UrbanCannibal

Happy Barfday

2009-01-22T12:25:00.004-07:00

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”

2009-01-20T13:29:00.022-07:00

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

2009-01-15T09:25:00.009-07:00

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

2009-01-12T13:29:00.009-07:00

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

2009-01-09T07:25:00.001-07:00

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

2009-01-07T07:50:00.006-07:00

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

2009-01-06T10:24:00.006-07:00

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

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

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

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

Suburban Son

2008-12-12T19:16:00.004-07:00

Damn near a year since my last stop here.

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

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

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

I’m a dad.

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

Caustic Cannibal & the Woeful Women of Planet's Past

2007-02-19T16:18:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Suburban Signoff & A Return to Relevance

2006-11-16T13:10:00.000-07:00

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

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

I Guess My Work is Here is Done

2006-08-30T01:07:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

The Jason Agent

2006-07-29T10:26:00.000-06:00

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

He's Coming Out - The Rainbow Erection

2006-07-26T18:48:00.000-06:00

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

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

Best of luck, Pig.

iPod played "Lemonheads - Big Gay Heart" while posting

Tommy Brodribb on Windtower Mountain

2006-07-24T19:59:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goodnight little guy.

2006-07-22T15:40:00.000-06:00

iPod played "For Dollface" while posting

iPod played "For DarkPig" whole posting

iPod played "For JAG" while posting

iPod played "For Meg" while posting

iPod played "For Spankey" while posting

2006-06-23T17:56:00.000-06:00

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

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

2006-06-03T16:22:00.000-06:00

Reason #79 for why I need an editor

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

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

Foot & Mouth Disease?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Relationship question? What relationship question?

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

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

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

2006-05-30T19:15:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lessons Learned & Lesions Licked

2006-05-26T11:55:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

Not fit to shovel shit from one place to another?

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

…and why not?

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

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

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

Cuming this Weak? Text Sex Without the Emoticons

2006-05-15T00:25:00.000-06:00

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

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

Resume of Red - The Tale of the Red Headed Teller

2006-05-12T12:40:00.000-06:00

Red Week (Weak?) Continues!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2006-05-11T09:50:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

MISS YOU FOCKER XOXOXO”

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

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

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

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

2006-05-08T23:33:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

iPod played “Rick James – Superfreak” while posting

Digital Distraction - JAG Mondo Experimento

2006-05-04T22:50:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

Where is your office located?

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

I give up on this one :(

What happens when you drink too much?

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

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

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

What's your latest blog obsession?

The Rolling Stones – 19th Nervous Breakdown (!)

How do you feel about your separation?

Dr. Hook – Looking for Pussy (HAHAHA!)

Name a topical song?

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

Give me the obligatory cleavage quote:

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

Fantasy Song #1:

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

Fantasy Song #2:

Chris De Burgh – Patricia the Stripper (!)

Describe your sex life:

Penetration – Don’t Dictate (!)

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

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

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

The Promotional Penis - You Taste Like Our Good Taste ™

2006-05-04T08:24:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

Knee Deep in the Lady Lakes Once More

2006-05-02T20:17:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

2006-04-28T08:25:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

urbancannibal@yahoo.ca

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

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

2006-03-05T15:01:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Urban Update - Suburban Swine Flu Cripples Cannibal

2006-02-24T08:40:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mind If I Sit This One Out?

2006-02-16T23:04:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

The Company Ink, Smurfhouse Dink & What The ChickenHeads Think

2006-02-06T18:30:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Growing Older but Not Up

2006-01-25T10:01:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2006-01-17T22:00:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2006-01-09T20:02:00.000-07:00

One night in Suburbia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2006-01-06T10:00:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

UPDATE:

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

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

Doth? Verdict? Please discuss and excuse any spelling errors

iPod played "Neil Young - Helpless" while posting

Effeminate Vodka Drinks & the Mental Millennium Falcon

2006-01-03T18:55:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks Neil

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

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

And To All A Good Night

2005-12-24T17:53:00.000-07:00

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

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

2005-12-06T18:55:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2005-11-16T07:46:00.000-07:00

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

2005-11-07T16:45:00.000-07:00

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

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

“Christmas has come early.

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

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

I heard Christmas music.

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

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

We were not.

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

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

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

iPod played "Dame Edna - Jingle Bells" while posting

Killing Halloween – Post Pumpkin Observations

2005-11-03T11:00:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ho Ho Ho... indeed.

