Humor

From My Squalid Kitchen: Episode 2

“Let them eat cake.  In bed.  While gossiping.”

 

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.

Just watch the friggin’ video. Sheesh.

Advertisements

After All I’ve Done For You— ! (a.k.a. Shameless Self-Promotion)

Look into my eyes. Sink back, back,

back into your chair.

But not so far back that you fall out of the chair onto that straggly-looking cyclamen your grandkids brought you six months ago and that you keep “forgetting” to water, and have to lie there helpless on those freezing-cold tiles for eight hours with your day-time-casual hospital gown all hiked up around your waist as you watch the cleaning staff come in, point at you and laugh.

You know, like last time.  Just a little bit far back, OK?

OK.

Now look into my eyes and hear my voice. Feel the soft—honestly rather pervily-sensual— squish of your filled-to-the-brim adult diaper. Oopsies!  Press the big red button to call for help from the nursing station—except they’ve all gone to smoke crack in the utility closet, and you know, can I just say, honestly. This is how socialism always ends up.

Or is it capitalism, I always get them confused.

‘Cause no matter if they’re gussied up like Chairman Mao and eating monkey brains with chopsticks—or stuffed into a three-piece suit from Brooks Brothers and scarfing duck confit at Per Se—

—no matter whether those rulers you never voted for are crushing protesters in Tiananmen Square with army tanks—or driving stretch Hummers through Times Square as they toss Planet Earth out the windows like so much used kleenex—

—It’s the very same one percent.

The very same one percent with the very same hairy forearms shoved up the servants’ entrances of the very same bent over, wide-opened ninety-nine percent, just exactly the way it’s been since time immemorial—and pardon my cliché, but I haven’t had my coffee yet.

Well, then.  Let’s set that aside for the moment and just listen to my voice. OK?

OK.

Life is good, here at the Sunset Lodge.  Oh yes. You’ve made a lot of friends.

People you only ever read about until now! You’ve met Napoleon, that li’l ol’ freckle-faced rascal!  Oh, and Liz Taylor stopped by. Always flogging that cheap cologne! Well, it keeps the flies off, you told her with a saucy wink, then you cackled with laughter!

Dear Liz, absolutely love the child to bits, what a poppet, but she is not known for her self-deprecating sense of humor.

You’ve met Bernie Sanders!  Yes siree, our very own trouble-haired Nutty Professor himself, and you’ve stolen his Birkenstocks, because—

Just because.  Tee hee.

But though life is generally good, one or two details could use some improvement. Like those hot roast beef sandwiches. Gravy???!!!  Seriously??! They call it curry, or dipping sauce, or sports drink, but it’s all the same brown, viscous glop.

You’d ring up The Toronto Star about it, but your arms are still a bit stiff from “exercise time”, and since when does exercise always involve a 200-lb filipina-lesbian nursing assistant and a leather strap?

But hey!  Let’s just wrap that up in the Pepto-Bismol-pink cloud of love and send it to live the rest of its natural life with Jesus. Or Mohammed, or whoever.  Just fucking try to listen the fuck to my voice or I’ll really give you something to fucking cry about!! OK?!?

OK.

Now that you’re in a state of full relaxation, here’s what I want you to do.  I want you—or your Power of Attorney, I couldn’t give a fuck which one of you—to open your wallet and take out your credit card.  That’s it, hold it lightly between your thumb and index finger. And you know what’s coming next, don’t you?

I want you to BUY MY PRODUCTS.

OH, YES.  BUY. MY. PRODUCTS.

And whether you’re chasing some extra sympathy by dribbling saliva down your chin, or just hangin’ with your homies while finger-painting with the yolks of your soft-boiled eggs, these witty, wearable Gandhi T-shirts—in baby-bottom-soft cotton—are designed to look great AND start conversations that don’t begin with,”You naughty boy, look what you’ve done!”, just like it was before you threw in the towel and began faking urinary incontinence!  Good times, pops. Good times…


Gandhi Tees are here!

Inspired and bemused by the

plethora of misquotes and wrong attributions online, I’ve retaliated with this first set of non-existent quotes by the famous, infamous and just plain dead. My Gandhi Tees will leave you and your friends feeling enlightened – yet confused.

