low-brow entertainment

SlowPainful: Director’s Cut, cha-cha-cha!

Well, it’s good news, here at bittersweet-comic-personal-essay-political-satire-with-a pimento-stuffed-olive-and-a-twist-of-gay-as-a-goose bootcamp.

I’m done. 

Not just done. 

Done, or even DONE.  There’s nothing more. I am squeezed dry, like a lemon wedge squeezed repeatedly by a blue-haired lady over her Dover sole in the dining room of her cheap seaside bed and breakfast, somewhere on the south coast of England, possibly Portsmouth, where the paint is peeling off from the salt wind, the hydrangeas nod their heavy rain-laden heads and the bathroom smells of bay rum and lavender sachets …

… She eats her tea alone, spinning out her final days, fading with the twilight. The crisp yellow spritz of lemon juice, the delicate mauve taste of the sole. Soggy chips and coleslaw with salad creme … Squeeze …

I’ve finished shoe-horning in the yacht race out of Newport with the Bright Young Things; the obligatory interlude with the aliens who teleport the entire Jones clan to their spacecraft for an extended nightmare of  intimate probing; a trope now so eagerly anticipated, it’s practically a family tradition—Little House on the Prairie, with sphincters;

A little musical bon-bon with the young, but still scary, Angela Lansbury that will have your grandad rubbing the stained crotch of his sweatpants against the newel posts in the seventh floor stairwell at “Sunset Lodge,” and, of course, The Scene with the Dinosaurs that finally explains, without the baggage of words, the ultimate meaning of our existence. 

SPOILER:

This involves a Club Pack of ground beef that was left out in the sun too long, made the leap into consciousness and in a surprise coup assumes the office of President of the United States. Giant Patty for Prez! is all the slogan s/he needs to win hearts and minds with shock and awe, but Patty’s Presidency’s a polarizing one, and soon there’s just two camps: The Pity People, who want to tax the middle class until they’re poor, fuck the poor, then give it all to the forty-seven old white guys;  and their sworn, mortal enemies, the Patty People, who want to do all of that exactly the same, but with tear gas.

Who will save the free world from Giant Patty’s reign of hamburger horror? 

“I will save you!” We hear the voice before we see the speaker, but wait—is that—Persistent, Urine-y Old-Guy Smell…?  

Yes, Bernie Sanders has arrived to spoil everything! He’s formed the Purity Party, and really, the choice is simple:  vote for a billionaire racist misogynist who hires his relatives, sucks Russia’s cock, runs his campaign with money laundered through his charity, and flouts the rule of law; vote for Bernie, who wants full frontal social democracy in a country where the idea of health care has NRA members marching in formation and screaming “communism”—or a woman.

Sorry, BITCH.

Obviously it’s the billionaire racist, hands down, and there’s hardly a millennial who’s figured out how to open the front door and wait for someone to drive them to the polls who doesn’t throw up their hands, slam that door shut again and wail,  “If I can’t have you, I don’t want nobody, baby! 

Bernie’s thrown a spanner in the works. Bernie’s shown them how important he is. Bernie’s The Man. Bernie Bernie Bernie!  At least he saw to it that The Bitch didn’t win.  At least there’s that. And to a man with Persistent, Urine-y Old Guy Smell, that feels an awful lot like a lose made of win.

So once again it falls to our redoubtable Marines, half of them in clingy cotton floral-printed sundresses and the other half grabbing the butts of the first half without consent, to deploy their secret weapon:  A firehose with the diameter of the Lincoln tunnel that originates in a genderless washroom in Texas, snakes its way across the half-submerged south eastern states and floods Giant Patty, Washington, D.C., and most of Park Slope, Brooklyn, with chunky tsunamis of Kraft Sandwich Spread; reminding us once more that none of us ever really enjoyed having the word “chunky” associated with food.

Not. At. ALL!!

