New Levels of Needy: In which I force you to read my new “page”—

— but, let’s be honest, you’d never read it otherwise.

Would you, my collective Virginia?

There’s nothing worse for an artist stroke writer stroke lazy buttwad than labouring like ten toked-up Tolstoys over something vaguely humorous, in order to distract himself from that Mrs. Danvers voice in his head urging “Jump, little unnamed protagonist, jump! It would be so easy!”, then realizing that his feckless followers will take one look and say,

“Oh, he’s updated his Privacy Policy! Could someone shoot me in the head while I’m sleeping?”

—or something equally supportive.

What’s wrong with you guys?  Am I not paying you enough?

wix-about
Poot, snicker, Mrs. Danvers, totally.

Today started with me posting on Facebook about how I was going to go great guns on my marketing (a.k.a. forcing you to buy stuff from me that you don’t want, I did a course).

But then a page called Weird History caught my infinitely distractible eye, and a post “revealing” that cowboys in the old days of the Wild West used to rely on the culinary, and, ahem, other, favors of their fellow cowdudes when there were no gun-totin’ mamas around to, as it were, cook their breakfast.

Well, run me down with an army tank!

Cue the snarky, unnecessary comments from a couple of str8-tards (“is this trying to prove this is normal, not insane”) and naturally something about “extreme liberals”—because there’s a Venn diagram overlap between the “str8-tard” and the “conserva-tard” wedges, and those slack-jawed Dorito-munchers will cram the Ugly Sisters cookie-foot of their bigotry into any old cowboy boot they can find, glass slipper be damned.

Also spotted in the thread were the usual tired insults aimed at those who apparently qualify for the labels “femo”, “Nazi” (in its str8-tard sense of “someone who I dislike on principle”), “Lesbo” and “Bumfucker”, with “transgenders” thrown in as a free gift, as if to make it absolutely clear that these guys have been clicking the maybe later option on their own firmware updates since around Grade 9.

So there’s an hour gone already as I address each objection point by point with my gobsmacking, conversation-stopping rebuttal.  That would have been fine until—

—my computer turns itself off without warning, with a moist, mucus-membrane-y sound halfway between “snicker” and “poot”. Do computers even have mucus?

Reboot. Poot-snicker. Reboot again. Mrs. Danvers. Now the desktop icons are “large” rather than “medium”, they’re on the other screen, including one for a program I don’t recognize, and the desktop background has changed.

WhatEVERRRR! Marketing, marketing!

But first, Gmail!  I’m chuffed as all get-out to find I’ve received a response from my City Councillor to an email I sent decrying the high cost of Internet and cell phone service, and under their complimentary close that all but explicitly states, “Thanks for the laugh, go fuck yourself”, is an invitation to check out whether I would need to register as a lobbyist.

Would I like to check this out?  I totally think I would!

Now comes a merry ninety minutes as I ponder the minutiae of Toronto’s Lobbying By-law and legal definitions of conflict of interest, real or apparently real, including a wonderfully sleazy tale of the late Rob Ford and his brother, Doug, being wined, dined and tennis-matched by the president of the company that owns their family business.

This was the Mayor, you understand.   Marketing, marketing!

But first, flog my shit!  Two P.M. by that point. Galloping madly off in all directions, it’s to “letgo” I go to sell my air conditioner to help pay the rent.  But every time I complete a description so painstakingly enticing it would have you eating the eco-friendly coolant of my 8,000 BTU portable unit for your tea-time walnut cake—my arthritic old-guy fingers missing only every other letter and frantically jabbing at the wrong spell check suggestions as I type, because some vegan millennial developer has mandated, as a passive-aggressive attack on actual adults, that this all must be done entirely on my phone—the whole description disappears and is rendered as “gray portable air conditioner description suggested by app translation by Google” while I tear out my nose, ear and armpit hair with frustration, until—

—the computer turns itself off without warning. Mrs. Danvers Poot-Snicker. Reboot. But first—! Do I want my hamburger medium or well-done? Is it time to make some mayonnaise from scratch? Oh, yes. Totally.

Which brings me to you, and a gentle nudge with my toe. Pssst. Come to, my little sycophants or I’ll have to nibble on your earlobes. Herewith some insight into the behind-the-scenes mechanism that keeps this blog—afloat? Well. They say that some people always see a life-raft half empty.

But I see one half-full.


Below is the content of my new permanent

page, and here’s the link to it: Care and feeding of, a.k.a. legal stuff etc., but you can still ignore both of these then just send me a fake compliment.  

Can you believe the amount of validation I need? Seriously. But I can’t find my internal locus of control. Or the remote for the TV.  


There are certain conventions

I follow on this site, and I flatter myself that you might like to know about them.  Play along—you have no idea how needy I can get.

General:

  • I’d put you on salary to wake up every morning and click my “Like” buttons if I could afford to.
  • I use a lot of special characters, especially the “M-dash” (—),  curly quotes (“ ”) and my favorite, the right guillemet (») which I use to set off a link, now that it’s no longer those heady “I just coded my first web page by hand in only two and half months and filled it with animated GIFs of PAC-MAN” days, when the geeks waged war on the creatives and mandated that all links for ever and all time would be underlined in bright blue when unvisited, but dime-store-lipstick red when active. So I’m scared you might not notice them.
  • I also spend a lot of time memorizing the Unicode key combinations for these special characters, which I realize is about as impressive as the check-out millennial at Loblaws knowing the product code for broccoli.

