the dubious epigrams, vapid pep-talks and wrong attributions found everywhere on the internet, I’ve shamelessly conjured up fake, fractured quotes and useless life tips then crammed them into the speech bubbles of the famous, infamous and just plain dead.
The result? You rock the appearance of cutting-edge, while remaining as blissfully unenlightened as before!
This collection: Saint or sacred cow? Whatever your take on Gandhi, you’ll delight in the absurdity of these never-in-a-million-years bon mots.
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Concept 1 quote: “You know, I’d totally love this gig if it weren’t for the spicy food.”
Concept 2 quote: “I thought Ben Kingsley was OK in ‘Gandhi’. But I really would have preferred Meryl Streep.”
Concept 3 quote: “My number one ‘Dress for Success’ tip? For riots, keep it simple and off-the-shoulder.”
About your Tee
This updated unisex essential, manufactured in the U.S. by Bella+Canvas, fits like a well-loved favorite, featuring a crew neck, short sleeves and designed with superior combed and ring-spun cotton. Sizes XS – XL.
Each concept is available in white, and in two additional colors chosen by me to match its design. Below are just a few examples.
“why-didn’t-anyone-think-of-this-before?” move that has Americans smacking their open palms on their foreheads from Fire Island to Big Sur, the Trump administration and the National Rifle Association have joined forces in an unprecedented nation-wide initiative to reduce and eventually eliminate health care costs.
“Stand Your Ground Against Health Care-tards!” is the second program implemented under Trump’s so-called “Great Big Yuge Agenda”, just two weeks after the start of “What Has Intelligence Ever Done For YOU?”, the educational program which has Betsy DeVos overseeing the winding down of the public school system.
But what about rumors that the new health care plan was inspired by a recent shooting at a New York City hospital?
I caught up with Ms Peggy Wagstaff, Trump’s most trusted personal confidante and official White House Playmate of the Month, half-way into her graveyard shift at the Trump Tower Full-Pay Medical Clinic and Make America Great Again Souvenir Concession.
“We were watching the news about that hospital in the Bronx, and—well, I guess you could say it was a lightbulb-over-the-head moment,” said Miss Wagstaff, as she carefully arranged ashtray replicas of the Las Vegas replica of the Great Pyramid of Ra.
“Cuddles got this weird look on his face, and then suddenly he shouted, ‘Health Care-tards! That’s it!! It’s fiscal responsibility, state lottery and reality show all in one!!!’ You know how he gets.”
First steps? Ms Wagstaff hesitated for a moment.
“I mean, the plan’s a little rough around the edges at this point, but so far we’ve issued firearms to all the doctors, the residents, senior nursing staff, the secretarial pool, and Mrs Pereira the night-shift cleaning lady, but we’re still fifty-fifty about giving one to that old guy with the aluminum pie plate hat who sleeps in the biohazard bins in the alley.”
Ms Wagstaff began polishing an enormous Jeff Sessions crystal paperweight, $49.99 on special.
“Donald says your average American does not want some little punk with a disease regular people can’t even pronounce lying around on a gurney the rest of us paid for, talking to a stuffed animal and getting sassy with the grown-ups, you know? Demanding more than his share of rice pudding and whining about the choice on the cable TV.”
What was the message here? Was this a teaching moment?
“Hmmm. Well, basically we’re talking I am not your keeper, every man for himself, all the things Ben Franklin put in the, you know. Bill of Franklin. Oh, snafu, or was that Bill Wrights?” She sighed. “There’s so much to remember!”
Bill of Rights? I suggested.
But Ms. Wagstaff was interrupted by an anxious-looking elderly woman carrying a small suitcase and sleeping bag. The woman handed Ms Wagstaff a bunch of crumpled papers.
“Hey there, Mrs… Campbell! Let’s get you sorted out! I see you’ve been booked in for our Half-Price Exploratory Heart Valve Procedure today at three. That’s awesome!”
I couldn’t help but be impressed as Ms Wagstaff moved on to the up-sell.
“Would you care to “Super Size” that to full open heart surgery for only fifty grand extra? You’ll also get an additional night in our shared single room, our post-op free gift of two aspirin and a glass of water, AND sheets for the bed! Alrighty, then, no problem! You’ll find it’s two floors up then hang a left for your pre-op holding pen.”
