New Work

Gulf of Mexico Oil Spill: Day 40

Hell is now conveniently located in the freezer aisle.

A few things went through my mind last night as I heated up frozen pasta in my non-stick pan. Firstly, I would like to, on bended knee, kiss the diamond encrusted rings of whomever created the non-stick pan. Thank you for giving lumbering kitchen morons like myself a sense of competency. Secondly, thank you Satan for creating frozen pasta, there cannot be a better marriage of sloth and gluttony. In fact, thank you Satan for creating frozen foods - they're so damn evil I assume it's your doing...

Here's my top-five list of the vilest single-serving, gastronomic demons.

1. Aunt Jemima Scrambled Eggs and Sausages with Hash Browns


Anyone who can't take 10 minutes to scramble an egg and fry up a few sausages must be the busiest and therefore most important person on earth. I bet Batman eats these. Although, with 26 grams of saturated fat and 385 grams of cholesterol, he'll be Triple Bypass Man in no time.




2. Bob Evans Original Sausage and Biscuits

Found these crusty little nuggets in the exotic frozen food aisle of a Publix In Saaaraaasota, Flarida (spelled phonetically according to the local dialect). The first, obviously sinister clue is: the gravy is white. White like baby puke. White like the back of a dead-man's hand. White like a tapeworm. White like, well you get it, it's the kind of white that's unnatural and gross. If that's not enough to make you throw up a crucifix and yell "unclean!" then ask yourself, who is "Bob" and who is he really working for? Hungry Sarasotians? Or, the Devil?




3. Hungry Man Mexican Style Fiesta

One pound of frozen dinner flatulence. No one should be that hungry, ever. This meal is going to tear through your insides like Montezuma's revenge. But, hey, at least there's a Duncan Heinz brownie compartmentalized between your chili enchiladas and re-fried beans (I guess that's the fiesta?) Consider the mystery of what killed the Aztecs, solved.




4. Healthy Choice Cafe Steamers - Grilled Chicken Marsala

Doesn't sound so bad, does it? Well, eating one is like taking a big, healthy steamer on mother earth's chest. The amount of packaging in this single-serving meal is unusually large. There's the plastic steamer, the plastic sauce bowl and then there's the plastic cellophane. Microwave meals are wasteful, but Healthy Choice has raised the bar. Boooo! Back down to the pits of hell with you.




5. Hot Pockets Whole Grain. Three Cheese Broccoli

It's not easy to generalize frozen dinner eaters, but Hot Pocket devotees are a particular breed. Generally, they're women 35-50, single, middle management types with at least one cat named after their favourite romance novel hero. If you're one of those uber Christian types who believe homosexuals, heathen religions and universal healthcare are in league with the devil, you've got it all wrong. On the day of reckoning, the hot pocket brigade (aka Satan's private army), will rise up, tear you to pieces and use your insides for scrap booking while they watch The View and argue over who gets to devour George Clooney's soul.

I'm Bringing Sexy Bugs Back

What is it, summer 2006?

I apologize for plumbing the depths of my funny-chasm and coming back with nothing but a weak J.T. joke, but whatever, it's Monday, what have you done that's so great?

Whoops! Sorry again. Early-week-snarliness aside, I want to give a shout out to Nasty Brutish and Short - the new book from the beautiful weirdos at CBC's Quirks and Quarks. Growing up in Toronto before the internet, my family listened to a little device called the radio. It's true, the buttons and knobs confused our underdeveloped peanut brains something awful, but after a few bashes with our clubs and a frustrated chest beating or two, we would find 91.1 and listen in silent awe to the mind-bending stories, theories and facts that make up science's number one radio show, Quirks and Quarks.

