We have PAPERBACK! + REVIEW offer

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My cover design for the paperback version


Really, really sorry about my lack of control.  But it’s not every day that you PUBLISH A PAPERBACK !!!.  Oh, god.  This is really embarrassing.  Just try to bear with me as I tell you a little bit more about MY PAPERBACK WHICH IS NOW ON SALE!!!!.


This is what my friend Shaun Proulx, life-transforming guru extraordinaire and architect of the #ThoughtRevolution, tells me is a “soft launch”.  Well, I’m going to take his word for it, as what he doesn’t know about gorgeously shameless self-promotion and roll-off-a-log success wouldn’t fit on the smallest, fiddley-ist hors d’oeuvre Martha Stewart could stamp out with her heirloom cookie cutter.

In fact, he’s been cheekily dubbed “The Gay #Oprah”; word has it that Ms O’s acolytes occasionally forget themselves and refer to their bossatrix as “The Big, Black, Obscenely Rich and Heterosexual Shaun Proulx, Except Shaun Doesn’t ‘Balloon'”, which earns them a great, big, corrective “love tap” from the CEO.  I can picture her now as she hauls back and, with a follow-through like a Wimbledon champ, cracks the back of that jewel-encrusted hand across each penitent face while screaming, “This is gonna hurt you more than it hurts me!  KIDDING!!”

The book is for sale on Lulu.com, who are the gentle and helpful publishing midwives to this elderly primo gravido.  Once I’ve approved the physical copy, it will be sent for possible distribution on Amazon, Barnes and Noble and other so KEEP YOUR FINGERS CROSSED!  I AM SO EXCITED!!!


May only, get 20% off. Click on the cover image above to go to my product page on Lulu.com and to purchase.


If you’ll go onto Lulu.com and write a review, I’ll send you a PDF of the paperback final version, free of charge.  Shoot me an email at david@davidroddis.com with subject line:  Paperback review offer and I’ll get it off to you within a day or two.


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.


New Year’s Resolutions +plus+ : Step aside and don your catcher’s masks…

Hasta la vista, 2015, and take a bitch-slap on your way out.  Gracias!

… while I haul back, preparatory to bitch-slapping the year formerly known as Little Miss 2015 from here to Des Moines and back.

Hasta la vista, withered old putana of a year, and go dance your hobnail-booted habañera on someone else’s empañada!

Be it ever so faint, the next sound you hear will be my chapped, whitish lips – and believe me when I tell you I didn’t get them while skiing at Gstaad – puckering up, with what little saliva I can scrounge, to plant a sort-of-juicy but entirely welcoming kiss on the jiggling pink buttocks of 2016.

Yo, beh-BEH!

À propos the aforesaid less-than-juicy kiss, a “helpful” – which adjective is always to my mind surrounded by scary quotes – reader writes to me with the following information:

… may I suggest that you use a touch of milk and turmeric to remove the whitened chapped lips and a simple splash of olive oil to return them to there [sic.  sic as a dog] naturally pink hue. As for the saliva issue – simply suck the life out of anything that is “sour” and again the warm juices will flow like the nectar of a flower straight into your mouth.

Well.  There’s nought so queer as unsolicited advice.  I tried the olive oil and turmeric hacks but I just ended up looking like a reheated plate of yesterday’s baingan bharta.  (Too much turmeric? Or maybe too little.  Then again, what do I know!  LOL!- Ed.)

And in the infinitely repeating third-act reversal that is my life, the candidates for “sour”, apparently not effectively apprised of their role, have spent the greater part of 12 months sucking the life and soul out of me before vanishing up their own PTSDs with no hint of a forwarding address.

But enough about yours truly.  Let’s turn the focus back to you, dear reader, as in: What do you think of my New Year’s Resolutions?

You will note that I’m changing the schema of my life from “all-about-me” to “all-about-me-every-waking-second-and-as-much-of-the-sleeping-seconds-as-I-can-wrangle”, which at least is indicative of a spiritual change, if not actually an upgrade.