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

Halloween Honeys: Paradise by the Pumpkin Light

2005-10-27T09:07:00.000-06:00

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

2005-10-20T08:46:00.000-06:00

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

2005-10-17T16:20:00.000-06:00

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

2005-10-15T14:24:00.000-06:00

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

2005-10-13T08:10:00.000-06:00

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

2005-10-11T16:01:00.000-06:00

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

2005-10-06T12:07:00.000-06:00

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

2005-10-04T17:30:00.000-06:00

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

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

Alternate opening:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2005-09-29T16:09:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

Will Smith was right. Who knew?

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

Back to the Future & the Beer Born Ballet Hippo

2005-09-26T21:32:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

---

Part II

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

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

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

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

iPod played "Bowling for Soup - 1985" while posting

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

2005-09-23T23:24:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

iPod played "Oingo Boingo - Weird Science" while posting

Kicked in the Taco & a Side of Sour Cream Dreams

2005-09-20T12:31:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Creamy Phallus & The Porcelain Pinch

2005-09-13T18:05:00.000-06:00

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

Let me explain.

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

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

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

iPod played "Headstones - Cubically Contained" while posting

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

2005-09-11T17:39:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

Suburban Cannibal?

2005-09-08T10:01:00.000-06:00

Suburbia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2005-09-05T16:24:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

iPod played "The Slackers - Married Girl" while posting

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

2005-09-03T13:49:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dairy Queens - The Ghost of Conquest Past

2005-08-30T19:50:00.000-06:00

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

2005-08-26T00:00:00.000-06:00

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

2005-08-24T00:04:00.000-06:00

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

2005-08-22T19:19:00.000-06:00

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

2005-08-19T12:27:00.000-06:00

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

2005-08-17T21:29:00.000-06:00

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

2005-08-16T16:30:00.000-06:00

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

2005-08-16T11:22:00.000-06:00

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

2005-08-13T15:00:00.000-06:00

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

2005-08-12T14:19:00.000-06:00

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

2005-08-11T10:53:00.000-06:00

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!

2005-08-10T17:46:00.000-06:00

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

2005-08-09T14:55:00.000-06:00

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

2005-08-08T15:40:00.000-06:00

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?

2005-08-07T12:50:00.000-06:00

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

2005-08-06T17:01:00.000-06:00

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

2005-08-05T07:30:00.000-06:00

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'

2005-08-03T12:40:00.000-06:00

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

2005-08-03T10:54:00.000-06:00

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

2005-08-02T18:05:00.000-06:00

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.
Check out their Service Options, pricing and order forms here.

*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

Hollywood! Mining Fright Flicks for Fun, Profit & Soggy White Tops

2005-07-28T23:55:00.000-06:00

Hollywood overtly recycling storylines and reworking them to fit a new money mould is about as old as the film industry itself. The fact of the matter is that the Golden Age of Hollywood was just as painfully proficient at “re-imagining” as the modern incarnation; it’s just that the new conglomerate has a broader scope of medium from which to cull its ideas, so it seems worse. It’s not hard to see why or how they do it, movie moguls raid the studio archives for a property they already own, spend inordinate amounts of cash to determine its financial fit with today’s market and then green light the project anyway. I mean, Alfred Hitchcock remade movies, quite frequently in fact, so why not blow the dust off of “Bewitched”? Remakes are killing cinema as much as the incessant need to release misguided movies based on second rate television shows.

I’m a hardnosed horror movie meatball, so modern remakes of the horror persuasion are aimed squarely in my direction (or that of my wallet) and at teeny boppers ignorant of the originals. Horror fans will appear en masse to support their genre, mostly on opening weekend and then in retail stores once available on DVD. We incessantly complain when classics from the creepy cannon are polished up and pimped back to us, but we see them anyway and love to be proved wrong. When not busy snatching up foreign features to remake (Ringu, Ju-on, Dark Water and future release of The Eye), the studio system is currently fixed on the films most of us grew up with. You may have noticed the recent rash of fright flicks hitting theaters after having been revised and refreshed over the past few years – The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Dawn of the Dead, The Amityville Horror, House of Wax and the upcoming retreads of The Fog, The Omen and there’s even talk of an Evil Dead and Creature from the Black Lagoon“update”. Chris Vognar of the Dallas Morning News recently noted that;

“American studios, like most successful companies, take notice of anything that brings in profit. Today's horror movies may not be the smartest knives in the drawer, and they usually don't please the critics. But as long as blood red and money green keep mixing, you can expect the scary fare to keep flowing.”