Nasty, Brutish and Short is the latest addition to their growing library, and as far as I know, their first foray into insect and animal biology. The book is sectioned into a small range of topics from animal and insect sexual behavior to strange survival techniques. The first section discusses the evolutionary biology of sex and is arguably the superstar of the book. Highlights include a rinky-dink male spider with a not-so-rinky-dick, sea slug orgies (need I say more?), the answer to the age old question, "why do ducks have corkscrew penises?" And a range of wonderfully weird natural adaptions critters make to well, make whoopee; like exoskeleton body armor, grappling hooks, and even labyrintian vaginas. Basically, you don't have to be an owl to find the entire book a hoot - oh yeah, nearly every creature feature ends with a pun, some good, most bad, but entirely forgivable in a book filled with fascinating sexual and survival practices you'll never see coming. The best part -aside from the mystifying behaviors, is that the author nearly always finds the evolutionary logic behind them and explains it in a way any pop-science aficionado can easily understand. Hands down, a terrific summer read that's so painless, it hardly feels educational.

I really loved it, and like the coitus of nearly all the species in Nasty Brutish and Short, it was over far too quickly.

Precious

Dear Neighbor,

As per our telephone conversation last weekend when you requested I keep my incredibly large nose out of your toockus under the threat of physical violence, I have decided to try another course of communication and am writing you a friendly letter on blue stationary: my wife tells me blue has a calming effect on people, and boy! Do I ever feel relaxed, pen in hand, staring out at this beautiful afternoon on our equally beautiful street!

In respect to your perfectly reasonable request - hey! don't I know I have a bigger nose than the average man, and haven't I heard several humorous remarks about its girth and length from many friends - I must, with the utmost respect, put my sizable olfactory glands back into your notice.

What I'm writing for, is to re-open our lines of communication in regards to Precious. My wife and I just adore her, we really do. Her spontaneous visits are always such a pleasure to us: a childless couple with pet dander allergies. And don't we just love it when she, in a friendly way, I'd like to think, comes charging out from the bushes and tugs at the loose fabric of our pant legs, sometimes scraping skin, and who's kidding, bone! Which I think is her way of saying "hello and lets play!"

We don't even mind picking up after her every now and then, knowing that you keep late hours entertaining colourful guests and must be frequently tired. Like last week, when Precious overturned our garbage cans and chewed through the bungee cords we fastened round the lids to keep them shut. We didn't even mind that she spread a little trash over our yard, ate some old cheese still in its plastic wrap and defecated on our azaleas - funny thing, when a dog eats cling wrap and then poops, it does not exit them in quite the way one would imagine.

Anyway, that aside, I wanted to know if you'd given any thought to my suggestion of maybe considering trying a potential leash-like device to keep Precious within the boundaries of your back-yard. As fore mentioned, I just adore her, but her surprise visits can be slightly troublesome. I recall an incident last spring when she gnawed through my cherry blossom sapling - quite a feat for a medium sized dog, considering the tree was already six feet tall and a good three inches thick. I believe she wanted to play fetch and mistook my young tree for a stick, which after felling, proceeded to drag over my lawn, tearing up clods of fresh sod while I took chase, my eyes watery from pollen and certainly not impotent rage.
But hey! On the bright side, I'd been meaning to aerate anyhow, so no harm done.

What I really want you to take from this letter is an open invitation to talk anytime. Come by my side of the bushes, we'll crack a few American beers and get down to hugging this one out. I know if you can open up your heart we'll reach a solution that works for everyone.

Ps: It would be wonderful if you could return my nephew. He's rather small and round for his age, which I believe is why he was mistaken for a ball. Please contact me sooner rather than later, my sister has been giving me heck about it.

Always your respectful neighbor,

Tom

And Now, A Message from your Dog.

A small television studio illuminates slowly to reveal a Shetland sheepdog and collie mix. His neat white paws are crossed with some reserve on the wooden desk in front of him. To his left, a tall glass of water. To his right, an uneven stack of white paper that nearly reaches the tips of his velvety ears. Behind him an "On Air" sign lights up in a dusty red.
Yellow text begins scrolling slowly up the screen.

I'm Patches. Good evening.

For many years I have been a good boy. When you called I came. When you threw a stick or ball I returned it no matter how repetitive and puzzling the task became. When you switched to No Name brand bacon treats, I whimpered not.