In the thrilling dénouement, Hillary, in full Carmen Miranda kit,  lobs a giant pineapple at “that leetle Corteth beetch”, knocking the upstart Socialista for a loop, but finally gets her corporatista comeuppance when Robert Mueller, lumpy as a sack of potatoes in a pair of blue tights which I’m not even sure belong to him, catches up to Hillsy as she shakes her maracas on top of Mount Rushmore and smacks her in the cha-cha-cha with a salt-packed anchovy fillet.  Hillsy then falls to her death, which renders her temporarily speechless.

Epilogue: Just as the credits are about to roll, Bernie Sanders wanders in looking angry and confused and spoils everything.  

I know, I know. 

It’s been done.

On the other hand:  Buy my book.  It contains absolutely nothing I’ve mentioned here. 

This link will land you smack dab on the e-book page.

Prices are $4.99 CAD for the e-book—that’s Canadian dollars, so, like, our version of free—and 30% off the trade paperback and the gloriously linen’d hardcover for the HOLIDAYS.   Get that?  THE HOLIDAYS.

War on Christmas? Oh, baby—!

Hand me my Kalashnikov, strap on my fuck-me pumps and point me to that manger.

֎

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Can You Spot All Eight TrumpTicks On This Muffin? CDC Creeps Out Internet With Horrific Viral Post!

trumptick

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) have tweeted a photo of a muffin that has ruined muffins for everybody.

Trumpticks, with their tiny minds and even twinier hwands, can totally spoil your day should you accidentally ingest some of their toxic ideas, which have been described as “completely indigestible”.

The merest nibble on a half-baked Trumptick can cause Alzheimer’s-like confusion, inability to deal with progress and a compulsion to spew out any old dumb, offensive nonsense the second it occurs to you.  Advanced symptoms include pulling weird faces while standing in front of a lectern, shrinkage of the brain to pin size, and lopsided hair that takes on a repellent, orangey sheen.  Pretty soon you’re running to your kids’ school with guns for all the teachers, compulsively pressing elevator buttons and phoning out for Korean barbecue with “the nuclear option”.

If you see a Trumptick that’s latched onto you, DO NOT SQUEEZE ITS HEAD, which is empty anyway, and kind of a gross out.  Take a big pair of tweezers and pull slowly while chanting, “This is how to make America great again”.  It’s a lot easier than you think.

Once you’ve done that, just call Nancy Pelosi.  She can’t help, but, you know.

She’d appreciate the attention.

I frickin’ Hate Bernie Sanders, I don’t need logical reasons and I don’t give you any. {NSFW warning}

But first, a word from one of my cartoon personae, Her Royal Insufferability, The Princess of Happy.

Things I’m Princess-Happy About!

princessOfHappy

  • I ride the vanilla ice-cream sky in a cotton-candy fuelled rocket ship shaped like a cartoon turret window. Yeah bite me, commoner!
  • If I try hard enough I can move my face a few pixels to the left and up, so I have two faces. Unlike you, who just keep your pixels in one spot for the same effect!
  • When I vilify you, my words come out already colored with a rainbow gradient. Your words are just one color.  Hard to describe, but if BORING could barf, that would be it.  Giggle!
  • Despite the, you know, rainbow gradient, I’m not a homolesbo. Even if I were, there’s only room for one in the cartoon turret. Sigh! You, on the other hand, are a narcotic dog’s breakfast of flapping wrists, shrill second-hand opinions and entangled power tool cords.
  • I eat nothing but candy canes stolen from blameless, well-behaved orphans and the occasional piece of Laura Secord® Buttercream Fudge, and after I do, my breath smells like minty buttercream heaven. Big kiss, lots of tongue!  AHLLLLLLWLLALALALLL !  You could eat nothing but honey straight from the comb and still wilt a vase full of gerbera daisies at fifty paces with a single exhale!
  • In the land of Happy, there is no tooth decay.  There are no teeth, either, but whatever.  I’ll make do with sucking and gumming.

