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans” or if you prefer Frank Black; “I got kicked in the taco”. Recurring readers will know that I am shuffling off to the bustling burbs within the coming weeks, but what even my most supportive of pals don’t know until now is that I will be making this move without the wife.

You must first understand that we were never married to begin with (so cast your dispersions elsewhere) and that “wife” was a nickname that I bestowed upon her back when intention dictated that we would one day wind up chapel side one sunny afternoon. I have spent 1/6 of my entire life with this one woman and this is staggeringly hard to handle as it is without having to hand over a deadly divorce or go tooth and nail with my best friend for who gets the tea pot. With all sincerity, this has been a long time coming but it doesn’t make it any easier on the soul. It’s not that we didn’t go to task as a team, but we realized that we may be dying as individuals as a result and therein lays the root of our separation. As a unit we pursued happiness at the expense of our own wants, dreams and ultimately our life together. I’m just thankful that we are both adult enough to identify where our white picket fence turned to barbwire before it cut us both deeper than it already has.

We’re still friends (the best of, as cliché as that sounds) - we still share the same roof and as we pack up our lives for each others ultimate move – me to the outskirts and hers to the other side of the country – we collect the icons of our life together like archeologists cataloguing the remnants from some lost civilization unearthed many moons later. Relics from another time - artifacts detailing our existence, whereabouts and headspace – they collect darkness in the bottom of a box instead of on display in some marital misfortune museum. We share a laugh as we uncover yellowing movie tickets, restaurant receipts and photographs – our legacy.

Next steps are as new to us as first ones from an infant but just as rehearsed as those from a ballerina, I guess the real question is where do we go from here? The nails in the coffin are closer to the corpse than ever, the death knell has sung its song to the wild winds and we’ll continue our lives apart but ever closer for having been here together – no matter where we drift from this point on.

We're sorry to those who've invested so much in us and hope that you don't feel that it was all in vain. Don't look at us as a failure, we sure don't, just trust that we'll make it all up to you one day as individuals and accept our gratitude.

iPod played “Spoon - Everything Hits at Once” while posting

A Creamy Phallus & The Porcelain Pinch

I am but a creamy phallus for a multi-billion dollar corporate moo-cow – squeeze me and I produce. I am entombed in an office tower on the perimeter of the downtown core, like being on the edge of freedom or on the border of oblivion – if this place was but a bear trap in which I was duly caught, I would’ve surely eaten through my furry flesh to have escaped it by now. I am usually perched high atop the grimy streets on the top floor of said tower with panoramic views of the cityscape (or cityscrape) and the ripe river valley – Chinatown bristles below. I have been temporarily reassigned to an office space with a breathtaking view of the adjacent building and its dreary inhabitants – be still my beating heart. I share the elevator with metrosexual males and syrupy secretaries; I stand in the corner and try to ignore their idle chit chat - try to avoid suffocation by way of piquant perfume, mellifluous bullshit and the ever present attitude (an SUV does not make me respect you, please do not wave your logo emblazoned keys in front of my face unless you expect me to insert them into your rectum and drive you off a cliff – thank you). They know that I am not one of them (like a dog sniffing out an intruder amongst the pack – my arse end doesn’t smell quite right – perhaps it’s the lack of backside kisses), I’ve been told that I have too much creativity in my face (I assume that means that I look creative and not like an experiment gone wrong), I think it’s the sarcastic smirk on my face that truly sells the seashells by the seashore. I wonder if they know that I think they’re all a bunch of filthy double breasted beasts and that the homeless have better bowl side manner.

Let me explain.

When nature calls like a foghorn through the storm of your guts, you can’t pull a “Shitbreak” and haul home for a poop, I understand that. But some of these people treat the washroom like their personal dumping ground (if you’ll excuse the pun). Up on the top floor there was a phantom piggy who had a habit of leaving the toilet seat covers on the seat when he was finished with his deposit. The next visitor would then be faced with the unpleasant reminder that another man's bottom cupped the porcelain maw (the only thing worse, is to sit on the seat and find that it retains the unearthly warmth of the last user – creepy – but I imagine women endure this all the time since they have nothing but bowls). Removing the cover was a delicate art, not unlike handling plutonium... and I thought that was bad.

