Guest bloggers

INTERPRET MY DREAM* CONTEST!! ** (with guest blogger Meryl Streep)

I had this dream*: I was back at the Royal Conservatory of Music, but as an adult.

Oh really. How original!  This usually means you get to wear, for example, ridiculously undersized Buster Brown shoes and a sailor suit, unless it’s just the Buster Browns with knee socks.  Which is distressingly like Japanese porn.  Just add pigtails and some California rolls.

At any rate, I was practising piano in one of their studios when Meryl Streep as a teacher came in with her pupils – I had run overtime.  Like Big Surprise, right?

Meryl plays her as  a rather plaintive, gaunt figure in black, a cross between, say, Isabelle Huppert, Emily Dickinson and Meryl Streep.  Or Charlotte Rampling.  Or Meryl Streep playing Charlotte Rampling, which she would do better than Charlotte Rampling would.  I’m just surmising.  I mean, probably better.

Let’s all hear it for Meryl fucking Streep, Mistress of The Universe!

Where was I?  Oh, yeah.

The bit where you get frantic and confused:  I began to pack up, and in the process I became – altogether now – frantic and confused. I suddenly realize that it’s Meryl Streep’s bags I’m searching through and packing and repacking – and even more compromising, I’ve taken some of her valuables and put them in my pockets, like, gaspwhatever.


PRIZE:  Most of this NOT included. NOT PICTURED and probably NOT included:  Little Swedish flag stuck into the mashed potatoes. Mashed potatoes NOT included.

I’m missing reruns of Seinfeld for this?

I realize my mistake and confess to her, and start to return the valuables – documents, cards, pics of her children, there seems to be no end to the stuff – but she is horrified and offended and accusing. Nothing I say or do will convince her of my innocence or that it was just a mistake.

Yes, it’s the old “back at school with-optional-humiliating-nudity” trope. I leave the studio to find that there is a handwritten sign in the high-school-like hallway slyly publicising my mistake for all to see.

Oh Meryl, every dream has this sequence somewhere, you just can’t remember it.  This is why every time you go to evensong at Saint Swithin’s in the Mange you look at the minister and instead of his face you see a large, unruly vagina. OK?  So you can probably cut down on the Vicodin.

Random musings to convince you that if you spend another three hours on this rubbish you’ll extract some kind of life-lesson that you can subsequently spin into a spiritual cash-cow type product that preys on people’s stupidity.  q.v. “The Secret”: But WHY has this happened? What’s my EXCUSE? Is it the darkness of the studio, my haste, the fact that I keep putting on her thin-framed, unattractive spectacles?  My overweening desire to sit around doing nothing and get paid?

Oh, fuck it.

I mean, I’m trying to milk this puppy for all the foreshadowing I can get and it still reads like a rejected script for “Pee-wee’s Playhouse”.  That’s the episode where Meryl Streep plays everything, including the postman, the fat chick and all of the toys, cause she had some spare time on her coffee break or something. I’m telling you, her “Little Red Fire Engine” is devastating.
And that’s even before she sings “Die Winterreise” from memory in the original German, while accompanying herself on a replica fortepiano she built in her hobby room.
Why don’t we all just kill ourselves so Meryl can do everything?  Hey, Meryl for POTUS ! Meryl for CEO of Con-Agra!   Meryl for—Hey Meryl –  wanna write this blog post, too, I bet, don’tcha!The dream goes through a dissolve and now Meryl Streep is writing this blog post.  Go on!  Knock me over with a girder! 

CONTEST**: Interpret my dream*!  (by guest blogger Meryl Streep)

Meryl Streep:  (sounding exactly like David.  No.  Better than David.  Her comic timing is impeccable.)  You may be wondering so here’s why you should just do this:  I’ll Purolator a single IKEA Swedish meatball*** with a tiny container of lingonberry preserves to the author of the best and most convincing exegesis.

Entry fee: $500.¹  I know, I know, just see the footnote. You must perform a skill-testing question that will probably involve pronouncing the word “exegesis” and naming all of the Canadian Governors-General since Confederation. OK, one Governor-General.