Sadly, horror movies have always been an easy way to pad studio coffers, Paramount Pictures basically released one Friday the 13th film a year from 1980-89 and used the films to fund more mainstream projects. It was wholeheartedly obvious that the studio didn’t care for the movies (not to say that the production staff didn’t) and when the profits began to decrease domestically, the property was disowned and subsequently sold to New Line Cinema. Paramount quietly made a profit from the series though it truly didn’t give a rabbits red rectum about it. It was like a church group selling pornography to raise funds for a new steeple, they didn’t really believe in what they were selling but they knew we’d buy it so they made with the filthy.

Paramount Pictures aren’t the only pee-pee holes in the pie crust though, with remakes coming off the assembly line like prostitutes and trailer parks, the studios are once more going to over saturate the horror market and either drive it back to the independents (where it may rightly belong) or beat it down for another decade. High profile motion pictures that should pleasantly profit are tanking theatrically and opening weakly, meaning that even horror fans are beginning to tire of the constant genre abuse at the hands of the studios.

Horror will always come back from the dead and hopefully the next cyclical resurrection of the genre will be less about rehashing old features and more about keeping the genre fresh, freaky and full of flesh - if not to keep fresh fleshed young hotties in soggy white tops.

iPod played "Oingo Boingo - Dead Man's Party" while posting

Premier Ralph Klein's Evil Agenda Exposed by Uncharacteristic Insight from Office Worker

2005-07-28T15:30:00.000-06:00

My “Work-Steve” (I know so many Steve’s that I have to separate them by general association to avoid confusion) was leafing through the local newspaper at his desk this past Wednesday when he suddenly paused with a laugh. “What’s up?” I inquired. He replied by holding up the paper and snickered:

“Doesn’t Ralph look a little like “the Penguin” from Batman Returns?”

I immediately saw the connection.

Known to some as “King Ralph” (not to be confused with the John Goodman “comedy” of the same name- though perhaps equally devoid of worth), Ralph Phillip Klein, in human form, was the colorful mayor of Calgary, Alberta Canada from 1980-89, became Premier of the province in 1992 and continues his reign of terror to this day. Born in 1942, the portly politician, admitted alcoholic and eternally quotable super villain has a flair for all things that Batman would surely object to. After a few too many wobbly pops one night, the “King” verbally abused homeless people at an Edmonton shelter, offering to buy some of them bus tickets to British Columbia to essentially run them out of the province. Other hilarious but inappropriate outbursts include the Mad Cow suggestion that ranchers should’ve “shot, shovelled and shut up” to side step the entire BSE scenario and the infinitely amusing “Edmonton (Alberta’s capital city) isn't really the end of the world -- although you can see it from there".

Appearing for the first time in Detective Comics #58, 1941 (Klein was born one year later, perchance conceived as a result of the publication), the Penguin’s physical similarities with Klein are less obvious as an illustration, but other highlights do exist. In print, the Penguin is a criminal mastermind who operates beyond the reach of the law, dabbles in many illegal endeavors and is a heartless power-broker/outlaw – the living embodiment of political corruption. In the 1992 Tim Burton release of the film Batman Returns, well-to-do parents place a deformed baby boy in a rickety basinet and set him adrift upon a river that carries the tiny craft into the snowy sewers of Gotham City, that boy is Oswald Cobblepot - The Penguin. The infant is raised there by homeless penguins living beneath the city streets. After a time, the freakish being plots to black mail a local politician and eventually runs for mayor himself - winning over misguided citizens with the aid of crooked Carnies and an army of tricked out penguin commandos laying siege to the city.

It’s worth noting that at no time during the film’s running time could The Penguin be heard telling his sewer dwelling brethren to “take a bus to Metropolis” nor could I find any instance of Klein recruiting militant moo-cows to leverage political power. The fact remains that our Premier not only has a more than a passing resemblance to Danny DeVito’s turn as the Penguin in the Bat-film, but the bat himself should probably kick Klein's ass before he orders his army of commando cattle to lay siege to our fair city.

iPod played "Brian Setzer - Rock This Town" while posting

Update - Wynonna's Big Brown Bison

2005-07-28T13:22:00.000-06:00

Bison Isn't Sasquatch
Globe and Mail Update
Thursday, July 28, 2005 Updated at 12:30 PM EDT
A hair sample that some claimed belonged to a sasquatch in the Yukon is actually the fur of a large mammal. David Coltman, a University of Alberta geneticist who did a DNA test on a hair sample, confirmed that it was 100-per-cent bison. He said the DNA sample was not fresh. The hair sample was taken from a bush near Teslin, Yukon earlier this month where several people said they had seen and heard a large, hairy creature.