“sucking” giggle.

What’s even more galling, I laugh, or more accurately, giggle an insouciant giggle when I see a large ice floe looming up and realize I’m veering off course in the high wind and might very well end up splatted on the ice floe or impaled on a frozen tree branch on the way down.  Maybe you should try that!

Not the impaled bit, the insouciant giggle.  Are you always this high maintenance, my loyal subjects???

Time for luncheon!  Mmmmm, my favorite!  Buttercr —

SPLAT

I frickin’ hate Bernie Sanders.

200w_d

And even though I don’t need any logical reasons, any more than you need reasons why Hillary makes your blood run purple and your eyes bulge, or reasons why you volunteered for the “Let’s Kiss Trump’s Great Butt Better Again” duty brigade, I’ve listed the main, perfectly-valid illogical ones here.

Ready?

I frickin’ hate Bernie Sanders because:

Bernie Sanders has great big oversized Stanfield Y-fronts with skid marks on them.  In his underwear drawer.

Bernie Sanders emits moist little farts when he’s sleeping, which is all the time but especially when he’s dreaming of (a) eviscerating capitalists, or (b) licking his wife, Jane’s, gigantic, sagging tits.

The sound Bernie makes when emitting the moist little farts is that of his ass lips resisting, then parting suddenly to emit a steady vibrating column of intestinal gas. When he’s in practice, it’s usually around a B-flat below middle C.

Sometimes, right before Bernie shakes someone’s hand on the campaign trail, he reaches around, shoves his hand right down his pants, touches his asshole to see if it’s clean, then sniffs his fingers.

If Bernie ever talks at the UN, they’ll have to announce his name, “Bernie”.  BERRRRR-NIE. And everyone will shudder because it sounds so fucking unstatesmanly and retarded.  BERRRRRRRRRRRRR-NIE!  Bernie wouldn’t ratify my treaty!  Bernie didn’t wash his hands before eating his tuna salad! Bernie wears the same dirty socks every day with his Birkenstocks, Bernie picked his nose and ate it!  Ewwwwww!!  Bernie Bernie BERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-NIE!!!!!

Bernie Sanders has never molested a 13-year-old boy or girl, he just thinks about it every so often, then throws on his nasty, soiled raincoat and goes for a walk on a nature trail with no pants on to “rub it out of his system”.

Bernie’s most successfully energized before a big speech when he’s gotten his wife, Jane, to hate-fuck him with a big, black strapon dildo that he’s nicknamed “Michelle”. He likes Jane to wear a rubber Hillary mask when she does this.

When Bernie ejaculates all over his wife’s gigantic tits, he screams “Allahu Akbar!!” So. True.

Bernie stretches out his arms and makes big up and down patting movements during a speech when he wants to make it absolutely clear that he’s full of seven pounds of fresh horse shit he ate just that afternoon.

Bernie has a nasty, fake, mirthless smile that shows off to perfection his irregular, yellow, coffee-stained old-guy dentures. When he smiles, he looks like a goblin proof-of-concept that was dropped from Lord of the Rings because it was too scary for mature adults.

Bernie blows at least one new recruit to the National Rifle Association every Wednesday, at their club house. He takes out his unsoaked, reeking dentures first, so he can give a nice, wet, sloppy blowjob with saliva gobbing down his chin in long, stringy, mucous-y strands.

Right after he gives the sloppy blow job, Bernie gets his campaign manager to find a millennial he can surprise with a “sploodge kiss”.

When he’s relaxing from the duties of campaigning and spreading horseshit, Bernie likes to get nekkid and show off his masturbation technique on Chaturbate, under his top-secret special screen name

“Smelly Old Trotsky Fart Exhib Lenin Chihuahua-Penis Marxist Gooner Perv 4
Retarded Fucking Asswipe Millennials”.

