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

Good Mourning - Six Feet Under Embalmed

I have an increasingly addictive personality but for whatever reason television shows never really lured me in like they do most people (can you believe that some folks out there have never missed a new episode of the Simpsons! That’s 400 episodes of yellow skinned mayhem! Ay Caramba!). I had the hook in my mouth, sure, but I was never utterly obsessed with a program to the extent that I could never miss an episode, I wouldn’t go into withdraw if I missed That 70’s Show (but it was close a time or two). Not to say that I didn’t try to get pulled from the pond, I tried to watch every episode of the A-Team when I was a wee boy, but sooner or later life gets in the way and you’ve broken the habit before you know it, either that or the material breaks down on you - betraying your fat arse buoyed on the couch. Alan (American Beauty) Balls’ “Six Feet Under” was a different story however, five seasons of morose love and late last night was the final episode – the final nail in the coffin if you will.

If you’ve never seen an episode, Six Feet Under is an HBO production that some consider to be the zenith of dramatic television, still others believe it’s a pretentious and ponderous soap opera – and yet some think of it as “that homo show – let’s watch some wrestling”. Admittedly I was in the latter camp (minus the wrestling – way too gay for me) until my parents tipped us off. They gave me the first season on DVD for Christmas a few years back (the buggers had bought, watched them all, had the box re-sealed, wrapped it up and placed it beneath the tree – I come from good stock). They told me that it was “right up my alley”. Well, I thought, for some reason mom and dad think I swing both ways – and what I do with my “alley” has nothing to do with what goes on in that show. My dear ol’ dad, the slut that he is, told me that it was really good and that I should give it a chance – “it has blood in it” was his pitch to me. Can’t deny gore I thought, and if my dad could handle the man-handling - my holiday season was going to be bloody gay. The show follows the eternally damned Fisher family through their daily lives in a funeral home and features heaps of gallows humor, patriarchal autopsy advice from beyond the grave, ghost visitations, intricate death scenes and a lime green hearse driven by a redhead – what’s not to love! Thankfully the show also has stellar performances, wry and witty writing, accomplished directing and an eccentric story arc that has castrated conventional television.

How does one end a show about death? The same way it began I suppose. A few weeks back a central character died, out of the black & blue, sure they hinted at it for years but just like that – the character was gone – the wife and I felt broadsided by the Ball bus (inset homosexual joke here) we were so upset. The season had but three full episodes left when it happened, how the… then it struck me like a salmon steak to the scrotum (ok, enough with the jokes). The creators were forcing their audience to grieve for the character along with his fictional entourage – but not only that, the death puts in motion that which will set the other characters free. It had truly come full circle, I was in awe - but what I didn’t expect was that at the very end; visions of all the characters in various stages of their lives were shown in their dying moments – every single one of them. You might think that I’m giving away too much, but really, who isn’t going to die one day? It was a bitter sweet ending, you fill in the gaps yourself. You're given happiness hints along the way and all but one dies at peace.

When you look back at the complete series, it makes sense to end it – "everything ends", indeed it does and I can’t believe that after all this time, I still cover my eyes when two guys kiss.

iPod played "Lemonheads - Big Gay Heart" while posting

Mongo-Man & the Panty Puddle Performance Report

He’s a Mongoloid Mono-Browed Mutant; you know the type - the self appointed alpha male, the one who hangs his pungent leather jacket on the back of your office chair, struts about the place like the penile prince and does nothing but MSN his harem of harlots (hairy or otherwise) all damn day. He would like you to think that he works wonderfully hard (aw, man muffin), but the jig is up you greasy bitch, I’m onto you. Those snazzy new sneakers can’t outrun the piss poor performance proof I’ve collected on you and that giggling little girl at your side. Somehow you’ve got her trained to believe that you’re something more than a feces flicking monkey on a motorbike (dude, she’s 18 and you’re 35 – where do you see this going?! Cranberry carrying tank tops does not a woman make). As far as I know, the eternally stubbled look went the way of the Do-Do’s doo-doo quite some time ago (George Michael knows this, why not you?), but who am I to judge? I’m not here to comment on your attire, your jockstrap jaunts from office to office (armpits ablaze with man-stink) no I’m here to performance manage you and your party of pitiable primates. Despite what’s going on here at work, I’ve been brought into your group today to weed out the wieners and what I send down the chute will factor greatly in your future here. It’s no secret why I’ve been put so close to you; I own the keyboard that’ll abbreviate your career.

I am joined by a pal and co-worker who sadly has no internet handle, so I’ll call him Mehr Arsch Bitte (roughly translated as: More Arse Please). We observe with amazement the mating display of Hairy Plotter and the Nonsensical Teenager (plagiarize THAT Rowling – hack!) As I write this, he’s pulling a mopey act of having just been dumped by some tawdry tart and the teeny bopping titter twit is lapping it all up like man milk from a pristine saucer. A 35 year old staffer, getting “valued” love life advice from a chicklette who’s half his age and looks like she somehow stumbled out of junior high and into a cash career - whoopsie. He’s actually showing her photographs of his motorcycle… what’s this? Direct quote – “How did that picture get in there?” A shirtless snapshot of him kissing his bicep * falls * out of his wallet. Arsch nearly falls to the floor himself, with laughter, he’s becoming a puddle – Mongo Man is getting wise to our presence. What fresh hell is this? She’s buying it! This is truly Gorillas in the Mist, he’s got her under his sweaty spell and all 6570 some odd days that she’s been alive are turning to panty putty right in front of us. The conversation turns to children, how appropriate I think, he actually wants to name his first born spawn “Titanium”.