“Cheapskate,” she added, as the woman struggled up the stairs marked Economy Class.
“Doesn’t matter to some people that I’m on commission!” Ms Wagstaff strapped on her holster, donned a fresh white lab coat and gestured for me to accompany her.
“Walk this way,” she said, heading with a no-nonsense stride down the hallway. I followed her through the double doors marked “Maternity”.
“I think this would be a great time to demonstrate the Random Cull”, Ms Wagstaff continued. “So, like—everyone in emerg, or everyone with a name that starts with C, or like today, I think we’ll do—black single moms. You get the idea?”
Ms Wagstaff suddenly whipped out her Glock, took aim and blasted the relevant beds and their occupants to kingdom come.
The entire ward had gone eerily quiet. “Will you excuse me for a moment?” She grabbed an orderly by the arm as he ran past. “Hey, you. Wipe that blood off your face and go tell Mrs. Pork Chop we need her up here, pronto. Routine spill. Thanks, sugar.”
Ms Wagstaff looked wistful.
“Just between you and me, sometimes I wonder why he hired me in the first place. Whenever I ask him, he just laughs his head off and says, there’s two great, big, yuge reasons, Pegs—but then he never tells me what they are.”
Ben Franklin and Bill Wrights are—still flying their kites.
Presenting, quite contrary to public demand, the cornea-straining, soporific, “can’t seem to stop my eyes rolling back in my head before I face-plant onto the keyboard” verbosity of my Canada Day ode, first trotted out a year ago.
Widely acclaimed by this guy I met at a party who works for The Globe and Mail, who said:
… destined to become a Canada Day read-out-loud-by-Dad-before-we-have-Kraft-Dinner-yet-again tradition with every patriotic, middle-class Canadian family. Well, you know. Since they can’t actually afford a TV.
Thanks, “pal”. Another seven minutes I’ll never get back staring at the water mark on the ceiling. Those Cialis cost money.
“A Beaverin Polite Company”
(An Absolutely Epic Ode
for Canada Day, July 1st, 2016)
O frozen fatherland,
I sing of thee –!
From the depths of my igloo
(Or in summer, a teepee)
While moms in babushkas from Hudson’s Bay
Bake their collective, corn-syruped way
All beneath a stunning display
Of shimmering Northern Lights,
(For it is enshrined in the
Charter of Rights
“… WHEREAS the provision of
butter tarts, Being an essential service, May not suffer even the slightest pause …”
To make a summary:
While exempting pecans
From the “Notwithstanding” clause,
Have ensured every mother will
Obtain her degree from
Butter Tart University,
Majoring in raisins.)
Welcome to Canada,
So cold in December,
But then we remember our
National Winter Sport,
Played on ice, with a puck.
Yet so hot in July,
It takes all our willpower
To manage even a
Nice game of lacrosse.
Yes, this is Canada.
The Superhero who’s always Clark Kent,
As tasty as we might look in tights;
The land where the indigenous people, Inuit, not Eskimo,
Reportedly have a hundred words for snow,
Where we finish our summer vacations
With full septic tanks
And scratching scars from mosquito bites.
And we all give thanks
We need never go to Mars,
Instead, we head to Winnipeg to experience minus fifty—
—(that’s approximately a nifty Freeze your ass off, eh?
In American, non-communist temperature systems—
And while we’re at it, kudos to the lady from Texas
Who had heard of us.
Though she thought to visit meant sailing an ocean,
Then maybe —taking a bus?
Y’all got that wrong, ma’am.
But even knowing our name,
And that we’re north,
Shows, at least for a lady from Texas,
And there in The ‘Peg, we play a traditional game
Where, for good luck, you lick the icy posts of metal fences;
Such innocent fun!
Till we find our tongues are stuck,
And, being Canadian,
Come rapidly back to our senses.
And we all put chains on the tires of our cars. We wear plaid shirts, and we wear combinations, We summer in Muskoka where all Hollywood vacations and we never never never, I mean NEVER go to Mars!
Land of clear-your-ice, your winter civic duty!
We even declared Family Day in February,
So we can be sure of finding an ice floe
For packing with our elderly, so it will be a nice flow
Up the Saint Lawrence and out to sea.