As suspected, the hair sample presumed to be that of country music sasquatch Wynonna Judd turns out to be from a Bison after all. I have withdrawn my sasquatch sighting report to the Bigfoot Field Researchers Organization since it’s now been confirmed through DNA testing that Judd is not a Big Foot – she is in fact a less than fresh Buffalo.

iPod played "John Lee Hooker - Big Legs, Tight Skirt" while posting

Hapless Euro-Models Stuck in the Mud – Broken English Remains Intact

2005-07-27T15:35:00.000-06:00

Images of damsels in distress have been around since the Stone Age. The proverbial picture of the caveman dragging a wrangled woman back to his burrow (conscious or otherwise from a blow to the head with a club) is a visual that’s become more fun than fact the further away we get from the walls of the cave. In truth, the princess in peril has been so ingrained in our cultural collective that people forget how true it really was and often still is.

I’m not going to play pretty pony and pretend that I’m not a rabid fan of old pulp covers, mid-century pin-up art, horror movie media and all things devoid of political/sexual correctness (as you may well have guessed). I guess there’s something that intrigues the monkey man in most males when it comes to distressed dames – tied to the railway tracks with oncoming choo-choo coming ‘round the mountain. It’s almost pre-programmed into our genetic code – hard wired into our DNA by way of pop cultural osmosis…

Having said that, I still had to ponder the point of Car Stuck Girls.

If the thought of long-legged Euro-models getting their vehicles repeatedly stuck in mud, snow or sand winds your carnal coo-coo clock or more appropriately “gets your motor running”, the Webbie award winning Car Stuck Girls is the place to tune up. Road less traveled and stick shift jokes aside, this rather unique pit stop features photos/screenshots and generous preview videos of eternally anguished German gals pounding the pedals, pushing, pulling and pouting (even the occasional mud wrestling as our dames let frustration get the better of them – those naughty Germans). Oh no! Alena’s front-wheel drive Skoda Fabia is stuck in the snow! What’s a girl to do? Liberal shots of stranded model high heeling helplessly on the gas soon follow as does jaw dropping “dialogue” delivery like “O Mah Gahd! Whuts ‘Append?” and the immortal “I seems to be really horrible stuck!” – I was addicted.

At first I wasn’t quite sure what to make of the whole thing (sister sites Driving Girls and Pedal Pumping Girls contain more of the same) and yet I was weirdly disappointed when I had all but exhausted the complimentary buffet. Not to worry, you can purchase the full length feature on DVD! If you absolutely must know if Melanie’s Mercedes will ever get unstuck after the preview ends, you can expect to cough up 49,00EUR (approx $70 CDN/$60US as of publish date) for a one hour double feature (not to spoil the ending, but Melanie appears in a few other sequences so I assume she didn’t die along the road side and subsequently ground into Bratwurst – sorry). Personally, I had a good time watching the movies since they were far better produced than you would rightly expect and though the sites are conceivably fetishistic in nature, there’s not a shred of nudity or overtly explicit content on any of them. It might be hard to believe that there’s a surprisingly active community around the act of Pedal Pumping itself so just as car enthusiasts might get a charge out of watching the ladies try to winch their car out of the muck, foot fans may enjoy the constant tight shots of tense toes letting out the clutch. I guess what you bring to it is what you take away, Clichéd, I know, but I’m a self professed leg fan to a flaw, so well dressed dames dangling their pins out from a car door gave me lots to beam about from an unlikely source.

As odd as you might find the vehiclely-challenged German gals, they’re exceedingly common compared to what the Japanese have been up to, but more on that later.

iPod played “The Violent Femmes – Gimme The Car” while posting

Wynonna's Big Brown Beaver

2005-07-26T17:41:00.000-06:00

In the early afternoon of October 20th, 1967 (after seven days of exploration), Roger Patterson and Robert Grimlin set out on horseback to once more call attention to significant evidence that supported the existence of a great hairy beast roaming the western wilds of North America. Based on tips provided by California construction crews who were building a road through the remote Bluff Creek area in the late fifties, the two Sasquatch seekers set out to film the fabled fur-ball. Armed with a hand held 16mm Kodak movie camera, the men spotted a female Bigfoot down by the creek. Patterson reports that his horse also caught sight of the ape-like creature, reared up and fell to the ground, pinning Patterson beneath it. He quickly dislodged himself, snatched his camera and proceeded to run towards the beast shooting 24 feet (952 Frames – the one seen here is the world famous “Frame 352”) of color film. Grimlin reportedly watched the whole thing through the sight of his rifle in case the mighty mammal turned to attack the idiot chasing her down with a camera or perchance pursue a portion of potential royalties from the sale of the film. The creature allegedly turned and promptly headed back into the forest leaving the bewildered men to briefly give chase but ultimately opt out of pursuing the large hairy broad for fear of attack. Convinced that they had most of the evidence needed to authenticate Big Foot to the world (and determine it’s sex based on somewhat visible breasts), they sought foot prints along the creek side and made some impressions of a 14.5 x 6 inch imprints (which were purportedly washed away by heavy rainfall the following day).