The people down on this floor are so notoriously filthy that I’d consider a colostomy mud pack to be a blessing. They wipe snot on the walls of the stalls, leave wads of wet toilet paper all over the floor, they don’t flush - leaving you to gaze into their bowel stew whether you want to or not. There’s water all over the counter tops, soap residue stains on the tile, gobs of soaked paper towel strewn about the sink, petrified phlegm on the wall in front of the urinal and that Martian stink that you just know shouldn’t escape from a healthy human being (much less an office employee).

Are the suits involved in some sort of nauseating class struggle with the cleaning staff? Are these guys lashing out at their wives for some reason and taking it out on defenseless urinal cakes? A multi-billion dollar corporate citizen run by polluted people who enjoy wallowing in their own filth? I am concerned and confused – maybe I should take the stairs from now on, sharing an elevator with these people just became all the more difficult.

iPod played "Headstones - Cubically Contained" while posting

Coffee Cult Creations - For the Love of Over the Counter Culture

As I waited for her 4shot-venti-non-fat-caramel-machiatto, I had time to reflect on coffee culture and what it invariably means to me as I inhaled the filtered-through-dirty-sock aroma of burnt java beans. Walking away from a $tarbuck$ with an armload of overpriced yuppie puppy juice is becoming somewhat of a specialty. You see, when office orders start to circulate across the floor like a caffeinated cockroach - I’m among the first to volunteer for the trip to lubricate my escape from the workplace - get some fresh air in my lazy lungs; feel free for a fleeting moment or two before heading back into the blue tube of recycled air and idle chit-chat. There are coffee services in the building, a Canadian institution operates downstairs in fact, but there’s something about a large white cup of steaming half-caf-beaver-slapped-whatever-chino to bring joy to a puffy eyed co-worker on a cool Friday afternoon.

When we were taut teenagers, coffee houses were the only places where minors could hang out and smoke lung buttering cigarettes on those solid white nights of winter. We would stay up most of the night in some dingy place, sipping at the poorly rendered black beverage - talk smack about the chicklettes we felt up behind the gym, inflate our dreams with youthful imagination and pollute our lungs with the smoldering suicide sticks. We felt like taxi drivers or something equally “romantic” to the mind of a young man - we were perfectly at home in the ancient lyric of a classic Tom Waits song.

I think it all went south when these monstrous coffee conglomerates took over the world one city block at a time. It’s astonishing to me that the public hunger for caffeine is so great that it can facilitate the need to have so many shops within such close proximity - like Lego blocks, swollen corpses or rabid rodents piled high atop one another. You know it’s bad when the biggest competitor one store has is an identical outlet just a ¼ block down and one single floor up.

I laugh a little at myself as I cart my armload of caffeinated creations past the line up of suits and wonder how the hell I became one of them. If I had another hand I would’ve slapped myself. I blame YOU Chandler Bing!

iPod played "Nashville Pussy - Fried Chicken & Coffee" while posting

Suburban Cannibal?

Suburbia

- suburb: a residential district located on the outskirts of a city
- suburbanites considered as a cultural class or subculture
- place where prom queens & virginity still exist

Long before I became the Urban Cannibal I was a Suburban Animal trying desperately to escape the pre-portioned backyards, cookie cutter castles of kittens or kids and the cancer of casual community. My friends and I fought hard to punch on through the ‘burbs bag of blissful ignorance, we knew that just beyond the greenbelts and veined valleys sat the bloated beast that is “The City”. Ominous in size but ripe with possibility, promise and Poon-Tang (dear diary, I used the word Poon-Tang in a blog today – that was swell!), The City rose like a phoenix from the meadows of mediocrity that engulfed us – upon it’s fiery wings we’d soar above it all. Not that our little suburban nest was unsightly, far from it, it was beautiful; sprawling fields, immense evergreens and Stepford daughters by the dozen! For such a peaceful paradise one would be hard pressed to find anyone willing to leave “The Shire”, but like it was for Bilbo Baggins, adventure was brewing off in the distance like a cannibal’s cauldron and it smelled delectable.