It dawns on me that I have this monkeys’ future on my C drive - hesitation - or is it fatigue? The Jane Goodall part of my pea sized brain tells me to spare the beast, the anarchist wants me to send the dirt to bury him in and the voyeur wonders why I’d ever want to truncate such an entertaining display. What should I do with this monkey man and his bubbly tag along? Arsch urges me to send the rat report, but I will await the response from total strangers… see what you folks would do.

Yes I am dutifully aware that I wrote this on the company dime, but I’m not the one under the miscroscope, focus people, FOCUS!

iPod played "Headstones - Tweeter & the Monkey Man" while posting

I'm So Ronery - The Lion, The Witch & Aw Fawk Bein' Cleaver

I have abandonment issues - stemming from adoption I suspect. The loving wife has left my sorry arse to head to the other side of the country for a week. My pal SAGA is in the same deserted vaginal vessel, in fact our divine dames are both in the same bloody province… but his left him for a month (!) – Imagine the tissue he’s going through – like the old add says “softens the blow”. Due to a “situation” at work, SAGA and I are both working 12 hour days, 6 days a week – this is week four (weak for? Because I work too bloody much). The prolific blogmaster – blogmeister – blogsterbater (?) of the No Fun Club is also high atop the city streets in our cement tomb, surrounded by the picketing undead, a shut in like the rest of us corporate colostomy bags, but he uses his blog space to document his feelings of imprisonment. Me, I have abandonment issues and I’ve filled my bag. NURSE!

So I come home to an empty house. Quiet. I can actually hear the bubbles in my beer. For some reason I feel the need to reach out and call a friendly friend, is it to reaffirm contact with a person outside of myself (why not, eh?) or is it to break the stone silence? Whatever the reason, I don’t do it. There’s porn in my mailbox (shock!), thanks Meatloaf. He sends me the worst stuff imaginable – the Japanese better watch out, the Russians are coming! The Russians are coming for their Carnal Crown of Crazy Kinks – I met a Russian girl at work today, I wonder how I’ll work my knowledge of kinky Ruskies into a konversation. Two of our friends have returned from a houseboat trip through the Okanogan Valley, they wore Speedos – I’m uncomfortable, back to the sperm-mail. Geez, did you know that when John Wayne died his bowels weighed well over 50 pounds due to a collection of sludge therein? Man, it’s enough to make you want to stop eating people.

Hey, that’s cool, my mom hooked up with one of her bridesmaids from 30 some odd years ago (I try to forget what I know about bridesmaids and continue reading). I’m impressed, usually after a few years I tire of people so mercilessly that I cut them loose like an albatross (reference #2 in one week – analyze and discuss) in what some might consider a cruel and callous manner. Let’s face it, people suck and not in a good way – spittle spatters (or matters?). A girl at work thinks that I have a twin in Vegas meaning that she slept with a guy who looks like me (she’s telling me that I’m cute, I consider buying her some new contact lenses). I tell her that I didn’t know that dad had ever been to Vegas. I call my dad a slut (now I'll find out if pops really reads this). What I won’t do for a laugh... on both counts.

I hate that my last post was so forced. Bettie Page rocks, deserves better and yet it was my most wearisome entry to date, tribute gone wrong – I should ask that Russian at work to tell me what REALLY goes on over there. If the wife was here she’d tell me that the Bettie post was good and I’d feel like I didn’t waste my time. But she’s not here – I realize once more what piece she brings to the neurotic nincompoop that tippity taps before you. Fatigue and flatulence – War & Peace. I should really get some sleep or perhaps I should watch Sin City again, either way I'll do it alone.

Yes I know that I spelled "Clever" wrong in the title, I was being cleaver.

iPod play "Southern Culture on the Skids - Drunk & Lonesome Again" while posting

Channeling Bettie Page - Bondage is a Girls Best Friend

Pin-Up Queen and immortal American icon Bettie Mae Page (April 22, 1923 - ) supported herself as a secretary and school teacher before turning to modeling in 1950, sewed most her own burlesque/photo shoot garments and was the embodiment of the southern fried sexpot. Bettie was the cover girl for numerous magazines that same year but at the same time she posed for private mail-order photo shoots with a mild sado-masochistic flavor that inadvertently made her the first famous bondage babe. Her celebrated work with photographer Bunny Yeager (the Jungle Jane & Cheetah series) four years later, brought her to the attention of perpetual playboy Hugh Hefner and was christened “Playmate of the Month” for January 1955. Her irrepressible siren power over men was infinite, Hefner was obsessed with her, billionaire eccentric Howard Hughes beseeched her to meet him – but she turned him down. Then in 1957-58, Page mysteriously removed herself from the pop cultural landscape, despite being photographed more than Marilyn Monroe, Page disappeared without a trace (later to be drawn as a religious fanatic, trailer park princess and possible paranoid schizophrenic).