Links to external sites:

  • All external links open in a new window.  Always. So get over your “pop-ups thing”. This is no longer those heady etc. etc. (see “I use a lot of special characters”, above).
  • I’m not necessarily endorsing the content of any external site.  Go there at your own risk.  But I usually approve of the content I’ve linked to, because why would I publicize it otherwise?  You know something, I just thought of that.

Copyright:

  • If it’s not already obvious, all writing on this site is my original work and is ©David Roddis, 2014-2017, except short quotes and excerpts where noted.
  • My writing is covered by a Creative Commons “Pass off this work as your own and say goodbye to answering your front door after 5 P.M.” license.
  • I even took a lot of the photographs, but not all of them. The ones I didn’t take myself I stole from the Internet. Honestly. Do I look like I have access to Melania Trump? I try to keep my weight down, but I’m still too big and unimportant to hide in a fake Egyptian urn and just jump up with a Nikon and a speedlight and snap her before she’s had a chance to Photoshop her face.
  • If I’ve stolen your image and you’re not suitably grateful for the extra notice it’s getting you, but instead are feeling all resentful and antsy about it, send me an email and I’ll apologize to you and take it down. I really will. But trust me when I tell you that I’ll roll my eyes and sigh when I do it, which anyway you won’t see.

Privacy and use of personal information:

  • Really? You spend your days off in a negligée doing “exotic dancing” on Chaturbate and you’re worried I might find out your address?  Never fear. Bro’s gotta stick together, Yo!
  • You probably have to give an email address when you comment so I know you’re not a bot. As if I care! Which reminds me, I’m still trying to fool Margaret Atwood into lending me her celebrated remote-signature machine, which I will then use to sign her name to abusive comments about Alice Munro before posting them to the Times Literary Supplement.  Let “The Divine Feud, Canadian style” begin!
  • If you purchase any of my heart-stoppingly beautiful merch, the whole shebang will be handled either by PayPal or Shopify, both of whom use the latest 4K-Ultimocryptothon technology to make sure your pre-paid gift card from Shopper’s Drug Mart is safe.
  • I never have access at any time to the personal information you provide during the purchase process.
  • Note to George Clooney:  You gave up your right to privacy when you stole my heart, baby—

—now answer the fucking phone.

Wednesday WaWa: An offering from AuntyMeme(TM), and can I just say…

aintitgrand

… you know, it boggles my substance-addled,

Swiss-cheese-resembling remaining chunk of gummy, wet brain to realize that we can simulate a moon-landing so convincingly, give all mankind the illusion that the Earth is round, create a fake fossil record out of a secret underground facility in Oregon AND uncover through painstaking minutes of reading the National Enquirer that it was “The Jews” who trashed the Twin Towers—

—(they’re behind everything, you see, and I tell ya, a guy does gasp at the chutzpah with which they managed to pull it off, PLUS have enough spare time left over to co-ordinate six million of their Jeezus-shtupping brethren to fake all those Holocaust death camps—genug schon already, guys!—

—and can I just say, if any of you reading this should, god forbid, bang your goyisher kuhp on a Daniel Goldstein or a Manny Lipschitz or some similar gozlin as they aim for the CN Tower while strapped into a small aircraft, can you get His Mensch-iness to verify that “The Jews” own all the media, then ask him to please please please get me American Netflix?  Thanks, I mean, “shalom” )—

—but apparently we just can’t figure out how to engineer a content management system so that I can get the special character for “trademark” to appear in the title of a BLOG POST!!!

Fuck the Twin Tower slammers, alter cockers every one.  For this WordPress incompetence, I blame “The Muslims”.

Yessiree, those li’l freckle-faced rascals!

It must be The Terrorist Towel-Headed Islamo-Tards who have infiltrated and now surely form the greater part of the WordPress Special Blog-Title Standing Committee on No-Superscripts-For-You-ooh.

Totally!

As a bonus, choosing a new, fresh-off-the-life-raft scapegoat now and then adds a little diversification, not to mention “sparkle”, to a guy’s portfolio of blatant, self-serving racism.  It’s win-win, but with both “wins” for me, and if that ain’t the Chicago School of Economics, what is?

So, In’sha’Allah, babywhich means “if God is willing”, and all I can say to that is:

Yep, HE sure is willing when you think of Beethoven; but
Nope, HE sure is super-retarded not willing when you think of cancer.

Let’s just agree HE’s more willing than the average Allah, except, in fact, most of the time, and not push our luck.

You know, and just for the record—I don’t blame “The Muslims” because it’s true.  I blame “The Muslims” because it’s trendy.

OK, taking a deep breath now and shaking all my feathers so that they fluff and whirr and rustle into place as I blink myopically at something totally different on either side of my head.

~

You may be wondering.