Shortly after high school most of “The Boys” (The Dark Pig being one of said “boys”) sought to leave the suburban wasteland and make our fine fortunes out in the wild, wild world beyond the paradise skies - one remained behind but he spawned quite early in the game. Me? After having escaped over a decade ago, it saddens me to report that I am headed back from wench I came…

In the back of our minds we all knew that one day the tables would show signs of turning and that we’d somehow end up once more suckling at the boulevard bosom of the ‘burbs, but I’m the Urban Cannibal, how the hell am I supposed to make this work? My cannibalism doesn’t go over well in smaller communities – missing persons tend to be missed. Kittens are cherished, children are cuddled and housewives are shackled to appliances – I will be forced to re-adapt to my natural habitat, leave the slick city streets to its rightful heir – the KIDS. I will hear them out partying in the streets from my suburban hutch. I’ll stand out on the lawn and occasionally howl at the moon just to prove to myself that I still can.

We move in less than a month and I am petrified of what I will become.

iPod played “Ben Folds - Rockin' The Suburbs” while posting

Good Girl / Bad Girl Mystery – How many licks does it take to reach the center of a Tootsie Pop?

The age old mental meatloaf known as the good girl/bad girl conflict within a man’s mind is as old as man itself (or meatloaf, whatever came first). In the time of Adam and Eve, if Adam found out that the snake in the garden had a secret tattoo of an S&M scenario somewhere on it’s underbelly, he would’ve certainly made a move on it – Eve was such a goody two shoes (even though she had no shoes), how could he not wonder what evil lies beneath the serpent scales (“Gimme some sugar, baby” – name that one Serena). Let’s examine the snake’s modern day incarnation - Angelina Jolie, a filthy creature that has somehow managed to cleave a Hollywood power couple into media bloating shards of serpent shit. I am of course speaking of the whole Brad Pitt and Jennifer Anniston split that seems to have brought out the fangs of scandal and sunk them into the skull of even the most casual media whore. Jolie was never a favorite, she appears as if she’d be just as comfortable strung out on heroin in a ditch as she would flayed on a brothel bed with a college football team gathered ‘round and yet on occasion she cleans herself up and can appear fairly presentable (Courtney Love syndrome). It was rumored long before that the Pitt Bulls of Bradley were hungry for some Jolie jerky but the public at large dismissed the claims with the belief that Anniston was a “Good Girl” and ol’ Brad would never leave our “Friend” for the grimy, brother tonguing actress. Wrongo-Bongo!

So why would Bradley Blue Balls blow off the nice girl and pursue an obvious cutter and potential STD super conductor? She’s the bad girl! She’s the type of chick you know is a freak in her Underoos and very obviously a filthy feline (no matter how many foreign kittens she adopts) - she could show the Pitt things that Anniston wouldn’t even think happens in prison porn. So, why the evil attraction? Surely there was something kinetic between the two of them that would make Pitt abandon the Anniston for a side of Angelina, wouldn’t there have to be a reaction for the notoriously shy Pitt to bring more attention to himself? The thing is, even “regular” folks have the bite of the Valkyrie to contend with, though not on the cover of every bloody newsstand, gossip column or pre-teen backyard bonfire. No, we have to deal with it in private.

The wife is one of the sweetest little flower petals on the planted earth, so why am I oddly fascinated with the hellion who fills my mailbox with suggestive e-flirts and is always trying to get me drunk? She’s the very rust on the nail that makes the crucifixion all the more painful.