Frankly, in February,
They’re too cold to
Make a commotion.
“Here’s the snow shovel, grandad! Don’t bother with the salt! Or the commie-red Canadian Winter Olympics toque That would cover what’s left of your hair! And remember to leave my St-Jean-Baptiste Day card By the leftover tourtière!
Hey, how’s that hip replacement? Still hurtin’?”
Ah, Kwanzaa-lights on fir trees!
I mean, pine!
The ring of the shovel on ice!
Each step a crunch of
Canadian Tire mukluk,
You can be certain!
Mon dieu ! Qu’est-ce qui ce passe ?!??
His asthmatic wheezing, the left arm pain!
“Don’t worry, children, I feel just –fine — !”
As he falls, pardon my French, on his ass!
The sudden thump, the lifeless lump of —
“Here’s your Timmies hot chocolate, Grandad! Did you decide to have a little nap? And why did you take off one new mukluk?
Your face and hands are a funny shade of blue! Grandad?
Au revoir! Goodbye! Oh, grandad, it’s true! Nous sommes tous Canadiens/Canadiennes !
We’re – more or less – glad we knew you!
Land of fortitude, of hunky men!
Land of Lumberjacks, RCMP’s!
And a dishy, non-crazy Prime Minister who makes us all weak at the knees,
Whatever his (to an American, anyway) socialist-verging-on-North-Korean proclivities!
Goodbye, general elections!
Hello, seeing Justin
And getting erections!
Cause…. He’s… the…
Person-called-Trudeau, Yes! he’s the Person-called-Trudeau! His dad was Pierre, his mom was Maggie, He’s working real hard to make legal the “baggie” – That’s all you have to know, you know? That’s all you have to know!
And this dynasty henceforth defines our nation –
Wait forty years, till little Emperor Hadrien – the Person-Called-Trudeau for our grandkids’ generation – ascends the throne
By Acclamation? (Yes, though Trickie Dickie’s a tiny bit too dead to have that conversation – )
Godless refuge of the Devil’s Own North!
Where atheist gays marry dogs with impunity
And polygamy is mandatory, on penalty of death !
Where Québec’s Satanic priests (The original Hell’s angels),
Are allocated one free orphaned choirboy yearly by the State,
And la biche, one permitted per authorized family unit, is kept “on ze side, heins?”
– or else on a leash –
‘Cause to be célibataire is –
Even for a priest with stale whisky breath –
Too awful to contemplate!
All together, now – !
« Tabernac ! »
« Marie-Joseph ! »
Where the word “beaver” is always appropriate in polite company.
Polite company being all of us.
Canadians are so un-apt to make any kind of fuss, Lenin only knows!
Why, we’ll apologize to YOU
When YOU step on OUR toes!
O, Canada, Canada!
Poor we! These chains that chafe and bind us!
Only a measly handful of banks, who tend, discreetly, to remind us
When our credit’s getting a teensy bit high.
Now what kind of attitude is that?
At this rate, we’ll never make first-class!
I mean, when did we
ever destroy the entire world’s economy?
Moss Park rebuilt, as though somewhere nice to live is what poor people deserve !
The Spadina Expressway, The Island Airport, cancelled – for what?!
Who needs old houses anyway, and parks, and waterfronts – and — !
Cancelled for sheer lack of
– well, it’s about time someone said it –
Nerve, that’s what! Nerve!
But that’s us, so lax, no greed!
So callously indifferent to Deluce’s bottom line!
Even considering he’s the man
Who kept us in the dark
About Phase 2, his Porter Airlines plan
To put the runways in High Park.
So lacking in get-up-and-go, that’s we!
So lacking in so many things we need, like –
A casino on Front Street.
A ferris wheel.
Those died with Rob Ford, for Heaven decreed
Not just the one, but three, acts of god.
You wanna know how bad it is?
We’re not even aspirational enough to want
Our own loud, nasty, thin-skinned fraud!
Poor old fat, dumb regular-guy Robbie.
He was good for a laugh as he redefined “shifty”,
Mayoring Toronto like a teen with an I.Q. of 50,
A pipe full of “hard”,
And a not very interesting hobby.
Even then, we didn’t complain. We just voted. How boring!