These heart-stoppingly beautiful tees with my original “quotes” and design are totally up-snappable @ $25  $20 CAD  until July 16th only! Be the first to own one of these sure-to-be classics!  

Three concepts:

 

About your Tee: This updated unisex essential 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 two additional colors , chosen by me to match its design. Below are just a few examples.

 

Shop the T-shirts »

(opens in a new window)

Breaking News: Attorney-General Sessions calls diplomats “gossipy”; Democrats accuse Attorney-General of being “not-telling-the-truth-y”; Definition of “recuse” sought by anxious White House staff.

MARCH 3rd, 2017:

U.S. Attorney General Jeff Sessions today recused himself from investigations into possible Russian involvement in the 2016 Presidential election, a surprise move that had White House staff scrambling to find a copy of any dictionary they could lay their hands on.

“At first we were like, did he say excused,” said Peggy Wagstaff, Senior Technical Advisor and Playmate of the Month to President Trump, who spoke on condition of anonymity.

“I was like yeah, he totally said excused, and maybe he was just, you know, having another ‘mini’ or something”, continued Ms Wagstaff.

oval office.png

Peggy Wagstaff, Senior Technical Advisor and White House Playmate of the Month, arrives for “dictation”.

“But then one of the guys said, no it was refused, and where was I brought up, in a barn? and some other choice language.

“But I was like, totally sure it was excused and so were a couple other people, but the guys were like, no refused, moron, and then one of the other guys called me a stupid bimbo and grabbed my — you know.

“Well, that pretty much ended the polite part of the discussion, so we decided to find our “Pictionary” set and see who could draw it better, and then that will be what he said,” explained Ms Wagstaff.

The allegations around Sessions have invited comparisons to “Watergate”, the wiretapping scandal of 1972 that resulted in Nixon’s resignation after he attempted a cover-up, then later admitted knowledge of the events.

In some ways, however, it could be argued that such comparisons are unwarranted. Nixon’s actions in resigning clearly indicated the existence, however vestigial, of some sort of moral sense, and his cover-up, though unsuccessful, demonstrated at least the attempt to deceive the public.

So no worries on either score, and can we please just ease up on the Watergate thing.

Nonetheless, what about the calls for Sessions’ resignation, as he is clearly guilty of perjury?

Shortly after Sessions recused himself, we contacted newly-appointed Education Secretary Betsy DeVos for her insights.

“Re-cused”, she responded, sounding guarded. “Did you say — hold on, can you repeat that? Your voice is breaking up. Are you on speakerphone?”

DeVos continued, “Did you mean accused or maybe reused? You sound like your parents may have scrimped on the school vouchers, honey.”

When pressed to explain, DeVos added, with obvious impatience, “Why drive a Ford when thirty thousand more will get you a Mercedes? Why settle for a tatty old second-hand Hillary when a billion gets you a shiny new Donald? You get what you pay for, yada yada.”

We also made numerous attempts to reach anyone in the Attorney General’s office who’d take the call, but without success. Clarification finally came in the form of an official statement from Sessions himself:

FROM THE OFFICE OF THE ATTORNEY-GENERAL OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

FRIENDS, and also colored folks:

I must object in the strongest terms possible to allegations by Al Franken and other anonymous Democratic sources that I discussed election rigging with Russian Ambassador Sergei Kislyak over a simply fantastic luncheon or two.

Sorry, I mean, discussed anything with anyone.

Shit.

You know, it may seem like that’s what I said, but whatever I said just kind of slipped out under pressure, which any patriotic American will know is a key feature of witch-hunts historically, and besides, you must be imagining things.

So that’s why I make this solemn oath to the American people that next time I’m asked anything, I’ll first determine if it requires any form of truth-telling, and if it does, I will speak real slowly so I make sure to get my story straight. You heard it from me, guys: No more “oopsies”!

As for recusing myself, I always thought that was a proofreaders’ error for “refused” or “excused” but my staff tells me there’s a big old definition of recused in our Merriam-Webster dictionary. Well, well.

May I just point out that dictionaries by default share word definitions with everyone, and sharing stuff with everyone is not only gossipy—it is how Communism takes root.

It all starts out innocently enough with definitions for the masses, whether or not they deserve definitions, and the next thing you know everyone’s picking sugar beets in a workers’ collective and singing Shostakovich ‘a capella’.