Patterson made a tidy profit off the film (to which no likeness rights were paid to the mythic creature) and then he passed away in 1972 (it’s also worth noting that his horse was suspiciously silent about the whole affair). Grimlin, who also didn’t make a dime from the sale of the film phenomenon, defended it’s authenticity until March of 1992 , when he admitted that he may very well have been an unwilling participant in an elaborate hoax concocted by his colleague.

Widely regarded as the second most viewed film of all time (next to the Zapruder film of the Kennedy assignation and possibly the Pam & Tommy Lee skin flick) its legitimacy and the existence of the mythical beastie itself is still in question, but new “evidence” stands to make light or dark of all that …

Reuters
Monday, July 25, 2005

VANCOUVER, British Columbia (Reuters) - The debate over the existence of sasquatch, aka Bigfoot, an ape-like creature said to haunt the wilderness of western Canada has entered the world of modern DNA testing. A laboratory will test hair samples that several residents of Teslin, Yukon, say were left when the large, but so-far mythological creature made a late-night run through their community in early July.
University of Alberta wildlife geneticist David Coltman, who agreed to do the tests as a favor to a colleague, said on Monday that scientists have cataloged the DNA of nearly all large animals in the Yukon such as bears and bison. "So we'll compare it to all of that, and if it doesn't match anything, then it's potentially interesting," said Coltman, who suspects the hair was actually left behind by a much more mundane Yukon bison. "If sasquatch is indeed a primate, then we would expect the sample to be closer to humans or chimpanzees or gorillas," Coltman said.
The legend of a large, hairy, two-legged creature lurking in the mountains of western Canada and the United States dates back to before Europeans settled the continent. This was the second report of the creature near Teslin in just over a year. In the latest sighting, a group of Teslin residents told the Canadian Broadcasting Corp. they heard branches cracking and saw a large human-like creature run by a house. It left behind large footprints, they said, and the hair tufts that were given to wildlife officials. Coltman expects to have his results on Thursday and said that even if the hair turns out not to be from a sasquatch, the process should serve as good way to get students interested in the field of DNA testing.
"It's sort of like a wildlife CSI story," he said.

In an effort to ascertain how very serious Sasquitch (plural?) researchers are taking the new development in their furry pursuit or how well they’ll take the fact that their new hope is quite possibly hair from a Bison’s scrotum - I went to the Bigfoot Field Researchers Organization (BFRO) and reported a Sasquatch sighting of my own through their Bigfoot/Sasquatch Sighting Report Form. Though the BFRO clearly state that submitting joke or fake reports will not be added to the database, I took my chances since I truly believe that there are stunning similarities between the Patterson/Grimlin film and this celebrated mug shot of country music creature Wynonna Judd (Nashville, TN 2003 - DUI Charge). If you cross reference the BFRO data for the state of Tennessee in the year 2003 there are some disturbing revelations, so I went a little further and matched this to her archived tour dates. Though admittedly, most dates do not align (clearly indicating that there are in fact plenty of these creatures out in public) those that do match are usually accompanied by credible sightings stating that “unidentified primate continues to attract attention” or “man has late night encounter in Tennessee woods”. Though the eastern United States is not their usual stomping grounds, the Sasquatch in question is clearly comfortable in this environment, Besides, “Wynonna” sounds suspiciously like the startling noise that would emit from a large ape-like mammal trying to communicate...

"Wynoooooooooooooooooooonnnna”.

Anyone who has actually seen the size of a Wynonna's feet (or the hair thereupon) is encouraged to comment with their findings.
I am still awaiting a response from the BFRO to validate my own findings.

iPod played "Primus - Wynona's Big Brown Beaver" while posting

Slave Girl Leia Sighting at San Diego Comic Convention, 2005 - Janitorial Staff Report Shortage of Toilet Paper