We didn’t even complain when that Tommy Douglas forced us! Forced us to have health care!
Took our hard earned dollars, of course,
But what’s worse, stole our god-given right of ignoring
the tumors until they’re big as a horse.
Too late it dawned on us:
Yeah, right! Make us live longer
And then you’ll have longer to fuck us over with more taxes, oh yes,
We’re onto you! We get the agenda – !
At least the Americans, god bless ’em, didn’t go down without a fight!
And the day of your liberation is so close you can almost smell freedom again!
Soon you’ll have Trump, and he’ll
Cancel your atheist, abortion-reeking
Death-paneled healthcare sort-of system.
Where each year you’re not just robbed of two hundred and change by bureaucrats—
What unbearable duress!—
But robbed of your freedom to declare bankruptcy!
We feel your pain! But not to worry.
Far, far better, we confess,
To pay fifty grand to the surgeon
Or, if you’re poor, to be thoughtful and die in a hurry!
And up here we’ll be,
In the U. S. S. C.,
Where nothing’s black and white, just white and red,
Where an evening’s entertainment is lining up for scraps of bread,
And where a Sikh can be a cop, wear a turban on his head!
(Our citizens all disarmed!
Can’t even spend commercial breaks
Protecting our women-folk from stampeding herds of buffalo
Or mowing down traitors – or the occasional homo)
You know for a fact, cause you’ve taken to heart
The incisive reporting you read on Breitbart
That our health-care system, centrally-planned (did
You warn us? You did!)
Is collapsing five-yearly,
Why, you could see your wife admitted to the crumbling Central People’s Hospital of Torontokistan while in labour,
And not even be issued your visitor’s pass until it’s nearly
Time to greet the first grandkid!
“Zut, alors!” cries People’s Revolutionary Atheist Abortion-Assistant Marxist Midwife, Rank 34,
“It is imperative that we find more Jell-O for Bed 4,093, komrad,
And when you can’t take it anymore, Just slip the surgeon
A few crumpled rubles.
If it gets them the Jell-O, hell, oh he might
Do you a favour.
O, Cana-DA – !
The dad of current Person-Called-Trudeau, who coincidentally
Was himself also A Person Called Trudeau, and so on and forth,
That to live with our restive pal, our buddy to the south
Was rather like sharing a peanut- and shrapnel-filled bed
(Alright, I’m putting a few extra words in his mouth)
With an elephant—
—An elephant with sleep apnea;
Plus the occasional attack of
Restless Leg Syndrome;
And a tendency to, every so often,
Just out and out
He made the joke, if you check the fact,
Just before enacting the War Measures Act.
Which was itself a shove and a half.
Nonetheless, Quebeckers always have the last laugh, because –
We have to sing O, CanaDA, forever that way.
The word-setting works perfectly – but only en français.
They were first to get their hat in.
Terre de nos aïeux. Je me souvien –
And O, CanaDA,
No matter who may
A Mari Usque Ad Mare! Or, rough translation from the Latin:
A reader has made the sniffy comment that my ode is “not very catchy”.
This is the kind of entitled, sour-grapes kind of sniping from political hobbyists that I’m forced to endure these days, and I’m well aware that this goes hand-in-hand with the kind of celebrity I enjoy now that my stats are well above 10.
Bernie Sanders told me to expect this and I didn’t believe him, well, no one did, really, and it’s to his eternal discredit that he didn’t mention this to me earlier.
Yeah, way to go, Trouble-Hair, and I’m just about fed up enough to reveal you stole that campaign slogan from your local Indian restaurant, “Mama Patel’s Tandoori Palace And Head Shop Buy Your Stiffie Pills Heer-Walla”.
“Feel the Bern”, indeed.
WhateVVVVVER. I welcome the completion of our “Giant Ice Palace from The French People” border wall once the sun goes down again, around August, which is when email transmission becomes dodgy, unless you’re with Rogers and never had any to begin with.
But you know, and can I just say, seriously. Try dancing my ode to the tune of that traditional Newfoundland fiddle classic, “Maple Syrup for my Beaver, Welfare for my Cod” and you’ll feel your toes tapping soon enough.
Even Ashley MacIsaac couldn’t piss on that one.