But fellow Americans, I promise you one thing: by the Grace of God I will not see the Koch brothers’ invaluable time and money tossed out the window for any kind of publication that gives solace to the enemy.

Bless y’all

Jefferson Sessions

~

Kellyanne Conway is still in hiding.

~

Five-minute study reveals: Allowing rich people to launder money, avoid taxes by hiding assets in offshore accounts, while vacuuming up entitlements like they were all-dressed crinkle-cut potato chips, actually ISN’T a great thing after all.

joseph-stiglitz

Willy Arschfecken*, unemployed bricklayer, shares the results of his five-minute study of offshore accounts at the World Economic Summit, Brussels.  Yes, like the sprouts.

Nobel prize winners stunned by presentation; “Who knew?” says Chairman of World  Economic Summit, Brussels.  (Yes, like the sprouts.)

BRUSSELS¹: Unemployed bricklayer Wilhelm “Willy” Arschfecken stunned the World Economic Summit today with the results of his five-minute study of the offshore accounts that the top 1% use to hide their trillions of dollars, in order to avoid paying taxes and other unfair stuff.

To the amazement of everyone, he has turned conventional thinking u pside down and concluded that offshore accounts are not the excellent thing we all thought they were.

“After looking at how much dosh is in these accounts, and then looking at those UNICEF pictures of starving African babies, I thought, you know — maybe rich people should just, like, pay their friggin’ taxes like everyone else,” said Willy, as he unwrapped the waxed paper from a tuna-salad sandwich he’d made earlier in the day.

“Like, here’s my, whaddayacallit, analysis: You got a country with lots of rich people. Say, two or three. The progressives are always getting up in the House or parliament or whatever, complaining that social services are missing, say, a trillion dollars to make them work.

“Then some conservative yells “Socialism” and everyone laughs and goes for a drink. Right?

“Then I thought, wait a minute — what if the rich people actually were hiding, like, a trillion dollars in back taxes? If they paid up, that would solve the problem!

“Am I being, you know, like — simplistic?”

It was apparent from the thoughtful nodding, beard-stroking and shoe-gazing of the attendees that Willy had struck an extremely resonant chord.

 

Tuna : Mayo + crunch factor = economic insight?

“Then I was kinda tired after all those, you know, five minutes of economic analysis, so I made myself a nice tuna-salad sandwich — I’m a big Hellman’s fan, and I always add some “crunch factor”, like, you know, celery, and lots of pepper — and I watched Days of Our Lives. You ever seen that? It’s wicked good!” opined Mr Arschfecken, to the sound of tumultuous applause.

“Anyone want the rest of this sandwich? There’s half a dill pickle, even,” he concluded, before shaking hands with the Chair, waving farewell to the still-cheering audience and being escorted briskly out of the conference chambers.

Then some conservative yelled “Socialism” and everyone laughed and went for a drink.

The World Economic Summit will be awarding Mr Arschfecken a couple of scratch-and-win cards.

“Such a pity, we’re fresh out of Nobel’s,” explained a spokesperson. “But we’d like him to have these.”

Bernie Sanders is very, very old.


¹ Brussels: Yes, like the sprouts. I know,

(Photo Bing-searched and repurposed by:  David DelaRoddis, author of  New York Times Bestseller, “Photography is Friggn’ Hard Unless Of Course You’re Me LOL”).

*Suit supplied by Mr Arschfecken’s ‘friend’, Georg “Lili” Schwanzlange.  Don’t miss Lili in “Ich BIN Lili Marlene, Piss-Königin des Anschluss!” at the KitKat Klub, Hamburg, every Thurs at 11PM. Free disposable raincoat and bottle of Sekt !

Talking of Michelangelo

stonewallii.jpg


Part 1:  Floppy blond hair and hot pants

We’re all adults, right? I can talk freely?

This is the speed-dating portion of the story, so let me just dump everything on you all at once and confess — and this may represent the “deal-breaker” — I’m gay.

You know. “That” way. Artistic. Theatrical. A flick off the old limp wrist. Wearer of white socks. Swishy, lispy, queer, camp. A poofter, a nancy boy, a ponce. A friend of Dorothy. Whoever that is, and should she need another.

