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