In 1978 spicy reprints of her fetish work began to resurface as did generational copies of her 8mm films. In the 80’s, comic book artist Dave Stevens’ of “The Rocketeer” fame had his hero’s love interest not only emulate the pin-up enchantress perfectly but she also shares her name – Betty Page (Jennifer Connelly played her in the movie version – and her name was changed to Jenny - Disney, trying to avoid the association). Immortalized by accomplished artists (Olivia Berardinis), enthralled photographers, imitated by countless starlets seeking an image and lovingly impersonated by genuine revivalist models like Bernie Dexter (shown here) - Bettie amassed a cult following of rabid fans the world over. She was the girl next door with a filthy little secret.

40 years after she dropped off of the radar, Bettie was found alive and startlingly unaware of the impact her body of work had made. Her influence was widespread and ultimately universal but Page didn’t have a clue (or a dime for that matter). The Page brand was worth millions but she had none of it, nor would she allow herself to be photographed to preserve the enduring image her fan base holds so passionately (some can be found - just not here). Fortunately she’s reportedly living quite comfortably in California, off of image licensing rights from a half century ago.

After many false starts a cinematic version of her life will reportedly play out in theaters in 2006 - "The Notorious Bettie Page" (at one point Liv Tyler was set to star - Now it's Gretchen Mol), so what is it about Page that makes her the quintessential pin-up queen? Is it the fact that she vanished at the peak of her of her popularity or is it her staggering body of work that remains highly visible to this day? Or did she simply become just another exploitable commodity since she was gone for so long? Even if you don't know her face, you know her influence...

Hot Grandma Love

iPod played "Royal Crown Review - Port-Au-Prince (Travels With Bettie Page)" while posting

Peanut Butter & Banana Flavored Heart Attack

In honor of this, the anniversary of Elvis Presley’s portly death August 16 1977, we here at the Urban Cannibal are publishing the rotund recipe for the King’s famed Grilled Peanut Butter & Banana Sandwich. Please be advised that if you choose to partake of the artery hardening snack and die as a result; please consider allowing us to eat your yummy remains and please be safe, the King had his treat grilled in bacon fat instead of butter so don’t burn your house down (we don’t like our meat charred).

Elvis Presley's Grilled Peanut Butter & Banana Sandwich
2 slices of white bread
2 tablespoons of smooth peanut butter
1 small ripe banana mashed
2 tablespoons butter

Spread the peanut butter on one slice of bread and the mashed banana on the other. Press the slices gently together. Melt the butter (or to be truly Elvis-like, melt bacon fat!), over low heat in a small frying pan. Place the sandwich in the pan and fry until golden brown on both sides. Eat it with a glass of buttermilk.

Please note: Elvis tended to eat 12-15 sandwiches a sitting! So belly up!

Recipe duplicated from the Splendid Table

iPod play "Death in Vegas - Aisha" while posting

The Art of the Serial Killer: Mass Murderabilia

Jewish groups around the globe were offended that a recent lot of undated architectural sketches done by none other than Mr. Nasty Nazi himself, Adolph Hitler, were to be sold at a Montreal, Canada auction house late last month. It’s a documented fact Hitler was not only an accomplished and prolific artist creating between 2000-3000 works throughout his lifetime but he was also famously denied by Vienna’s Art School and told to pursue architecture (quite possibly what dropped his noodle over the edge of the bowl). Indeed his structural designs are very well rendered but ironically enough the man couldn’t draw a German Sheppard to save his life (which it thankfully didn’t – he took his own life in 1945). It must be understood that Hitler’s not the only maniac to have his artwork hanging on the walls of the weird.

If you’re feeling curious for killer accoutrements, take a stroll over to Low Brow Art World and feast upon a piss poor portrait of Charles Manson as depicted by John Wayne Gacy’s brush ($800.00 USD), marvel at an astoundingly hideous crayon/pen/fingerprint creation by Manson himself ($700.00 USD) or even procure a satanic scribble by Richard Ramirez. I guess you need to ask yourself, if you saw this painting of Michael Jackson at a yard sale would you buy it? What if you were told that it may have been painted by notorious serial killer Ted Bundy, would that sweeten the deal? As an investment it may make sense, but as far as art (or fart) is concerned, you could find better wall filler in a bathroom stall. Not known for their interest in others (beyond killing them), most serial killer artwork appears to be self portraiture (especially Gacy’s as Pogo the Clown) or self serving in some way shape or form which is probably why they do it.

Interest in serial killers is at a fever pitch (at one point you could purchase a Jeffery Dahmer action figure, autographed court transcripts, victim autopsy reports and even Death Row trading cards) in North America. The appetite for the macabre is one that is both fascinating and disquieting, not that I’m any better as a fan of fright flicks, but Freddy Krueger isn’t really making kiddie kabobs up there on screen. Signed 8x10’s, pen and ink drawings on toilet paper, killer confessions on compact disc - it’s all used to bolster the insatiable hunger some have for the other side of the bars – hell, even pregnant wife snuffing psychopath Scott Peterson is receiving countless marriage proposals (what's wrong with you death wish dames?).