No it’s not Sarah Palin.

Entries MUST be written with a fountain pen in INDIGO BLUE INK, preferably in those little plastic vials that used to explode all over your pencil case and get on your white shirt.  See, it’s like having a dream* along with me!  Never, and Virginia, if you’ve forgotten, I’m going to remind you to never never never again forget how good I am to you.   N-E-V-E-R.  Now get those pens scritchy-scratching!

*       DREAM is genuine.
**    CONTEST is bogus and anyway it ended yesterday.
***  See picture.  DISCLAIMER: Serving suggestion only. ONE meatball delivered per winning entry. Meatball MAY or MAY NOT contain “meat”.  I reserve the right to have Meryl Streep play the meatball.  

Lingonberry preserves included, quantity may vary from that pictured.

Prize does NOT include creamy mashed or possibly puréed? potatoes OR garnish of frozen-then-microwaved “petits pois”.

OR lovely IKEA plate. I broke them all. Anyway.

Meatball pre-dates IKEA meatball recall of 2013. Use at own risk.

ONE entry per household. ONE this. ONE that. More rules, more rules. Blah blah blah.



¹ I know.  But it discourages the the riff-raff, along with the word “exegesis”.

Quick note from  guest blogger:  

This was a supremely challenging role, David.  I think the worst part was mastering the “oot and aboot thing”.  And when I say I didn’t eat, I truly mean I did not eat for a full week!  I think the correct plural for “Governor-General” was a sweet touch of calculated authenticity.  And I know you do, too.

That’s all for now, love.  Thanks for the opportunity to suck all the oxygen out of another role!  I’ll give you a charmless, self-satisfied hug once I flesh out some back-story.  Aren’t I just the best? LOL! It’s a rhetorical question!

Bisousthat means “kisses” in French!  I was pretty sure you wouldn’t know that unless of course you went to Yale! 




Cooking for Str8 Dudes #543 (with guest blogger Émile Iscoffatyeu, world-renowned personal chef and chick-magnet)


“La bonne cuisine et un bon cul de salope est la fondation du véritable bonheur!”  – Emile Iscoffatyeu


Today’s, like, super-gourmet chick-magnet nosh is:

Refrigerator-preserved “Guggenheim” limes™
Char-grilled cinders of Dempster’s bagel™

Fuckin’ A, zut alors !


2   limes (round green thing found at Loblaws)

1    bagel (round brown thing with a hole in the middle found at Loblaws, not to be confused with the round brown things with a hole in the middle found at Tim Hortons, which are donuts)

For serving:

1    plate  (round white thing found at – seriously, dude, you getting this down?)

Serves:  You and one skanky ‘ho.  Maybe her three-year-old.  Depends. Who are we kidding, no one’s eating this crap once her panties are off.  Which is on the bus on her way to your apartment if I’m thinking of the right skanky ‘ho.

Yeu may be – ‘ow do yeu say ? – wondering:

How to get more pussy:


Refrigerator-preserved Guggenheim lime.

1. Two years ago, put the limes in the refrigerator.  We recommend waaaaay at the back, behind the Hellman’s jar with the blue fur in it.  Otherwise that other ‘ho you met – the one from AA with the partial plate and a taste for margaritas – is bound to commandeer them, if only to stuff them down her bra.  Right on!

2. Now, after reaching into your soiled boxer shorts and fondling your balls for 10 minutes*, take the limes out.

* as balls vary in size and fondle-ability, this timing is only a guideline.

 Where was I?  Oh yeah, limes. If you’ve left them for two years properly they will be hard, brown-skinned and basically resemble a poorly-executed Frank Gehry maquette for the Bilbao Guggenheim.

(What the heck is a Bilbao?  Is that, like, a sex toy or the furry dude from Middle Earth? – ed.)

3. Plate the limes.  

Yeah, “plate” them.


Fuck, man, put the limes on the plate, OK?  You want more pussy or what?  Seriously??

4. Meanwhile, attend to the bagel:  With your electric broiler on “high”, place the cut sides of the bagel face up and as close to the element as possible.  Now’s the perfect time to tackle that two-four while cruising “meet-another-skanky-ho dot com” with your pants around your ankles. High five, bro!!