2005-07-25T23:28:00.000-06:00

Besides Daphne Blake from Scooby-Doo, Pin-up queen Bettie Page and 1981 Playmate of the Year - Terri Welles (oh yeah, and the wife:), the most enduring/potent female image I have branded into my peapod of a psyche is that of Carrie Fisher as Princess Leia Organa. When “Return of the Jedi” played at our local multiplex, my friends and I would attend matinee screenings most every weekend, our parents coughed up the three bucks each to perchance get rid of us for a few hours of summer silence and off we went – foreign bulges in tow. What we were continually exposed to upon arrival was sci-fi bondage at the hands of Jabba the Hut or George Lucas, whomever you prefer to salute. Not only was the taco-turd like gangster a wealthy crime kingpin, but he liked to chain bikini clad slave babes to his monstrous throne and occasionally made them dance about for his amusement (no word on if Lucas does this as of publishing date). Well, in truth, that didn’t look too bad to any of us (expcept for one guy who aligned with C3PO – Who knew?). Thankfully Kenner didn’t release a Slave Girl Leia action figure (though some did surface just a few years back – for “adult” collectors - imagine the fun we would've had with them), but what we do have is a new generation of female Star Wars fans that not only grew up with that same potent image of Slave Leia, but some actually seem to enjoy emulating her in public…

Praise Jabba! In the name of the Greedo, Han and the Wookie, Amen.

iPod Played "The Donnas - Dirty Denim" while posting

Return of the King - Unlikely

2005-07-25T17:13:00.000-06:00

Far be it from me to belittle someone’s beliefs, but the king is dead.
Elvis Aaron Presley sat high upon his porcelain throne for the very last time on August 16th, 1977 at the age of 42. Suburban legend would have you believe that the ripened yet undisputed king of rock & roll was defecating when the reaper booked him the penthouse suite at the heartbreak hotel. The big hunk o’ love either had his hound dog stop ticking from a combination of rumored barbiturates, had his kidneys fail or maybe aliens did indeed steal his soul to genetically engineer a master race of pelvis people to control the universe. To whatever end you subscribe - the man is dead, and though his autopsy results won’t be made public until the year 2027 we can best assume that if he was indeed still alive, the Undead King would’ve surely come out of hiding when his daughter married Michael Jackson simply to beat his lily white ass back into oblivion. Here’s what we know of the “Hillbilly Kitty” and his love of fine cat nip.

The grilled peanut butter and banana sandwich man reportedly stayed up all night, entertaining friends with the odd ditty and even played racquetball that morning before hitting the bed at around 8:00 am on Tuesday, August 16th. Sometime in the late morning, Elvis perched his naked rear end upon the toilet with some reading material, his fiancée Ginger Alden, who was sleeping elsewhere in the house, found him dead at 2:00 pm (though the medical examiners report say he was found in the dressing room) – He had been dead for 2 or 3 hours. There was a report that the King wasn’t naked at all, that he was found wearing fetching blue pajamas and yet another report maintains that the bathroom had been cleansed of royal vomit before examiners even got there and solid fact began to collapse shortly thereafter.

The lucky lads who got to see what made Elvis rock from the inside out were coroner Dr. Jerry T. Francisco, autopsy attendee Dr. Eric Muirhead and Dr. Noel Florredo. The thee gentlemen obviously allowed their celebrity corpse get the better of them since it was later determined that the trio initially concealed facts, attributing his death to a massive coronary failure - inadvertently birthing the immortal Elvis phenomenon. They admitted that the autopsy reports were misrepresented to not “tarnish the image by a scandal of a drug habit” after stating that "there was no indication of any drug abuse of any kind” but since his stomach contents were said to have been flushed away by mistake this remained here say until Dr. Muirhead broke the silence. Muirhead later stated that the body contained a total of 14 drugs including 10 times the normal dosage of codeine and that toxic levels of Methaqualone (ludes) were also uncovered from inside the fallen idol.

It’s also important to note that if the man were indeed still walking the earth - he would be doing so with no internal organs since his drug addled brain and beaten heart are still in storage at the Baptist Memorial Hospital in Memphis, Tennessee.

Presley was originally buried at the Forest Hill Cemetery in Memphis, next to his mother, but after an attempted exhumation the body was relocated (along with Mama Pelvis) to Graceland Mansion - the King’s Castle.

*Elvis on his throne illustration by Coop

iPod played "Royal Crown Revue - Walkin' Like Brando" while posting

Mascot Love – Furverts Unite!

