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.