[PPS: Justin – Called 83 times since 3AM but goes to VM, WTF??? The percs and the razor blades are lined up and I’m running a hot bath, so if you don’t want this on your conscience you better get your “cul” over here and continue our conversational French. Capisce?
Just tell Sophie you’re “going jogging so you can test drive those new socks.” Yeah, that’ll work.
Ditchez la biche et faites le Switch, baby. Ah, oui, tabernac, Marie-Joseph !!!!]
You didn’t ask for it, and here it is! Episode 2 of the series that’s making a big splash!
If you spend, like, a lot of time in a wading pool with your inflatable shark and a Collector’s Edition “Aqua Diver Barbie”.
You’ll see me tussle with a Tassimo, sorry, Bosch, coffee pod maker thingamajig, learn the secrets of buying pastries instead of baking them yourself, and get some insight into the tormented mind of a gadget lover. As well, you’ll hear me get really nervous when Doug starts spouting off about BLM, at which point I try to shut him down by doing a really bad Caribbean accent, so now I’m afraid to leave the house.
It’s not a lot of fun being a white, gay, male liberal. Nope. Me and fun just take a gander at each other, sniff and cross to the opposite side of the street. Which means we’re both on the same side again.
Toronto’s PRIDE 2017 celebrated diversity and inclusion. Yet some people—even some gay men—still think that’s a shame.
Men, men, men! Not a flicker of humor in a back room full of us! Forever shooting our wads, then rolling away from the damp spot and falling asleep; forever forgetting that ejaculation is for Christmas, but a snuggle is for life.
I’ve come fresh from Pink News online, the British gay rag that’s the equivalent of Canada’s Xtra (but with better fashion and that string of pearls that you didn’t buy at Winners, but inherited from Great-Aunt Prunella) where the headline read—and you may want to sit down for this bit, lest you collapse onto your vitrine filled with Lalique crystal—
Men tell homophobic jokes because of their own fragile masculinity, study finds.
Well, slice me to ribbons under the Queen streetcar! That gem ranks as news right up there with “Sun Rises in East” and “Dog Bites Intruder, Then Pees on Carpet”.
Personally, I’m gobsmacked.
So imagine our surprise when a whole Ford F-150-full of fragile masculine egos came out to defend themselves against the “feminists” who designed and conducted the study.
(Feminist in this context fulfills the same function as Nazi does elsewhere, describing as it does not an actual specimen of the genre but a scarecrow, only dressed up in dungarees and a tool belt instead of black leather and jackboots; and instead of translating as “someone I disapprove of on principle”, it reads, “women I’m extra scared of”.)
Take a gander, or maybe a gender, at this response:
The folks who are most threatened and defensive are the writers and editors at PN who relentlessly push effeminacy and gender deviance whilst denigrating traditional masculinity and manhood. It’s almost as if they know that they are failures as men and want to use sexual orientation as an excuse. But decades of studies have shown that effeminacy manifests only in a minority of gay and bi men. So sexual orientation is no excuse for their personal failure to function as men.
And here’s my response to that :
“Gender deviance”? Holy Krafft-Ebing,
where’s my laudanum? I may have an attack of the vapours!
I did live in Britain for 16 years and I read Pink News all the time. But that was pre-Internet, so perhaps their relentless pushing of effeminacy was less effective; I’m pretty sure I have at least half a testicle lying around somewhere.
A man is a man is a man, to rewrite Gertrude Stein; if you got the right bits and feel comfortable with them, that’s all it takes. If you don’t feel comfortable with them, that’s called “gender dysphoria” according to the bible of psychiatric diagnosis, the DSM-5, and the word dysphoria in the new edition refers to the anxiety caused by SOCIETAL pressures and the prejudice coming from those who do not accept “deviance” – and what an extraordinarily, umm, nostalgic word choice, by the way.
Nostalgic, or bathetic to the point of laughter, conjuring up as it does the kind of sleazy soft porn novels my dad would have read in the ’50s: “They’re wild! They’re dangerous! They’re: DEVIANT DAUGHTERS!”
But back to your ridiculousness: Men learn how to be men; it’s not innate and it’s not written somewhere in a manual. We learn from fathers, mentors, leaders, heroes (and sometimes the wrong heroes: the most superficially impressive instead of the wisest).