Is it a fine line between expression and exploitation? Do some believe that this is art or is it simply all the more exceptional since killing hands held the brush?

iPod played "Death in Vegas - Aisha" while posting

We're Gonna Need a Bigger Casket

Matthew McGrory 1973-2005

Now this is some shitty news.

Seven and a half foot tall actor Matthew McGrory (“Karl” of Big Fish fame) is dead at the age of 32 (Tuesday, August 9 2005). Horror fans knew him best as Tiny Firefly from Rob Zombie’s "House of 1000 Corpses" and last months "The Devil’s Rejects", hard rock fans may have spotted him in Iron Maiden or Marilyn Manson videos. McGrory wore a staggering 29 ½ size shoe and held the record for having the worlds biggest feet not caused by Elephantiasis (once the ladies rejoin us after the obvious shoe size association, I’ll continue). Good? Alright, now to slap the ladies with yet another mental image somewhat associated with the last one, when he was born he weighed 15 pounds and was two feet tall. Ouch. What sucks about his passing at such a young age is that he was a man who not only endured almost certain ridicule but he was starting to make a name for himself outside of the carnival style media roles.

I’m a chronic collector of horror related nonsense, so the weekend before McGrory passed away I bought the Devil’s Rejects action figure version of him, unaware that a scant 48 hours later the man would be dead – he’s definitely one of my favorite figures of the year (even at 9" he towers over most of the collection). Though the role of Tiny did nothing to space him from the freak-show typecast (not by a long shot), the toy version of him goes a long way to showing how unique a character he really was. Those who knew the man all thought of him as an inimitable entity and not as a towering oddity, I guess its one thing to be typecast and yet another to know what side your bread is buttered – who’s using who in the zoo? As is the case with most deaths in the public eye, stock in the actor is on the rise – the plastic version of the man has not only doubled in value in some circles but it’s now selling faster than some of the others in the series. It’s sad that in death the man will become collectible where in life most could take him or leave him.

When the wife and I saw The Devil’s Rejects on opening weekend, what affected her most about the entire film was how McGrory's character, Tiny, exited the film – something about the way he portrayed the mysterious and mutilated man made you curiously concerned for his well-being (despite seeing him in the opening frames of the film dragging a corpse through the woods). I guess the same can be said of his life, the credits haven’t yet rolled for the rest of us but his exit has left us all feeling a little emptier.

iPod played "Allman Brothers - Midnight Rider" while posting

Self Portrait with Creature From The Black Lagoon

Brain is mush and just as dense. Time for a self serving picture post.

2 - 18"x24" panels - pastel/pencil/spray paint

iPod played "Necromantix - Demons Are A Girls' Best Friend" while posting

The Virtual Voodoo Experiment - UPDATE! FAILURE!

Ten years ago I had a poorly rendered voodoo doll tattooed on my right arm (nothing like the piece of work shown here - *beautiful), ignorant to the actual authentic nature of Voodoo itself, I adhered to the legendary black arts portion of the practice since I’m a horror hound at heart. We’re all familiar with the idea of sticking pins through an ever symbolic doll that would presumably bring harm to whom the doll was directly emulating or serve to enforce hexes placed thereupon. In truth, the act of piercing the voodoo doll’s “heart” is believed to actually attract love from the focus of the figure and not have the person drop dead as one might expect. The dolls were mostly used to implement the positive (binding two dolls can in theory keep a couple together) and only rarely used for ravenous revenge. The dark art stereotypes of the religion were introduced mostly through the horror media and stemmed from ancient fears related to a following that few understand. History lesson aside and to ultimately to serve my purpose here, let’s reaffirm the Horror & Hollywood revenge ethic of Voodoo if only for a moment, not out of disrespect for those that revere it, but to scold those who deserve a good old fashioned curse on their arse. Call it Virtual Voodoo if you will.

Now, I know she wouldn’t approve of this cannibal waving her wicked wounds out in front of my meaty minions, so I’ll do so as vague and anonymously as possible. Let’s say that you have a foxy female friend that's been married for half a year. Now take that friend and place her in front of you saying that her husband of 6 months drunkenly cheated on her before they were wed - in addition, 6 ½ months of infidelity proof is currently floating about inside the belly of the woman he deceived with. Now, tell me that the thought of evil voodoo deeds wouldn't be buzzing through your honey head. She's crushed, and I want him cursed.

It is my hope that if each and every reader of this site plugs a hex into the Meat Musings (comment) section; we may be able to accomplish something sinister and dearly deserving. It might take a dozen, perhaps less, but make ‘em good, let’s smite this disloyal dog back into the sin pits. Childish? Definitely, but I'm so furious that only something supernatural can exact the revenge she deserves - Create a Curse!

*"Halloween Leftovers" image used with permission courtesy of L.W. Perkins Art & Illustration

UPDATE - You’re not doing so hot there people, she’s considering forgiveness! You call yourselves bloggers? Roast that pig!