Bernie has bequeathed his patented “masturbation tweezers” to the Copenhagen Sex Emporium and Museum of Deviance, along with his jizz-stained copies of “Das Kapital” and “Myra Breckinridge”.

Bernie has great swathes of long, funky, greasy, yellowing pubic hair enveloping his balls like sage grass.  It’s at least two inches long, even though his gigantically fat wife Jane has begged him to “manscape” from inside her gas mask.

Bernie gives off a strong old man in the retirement home whiff of stale urine while sitting in the Senate on hot summer days.  Also on cold winter days. Which is why nobody ever sits near him or pays any attention to him. When he wants to stand up and leave the Senate, he has to bribe an intern to pry his ass off the chair with a metal spoon.

Bernie is behind every incident of improper male touching that’s been outed in the past six months. In fact, his hideous, fraud-committing wife, Jane, has “Me” tattooed on her left ass cheek, and “Too” on the right, with plenty room left over for the the hash symbol and maybe the first two chapters of “The Female Eunuch” in a display font.

But the main reason I hate Bernie Sanders is that he’s lying, snivelling, arrogant, bad-smelling, ignorant, gammy-legged, limping, small-dicked old-guy snotty perv LOSER spawn of Trump who couldn’t get a dog to piss against a fire hydrant if he demonstrated.

Which, I’ll have you know, he’s been arrested two hundred and thirteen times for doing.

~

Just getting up from the Ditch of Despond and climbing back onto the Carousel of Crazy: An overview

Hello, many of you have written to ask if I’m OK.

Actually, that’s a blatant lie, not a single one of you has written, sent a message in an old Shiraz bottle, hired a bird from “Carrier Pigeons Plus” or done any of those “too busy to express how little I care but spending a portion of my vast disposable income on something that gives ME a laugh will substitute, sort of, and anyway, like it or lump it” things that would lead me to believe that my followers are actually, you know.

Following me.horror

You may be wondering: I’m living solo at home again.  Yeah, you can hold off sending in an application.  For my bedroom, during the past three and a half years, eight months, two weeks and five days, has served much the same function as John Hurt’s belly in Alien, or, should you insist on CanCon, one of Genevieve Bujold’s uteri in Dead Ringers:-

A safe haven for those who, having mastered the appearance of what currently passes for normal until the agreement is signed, are looking for a space in which to achieve their true form, then, having gorged to repletion on whatever leathery tubes and lobes are to hand, explode into existence as yet another iteration of bucking, wiggling nameless horror.

And have YOU cleaned exploded abdomen off your bedroom walls lately?  Five cans of Comet later my hands are like two red udders, and just TRY telling your building management that it’s from spending too much time skiing in Gstaad.   Like, seriously??!!

So, in the interests of keeping my blog alive, I hereby demonstrate my well-honed off-fobbing skills with an animated GIF, those Lascaux cave paintings of the early Web which have now resurfaced as the crack cocaine of social media—and animated GIFs of cats are the true, pure Colombian shit.

Just don’t cut yourself on the nasty, sharp, broken edges of your monitor in your haste to sample the goods.  There’s a petal.  Cause open sores on the lips don’t jibe with that Craigslist ad of yours that goes

“Chew!  My!  Nipples!!?? Barely legal teen, up to two fingers, wants horizons expanded!! Orange toupées, billionaires and sponge-y, fleeting hard-ons front of line!!  OMFG??!! Looking??!! for NOW???!!! PayPal???!!!”

Cats, in case you hadn’t noticed, are the second-most pathetically laughable beings on the planet, combining as they do unshakeable belief in their entitlement to your slavery, a chilly dignity that is 99% condescension, and an unbridled, nobody’s-watching, let-your-fur-down, meaningless and self-serving acrobatic idiocy.

Second-most.

So, then.  Wanna know how I’m doing, solo once more?  Since you asked?

cat-somersault

« À bientôt, ma Virginia collective, à bientôt … »

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

DON'T MAKE ME SAY IT

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.

These.

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…)