Regular readers will know exactly what I’m talking about, those of you who are new to this buffet will have to simply stand in line and wait for the rest of us to finish.

iPod played "The Slackers - Married Girl" while posting

New Orleans Sinking & I Don't Wanna Swim (in nothing but Tequila)

I swore I’d never use this ramble roach to air out my lungs but this morning I came in to yet another midnight rambling e-mail from the notorious SAGA:

“After reviewing information from CNN on the Hurricane (Katrina) I needed a pick-me-up! I am not sure how a person mentally survives coming home to a "non-home”. As a single person that is one thing but, as a family man I really do not know. The conclusion that I have come to? I need to know what I would do in the event of an emergency....and along that train of thought I have realized that I do NOT have enough Tequila in the house if something truly mangling happens.
When the BAD happens, Tequila...Tequila really good!”

My cousin Vicki and her three infant cannibals live(d) in New Orleans, she got out after waiting in 12 hours of traffic or something like that – I visualize something out of Stephen King’s “The Stand” – an entire metropolis trying to flee by any available artery. Vic made it to Houston Texas, only possessions being two days of clothes, the kids, the car and one hysterical cousin (no word on how much Tequila she has on board). I’m not making light of what has happened, in fact I’m thinking that all the old plantation architecture, haunted graveyards and tangible history of places like the French Quarter and Bourbon Street may have potentially been wiped out forever – it’s eternally heartbreaking (human toll aside) to perceive the modern day Atlantis. The large hairy bastard known as KITE is actually a spectacular photographer (that's one of his pics right there - he’s a cheery ol' bloke who likes to be called by his demon name – Je_ _ery – HAHA! Aye kill ewe!), his favorite subject – graveyard statues (and probably kittens frolicking in freshly cut grass – softy). Just a few months back we spoke of how astonishing a trip to New Orleans would be from a spectral photography perspective. I would’ve gone for the free flashing breasts and beads - the ghostly grasp and voodoo vernacular would be a bountiful bonus. Now all that is in question, it saddens me when history becomes just that.

Officials are saying 80% of the city is underwater and that New Orleans may never be rebuilt, with how some of those people are acting down there, one wonders if it should be. Rampant looting, martial law and armed gangs taking over the downtown core - it makes you sad to be a human being. When the bodies of your friends are floating down the street you can’t deny that Mother Nature is a sexy bitch with a temper but it’s distressing to think of how many are taking advantage of what’s going on. Surely they should all find a high spot to sit, crack open a case of Tequila and meditate on how very much rots beneath that water.

Do you think that the Tragically Hip will stop performing "New Orleans is Sinking"?

Photo used with permission, courtesy of The NoFunClub
iPod played "Tragically Hip - New Orleans is Sinking" while posting

Dairy Queens - The Ghost of Conquest Past

The other day “Mehr Arsch Bitte” (or “more arse please” as he’s rightfully known) and I were dragging our wounded backsides home from another seemingly eternal day of employment when our travels were injected with a little pin prick to the pubic purse. We were on our way into Dairy Queen to purchase our respective wives an ice cream treat for putting up with our inflated work schedule and/or generally dealing with our absence (ass-scent). Two luxurious ladies were making their way out of the store - I held the outside door for them (chivalrous cannibal that I am, wearing a really gay Orange shirt) and Arsch proceeded to hold open the inside door for the approaching dairy queens. The two lithe little things looked at Arsch, the blonde in front said “Hiiiiiy!” and a small amount of tiny talk exchanged hands like quick currency while I stood stupidly by with the outer door in my paws. Arsch’s face went suddenly flush and then pale as my ass end in winter – his eyes had met those of the brunette behind the babbling blonde. Arsch was “having a moment”. He had a visitation of the vaginal kind.