Well, it’s countdown to eviction here at my basement in the sky,  and I know it’s affecting me because Will, the tall, broad-shouldered, horse-dicked, fuck-yer-brains-out-gorgeous yet regrettably psychotic homeless person to whom I offered a couple of free meals (successfully) plus my ass (unsuccessfully) the other day, barged in, locked himself in my bathroom so he could scream at an invisible enemy in private, then came out of the bathroom and said,

Did you dye your hair?  It looks lighter.

Which non sequitur, admittedly a bit “L’Oréal” for someone who lives in a drain pipe, made me realize that I’d gone grey, like the protagonist in “Descent Into The Maelstrom” by Edgar Allan Poe.  And I can barely stop myself from quipping, “That was no maelstrom, that was my life!”.

(It’s also sobering to think that a guy who’s so crazy he thinks he’s god and I’m a shape-shifting demon still isn’t koo-koo enough to take advantage of me, even bribed with a blue-plate special and a free subway token.  Coming soon to a psychiatric ward near you: Me, dressed like Napoleon and doused with Glade Room Freshener as I attempt to speed-date.)

What do you do when you’ve got 48 hours to dredge up another $200 towards January’s rent, yes, that January, the one that’s over, and—because one has learned the hard way that dealing with two catastrophically, crazy-making-ly impossible financial demands at once doesn’t win you points for “multi-tasking”—you haven’t even started thinking about how you’ll manage February’s?

Since you asked:

You invoke your inner AuntieMeme™, you fire up Phototard and you create an inspirational artwork with just enough bitterness to keep it Adult Entertainment;

You take the tattered net of desperation down to the Sea of Disaster and dredge for oysters; but you keep the shells for yourself and pitch the pearls of wisdom at your sneering audience;

You turn on the headlights so you can aim straight off the cliff with no swerving.

Then— you make Kraft Dinner. With hot dogs, hold the broccoli.

 

picture-of-me-32

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 !

Oscillating and pulsating, on and off, -OR- “What we talk about when we talk about extremely personal hygiene, assuming we’re tasteless enough to talk about it at all, and we are.”

bidet

Campers, I give you herewith:

The dashboard for an electronic bidet’s remote control.

Oh, you heard, cupcake. Oh, yes you did. Stop going “LaLaLaLaLaLa” with your fingers in your ears.

I have so much to share.

Don’t ask me how I stumbled across this treasure. I do not remember. Any more than the bathrobe-wearing 85-year-old dementia sufferer remembers how he ended up on the midnight bus to North Bay with egg-yolk in his chest hair and clutching a box of wet wipes.

(I would like to say I found it “on the computer”. This is how my Luddite friends would respond to the question.  And I don’t complain, much, because at least they’ve remembered that “the computer” isn’t “the TV-looking thing with all the pictures on it”.

(But it’s a losing battle as their trembling white senior-knuckles gradually give up their hold on the crumbling cliff edge of the twenty-first century, and they slide back! back! into the abyss filled with IBM Selectronic typewriters—whose golf ball technology replaced the gentle thwack-thwacking of individual keys with the sound and sensation of being shot point-blank in the forehead with an assault weapon—carbon paper, correction fluid, avocado-green kitchen appliances, orange shag carpeting and push-button princess telephones.

(That was their defining era, the fork in the path when they shook their heads at “progress”, took a just-invented Valium and called Bell Canada for return of their “perfectly good” black rotary dialler.  To get an idea of what Bell Canada was like back then, think Glenn Close in “Fatal Attraction” but without the wife to stand in her way.)

Now let us return our gratefully wandering attention to the dashboard in question.  I may be remembering correctly or I may not, but I think it was the options for “front cleansing” and “rear cleansing” – and their shamelessly derivative Keith Haring-inspired icons – that made me stop for a moment and really think about my life up to this point.

Specifically, my total mismanagement of the whole euphemism quandary, including the words “fresh” and “man-scent”, and those countless times when the other person waiting for the elevator opted to let me go it alone.  Always happy for another excuse to lie awake at 3 A.M., wide-eyed and counting the holes in the acoustic ceiling tiles.

Also about: “Deodorizer – on/off”. This instantly raises the bar on what I previously counted as torment, for I have never known a torment quite like the torment of wondering who would choose “Off”.

Also: “Wand cleaning”.  Let me just say that again:

“Wand. Cleaning”.

For the combination of those two words—the wizardly, Harry Potter-ish and oh-so-phallic “wand” and the quotidian, practical “cleaning“, conjuring as it does Mrs Aquino from up the road who wears her support stockings rolled to the knees, and which all but forces your reluctant little face into the fact not just of something NEEDING cleaning, but WHY – well, let’s just say that, in the game of word association I play with myself, “wand” elicits the response “injury“.  As in, “Get this guy to the ICU – it’s a wand injury, poor bastard. And page the plastic surgeon on call!”

Also: “Oscillating / Pulsating”.

This is almost past the point of what the human psyche can bear, because with those two words we’ve crossed a line in the sand that I thought uncrossable.  I must finally face the cold fact, namely:

There is a machine that offers more options for the tender care of my nether regions than my ex-boyfriend did.

WAY more options.

And you know what?  Somehow, I always knew.