Do you see this picture?
It is a super great picture.
It is a picture of Crown Prince Abdullah, who is in charge of the Wahhabis, and George W. Bush, who is in charge of Jesusland.
Q: Do you know what they do in Jesusland if they find out you are a man who likes to touch other men?
Correct: They gather around you in a circle and tell you they love you and that your brokenness can be healed, and then you tell them you are not broken, really you are not, and they tell you you are so, and you tell them you are not, and they say are so, and you say am not, and then they give you a book by Dr. James Dobson, who is a real Ph.D. Psychologist and he says you are so broken, so Q.E.D. and shut up you are so.
Q: Do you know what the Wahhabis do if they find out you are a man who likes to touch other men?
Correct: They take you to a public square and cut off your head with a sword.
So why, then, are George W. Bush and Crown Prince Abdullah walking around in public with their hands entangled in feverish man embrace?
Easy: Because they like wieners in their bums. Do as they say not as they do, etc.
That is probably enough rage and fury for now. Please come back soon, when there will be something pleasant about soup for you to read.
Posted by Bret at 04:33 PM | Comments (2)
Dear U.S. voting public:
Suck my ass. Suck my ass so hard that my colon turns inside out and pops into your mouth, where it will leave a brackish and oniony taste that lingers and will not fade, your desperate efforts with Certs and Tic Tacs notwithstanding.
Also: Tongue my cheesy hoop, you quivering blobs of used McDonald's.
Also: Up yours. And up yours. And up yours. With a wire brush.
...
Once upon a time here in The Centre Of The Universe, we felt warm and fond feelings for our friends to the south. Oh, how we loved our friends to the south! They had given us Bob Newhart and California cabernets and the Super Bowl. They had given us The Amazing Race. They had given us Us magazine. They had given us Oprah Winfrey and Dan Savage and Pastor Benny Hinn. We treasured these gifts. We treasured our friends to the south.
Then our friends to the south had an election to see who would get to be their president. It was a lot like a soufflé, that election. It started out with terrific promise, but it caved in on itself when somebody opened the oven door, so afterward eveybody had lawsuits instead of dessert.
The lawsuits went to the Supreme Court Of Our Friends To The South. In the end, the judges awarded the presidency to a man who was both comic-book evil and funny-pages stupid. You know how the previous president had trouble keeping his wiener out of the warm welcoming mouths of lovely women? Well, the new president had similar trouble keeping his ordnance from blowing limbs off small children in the Middle East.
As you can imagine, this was just rotten. But here in The Centre Of The Universe, we still felt warm feelings for our friends to the south. It wasn't their fault. We felt their embarrassment and their shame. We knew they wanted the monkey out of office as much as we did.
Then our friends to the south had another election. In this election, our friends to the south voted to keep the monkey in office.
"Hm," we said.
Next, our friends to the south voted to make it 100% hella illegal for certain kinds of people to get married to certain the same kinds of people. Particularly, they voted to make it illegal for men to get married to men or for women to get married to women. They did this for the following reason: If a man puts his wiener in another man's bum, it makes the Creator Of All Things sad. It makes the Creator Of All Things horribly, apocalyptically sad, in a way that, say, blowing the hands off a three-year-old does not.
We realized that our friends to the south had themselves become comic-book evil and funny-pages stupid. So now they can all suck my ass.
On a cheerier note, if you are one of the O.F. Original Friends to the south who voted against the evil and stupid president, you should move here to the Centre Of The Universe. I will give you a nice floopy Roots hat and make you a bowl of soup.
Love,
Bret
Posted by Bret at 11:11 PM | Comments (5)
In the dying moments of August Kate and I went to New York City for a wedding. It was a really super great wedding. It featured Clive, whom you know and love as a prolific producer of Top Quality Content, and it also featured Emily, whom you also know and love as a prolific producer of top quality content, provided you read New York magazine, which you do, on account of it is mostly pretty good.
When Kate and I were in New York, we went to a place called The East Village. The East Village is where people live when they are super into staying up late and eating duck magret and buying obscure Polish beer at 3:00am but not at all into charcoal or propane or propane accessories or, indeed, grilled meat in general.