Char-grilled cinders of Dempster’s bagel. (Enlarged to show texture.)

5.   Regain consciousness two hours later and send the fire brigade home, after first decking the dude who shook you awake.  Like, back off, fire-‘mo!

(Maybe – ask him about the Bilbao Middle Earth thing? – ed.)

6.   Call up the ‘ho with the partial plate ’cause she hasn’t eaten since 1985 and you haven’t gotten laid since ?  Yesterday?   Kind of a blur isn’t it?!

Fuckin’ LOL, dude!!

7.  Plate.  Partial.  Down her bra.

8.  And a dildao.


“Just Go Friggin’ Shoot Yourself! : Mastering the Art of the Selfie in These Troubled Times”, by guest blogger David Delaroddis +PLUS+ Regular Dave Be Back!

David RoddisPhew! It’s Dave.  Remember me?   I hope you won’t think too badly of this, but I’ve been taking a little break from the all the frenzied activity here.

You know.

Counting the tsunami of “hits” and “follows”; thanking you, crystalline teardrops a-glistening on my cheeks, for the veritable avalanche of “likes”, which in number are, and stop me if you’d heard this before, like stars in the infinite vault of the heavens; and, betimes, answering each admiring comment in perfect calligraphy, painstakingly rendered with my goose quill in lavender-tinted ink on deckle-edged washi which I’ve sprinkled with my last remaining drops of Eau Sauvage.

Yep, it’s just been scritchy-scritch-scritch, morning, noon and night.

A special call-out for the Taylor family; and though in all humility I must refuse the generous offer of your first-born, you may certainly have him text me when he reaches 18 (21 in certain U.S. states).

You guys!  Keep a blogger on his toes or what!  I love you guys!  Sigh!

But, selfless candidate for beatification that I am, I realize my going temporarily AWOL is an act that affects more than just me.  I’m particularly concerned that those of you with suicidal ideation might just be pushed right over the edge unless I handle this carefully.

So to distract you, as with a cheap, shiny object, I have invited world-renowned Canadian photographer, author, pundit and irrepressible adulte terrible David Delaroddis to guest blog for me.

Let me pause for a moment while you let that sink in.

Let me…. let me…. pausssssse ‘sdlkalsds\;jlk;sdlkd kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk

Sorry, nodded off!

Anywho, Delaroddis, you will recall, is author of the of New York Times #1 Best-Seller, “Photography is Friggin’ Hard Unless Of Course You’re Me™”, and its soon-to-be-published, sure-contender-for-New-York-Times-#1-Best-Seller sequel, “Gee, Willikers But Photography Is Hard! Don’t You Wish You Were Me? HA HA!  I Thought So! But You’re Not!!???™“.

Best known for his shameless self-promotion and unrelenting 24/7 visibility, Delaroddis has ruffled more than a few fine feathers with his controversial opinions on contemporary photography.

On Cindy Sherman:  “Oh puh-leeease!  Any loser can roll out of bed, kit up like Nancy Reagan and lie in a pile of vomit, but without a forty-thousand dollar Hasselblad body with digital back and a ten thousand dollar 85mm Zeiss lens, you might as well drink your Blix bath!  Cindy, darling, enough with the cant already! Your Kodak® Instamatic® awaits!”

On Nan Goldin:  “Well, far be it from me to spoil the illusion.  But honestly, that needy bitch PAID me to smack her in the eyes with her Louboutin pumps so she could stop taking pictures of squirrels in the Champs Élysées and cash in on the whole “women’s lib” flash-in-the-pan.  Look for her operating the passport photo concession at your local Walgreen’s, if she ever figures out which way to point the lens.  Unbelievable???!!!!

On photography:  “Photography is hard!  Friggin’ hard!  Unless you’re me!  Just ask Joe McNally about that little incident involving a certain world-renowned Canadian photographer wearing a frayed security harness, a certain person’s less-than-firm grip on someone’s ankle and the observation deck of the Empire State Building!  Joe, baby, you are so friggin’ busted!”

