All About David: A Boy and His Blog

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I am like British weather.  Discuss.

You may be wondering.

A Slow, Painful Death Would Be Too Good For You (and other observations)

is my satirical, humorous, sarcastic, political, existential, disgruntled, hilarious, unplugged, deadly and generally dyspeptic scribblings all gathered into one handy blog so you can ignore everything at once.

Oh yeah, and crude Photoshop composites.

 

Check out this tribute from a typical, as in, former, reader:

Dear So-called Humorist-

Thank you for gathering all this crap into one handy blog. It used to take me hours to tab back and forth between your lame articles, unfunny jokes and generally dyspeptic scribblings,  you can just imagine the frustration.

Now I can completely ignore them all at once, for example, during breakfast—cause I tell ya, once those kids are all sugared up on frosted flakes, it’s like, hoo boy! ADHD-ville!—leaving me feeling ignored, discounted and ready to kiss some corporate ass!

Keep up the good work, sucker!

P.S.  Oh yeah, and crude Photoshop composites.

I can tell you, an honest testimonial like that sure beats a shoe box full of—well. “Disgusted, Topeka”, you know who you are.

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Me with Luciano Cockaroachi (see “The Cockroach Diaries“)

This blog exists to drive you to drink, to think, and maybe to distraction. I like to poke fun, or just poke, Americans, modern life, Americans, politicians, Trump, Hillary, Americans, myself, millennials and Americans.  Did I say that already? And do I come across as shallow?

My life-long and dare I say most quixotic dream is identifying who first floated the concept of canned pineapple rings and maraschino cherries stuck onto a roast ham with whole cloves—and when I find him, trust me when I say there is going to be a “conversation”.

Think Donald’s chat with Melania after her speech, but with tropical fruit:

Donald (dressed like Carmen Miranda):
Hey, Monkey-nipples, meet me in the Oval Office at noon.
Melania (dressed like Carmen Miranda):
Hey, Monkey-nipples, meet me in the Oval Office at noon.

Not pretty, is it?

Regarding “Retrospective of work I’ve yet to do, with canned pineapple rings”, my “artistic project”on Kickstarter:

My target for funding of $10,000,000 USD needs to be fulfilled or the bastards will pull the plug. I mean, the whole point of crowdfunding is that it’s hard work to find one person to donate ten mill, and equally hard to find ten million friends and relatives to donate even a dollar each, at least until you finish rehab.  So basically I’m screwed.

Gee, great business model, Kickstarter!  Way to waste my empty days!

Look, just please make me famous so I can sit around doing nothing and get paid for it, ’cause I don’t qualify for lifetime disability.

Unless being Canadian counts!

Hey, my first “joke”!

ROT-friggin’-FL!!

But you know, one guy’s humor…  being “funny”, whatever that means, requires that we transgress.  Trangress in a BIG way, so it’s almost certain I’ll overstep the line marked “good taste” once or twice.  Good taste is death to humor.  So try to take the pickle out, Murgatroyd, and don’t take it personally.

You will never know what is enough until you know what is too much.

{Was it Barbara Hutton who said that? Jenna Jones? Queen Victoria? Idi Amin?}

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There’s gonna be a ‘conversation’….

Sensitive artist/Obsessive geek;
Loyal friend/Outraged foe;
Red-rose romantic/Tongue-clucking cynic—

That’s me.

The alarming contradictions never end.
You say ‘borderline’.
I say ‘exciting’.

(Potay-to, Potay-to.)

Cyclist fighting the hegemony of the car;
Raging Dawkins-level atheist,
Lapsed vegan (currently free from all eating disorders),
Failed Buddhist (just point me to Lourdes and be done with it).

And the abbreviation “LGBTQ2” fairly trips off my Canuckian tongue.  Take THAT, Orange Heads.

“Boredom” is an existential puzzle generally not experienced in my presence, not least because my current personal best for sustaining an emotion is just under an hour, which gets me through Beethoven’s “Eroica” or the Opus 130 Quartet WITH the Grosse Fuge AND the alternative finale.

With actual people I level out at about four and a half minutes.

You see, I am like British weather:  though you may pack your picnic at 11 A.M., ready to take Christopher Robin by the hand and eat Marmite sandwiches under a bright blue sky, by the time you’ve folded the last fold of waxed paper and closed the hamper you’ll look up to black clouds piled high and jabs of blue lightning.

Blink twice and it will be snow.  It will not even feel like the same month, the same season.

I must finally admit it: I value novelty and chaos over predictability and order (though occasionally since I passed my 60th year, when the latter two poor cousins knock on my door, more often than not they get to sit in the servants’ entrance,  as long as they don’t start expecting more than a grunt and a nod from me).

Since you asked:

At time of writing, my favorite sexual fantasy involves Justin Trudeau, Barack Obama, a ruler, and a pizza delivery gone very, very wrong.

I love:

  • Cuddling with NAFTA-approved stuffed animals (consensual, except for the Mexican donkey, who doesn’t get the “No means No” thing)
  • Answering the door in the nude (see “pizza delivery gone wrong”, above)
  • Stalking George Clooney (and trust me when I say that anyone who can ignore thirty-seven phone calls at 3AM needs professional help, IMHO)
  • Downloading dozens of time-management apps which I then procrastinate about using, then uninstall. Some day.

One final confession, in case you are charmed by my old-school, gentlemanly persona: don’t be charmed.

Because crude, Photoshopped or composited: I am not “kind”.

I’m so happy you stopped by.  Seriously.

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~

February 2017 / updated May 13th, 2017
Toronto