In the East Village convenience stores are called "bodegas." They are a lot like the "depanneurs" of Montreal, except that they offer more varieties of ice cream and fewer varieties of du Maurier cigarettes.
In one East Village bodega, we stopped to buy an emergency 2:00am tin of beer from Germany. What a relief, we said to each other.
Can you guess what else this bodega had for sale, in August?
No, you cannot.
OK, I will tell you.
This bodega in the East Village was selling pomegranates. Fresh ones. Plump lovely firm red pomegranates. In August.
"Spirit of ass," I said to Kate and the assembled throng. "How did a random NY convenience store manage to find fresh pomegranates in August? It is unbelievable."
"You are boring," said Kate. "Please stop talking about pomegranates."
"OK," I said.
Afterward, I was still troubled. I am the sort of person who makes regular telephone calls to exotic-fruit wholesalers, trying to score the first pomegranates of autumn. How could a convenience store have beaten me so soundly at my own game?
A week after we left New York and returned to The Centre Of The Universe, I was shopping for fruit at the little fruit store near our house. It is a friendly store and its fruit is cheap, and it would be perfect if only it weren't for the "Conditional Pass" sign the public health department keeps posting in its window. Most of the time we remember to wash the fruit.
So there I was, scant days after our visit to Clive & Emily's wedding and the Amazing Bodega Of Pomegranates. I was sulking, because our fruit store did not sell obscure Polish beer, and it did not have pomegranates in the summertime, and it kept forgetting to keep its pest-control measures and its hand-washing facilities up to date.
Then.
In a flash of light and excitement, I saw the sign.
"Pomgreates," it said.
"Wicked hot fiery excellence!" I said.
"Boo-yaaah, New Yorkers!" I said.
"Your precious bodegas aren't so hot now, are they?" I said.
"Unless you are shopping for Żywiec at 3:00am!" I said.
"OK, your precious bogedas are still pretty good!" I said.
"Um, fuck you!" I said.
"You want something or did you just come in here to yell at the pomegranates?" said the proprietor.
I bought 16 of them. I squeezed out their ruby nectar. I made many, many Persian Tarts.
They were tasty.
I liked them.
The moral of the story? It is now pomegranate season. Also, there was a beautiful meadow.
Posted by Bret at 11:27 PM | Comments (3)
I have spent many years searching for bottled pomegranate juice. I have been into every Middle Eastern grocery store in the entire Centre Of The Universe. I have prowled the dark back shelves of countless health-food shops. My searches have been fruitless.
Until.
In May I found some at last, on the dark back shelf of a health food shop. The man at the counter, who did not look the slightest bit healthy, told me that pomegranate juice was full of antioxidants and that drinking it would allow me to live forever. It would aid my digestion and calm my tremors and prevent the settlings-in of illnesses and parasites. It would frighten off rogue prions by glaring fiercely at them.
"Gosh," I said to the man who did not look healthy, "that's even better than I had dared hope. I was only planning to use it to make cocktails."
"Cocktails?" asked the man who did not look healthy, "with alcohol?"
"Yep."
"You should never drink alcohol. Your body can just shut down because you are drinking alcohol. I really don't think it's good to know that your body might not be working in the next second. Do you?"
"Come again?"
"I am supposed to say that, after you have paid, when you are leaving the store."
"That's OK. You can still say it."
"OK."
"OK."
"OK. But you should not drink alcohol because your body can just shut down because you are drinking alcohol."
"OK."
I did not tell the man who did not look healthy that I intended to disregard his advice, because I did not want to make him sad. But when I got home I disregarded his advice.
Naturally, you remember the Persian Tart. It is the greatest cocktail in the world and I invented it. It consists of freshly-squeezed pomegranate juice shaken with vodka and Triple Sec and freshly-squeezed lime juice. It is just a Cosmopolitan that speaks Farsi, really, but it is delicious. Do you want the complete recipe? Simply search Google for the phrase "do not show anyone your breasts".