2005-07-24T17:56:00.000-06:00

First brought to my attention by way of a bizarre CSI episode (#406) entitled “Fur & Loathing” on television some time ago, there are kinky cats out there called “Plushies” and “Furverts” who pursue sexual arousal by dressing like 8 foot Care Bear creatures and petting each other into pleasure. We all have our deviant devices and fetish fish floating about in our perversion pond but these folks really made me wonder if they had not only run out of bait, but were missing a few sails on the evolutionary mast as well. I didn’t want to pass judgment on the fuzzy bunny boners for too long without seeing how far the freak meter could reach on the fetish scale, so I read up on them. I found a few articles; one by Susie Bright called the “Selfish Fetish”, an anonymous blog highlighting the “history” of the Furverts and the holy grail of outlandishness - a newsgroup. I’m going to try and pass along what I learned to you so that the gigantic plush Eeyore sitting on your wife’s bookshelf will never quite look at you the same way again (or you at it for that matter).

From what I gather there are two distinct differences between the groups, Furverts (established in the early 80’s!) sexualize cartoon characters and Plushies (A.K.A Plushophiles) “have special personal feelings for plush stuffed animals (and plush puppets, too)”. Did you hear that Kermit? Get your glorious green ass out of town, you’ve been marked. A “Fursuit” is a “full-body costume that makes the wearer look like a favorite animal, or an animal character. Costumes like this are commonly seen being worn by staff members at amusement parks dressing up as popular cartoon characters. They're also seen at sporting events where the team has a mascot in a costume. Since a person in a fursuit looks (and feels) a lot like a 'living plushie', such costumes are understandably popular with some plushophiles. Several of us here have made or bought our own animal costumes”.

Surprisingly I read on and learned that some even cleverly alter their stuffed animals with a horny hole or penile type implant (no word on if Gonzo requires any customization at all), use the defenseless doll in a more devious masturbatory manner and/or even place the furry friend as a third (and presumably silent) partner in the boudoir. Want to get started being a fur fondler? “Find a stuffed animal that appeals to you in a very personal way. It may take time, but eventually you'll find one that's irresistible. If you currently have a stuffed animal that you've got special feelings for, chances are you've already expressed those emotions in some intimate manner. In general, probably the best way to learn about plush love is to take your special plushie to bed with you, and just cuddle at first. That might be as far as you want to go, but if the sensations of softness, warmth and closeness bring on arousal, simply follow your instincts. You'll find that plushies make very nice love partners. They will gladly do anything you want and any time you feel like it, so you can totally set your own pace”.

There are instructions on how to clean your stuffed rape victim after you’ve assaulted the poor bloody thing but I’ve chosen to leave that out since I’ve heard that vomit can be quite costly on a keyboard. These folks even have something called “The Plush Code” which is like shorthand for quickly outlining how very disturbed an individual truly is.

As an added and welcome bonus, despite their plushing passions, the Furverts and Plushies are always quick to point out that they have no sexual interest in children so don’t cancel that dancing donkey for little Sally’s birthday just yet. Some Furverts however, attribute their fetish to early sightings of beloved Bugs Bunny parading about in drag on Saturday mornings, so at the very least hide the carrots from Timmy before you find him violating his Beanie Baby collection with them.

Wait until I show you what the Japanese have been up to.

iPod played "The Cramps - Bikini Girls With Machine Guns" while posting

Johnson's in Hot Coffee - Pleasing With Pants On

2005-07-23T17:08:00.000-06:00

The dumb ass media is dubbing it “Hot Coffeegate” if you can believe it. The beloved gansta game, Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas is being hauled off store shelves across North America for having un-lockable explicit content woven in through the back end game code called “Hot Coffee”. The sexual content code in question is an embedded mini game wherein the hero/anti-hero Carl Johnson gets down and dirty with girlfriend Denise. The mod title comes from the fact that Denise invites Carl in for “some coffee” after a successful date of drinks, dinner, dancing or driving around. In the locked version of the game the sexual activity does indeed occur, all you are privy to is a view of her house with suggestive but harmless dialogue coming from therein (at one point Carl is barely legible as he most obviously has his mouth full of Denises’ donair, but nothing is seen). With Hot Coffee engaged (what a pain in the ass that is) Carl has a little more fun, but the player is the one in control, pleasing Denise becomes a game in itself where like real life, you can fail miserably or bookmark another chapter in her resume of romance by pressing the right buttons. As you can see from the screenshots, the player is involved in the process of satisfying Denise, which I guess is where people like Hillary Rodham Clinton have a problem.

So far in the game I’ve killed over 2500 people including virtual cops, animated grannies and business women. Yet it is one polygonal pubis that brings wrath down upon the gaming industry, gets the game hauled off store shelves and Take 2 Interactive/Rockstar Games inherently expecting to lose some $50 million (Take 2 shares dropped 6.7%on the Nasdaq on day one of the announcement) as a result. A caffeine free version of the game is to be released within the coming months, foul language, cop killing and prostitute popping intact. After the politicians, media and moms blathered on about the evils of the video game industry I decided to put San Andreas to the test. I took Denise out for a date, I gave her flowers and proceeded to dance her ass off at a local club, after which I took her home. Before she asked me in for coffee I beat her up. Not cool. I shot her a few times. Also not cool. The game punished me for mistreating my woman but the media punished me for pleasing her. I shot twelve cops afterwards and I guess that was OK.