UPDATE - We've failed. Another blogsite somewhere must've put a virtual voodoo experiment in effect to counter ours because this one did nothing. She may still leave him, but our impact on this conclusion was minimal.

iPod played "Jimi Hendrix - Voodoo Child" while posting

Armadillo By Morning - A Thigh of Relief

SAGA SG and I were perched high atop the patio of the “Pleasant Pervert” (not actual name) having some late lunch when he had somehow convinced me to try the veggie wrap. This quite obviously contradicts the cannibal code in every single way, but I honestly thought that it may actually contain thin slices of vegetarians… I was sadly disappointed - again. I’ve eaten plenty of vegans in my time; now I know what makes them all taste so gamey. I couldn’t stomach the last half of my “food” so I sat back with my virgin-cocktail (made from the blood of real “virgins” – or so they say, they must have a farm somewhere) and it was then that I saw her.

The first wild redhead that we caught sight of was prowling through the patio furniture like a long-limbed she-wolf, she had apparently been there long before we arrived but like most flame haired vixens, her pale cotton skin camouflaged her against the bare white walls. She was a beautiful thing to witness, her feral nature barely contained by blistering blue eyes. Her hair appeared to catch flame in the warmth of the afternoon sun as she sought the air for the scent of frightened Scotsman (their prey of choice). Thankfully, SAGA and I were downwind from her so his kilt candy didn’t betray our prime position, we could watch her at length with little fear of being attacked. She was magnificent, but nothing could prepare us for what we were to witness next.

From the shadows came a second undomesticated redhead (SAGA saw her first but was immobile with fright), she was equally stunning and just as lithe – my mouth fell agape. We had heard rumblings of the occasional misfit sighting of two scarlet locked ladies within the same day, but never vying for the same territory and never with specimens like this. It only took a second for them to size each other up from opposite sides of the deck, it was an intense exchange. Being somewhat of a redhead connoisseur (or so I thought) I surmised that the two scarlets were preparing to perform a dominance dance or perchance engage in crimson combat right in front of us! When I was young I heard that those of red mane were like Siamese fighting fish, if two of them were indeed within close proximity, they’d attempt to kill and subsequently eat each other. Needless to say, we had to stick around to find out. We sat quietly in our corner and monitored the sexy beasts, hoping that if they did decide to pounce at each other that we may be privy to a free meal of freckled white thighs a la carte.

They arched their backs slightly and progressed towards each other, we couldn’t believe our luck - we quietly shuffled forward in our seats. The smaller of the two tried to act casual, fumbling with her cigarettes and tapping her four inch heel on the patio floor to perhaps signal a possible attack. The other tried to avert her attention elsewhere in an effort to either distract or deter - she wore her tattoos like warpaint. As they approached each other I turned to SG and said, “I have an Armadillo in my pants!”


The reds stopped dead in their tracks, looked to us just a few scant meters away and just like that, they were gone. I had blown it, spooked by the Armadillo trying to eat its way through my jeans or by the fact that I verbally disrupted their display – they darted off into oblivion, never to be seen again… leaving nothing but a horny Scot, a regretful cannibal and an unfed Armadillo.

iPod played "George Strait - Amarillo By Morning" while posting

Lust for Bust: Pint Pouring Barbie Girls & the Lager of the Lord

Thanks to SAGA SG for introducing me to the Miller Light sponsored guy game “Lust for Bust”, a male simulation system that effectively recreates the ancient art of checking out your friends’ hot sisters rack without getting caught. The virtual vixen (who resembles Alberta native Natasha Henstridge of “Species” fame) will casually pitch her gaze about the room, leaving her pixel poppers dutifully exposed to your eyes, which you direct by moving the mammary mouse (you can nonchalantly avert your attention upwards or elsewhere to avoid detection). Keep your concentration fixed on her chest long enough to fill the Ogle-Meter without getting caught or letting the time elapse and you “win”. If you get sloppy and she snags you stealing a glance at her tank top torpedoes, she somehow summons a gigantic sky born can of Milwaukee's Best Light to crush you. The game itself takes you just over a minute to complete and is mildly amusing at best, but one wonders what the ladies think of the interactive experience or more importantly, where can I meet a gal that can call upon free flowing beer from the heavens?

If you’re a female in any capacity, how you feel about the preceding game depends on how solid of soul you are, your comfort level within your own supple skin or how utterly media white washed you are. The babes and beer marketing machine has had its wheels on the road since 1901 but grew inordinately in the 1970’s – 80’s to outpace the “Joe Six-Pack” mindset that was running long before that. Consider for a moment that the “Bud Man” image was introduced in 1968 (source: BeerHistory.com), and yet when most think of the Budweiser Brand it’s hard to pry the impression of the bathing suit bursting “Bud Girl” from your head (or that of the trailer trash princess who let you fumble with her sweater cows as a result of said beverage). The images are indelibly linked and yet the “Bud Man” campaign doesn’t even make a ripple on the collective pop cultural pond anymore, if it ever did.