Even though pomegranates are seasonal fruit and it was not pomegranate season, I was about to shake up a delicious Persion Tart. I was so happy I quivered.
But the bottled pomegranate juice was terrible. It tasted like apple juice might, after someone had used it to wash a load of socks. It was 1.5 litres of ass. Yick. So I gave up on the out-of-season Persian Tart.
Until.
On Friday I found another variety of bottled pomegranate juice at that same health food store, where the same man who still does not look healthy still works. The new pomegranate juice was from Azerbaijan. Its label made many wonderful claims, which I will quote here:
Granate juice is allocated with a combination of userful effects: improves a tone of vessels, promotes translation of "bad" cholesterol in "good", increases saturation of blood by oxygen, than sharply raises level of hemoglobin, accelerates processes of updating in a leather (skin) and in all parenhimathosis bodies -- a liver, kidneys, easy, a spleen, thyroid and prostat.
It tasted just like the May pomegranate juice. Once again, I did not make a Persian Tart. I was sad.
The lesson here is straightforward. When the man who does not look healthy speaks, listen to him. Otherwise you will wind up with accelerated processes in your prostat, and then you will need to go and see a doctor, who will stick a probe in your bum without washing it first.
Posted by Bret at 02:30 PM | Comments (1)
If you are a regular consumer of fine internet content, you probably have read the recent screed from Gordie of the Rocks about a rock band called "Rush". If you have not, you should go read it now. It is a really super good screed.
You see, Gordie of the Rocks had such a terrific time at a recent Rush concert that he nearly burst. Then he went home and wrote his screed, in which he says that rock musicians these days do not practice their diminished ninth chords frequently enough.
The musicians in Rush play a lot of diminished ninth chords. they are super good at it. Except for the drummer. He mostly just bangs on things with sticks.
I once went to see Rush with Gordie of the Rocks and our mutual friend Lisa C., and I can report that it was a jolly good time indeed. It was loud and there were laundry machines on the stage, which made up for all the lyrics inspired by Ayn Rand. I actually kind of like Rush.
So I will not try to rebut GOTR's points, except to say this:
A rock musician should never do any of the following:
- Wear a kimono.
- Grow a moustache.
- Wear white satin trousers.
- Sport a man cameltoe.
- Record a song containing any of the following phrases:
Stealthily attacking
By-Tor slays his foe
The men are free to run now
From labyrinths below - Also, a rock musician should not marry Valerie Bertinelli.
- Or Kate Hudson.
- Or Gwyneth Paltrow.
- Rock musicians should not get married at all, really, because their spouses will just telephone in the middle of the recording session and spoil all the man fun.
- Kiss wrote a song about that once. It was called "Beth, Please Don't Spoil The Man Fun".
- Kiss also wrote a song called "You Make Me Rock Hard".
- Also, rock musicians should wear more codpieces.
There is this guy named Ken Finkleman who stars in a TV show.
The TV show is called The Newsroom. It is a totally wicked good TV show. It is about bad people who say mean things to each other in hushed tones.
Also it is sometimes about bran muffins. The guy who stars in it totally likes to eat bran muffins but only plain ones not the ones with apple or raisins. So he spends a lot of his time complaining that his assistant got him the wrong kind of bran muffin and that is unacceptable and he is the executive producer and why does no one have any respect for his position.
On Wednesday I went to the grocery store to buy some caperberries. On my way to the caperberry aisle I took a shortcut through the produce department. There, examining bags of pre-washed, pre-cut salad, was Ken Finkleman.
A woman was with him. I think she must have been his wife. He was complaining to her that the pre-washed, pre-cut salad did not look like it was very fresh. He looked very unhappy about the pre-washed, pre-cut salad.
I thought this would be a good chance for me to step in and be the good samaritan I have always wanted to be. Normally I am timid about approaching strangers and offering my expertise but this was Ken Finkleman. Ken Finkleman! I know!
I strolled up to the salad cooler.
"Assface," I said to Ken Finkleman, "for the very freshest salad, you have to wash and tear the lettuce yourself."
"Oh," said Ken Finkleman.
"And don't put on the dressing too early or you will wilt the leaves."