On fame:  “World-renowned Canadian?  Oh, honey!  Just consign me to oblivion and be done with it!”

So you see.

And now, without further ado, here is David Delaroddis to present an excerpt from Chapter Three of  “Gee Wilikers?”, entitled: “Just Go Friggin’ Shoot Yourself! : Mastering the Art of the Selfie in these Troubled Times”.

Oh, brother. You had better not ever forget how good I am to you. Alrighty?

Just Go Friggin’ Shoot Yourself! : Mastering the Art of the Selfie in These Troubled Times

with guest blogger David Delaroddis

Delaroddis:  Thanks, Dave!  You know, with its heady combination of crude exhibitionism and technical incompetence, the selfie is the quintessential art form of the Internet age.

Today’s tip:  Create a little mystery!  Take a look at these two examples I knocked off during the limousine ride here:

selfie1Number One

Check. It. Out!

I know what you’re thinking: This screams “creativity” so friggin’ loud you can hear it all the way to Des Moines!

Fun Factz:  Think different!  Everyone and their cockapoo photographs eyes, lips and cheeks- but you know better!  You know Photography is Hard!  HAHA!

I promise you, once you learn to think bridge of nose and upload this baby to Facebook, you might as well quit your day job so you can sit by your land line telephone all day waiting for National Geographic to call.

When to use:  Try using this baby as your profile photo on Grindr!  It’s a no-brainer choice to complement your kinky profile fantasies about bad cops, public nudity and extreme anal penetration with objects, and take it from me—if you remember to stay logged in while clearing U.S. Customs, you’re well on your way to making at least two of those come true!

How To Get The Shot:  Using your most grating, petulant tone, order one of your assistants to autofocus on the moist, red bit where your cheap Shopper’s Drug Mart reading specs bite into your tear ducts, then do a big snort of blow.

You heard it first here!

selfie2Number Two

You know, and I just want to say: I hope this isn’t getting too intimidating for you.  The way I always “nail it”.  Put down those razor blades, baby!  Help is at hand!

Anyhoo, this one is using negative space to tell a story. A negative space story.  About me.  David Delaroddis, in case you missed that bit.

I just hope it’s not that story about the 16-year-old high school cheerleaders and the missing bottle of baby oil, which is a pack of filthy lies and if mentioned in your “comments” may just result in— well.  I’d watch it if I were you, wannabe me’s, and just be aware that my international team of brand-protection lawyers is on speed dial.

And if you do decide to be reckless… Don’t answer your front door after 5pm to anyone calling himself “Vinny”, especially if he claims to be delivering a ‘luxury concrete overcoat from GAP’. Nuff said?

This one uses the “Rule of Thirds” to create its magical mystery.

Just spend one-third of your income on camera equipment, read one-third of the manual, which means you will be forever whining,”Can anyone tell me what this little doohickey is for?”

And of course, miss one-third of your loan payments on the Hasselblad body and Zeiss lens, leaving them repossessed and you posting “really  fun and groovy-artistic” shots with your fake vintage Lomo then ruining them with HDR  filters.

Next greatest thing?  HDR???  Oh, honey! Excuse the tears pouring down my face as I point at the monitor and laugh!

Your portrait sitters look like they’ve been thirty-years coal-mining and your landscapes like rejects from a velvet painting correspondence course, but never you mind. Those animated GIF awards from the moderator of the “Really Fun and Awesome Fun Shots, Just Make Sure They’re Not as Good as Mine Or You’ll Be Banned for Harassment!” Group on Flickr will assuage your heartache at the death in darkness of your pathetic career goals.

I mean, I’m sorry to make you cry and I could probably soften the blow.  On the other hand, but hey.

Technical details: Nerd alert!  Forty-thousand dollar Hasselblad body and digital back; ten-thousand dollar Zeiss 85mm prime lens @ f64; resentful crew of twelve unpaid interns; and one limo driver named Wally who can’t keep his hands off me.

Don’t worry, petals.  You can do just as well with iPhone.

HA HA! Kidding!  I love you guys!