Once again, and not for the last time, a word to the wise:  Never forget how good I am to you, little troopers.  But never.

New Year’s Resolutions, 2016.

1.     This year, I pledge to receive more blowjobs than I perform.
Let’s make absolutely sure we’re on the same page here:  Receive not perform. Yes, I’m thinking Nobel Prize.   No wait, Pulitzer.

2.     I did not smoke enough in 2015.  This year, I vow to conquer my personal best, a pack a day, three packs if they’re from the reservation.  (10,000 hours to mastery and all that, and while I’m on the topic, thank you, Malcolm Gladwell!  Please see #1, above.)

3.     I commit to having more gay brunch, and always with extremely gay “stuffed” [sic] French Toast. (? “Freedom” Toast? Gay reminder to check. Gay.  Did I mention gay? Gay gay gay. Gay!)

4.     In 2016, if I cannot stop being a doormat, I will at least be a doormat by Aubusson. Actually – I’m thinking Pottery Barn.  Really I would honestly say more like IKEA.  No point biting off more than I can chew!  LOL!

5.     I plight my troth to spending more time on the “Innernet”, which also gives me extra practice with my ‘Murican pronounciashun (By the Innernet, I mean of course Amazon.com and Wikipedia, “The Encyclopedia You Write Yourself!”™).

6.     I swear on my mother’s grave I will think way more about President Trump and what his story teaches me about good, honest ‘Murican work, incisive intelligence and corruscating wit, and less about Justin Trudeau and what his tousled hair and rippling muscles teach me about oh Christ baby just answer the fucking phone, please?!  

7.     I resolve to be so very fucking proud to be Canadian.

Canapés have feelings, too.

8.     Make no mistake, I am firm about eating more baby seals.  Baby seal canapés, baby seal hamburgers, baby seal maki sushi, baby seal breakfast cereal.  Because, you know. Vegetables – and yes, of course, Adolf Hitler as well, thank you for mentioning it! – have feelings, too. They’re just, I dunno. Shy?

9.    Recycling.  Hard as it may be, I will will will do even less recycling this year.  I prefer to externalize my recycling duties to Union Carbide, Monsanto and Nestlé, who, never mind leaving the place as they found it, haven’t even made their beds, walked the dog or taken out the trash yet.  They are just so fucking grounded!

And Fraser River salmon wearing plastic shopping bags are, to my entrepreneurial mind, a synergistic marketing opportunity that has slipped under the radar.

10.     I will scwew up my widdle face with my unflagging determination to talk to God on a daily basis, Yo!  I especially want to know when the next overloaded-with-women-and-blind-one-armed-orphans Indian ferry is going down, as there are a few blind-one-armed women and blind-one-armed orphans I’d like to be on it.  And a couple of fucking blind-one-armed baby seals, too.

11.     I solemnly resolve to sulk.  Oh, fine, alright, sulk more. Smart-ass!  It’s just all about you every time, isn’t it?    Done!

12.   While swearing on a multi-cultural stack of Bibles, Korans and Bhagavad Gitas, I sincerely promise that I will stop getting annoyed with gay friends who refer to themselves as having a “mangina”, a “munt” or a “mussy“.

Instead, I will hack them to death with my Martha Stewart Mini Stick Blender.

Happy New Year. Everyone. Really.  

Memory Lane, c/o The Little Cottage with the Delphiniums, Cabbagetown, Toronto.

The Eponymous Delphiniums. Since you asked.
The eponymous Delphiniums. Since you asked.

Yes, it’s nostalgia time here at slowpainful dot com, and this of course means I’m going to fob you off with repurposed material.  Never, and believe me when I say it, NEVER forget how good I am to you.

The first barrel of crude comes courtesy of, you guessed it, my fracking source of choice for black, sticky narcissism, Facebook.   What would I do with my time otherwise?  Clean the apartment? Fuddle-duddle! 

(Justin, baby, did you catch my little quote from Papa Trudeau?   My little fresh-from-the-oven brioche!  Now  answer your frickin’ phone, OK?)