"Oh."
"..."
"Assface."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"Say, would you mind autographing my DVD of Grease 2?"
Posted by Bret at 02:26 PM | Comments (4)
Today I was sitting on the bus in one of those one-person seats. Two people got on the bus together. They were holding hands all tightly and trying hard not to break eye contact with each other and totally shutting out the world if you catch my drift.
They were both around 30 years old. They were dressed all in black with black trenchcoats over top. Or rather she had a dark purple velvet shirt on but you catch my drift. They wore gleaming steel-toed army boots. They had little stringers of braid descending from their glossy Miss Clairol black hair. They wore chunky silver rings on every finger and a few thumbs. Chains poked out of their tranchcoats in several places. They were caked with eyeliner. They were fat. They were totally covered in cat hair.
The bus was crowded and all the seats were taken so they came over to stand beside me. Here is what they said to each other, loudly:
"Why do you always have to let go?"
"What?"
"Why are you always letting go when I'm holding your hand?"
"I'm not. We've been holding hands all afternoon."
"When we got on the bus."
"I needed to get my money out of my pocket."
"I said I would pay."
"I got on the bus first. I thought it wouldn't be a big deal."
"You know I wanted this day to be something I did for YOU."
"It is."
"So why wouldn't you just keep holding my hand and let me pay?"
"I just didn't think about it. It's the bus. You got lunch."
"So it's tit for tat now? God, why do you have to make this so hard?" (Blinks back tears, maintains eye contact.)
"I'm sorry."
"..."
"Really, I'm sorry."
"..." (Blinks back more tears)
"..."
"..."
"merp." (This was spoken in a very soft voice, with a slight Muppet throatiness, à la Kermit or Ernie.)
"..."
"merp."
"merp."
"merp merp merp."
"mer mer merp mer merp merp mer mer merp."
"merp merp mer merp merp mer mer mer merp."
They embraced, tightly. She buried her chin in his neck and he in hers. She visibly moved her pelvis forward. He did the same. Tears flowed.
"Don't ever let me go again."
"I won't"
"mer merp."
"mer mer merp."
...
Most times I am loath to rush to moral judgment but here silence is simply not an option. Here is my moral judgment.
Unless the words "mer" and "merp" actually appear in your native tongue, it is not acceptable to use them as expressions of affection on a public transit vehicle. Take off your clothes and rub each other instead.
Thanks so much for your time and attention. Mer mer merp.
Posted by Bret at 05:16 PM | Comments (3)
This weekend Kate and I went to the video store and rented a movie. We rented a movie called "Gigli." Perhaps you have heard of it.
Gigli stars two of the brightest lights of 2003, Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck. They were bright lights in 2003 because they were beautiful and famous and engaged to be married to each other, and also because Us magazine put them on the cover twelve or fifteen times.
Us magazine did this because one night during summer 2003 Ben got up to no good in a Vancouver gentlemen's club. Reports of exactly what happened that evening are vague and mutually contradictory, but everyone who is anyone agrees on the following:
Ben Affleck totally got a hummer from a stripper.
Now.
Ben and Jennifer were not always so famous, and neither were they so famous under such tawdry circumstances. When they first met, they were just two beautiful people, alone in the universe but for each other. They were simple folk. They were one set of beautiful glands calling to another set of beautiful glands in the darkness.
They found love together in that most improbable of environments: a film set.
They found love together on the set of a film called Gigli.
Afterward they learned about the cold and heartless celebrity press. They learned that Us magazine wanted them dead or alive. They learned that Us magazine revelled in their disappointments and humiliations. They learned The Price Of Fame.
But on the set of Gigli, they knew only love.
So you would totally think it would be a wicked good hot sexy movie. On account of it stars wicked hot sexy people who Were Actually Having Naked Sweaty Action With Each Other In Real Life At The Time Of Production.
You would be wrong. Gigli is not a very good movie.
But.
Neither is it as bad as everybody says. It deserves one full star, or maybe one and a half if you are feeling friendly. Here is why:
About two-thirds of the way through Gigli, Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez have a conversation about their private parts.