I’m a pretty observant little kitten as a rule but I’m also exceedingly good at meowing the wrong thing at the wrong time, so I blurted out the obligatory “no worries, I’ll just stand here and hold the door all day – guffaw, guffaw”. Blondie looked me over like one would a roadside porcupine (“Get that prick away from me!”). The two passed by my foot in mouth and the dutifully held front entrance. For once, my motor mouth falling out of gear managed to actually avoid a confrontation rather than provoke one. I had driven them away with a lash of my mighty tongue! Arsch stood with the inside door still in hand – I started to laugh at him – “Who was THAT?” I prodded. He had just seen a ghost of conquest past – it is fun to share this moment with a friend – not only does it give you gracious insight, affords you one more inside joke to roast the bugger with when the coals are cold but it also yields beloved blog material.

The story goes that when Arsch was new to this calloused city he fancied himself a bit of a man-whore. Blondie was a buddy’s babe and the brunette was a peripheral friend thrown into the mix – enter Arsch and a few blasts of Jägermeister and you’ve got the perfect ingredient for a backseat bra assault. All was not well with Arsch’s panty party however, the Brunette and the boy did exchange fluids but a few days later he met his future wife, shunning the battered Brunette before seatbelt outline had faded from her fine behind. She felt betrayed that she was a backburner babe but it’s not like he went from gal to gal, he settled on the Wife of Arsch just a short time later. Surely she could’ve forgiven him for that? Did she have a right to feel chapped, 4 years off the burner?

We made our way to the front counter, he was pretty shaken up and my sides hurt from berating him with taunts and hassle tassels. We bought the frozen treats for the wives and headed for home safe in the knowledge that the Brunette probably thinks we were dairy queens based on my super queer choice of dress shirt.

iPod played "REM - Orange Crush" while posting

e-Flirts & This Donkeys' Swollen Sphincter Spectacular

I’m a good boy; I make trouble only on occasion and usually unprovoked. As mentioned previously though, I’ve been re-assigned during some work related disruptions so I’m not currently nestled in my comfort zone of corporate chaos. No, they’ve placed me on another floor, in spitting distance of a monkey man and his diaper dame (though not for long), trying to keep the wounded world afloat by plugging one asshole at a time. As is the case with most new environments there’s a period of growth and unease – a little uncertainty as to your role, your place, and your face – so when I came into contact with a girl I knew over 8 years ago - I was a little relieved. We didn’t have shorthand anymore but she was a friendly face that I could count on for some comfort if things went south. We were passing e-mails back and forth and everything seemed to be going quite well, I had a new person to berate with my nonsense, she had a new person to kill softly with second hand smoke and then it all fell off the rails.

E-flirts have always been a fairly innocent way to enhance ones relationship with someone without the awkward baby steps of a face to face meeting. You can casually throw volleys of small talk about the place, pepper them with Cannibal Brand Humor and before you know it you’ve made another well seasoned friend. From time to time this recipe backfires though and you’re left with either a Dejected Dame or a Misled Madame – one wonders which is worse. There are a few of the ladies down here that for whatever reason see me as cheap Outlook entertainment, it’s nice to be e-popular but some of the e-mails started to e-dangle the carrot a little too close to the e-hole – it was time to work The Wife into the conversation.

Monogamous guys often have a hard time dropping the W into a conversation, if misconstrued the W can be like dynamite in a donkey’s rectum – all you’re left with is a blown asshole. She could tell you that “you must be joking, I would never be interested in you” or “that’s being a little presumptuous isn’t it?” Your cover is blown, she knows that you think she wants you… and she doesn’t… now where’s that dynamite?

“Wanna join me outside for a cigarette?”

“I dunno, I’ll call the wife and ask if it’s OK.”