The problem is evident: We men more often than not learn from walking, talking, blustering, posturing models of manhood who have mastered nothing but bravado. We think they’re the reference, but in fact they’ve had a few of the most important pages ripped out.
It’s as though we’re seated at a formal dinner and, at a loss, look to the distinguished older guy on our right; then, following his brave example, we mix our petits pois with the mashed potatoes, then shovel them in with the grapefruit spoon.
To call a man a failure because he does not fulfill your checklist of “real manhood” tells us perhaps a bit more than you would have us know. That checklist is nothing other than plain old garden-variety homophobia — dressed up in its “Disgusted, Tunbridge Wells” best, maybe, but homophobia all the same.
Normal is the average of deviance — Rita Mae Brown
In fact, what you have angrily and perversely crossed off your list is exactly what a man needs: everything you label “effeminate”. But a tablespoon, or more, of “effeminacy” does a man good. Women, you might have noticed, have a refining effect on men; or perhaps their presence helps men lower their guard and discover their own sensitivity, intuition, esthetic sense, all those things we’re taught to push aside by other men who are afraid and unsure of themselves.
So, put a little more mascara on, sweetie. Slip into your silk peignoir and take a night off. I hereby relieve you of what must be a thankless, lonely burden: of being the self-appointed arbiter of what’s butch. Us real men will decide that for ourselves.
Real men are works in progress, and we haven’t explored even the first ten percent of what we might become.
HAPPY PRIDE ~
Dedicated to every drag queen in
plexiglass pumps who ever threw shade;
every Quentin Crisp who “didn’t know how to
be any other way”; and
to the little boy who chose the Kewpie Doll
as his prize at the fair—me.
non si ferma mai !!** as we dance the tarantella down Tomato-Sauce Lane into my roach-infested yet homey Toronto kitchen. The occasion: The very first episode of my putative new series! Whatever “putative” means!
how to make sauce from a pan you used several days ago and didn’t wash
the never-before-revealed experts’ secrets for correctly pricking your meat
why you should never grab a metal spoon you’ve left in the sauce for an hour
and so much more!
As a special bonus, you’ll get to roll your eyes as I miss the crucial plating moment and end up with mis-synch’d audio and video tracks.
Not forgetting that I held the fucking camera the wrong way. Nothing says “I want to be a feature film maker but can’t even handle my smartphone” like eight minutes of footage in PORTRAIT MODE!!
Anything to make you feel more competent, baby! Buon appetito!
Poverty never tasted so Mm! mm!goood!™
F R O M M Y S Q U A L I D K I T C H E N™
**Il divertimento non si ferma mai: “The fun never stops”, but translated by Google, so it might very well actually mean “Traffic will be diverted from May 1st”. Ask a native speaker if it means so much to you.
* Malocchio: Old Italian nonna [grandma, but with all the Anglo niceness and sweetness removed and replaced with pure malice and possibly a moustache] dressed head to toe in black, jabbing her fingers at you so that you get the evil eye [mal + occhio]. Your testicles will immediately shrivel up with fear and you will regret every sin you ever committed that an old Italian nonna in black might have not wanted to see, but did.
Soon thereafter you will die under the merciless Sicilian sun beside a withered cypress tree, with crows flying overhead, and the nonna and her old Italian nonna friends (amici) will be wailing with wordless ancient sorrow over your mutilated corpse, even though they are the ones who did the mutilating.
Kind of thing.
Not to be confused with “Pinocchio”, a wooden puppet who comes to life under the bed around three AM and grows a long, phallic nose. So if you don’t die of fright, you might actually have a pretty good time. There is no good time with Malocchio. OK?
Plate: as a verb, to put the food, e.g. squalid sausages or whatever, on an actual plate before sitting at a table to eat, rather than just scooping it up in your hands and eating it like that while hoping that nothing will drip on the sofa, or sometimes not even realizing that a sofa should not have food dripped on it because you’ve been on the street so long. It depends.
Lips and Assholes: The content of cheap sausages; sometimes used erroneously to describe the videographer making and narrating a short movie. [q.v. coming out of the bathhouse all sketchy at 9AM and asking a random stranger on the street, “Does my face smell like ass?”]