Are you the sort of person who watches The Bachelor on TV?

No?

That is unfortunate. For the current season of The Bachelor is the best yet. This time round, the male lead is played by a man named Bob. Or, as Mark Daley calls him, FunBob.

FunBob was on The Bachelorette. He was the dumpy one who cracked jokes all the time. This did not win him Trista's affections, but it did win him the affections of America. So now he:

1. gets a TV show all to himself, and also he;
2. gets a harem full of inarticulate hotties who totally want to rub up against him until they (and FunBob) feel all tingly.
3. except for the one who is saving herself for marriage.
4. but FunBob kicked her out of his Bachelor Pad during the first episode, so she is kind of a non-issue now.

Apparently Funbob sings lead in a band called "Fat Amy."

Fat Amy is mediocre and will not make FunBob famous. So as an alternate path to fame, FunBob is instead going to have sexual intercourse with multiple partners on television.

That will probably work for a while, but remember that Richard Kline tried that for a while too and now where is he?

Posted by Bret at 09:33 PM | Comments (1)

A few years ago it was very popular to drink a cocktail called the "Cosmopolitan." This was mostly because of that TV show where Sarah Jessica Parker does not show her breasts.

For a time on that TV show, see, all the characters drank Cosmopolitans all the time, even for breakfast. And I, being someone who generally likes cocktails, thought I ought to make one for myself and see what all the fuss was about.

The Cosmopolitan was OK. It was fine. It was sweet and unthreatening. I did not see what the big deal was. So I took it upon myself to improve the recipe.

Did I succeed brilliantly? Yes I did.

My new drink is called the Persian Tart. Here is how to make one.

First, take a cocktail glass and put it in your freezer.

Next, squeeze the juice from a pomegranate. It is now pomegranate season, so you will find pomegranates at your local supermarket and you will not need to phone an exotic fruit importer or anything.

Next, fill a cocktail shaker halfway with ice.

Next, measure out one shotglass full of vodka. Pour it into the cocktail shaker.

Next, measure out three-quarters of a shotglass of Triple Sec or Cointreau or Grand Marnier or something similarly orangey and boozy. Pour it into the cocktail shaker.

Next, squeeze the juice of half a lime into the cocktail shaker.

Next, measure out one-and-a-half shotglasses of pomegranate juice. Pour it into the cocktail shaker.

Next, put the lid on the cocktail shaker and shake the bejeepers out of it.

Next, take the cocktail glass out of the freezer and pour your Persian Tart into it. It will be a deep ruby colour and slightly foamy. Its taste will be bracing and tannic and outrageously delicious. You will tingle from head to toe. You will feel like doing the Dance of the Seven Veils.

Next, do not show anyone your breasts.

Posted by Bret at 10:43 AM | Comments (3)

What is today?

Today is International Talk Like A Pirate Day. So please, if you will, try to talk like a pirate.

I would join you myself, except that I've never really gone in for these International Day things. Wouldn't want to unwittingly help those evil people trying to build the New World Order United Nations Government Of The Beast, you know.

Not unless they had donuts at their meetings, anyway.

Posted by Bret at 05:22 PM | Comments (1)

All of you regular readers of this hot sandwich will of course remember the ongoing story of Christian Potenza.

He is the guy who is in every TV commercial. He would like us all to eat corn chips and get naked on the subway. He is a total laff riot.

This weekend I sent some friends on a scavenger hunt, and Christian Potenza himself served as one of the pit stops, holding the prized clue envelopes and challenging people for the password. But not, unfortunately, volunteering to get naked. All in good time, I suppose.

Now.

Christian Potenza is in the running for a Gemini award this year. If you go to this page, you will be able to vote for him. So go and do that right now.

If you do, gorgeous nude people will come to your house, where they will prepare you a fresh hot dinner and generally do your bidding.

Posted by Bret at 04:29 PM | Comments (2)

I am covered with hair. Everywhere. On my head and my chin and my chest and my shoulders and even parts of my back. And my rear end. It is disgusting, really. I ought to spend more time shaving.

Tonight, Kate and I decided to Do Something About It.

First I took off my shirt, then Kate plastered me with plastic strips. On one side, these plastic strips were covered with something the box they came in said was wax, but which was really a lot more like tree sap.

Here is how it went:

1. Kate pressed some tree sap onto my shoulder.
2. I thought about how nice and warm it felt.
3. All my many man-hairs embedded themselves in the nice warm tree sap.
4. Kate pulled the plastic strip off without even saying "Ready?"
5. FUCK!
6. OUCH!
7. HOLY SHIT!
8. Hey! I'm hairless on my man-shoulders!
9. Nice!
10. Wanna touch?
11. Oh crap, here comes another plastic tree-sap strip.
12. Lather.
13. Rinse.
14. Repeat.

So basically it was a total Agent Orange defoliation. But I survived.

There was a little vial of Curaçao-coloured lube in the box with the tree-sap strips. After the ripping was over Kate rubbed it onto my bleeding shoulders. It felt really nice but at this point I'm not sure it was worth all the upfront cost.

Maybe next time we'll do the lube first and never mind about the tree sap.

Posted by Bret at 10:41 PM | Comments (3)

Last week I told you all about the rental cottage in Haliburton where Kate and Safety Carrot and I spent some time in August. You will remember especially the rude and boorish neighbour and his Sea-Doo.

The good news is that the neighbour was a minor distraction, and most of the time we were very happy indeed to be there in that rental cottage. It was apparently owned by a family with the surname Gill; there were little wood signs all over the place saying "The Gill's" (sic). Many of them had fish on them. Get it? Fish have gills! Haw!

But.

The Gills' summer retreat did not have the one sign any self-respecting cottage MUST have. Specifically, it did not have the traditional hand-lettered note above the W.C. advising which sorts of eliminations are to be flushed and which are to be left to mellow.

You have of course seen many such notes. Usually they say this:

If it's yellow, let it mellow. If it's brown, flush it down.

The Gills had no such note above their W.C. This made me feel sad for them, because their cottage was in all other respects fully and beautifully appointed.

So.

I decided to make a W.C. sign for them. Using some fine old parchment I had brought along for sketching, I wrote them a custom W.C. rhyme. Then I built a small, rustic-looking frame of birch bark, and I mounted it on the Gills' bathroom wall. I sure do hope they and their guests like it.

Would you like to read the poem? O.K.

We have a rule here at the Gills',
Designed to curb our septic bills.

Think about what you just did.
Did you rush to close the lid?
Did you give off toxic fumes?
Do your vapours fill the room?
Bend down close, right near the hole,
And look, and sniff the seat and bowl.

If it's gold or if it's green,
If it's somewhere in between,
If it's salty, if it's sour,
If 'twas beer within the hour,
If it's liquid there beneath ya,
If it came out your urethra,

Leave it in its current state!
Leave it there to percolate!

But...

If it's speckled, if it's greasy,
If it's dirty, stinking feces,
If it's lumpy, loggy poo,
Here's the thing that you must do:

Flush it down and flush it out!
Flush away that toilet trout!

   Thanks so much!

      Love,
      The Gills

P.S. Please flush asparagus pee.

Posted by Bret at 11:05 AM | Comments (6)