That’ll never work (this is the SAGA approach - nice job, freak!). After a few days of casual e-flirts, the gal I knew so very long ago finally drops the “Boyfriend” into a conversation, I can relax – our casual relationship continues and all is groovy. I tell her that it’s good to have her back in my life – things are working out! But then I get this sinking feeling… can’t place it… unsure if it’s gas or something I haven… she thinks I want HER! I stumble a little. Was it a trick? Ladies are sophisticates these days, they’re not the credulous creatures they were when we were fresh in the game, she knows the score and I have no idea where the scoreboard is whatsoever. I regain balance and search her eyes for that “oh, you poor man” look – it never appears. We carry on as normal now, safe in the knowledge that she’ll never know that I thought she wanted me.

iPod played "The Flaming Lips - Do You Realize??" while posting

A Cannibals Confession – Urban White Trash: The Wonder Woodie

I’m becoming that which I’ve always parodied, the pale skin on the back of my neck has a rosy red glow radiating from beneath its surface and though I don’t quite sit on the porch in my underpants (yet) – I’m becoming world weary white trash. After a night of pint pounding on my day off, I awoke at my pals place (SAGA - did you steal my boxers?). He was still passed out on the couch downstairs, so I logged onto his computer to entertain myself until he arose to fetch breakfast for me – I’m his meat eating mentor - he’s my people eating protégé – I awaited for him to serve me a Danish or some leftover Chinese… also preferably female. Breakfast never appeared, so on the web I went, I considered saying “hi” to you folks, but words were weak at the time… grunting was communication of choice (further proof of my affliction).

I was looking at used El Camino’s for sale in the local area… a back yard accessory for our new home, I must be stopped. I don’t know the first thing about restoring an old vehicle – but I’d like nothing more than to prop an old Galaxy 500 up on cinder blocks, pull lint from my belly button, drink beer and babble on about the lovely ladies of lore – maybe have some rockabilly in the background for good measure. I briefly consider taking my cannibal cranium to the emergency room to have this trashy tumor removed, have my neck dyed whiter or perchance have my seed wiped from the earth all together.

When KITE from the No Fun Club commented on the monkey man post a few days back he mentioned that the primate in question should endure a “liquid plumb’r enema” – “double if he owns a Camero”. I had better not mention that I looked at one of those as well. I guess I won’t be asking for his help, nor will I allow him to writhe around on the hood like Tawny Kitaen from the Whitesnake videos. Go fly a Kite!

The El Camino isn’t my dream car either, it’s just tacky enough to get a laugh, get some attention and yet kitschy enough to drive your dog to the park in and not have her leap to her death for fear of public ridicule by the other puppies (as an added bonus - I like to embarrass the wife, gives me the giggles). I want a Woodie. No, I’m not in need fist loads of Viagra just yet, I want an old school vintage 1940’s Ford Woodie Wagon – the stereotypical surfboard optional – but ultimately required in time to make winter driving all the more humorous for all involved. I’ve also been afflicted with an undying love of Tiki culture, the combination of the two will likely ensure my spot in the cheese-please hall of fame, so I’ll see you all there (I’ll have a Kapu-Kai waiting for you). If my dream ever rolls over white, maybe I’ll paint a nice phallic Tiki on the hood with “Got Wood?” written beneath it. That’ll bring down the property value.

Is it my retro-sensibilities shining through? Is it my insatiable need to draw attention to myself? Perhaps I've eaten some bad meat. Should I just sell the new house, embrace the inevitable, don a greasy white tank top and move to the trailer park court claiming my rightful place upon its porcelain throne? For all I know the vehicle would just sit in the yard rusting away like a poor wooden orphan – left to the northern elements, pining for the bikini clad beach babe who sat in the passenger seat but thirty some odd years ago. If cars could commit suicide, this one would surely be a candidate - my Woebegone Woodie. Maybe I should just purchase a hot tub instead, that way when the neighbors look into our backyard, they wouldn't see an abandoned vehicle, they’ll get an eye full of my pale white arse streaking across the lawn, maybe I should petition them to see what would be worse.

iPod played "Southern Culture on the Skids - Doublewide" while posting