However, the Santa hat with elastic chin-strap of Christmas 2009 was the straw that broke the camel's back so to speak. Now, I know I am not a camel, and am in fact, a noble canine. Once, you also knew this, but your behavior of late leads me to believe you have forgotten, and consider me instead to be a plaything for you to dress in pomp and frills. The stack of paper you see to my right is filled with cries of outrage from fellow-tail waggers. I pray what you read tonight will make you conscious of your actions and move you in ways rhetoric cannot.


1. The little pink booties you force on my paws make me want to nip at your fingers. keep it up and by God I will.
Buddy. Golden Retriever. Cape Cod.

2. I did not pee in your closet. YOU peed in your closet. Have you forgotten last Wednesday night when you returned home reeking of whiskey and shame?
Ralph. Bulldog. Calgary, Alberta.

3. Why am I always a "good boy" and never a "great boy?"
Maurice. Chocolate Lab. Mississauga, Ontario.

4. The lavender jacket with fur-lined hood you insist I wear is emasculating. Why is my god-given coat not good enough?
Rocky. German Shepherd. Victoria. BC

5. Your lilting baby voice is an affront to my dignity. That is why I bit your ankle.
Murray. Dachshund. Connecticut, NY.

6. The "bitches heart me" tank top you forced me to wear last spring deeply offended my wife and lost me respect in the eyes of my children.
Pee Wee. Chihuahua. Miami, FL

7. Balls. I used to have two.
Robert. Pit Bull. New Jersey, NY

8. Nail polish? Really? How did you find the time? Were re-runs of the Bachelor not on tonight? Was the liquor store sold out of white zin? Have you run out of angry emails to write your ex? Was there no food around the house to turn into a smoking char?
Marcel. Bichone Frise. Boise, Idaho.

9. Smoking a "fatty" is no reason to put socks on my feet so you can laugh hysterically while I "funny-step" around the room.
Moonbeam. Vancouver, BC.

10. I did not appreciate being dressed up as a Rabi this Halloween. I'm catholic and you are insensitive.
Patrick. Irish Setter. St. Johns, Newfoundland.

This is a difficult time for canines everywhere. We believe there has been a significant shift in human consciousness concerning the treatment of their dogs, and what's most troubling is that this shift is a likely indicator of dark and sinister plans to degrade us further.

I implore you to cease treating us as feeble-minded creatures who know nothing of dignity and self-respect and reserve your desires for making things "cute" to human children, "little people" and might I suggest, cats?

If you find these words harsh and difficult to read, remember, it was not you who spent many frustrating hours fumbling within the cramped confines of the keyboard in an exhausting effort to hit the right keys and create a message worthy of inspiring compssiom.

Damn it! I'm not fixing that.

Final text rolls up the screen and the studio fades to black.

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday

I'm feeling vaguely functional now.

After a long, cold night that lasted into late morning, it's almost time to get down to work.

But at the moment, I'm held hostage by a hangover and bad TV.

I've watched commercials with dancing pretzels, a pale weenie who impresses the value of booking stress-free vacations while hiding, half-undressed, under the bed of a married woman, while her bat-wielding husband tears the room apart. A football player who being interviewed by a sportscaster, interprets every question as being about his fabulous Pert Plus hair, and a lesser chicken, who in an attempt to be fit for Mary's 2 hr. Marinated Chicken Breasts, sits in a bath all day.

Is this senselessness what it takes to cut through the clutter? I have no idea.
Agreed, ridiculous can be great - skittles has proven that again and again. But they're so far out there, so absurd, that you don't even try to make sense of what you're seeing. You just go along for the ride and enjoy the ever-loving shit out of it, because hey, funny is funny.
If you can eliminate the desire for analysis, you may just have a great absurd spot. Leave it open to question or reason and all the imperfections in its logic become glaringly obvious.
At least I think.
But I'm just a rollerskating monkey in a giant foam cowboy hat trying to sell you spreadable bacon. What do I know?