And it’s Gay Pride, and I’m 60, all of which combine to create, I’m awfully pleased to note, the ultimate, full-bore all about me scenario.

So let’s get started!

What was it like to be gay back in the ’60s and ’70s, when I was growing up? Everything was just peachy until 1969, when, for the record, I was a precocious 14-year-old with floppy blond hair, early-adopter hot-pants and a 24-hour-a-day hard-on, attributes which, at 60, and usually minus the hot-pants, have approximately reversed themselves.

(And for those of you for whom history begins with the appearance of Lady Gaga, mentions of “Stonewall” refer to our gay watershed moment, in 1969, when patrons of an illegal, Mafia-run gay bar in New York City, tired of police harassment, fought back, precipitating a gorgeously dramatic full-blown riot and giving lie to the notion that the queer community can never agree on anything, because that was the night we did.

Weird coincidence: Judy Garland died the same day, adding a dollop of tragedy, not to mention her finest moment of theatrical one-upmanship, to the proceedings. And please don’t ask “Judy who?”,  we’ll be here for hours.)

Well, then. Until 1969, you lived your life like anyone else did: Going to school, riding your bike, playing whatever sports were suitable to the season, except curling; taking out the garbage, raking leaves and shoveling snow; listening to Ethel Merman in “Gypsy” and watching new episodes of “I Love Lucy”. It was nice.

10636302_747399865306150_5945500856163671888_nOf course, there was that little extra task—of keeping under wraps the shameful secret of your terminal faggotry, your vileness, your perversion, your queerness; of containing the malevolent genie of deviance who, should he escape, would — with one twitch of his nelly, Arabian Nights curly-toed slippers — compel your parents to throw you out, or possibly declare you dead, depending on what passed for god’s tough love in their chosen rite; force your friends to abandon you, utterly, in disgust (unless you’d already gotten drunk on “Baby Duck” and made a sloppy pass at the latest target of your free-floating man-crush, which meant you’d have to leave Dodge City anyway); and ensure your condemnation to an eternity of various fiery and hideously ironic tortures in the innermost circle of Homo Hell.

Otherwise, it was all pretty low-key.

Social life for gay men was similarly pared down. There were in fact two options.

To meet someone in the conventional manner, if you’d managed to work out that there was probably another one to meet, you went to a gay bar, often just a regular men’s tavern that either “tolerated” you or hadn’t clued in yet that there were cuckoos sashaying all over the nest.

If you were lucky enough to live in a big city, there would be a bona fide, dedicated gay bar, where you could butch it up or camp it up, drink cocktails instead of beer and tomato juice, and listen to your preferred music, even dance.

This was like attending gay university and getting your credentials for a lifetime of alcoholism and “Carpenters” albums, a surprisingly popular career track.

Or, second option, there was meeting someone in a public washroom — the microwave method, as it were. Quick and dirty, this made up in sheer outlaw terror, speed and quantity what it lacked in anything approaching your preferred candlelight-Champagne-Swan-Lake vibe or attentive quality, demonstrating once and for all that the genie in the bottle was actually that genial but unruly fellow between your legs; and that the nuns had been right after all for insisting on “hands above the covers” (though how on earth did they know?).

If you are aware of the tendency of gay men in those days to sit at home after dinner enduring the screech-issimo of Maria Callas; or getting all weepy on gin, acting out the entire party scene from “All About Eve” then deliberately botching a suicide attempt, these two options were why.

This, then, was pre-Stonewall, and our camouflage, developed over centuries, was chameleon-perfect. All we required was no rocking of our tiny, exquisitely decorated life rafts. After Stonewall and its rioting drag queens, as if there were any other kind, and the emergence of “Gay Lib”, came the abrupt loss of our protective coloring and underground status.

Now we needed to cope with our fabulous new problem: For with a sudden flare of police searchlights and a sounding of emergency sirens outside an obscure Greenwich Village bar, we had been rendered visible, like helpless specimens of exotic small game chased from their dens, easy pickings for the hunters’ clubs and nets.

Without rights, respect, dignity – without a flicker of understanding or compassion – our Pyrrhic victory had won for us a freedom that could only be endured, not yet lived.

At least now, with our new visibility, we could be certain of one thing: that the people who’d called us “vile” really did mean it, after all. They really, really did.


continue to Part 2