The Dark Pig and I went out for some pints last night at a new pub that had popped up on his pork rind radar (he ordered a bucket of slop and I had the Chef Special – I thought it was comprised of actual pieces of the chef, but I was mistaken). I’m all for embracing your gender stereotype but only if you’re aware that “with great power comes great responsibility” and only if it makes me laugh. The bar mistresses were all poured from the same attractive mould – chesty creatures with bronzed skin, tight as sin pants and water bottle boob shirts. Gender stereotypes aside, we were oddly embarrassed that the waitresses hadn’t only bought into the image being burrowed into their heads by taphouse temptations and the beer babe ethic, but they embraced it. It’s important to note that no matter how long I stared at our waitress’ breasts it didn’t actually produce a colossal can of ale to appear from the outer space, which would’ve been infinitely more interesting than playing with Barbie’s or being victim of blatant menu mislabeling.

iPod played "Sloppy Seconds - Why Don't Lesbians Love Me?" while posting

Blogging by Request: To Air is Human?

I got an e-mail from a “fan” (?) yesterday requesting that I look into her newly uncovered interest in balloons or more importantly her arousal by said rubber inflatables and aid with identifying the sub-culture therein. Inspired to some extent by way of my blog treatment of Furverts and Peddle Pumpers a few weeks back, she wondered if I could… ahem… expand upon the practice and give her my “unique take” (does that mean she thinks I have only one testicle and wants to take the other one away from me?). Maybe it was all a hoax, but far be it from this cannibal to not eat a plate that’s already been peeled, peppered and prepared.

Set aside for the moment that early balloons were made of dried animal bladders, there is a pocket of people who find the sight of an individual fondling, inflating or bursting latex spheres to be the zenith of fetishism. Dubbed “Looners”, for two obvious reasons, balloonists (or Inflatophiliacs) are a detachment of the more flamboyant leather/latex crowd but the balloons themselves are the focus of the fetish more than the person interacting with it (more or less). For some it’s the distinct smell, for others it’s the act of inflation itself and for “Poppers” it’s the bubble burst that puts the air into their proverbial white wall tire. What would a fetish community be without a little controversy? The Looners themselves have a sub-sect that is vehemently against “killing” the balloon by over-inflation or by sitting on it - but for some it’s the anticipation of the imminent pop (or the explosive release as the balloon itself metaphorically reaches its climax) that underlines the experience. Hard to believe that an alternative pod like this would have internal strife, but in a fetish community with so many degrees of balloonacy, nothing surprises me anymore.

In fairness, I was aware that Looners existed to some degree (I thought that maybe they were people who were stimulated by the moon at one point) before looking into them a little further, but I was ignorant as to how widespread or multifaceted they were. There are dozens of websites out there strictly related to the act of balloon interfacing itself and even more in preference specific channels where cross-genres are combined to spawn additional variations (amalgamate a cigarette smoking fixation with using the business end to pop the poor balloon – et voila!). Flexible enough to be manipulated into particular shapes, occasionally a phallus or breast resembling item, sometimes tactile enough to approximate human skin to some degree but always an object of ultimate affection even in it’s destruction - balloons are an unlikely target of anomalous affection. Indeed Looners are a special breed, said to have developed the attraction as children, I’m pretty sure we’ve all stuffed a balloon up our shirt and acted pregnant or full of gas at one point in life, it’s how you felt afterwards which delineates from what side of the Horny Hindenburg you’re coming from.

Message to “BaloonBabe” (no, I didn’t make that up and if your aim is to be a reborn fetishist, you may be required to be able to spell that which you’re obsessed with, just a guess :) - Fetishists don’t generally go door to door seeking new recruits so if your goal is to be drafted as a Looner, you are not alone, but you do have to seek them out. An interactive online community does exist; it’s called BalloonBuddies and it should help you determine how seriously you intend to pursue it all. Good Luck with your quest though, and as for your other request; if you really are a "babe", I just might consider eating you, we’ll celebrate with a nice Chianti and maybe a few balloons.

What kind of sauce goes with Buffet of Burgeoning Balloon Fetishist?

iPod played "Nena - 99 Red Balloons" while posting

An Open Letter To My Neglected Bass Guitar - Jaime Lee

Jaime Lee, I’m so sorry that I’ve let blog addiction get the better of me, I’ve kept you in the corner for far too long and everyone knows that “nobody puts baby in a corner”. I used to stroke your exquisite strings with my flying fingers and feel your polished black skin tucked in tightly by my side – that comfort-contoured figure always kept me coming back for more. The time I’ve spent massaging your fine frets was unlike anything else on earth when coupled with your throaty moans and royal rosewood fingerboard. At a stunningly beautiful 34” you’ll always be the love of my life (besides the wife) and I adore that I could turn you on whenever I wanted – you’d rarely complain, but after I warmed up you didn’t seem to mind, even when I was a little rough on your knobs. Your graphite reinforced maple neck and succulent polyurethane finish felt like silken skin in my palm and your chrome harmony hardware shone like a diamond in the light of the lava lamp. I know that I beat you around a little, but know that when I wrapped you around my shoulders, I truly felt like we could take over the world, one note at a time. You are precision personified, always responsive and flexible with a great set of pick ups. I’ll be back soon baby; I just need to get some things off of my chest, I’ll play with you very, very soon (but not tonight, I’m going out drinking and you know what that’s like).