"Boy private parts are better than girl private parts," says Ben.
"No," says Jennifer, "girl private parts are better than boy private parts."
"I totally have a big dong," says Ben. "It is a really super great dong. It represents progress and fortitude. And, er, thrusting."
"Ah," says Jennifer. "That is a well taken point. But I have a hoo-hoo. It looks like a mouth and you should kiss it."
(note: I am totally not just being dirty here because this is the internet and you can get away with being dirty on the internet. Jennifer Lopez actually talks like this in Gigli.)
Then, to illustrate her point, Jennifer Lopez spreads her legs as far apart as they can possibly go, causing her gym shorts to cling snugly to her private parts.
"OK," says Ben, "you win. Your hoo-hoo is totally better than my dong. Want to have sexual intercourse?"
"OK," says Jennifer.
In retrospect I kind of sympathize with the Us magazine people.
So.
I have this web log, see.
It is called "hot sandwich." You are reading it right now. It is fantastic. It is the best web site you have ever visited. It brightens your days. You are happy to have found it.
This makes me feel warm and tingly inside. For if there is one thing I desire above all else it is happiness for you, the internet public.
At the foot of each post here at this hot sandwich, you are invited to leave your comments. You gladden my heart when you leave your comments. It makes this hot sandwich feel less like a diary and more like a Real Actual Internet Web Site.
One of last week's posts drew many, many comments. It was the post about going to see a rock band called "Killing Joke."
The comments were not about Killing Joke. Instead they were about a rock band from Saskatchewan called "The Young Republicans."
The Young Republicans were a terrible band. I know because I was their guitar player. Holy cow did we ever suck. We were rotten rotten rotten. Here is a sound clip illustrating our rottenness:
But we had a fantastic name and a fuck-you approach to our critics, so we managed to play several shows before the citizens of Saskatchewan ordered us, at gunpoint, to disband.
I bring all this up not for nostalgia's sake, but rather out of necessity. The aforementioned flurry of comments, see, touches repeatedly on the sordid history of The Young Republicans.
In particular, one internet citizen named "Charles" revealed himself, through his comments, to have an intimate knowledge of The Young Republicans and their song catalogue. This was wicked-ass creepy, on account of I don't know anybody named Charles. So it's totally some kind of crazy undercover stealth anonymity deal.
Basically what I'm saying is I have an internet stalker and I am hella freaked.
Who is Charles?
Who is Charles?
How does he know about The Young Republicans?
Does he like to eat ham?
Ham is good.
Posted by Bret at 09:39 PM | Comments (10)
If you are a gentleman living in Ontario and you have recently had your prostate examined you are probably feeling uncomfortable right now.
Check that. If you have recently had your prostate examined you are probably feeling uncomfortable right now no matter where you live. This is understandable. The prostate is a gland located deep inside your rear end, see, so having it examined consists of a thorough and vigorous probing. In the rear end. Sometimes this is performed with just a physician's loving fingers. Other times it involves an ultrasound transducer.
For your convenience a photo of just such a device appears at the top of this post. Can you guess what category of device it belongs in? Correct! It is an ARS Probe.
Now. In addition to the considerable discomfort inherent in a prostate exam, gentlemen in Ontario have fresh cause for concern. This is because it has recently come to light that many hospitals in that fair province have not been doing a good scraping off the ARS Probes between uses.
Here is how the procedure is supposed to work:
- "Please drop trou, sir."
- "Please show us your date, sir."
- (Buzzing sound.)
- (Sung) "Moon river, wider than a mile."
- "Thank you sir. Would you like a lollipop to take home?"
- Enthusiastic washing.
- "Hello sir. The technician will be right with you."
- "Please drop trou, sir."
- Etc.
The problem is that everyone has been forgetting about step 6. That is unfortunate. Normally I refrain from moral judgments here at this hot sandwich, but today I will make an exception. Here is my moral judgment:
Failing to wipe the ARS Probes between uses is not acceptable. Try harder, health professionals!
That is all.
Posted by Bret at 01:06 PM | Comments (2)