If you click on the image – oh, snookums, as if you haven’t already, c’mon now, own up – you’ll be transported back to a kinder, gentler time of stockpiled egg whites and their invaluable quick life tip.  Trust me when I say that my brutal honesty around this particular hack has saved many, many a marriage from actually taking place.

And if the stiffening peaks of my meringue leave your heart cold as a baked Alaska, allow me, if you will, to regale you with the updated semi-colons and changed text color on my post » Sacramento! and other useful California expressions.  This is what we call, in “Innernet” jargon, a refresh.

So if you’re planning an ill-advised trip to California, or just looking to toss, as it were, some sparkly Epsom salts into the flat, tepid bathwater that is your sorry excuse for a life, I urge you to check it out.

Yes, I am, and thanks as always for being so in-my-face about it!

Thus, in summary, never, never forget how – hmmm?  Oh, I did — ?

Done Done Done! PLUS: “The Kytt-yger!” + Fun Facts About Literary Icons #14

Never forget how good I am to you.  Deal?

First off, let this be my official announcement: There’s an idée fixe that’s been taking up WAY too much of my mental real estate. So, to make way for more positive, healing thoughts, let me say that

Shhhh… you know… Oh, c’mon!

I am DONE DONE DONE with posting my – well, let’s be honest, rather brilliantly written, but still time-consuming and ultimately spirit-dampening – diatribes about – shhhh – you know.

Oh c’mon. That guy who used to “run” Canada.   The suit.  The alien.

Yes, you do, the one with the lips like chopped liver and the eyes like a horror-film ventriloquist’s dummy.

YOU know… HIM.

Don’t make me say it!!

And while we’re at it:

I will henceforth and forthwith no longer debate evolution with fundamentalist christians; or, in my most reasonable tones, point out to male troglodytes and homophobes the error of their ways.  No, sir-ee.

I’ll just hire my friend Vinny to beat their fucking ugly brains to pulp with a lead pipe.

Time management skills – because it feels so good when you stop!™

And now, for a complete change of pace:

Yet another in a seemingly endless series of instances of how good I am to you.  As previously instructed, never, I mean never, forget this.


You may very well be, in fact, wondering.  Today’s random act of literary munificence by yours truly concerns a long-lost poem by The Child-Bride of Amherst, Emily Dickinson.

Emily D, or so she recounts,  was once visited, while she was under the influence of a teeny bit too much laudanum,  by the spirit of William Blake, who, seeking to get better acquainted with the “saucy little minx”,

knocked back several scalding-hot cups of Lapsang Souchong tea, chugged a couple of tallboys of Samuel Adams, wolfed down the greater part of Emily’s coveted, company-only President’s Choice The Decadent Chocolate Cherry Torte, then, duly fortified after his long, ectoplasmically-fueled journey – and after what he considered a decent interval considering she was a virgin-spinster and all  –

Shtupped her.

Yep.  Just bloody frigged her.  Planted the  purple parsnip, gave her a right old rodgerin’.  Shagged the slag till she gagged.  Do wo’,  Bit of awright, How’s yer father.   Bit of boffin’,  copped ‘er off, got his leg over, polished his knob, had a nice long snog.

I can speak frankly, can’t I?   I mean, we’re all adults?

Anyway, this hitherto-unpublished poem was the result.   Yes, I am, and thank you so much for noticing!

Please! Mr Blake -- !Kytt-yger! Kytt-yger!

Kyttens — ? Tygers — ?
Flickering — Always — !
Down Our — Noon-to-
Midnight — Hallways — !

What — A Mortal —
Daily — Sees —
Depends — on His —
Dichotomies — !


Fun Facts About Literary Icons #14

This is why, for the rest of his life, Blake’s bro’s-down-the-boozer insisted on referring to their rakish pal as:

“The Daft Old Prick who Dipped His Wick In Dickinson”  

Since you asked.

(Ed. :-  A few brief minutes can, indeed, have far-reaching consequences. Ya bloody poofter…)