Take Care of You,
The Boy.

iPod played "George Harrison - While My Guitar Gently Weeps" while posting

Human Flesh Flavored Tofu Eclipsed By Meaty Merchandising

The Tuck School of Business at Dartmouth, New Hampshire has a cannibal on campus, well not exactly. Mark Nuckols is the founder and CEO of Hufu, LLC - a company that not only invented, but sells a tofu type creation that simulates the complex texture and flavor of human flesh. According to the eathufu FAQ, the people free product was originally conceived “for students of anthropology hungry for the experience of cannibalism” and occurred to Nuckols while reading about the people eaters and nibbling away on a tofurkey sandwich. The scrumptious combination of human and tofu, Hufu “tastes like beef but a little softer and a little sweeter in taste” but admittedly the creator hasn’t ever truly sampled real human flesh as of publishing date, so his flavor combination is an obvious approximation. His chewy creation does, however, contain zero fat and 100 calories per one ounce serving of “classic strips” which resemble choice cuts from “upper arms, thighs and buttocks”.

At a recent market research session, one astoundingly observant taster noted that “I don’t like tofu and I don’t like human flesh, so I don’t think I’ll be buying this” but followed this statement with a disturbing revelation; “It definitely tastes like something I’ve had at a food court”. Think twice about that stir fry folks, take a pass at those popcorn shrimp and maybe opt out of placing that hot dog anywhere near your mouth until the authorities find that missing janitor.

Mr. Nuckols admits that the market for his cannibal directed food product is dreadfully limited, so he offers branded merchandise and human consumption literature/film to supplement his income. Alas, his true motives were not to serve the cannibal community at all but to vend t-shirts and aprons with his logo emblazoned thereupon. Now, I’m not a real cannibal (but I play one on blogspot.com) so I’m not offended by the fact that his product isn’t truly going to market with my demographic in mind, but I am insulted by the fact that a side dish of his self serving invention is that it could potentially rehabilitate cannibals from eating real people all together. With no true man-eating alternative in the world, we cannibals (virtually or otherwise) would all be forced to eat something called “tofurkey” (wow, there's a tofurky.com! - I feel ill) and attend business school, just to be "normal". At press tme I'm unsure what's worse.

Not to be outdone by another counterfeit cannibal, pictured above is our take on the elusive marketing to meat eaters trend. Dinner is served.

iPod played "Judas Priest - Eat Me Alive" while posting

Put Up Yer Dukes - There's Only One Daisy in this County, Darlin'

I was strangely (or sadly) optimistic upon learning that a big screen translation of hillbilly hellions, The Dukes of Hazzard, was to cousin kiss its way into theaters and back into trailer park hearts the world over. I’m in the vast minority of coherent persons who categorically loved most everything about Super Troopers and even Club Dread had moments of bastard brilliance in there somewhere, so when I learned that the director of said flicks (Jay Chandrasekhar) was set to helm the white trash revival, I broke out the moonshine martinis and cocktail weenies! YeeHAW! The redneck renegade in all of us would have a new shade of hick-stick to add to our color palette. The Good ol’ Boys, sneaky Uncle Jesse, backwoods bad ass Boss Hog and the prized piece de resistance; the Hemi-Orange ’69 Dodge Charger, - The General Lee. Now, who would squeeze into the trade mark Daisy Duke shorts like a second skin and adopt the Dixie dame persona of their namesake? Jessica Simpson!? The broad-cast “bimbo” who cleverly turned being a bubble headed blonde into a marketable commodity?

No doubt about it, Simpson is a fox, and the denim derrier she carries around with her ain’t so bad either, but what of the original gal from Hazzard County, Catherine Bach? Bach played Daisy from 1979-85 and my young prepubescent friends and I were utterly in love with her (I had a poster of her tacked up behind my bedroom door – with her lil’ white jeep). With her southern accent ablazin’, Bach was the cousin we all wanted to play perverted possum with, long before we knew how utterly creepy that is. There’s no way that you can convince me that on at least one hot Hazzard night after too much homebrew, Bo and Luke didn’t try to get frisky with their slinky cousin. It had to have happened, most likely in the back of the soggy seat General Lee. Daisy was the real reason why Enus, Roscoe P. Coltrane and Boss Hog were trying to run the boys out of town, they wanted her to themselves and Bach knew this. Bach played her as the ultimate girl next door (to the trailer park) and if it wasn’t for her character (and the vehicular mayhem) the show would’ve been emptier than a gun rack at New Years Eve.