The guy at EB Games and I talked a little about Hot Coffee and we really couldn’t see what the problem was since games are now geared towards guys in late twenties/early thirties. Well that was us and no one asked either of us if we had a problem with polygonal poontang.

iPod played "The Slackers - Married Girl" while posting

Work Wisdom

2005-07-22T06:59:00.000-06:00

Hey Bum Butter, it must be nice to have so much free time on your hands, perchance a little more work related activity might be in order. I notice that you have facial hair young tadpole, but trust that no amount of woebegone whiskers will make you as fierce or as bloody righteous as the Bearded Bastard that haunts the halls of the office in which you “work”. You may try and emulate the Bastard, but he will continue to evolve into that which evades you. He is all things foul and yet esteemed in the rectally intrusive world you call “da office” and as he passes you on the corporate ladder, throw your nose towards the grasp of his bottom burps and ingest all that you can little one. The fruit of his bubble bottom is like gold in that place and with nostrils flaring let it be heard that you once knew that bastard and the taste of his turd.

The Bearded one feeds on your hate.

iPod played "The Pogues - That Woman's Got Me Drinkin'" while posting

Knee Tasted in Bizarre Strip Club Incident

2005-07-20T11:37:00.000-06:00

All I can remember is that her crotch smelled of peppermint schnapps and her knee tasted not unlike a silken sugar cube. Why I had this stranger’s leg to my lips might be a mystery but how I once more found myself surrounded by the guys I more or less grew up with was not. A pack of suburban jackals once more set free upon the plains, older, wiser and with a little more beef across the midsection for the most part, as a collective we hit the town in search of a few laughs and perchance an eyeful of female flesh. One would think that we had never left each others side in all these years by the way we once more fell into the time tested roles of the pack and despite being smaller in number, our boisterousness was twice in size.

We’re good boys, removed from the metaphorical market quite some time ago, we don’t cheat (though one might suspect otherwise upon viewing exhibit A). We love our wives and cherish them above all, but when the lads collect like horny marbles in the basin of our hard fought maturity we tend to act out a little. We’re not pretty boys, not by a long shot, prey doesn’t line up for the slaughter like they once did (only queers, cougars and cattle for the most part) but when we gather - the taste of youth is once more palatable, chewy in fact.

If you think that this lovely little lady was falling all over herself to have her picture taken with us, you’re sadly mistaken. Steve, the pickled peeper on the left, pursued this opportunity like a lounge leopard might stalk a plaid skirted waitress with free draft for anyone who stares at her breasts the longest without blinking. He was like a man possessed, despite trying to talk him out of it for pride sake, he wouldn’t take no for an answer, it was as if this Polaroid was the one thing that could liberate his soul from eternal damnation much less have a totty draped about his neck like a saucy albatross. Sure enough, the man returned from his mission, his smile wider and his wallet lighter – Steve had pimped out his friends but scored us a priceless photo op.

Strippers, we love them. They undress for us, writhe erotically about on the floor and allow us to view their plumbing for the most part. If strippers were Martians, Adam, Steve and I would surely have been astronauts by now. We love the ladies and respect the fact that dancing for us makes them more money in a year then most upstanding citizens with crates of credentials. What you’re looking at is a twenty dollar investment, an artifact to fill in when memory banks find themselves burgled by booze. Stephen dropped twenty bucks on twenty seconds of this gal’s time. The kicker is that she “charged” him $10.

We stood nervously by the wall - shuffling about - trying to pose ourselves in what might be the most respectful way to frame her beauty and quite possibly avoid having a bouncer boot dislodge our scrotums. As we positioned ourselves accordingly the spitfire reached back, grabbed Steve’s shoulder and kicked her leg up at me. Reflexes took control of better judgment and I snagged her calf with one hand and thigh with the other. Somehow I saw it appetizing enough to put the woman’s knee in my mouth, perhaps to test how real she was. Adam looks like a happy puppy; I wonder where his other hand is?

These are my best friends, we don’t see each other much anymore but we were brought ever closer together by a tiny stripper who helped us add yet another chapter to our suburban story… and she let me taste her knee for some reason.

iPod played "Nashville Pussy - Blowjob From A Rattlesnake" while posting