Does songbird Simpson achieve this? I guess we’ll know when Hazzard hits theaters this weekend but in the meantime, catch a re-run of the Dukes on TV sometime and reaffirm why there’ll only ever be one true Daisy Duke. The slut shall rise again!

iPod played “Bob Denver - Thank God I'm A Country Boy” while posting

Verbal Vaccine Administered for Blog Addiction

When my portly pal, the Dark Pig, waddled across the barn yard and squealed his blogging intentions to me a few weeks back, I thought that perchance his bacon brain had been cured a little too long in the prairie sun. The swine had clearly lost his pork rind mind and though it smelled good; I had to question his motives. The thought of collecting mental moss from the rambling rocks of reflection and somehow sharing it with strangers seemed outlandish and sanctimonious. The Dark Pig’s initial intentions were to parody blogs and when I came on board it was to develop another outlet to trade laughs with him, so it was quite by accident that we’ve become strangely addicted to the weblog phenomenon.

To a layperson, a blog is simply a personal journal published on the web containing philosophical musings, reflective retort and a proverbial soapbox from which to spout ones accumulated observations. Truthfully, most of what’s on offer is self righteous garbage, which I’m obviously guilty of, but occasionally you come across a blog that’s as enlightening as any media outlet or attentive conversation for that matter.

When I logged in to the cannibal computer this morning the first stop I made was to the Dark Pig, to see if he had rolled away from the slop long enough to deal me up another dose of his muddy musings. The pig makes me laugh. I then proceeded to read what’s going on in the rest of the world, almost an afterthought. It saddens me that he has a traffic tracker on his blog site because he’ll truly understand how many times I stop by his pig pen seeking an update.

I decided to search the web for blog addiction services, what I found was, well, blogs about blog addiction and a few pages of “you know you’re a blog addict when…” – by which I’ve self diagnosed myself as a stage two addict with symptoms that include:

- I’m oddly offended when I get no comments on a post – I know people who read it but never drop me a line, bastards.
- I sometimes relate to things on the basis of if it’ll make an appealing entry or not.
- I have risen from a dead sleep to scribble down an idea which is usually scrapped in the morning.
- I often check the occasional blog before I even dress, eat or feed the fish in the morning.
- I have some blogs written in advance in case I’m stricken with writers block.

Clearly, I need help. Internet Addiction Services exist which I guess includes blogging, but internet addiction is identified as an individual who withdraws from society whereas blogging may in fact be an extension of society itself (to some extent). I guess it’s only a matter of time before someone figures out a way to exploit our affliction, so have fun while it lasts at the very least it keeps you away from porn for awhile.

iPod played "The Planet Smashers - Super Orgy Porno Party" while posting

Loch Ness Monster Usurped by Aberdeen Pub Crawler

Star Trek’s thickset chief engineer of the USS Starship Enterprise, Canadian born James Doohan, died Wednesday, July 20th at 85 years of age, but not surprisingly “Beam Me Up” jokes live on. What is a surprise, however, is that the science fictional figure of Lt. Commander Montgomery “Scotty” Scott has four sites in Scotland all hiking up their kilts to be officially recognized as the geek endorsed birthplace of the robust accented, oft imitated character. Linlithgow, Edinburgh, Aberdeen and Elgin have all recently declared themselves the characters spawning spot, who subsequently won’t even be “conceived” for another 200 + years, but with the Star Trek conglomerate alone being worth billions, a piece of that penny pie goes a long way (that’s a lot of Haggis, folks). Each Scottish locality believes that they have proof of Scotty’s indelible link to their individual county; Doohan himself stated that the character was from Elgin, in one episode Scotty referred to himself as an “Aberdeen Pub Crawler” whereas StarTrek.com and scifi.com list the other two as solid possibilities. Consider my phasers on “stun” but don’t these Scots have a little too much air in their bagpipes? Aside from tourism dollars, what kind of distinction can be held from being the real life birthplace of a fictional person (Edinburgh has Sherlock Holmes, what more do they want)?

Believe it or not, a piece of me can sympathize with their plight. When it was learned that infinitely popular Marvel comic creation “Wolverine” was born in Alberta, Canada – our home province - we were thrilled. Our illustrated medium of choice had a hero from the “great white north”, one that we could call our own. So I can understand why a peripheral character in one of the most successful science fiction series of all time would carry with it a certain distinction, but as far as I know there is no operation in existence that makes money off the fact that Wolfie was supposedly born here (that being said, Southern Alberta does contain a town named “Vulcan” – Established 1910, that contains a 9' tall concrete Enterprise and a space themed tourist station hosting events like “Spock Days” and “GalaxyFest” to lure in the loonies*).

According to the Scotsman news publication, the territories are taking this whole thing a tad seriously. A local Elgin councilor said that “I’ve visited Linlithgow, and Elgin is far more attractive” which is suspiciously close to “my mom is hotter than your mom”. Besides that, Edinburgh’s Lord Provost, Lesley Hinds bluntly stated that “all the best people come from Edinburgh”, surely a smack to the Sporran if there ever was one.

Like Star Trek creator Gene Roddenberry before him, Doohan’s ashes are to be launched into space and later burned up in orbit, no word on if any Doohan dust will fall onto any part of Scotland, but if any of it does, I’m sure they’ll make a big deal out of it.

Arrange your own Space Memorial at Space Services Inc.
If you can believe it.
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*Popular name for the Canadian one dollar coin with the impression of a loon on one side, first issued in 1987

iPod played "The Aquabats - Martian Girl" while posting