To me the most likely scenario is one which revolves around the labour involved with actually reading large blocks of text. Peter David on his blog has lately been running a serialized story entitled “Potato Moon” which is up to something like chapter 55 now, and which I have yet to read even a single chapter of; when I’m reading my friends page I’m not necessarily in the right mood or head-space to entertain that sort of focus or effort. It is my expectation and hope that some significant portion of those of you who have not been reading or commenting upon this opus are of a similar mind-set.
There is a ready cure for this deficiency, however! A detour around this speed-bump. A monkey wrench by means of which this nut may be tightened. A lubricant by means of which this penetration may take place with a minimum of tearing and strain. In this I speak of the magic of audio. For some time I have planned to re-create my narrative success in reading these thrilling tales aloud to my friends for the benefit of my readers and indeed had enlisted the aid of my good friend
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
lenimonkey in narrating those parts which are too feminine for the booming issue of my own throat to manage. I had at one time planned on creating YouTube videos from this material (with some minimal graphics to supplement the audio) and I may yet do so (which would also serve the purpose of giving those dozens-or-hundreds- I -don’t-even-now-anymore of people who subscribed to my channel after my penis videos something to loo at). However, with the discovery of this delightful audio tool things become a great deal more streamlined and convenient for all involved.
Anyways. if this is more warmly received than the text-only versions (which is explicitly meant to be read as “If I receive more comments posted) then you can be certain that more will be forthcoming.
This having been said, and without further ado...
For the benefit of those of you who for whatever missedyesterday's post, or else didn't pay it the attention it only-in-the-loosest-possible-of-terms-de
In an act of nearly unmitigated cockpunching irony, I shall require my readers in this singular instance not to look, but to listen, as I wax poetic on the topic of looking, rather than listening.
Edit: Upon review, I do believe this may actually be my most bizarre blog post ever, finally displacing my previous title-holder, which among other things contained visions of a giant, orgasming space-bear made up of stars and human souls.
Some years ago, I had it explained that the barbarians and lunatics down south of the border refer to the region of their country clustered around the Great Lakes as the “Mid-West.” This immediately rang false for me, looking at a map of their country; the entire region was plainly in the eastern half of the country, albeit somewhat bumping up against the mid-point of the country, in such a way as to come as close to the west as one could come without actually BEING west in any meaningful way.
I offered up the observation that, being in the eastern part of the middle of the country, it could reasonably be called the “Middle east”, or “Mid-East”, if you prefer. Indeed, a case could be made that in that it’s on the far western edge of the eastern half of the country, I would even accept the idea of it being called the “Western-East”. Though I acknowledge that doing so brings with it a certain amount of confusion, at least it is a confusion which could be dispelled with a reasonable explanation, in which sense it has a leg up on the current “Mid-West” fiasco.
Not to be entirely culturally elitist, I must admit that this is a problem which exists even in my own country, and nowhere more glaringly than in the apocalyptic wasteland of the mind which is Alberta (or “Cold Texas” as I like to call it). There’s a conversation I’ve had a number of times with various Albertans which has had only minor variations from person to person, which can best be characterized by one particular instance from a couple of years ago:
I had ordered a couple of small pizzas at work, and one of which was of a type with three tangible toppings and one intangible topping, each of which are vital to the appeal of the dish. The tangible toppings were and are green pepper, feta cheese and shrimp. The intangible one is spite. This came about as something of an unexpected surprise; some years earlier, I had been forced to spend time with an appalling toad of a man named Alex, who claimed to be allergic to all sea foods. I came up with what I thought would be a deliberately disgusting combination of toppings which I had planned to eat with exaggerated relish in front of him in an effort to offend his sensibilities. To my considerable surprise, the pizza was conspicuously awesome. I credit this, as earlier-implied, at least in part to that fourth intangible topping, but the merit of the first three cannot be under-sold either. I’ve introduced a great many people to this combination since then, going about it with a sort of missionary zeal, and it was on one such an occasion that I attempted to get an Albertan to eat some.
“Naw, I don’t eat anything that comes out of the water. I guess my tastes are too Western”, he droned. The capitalization of the word western here is deliberate; it plainly couldn’t have been a reference to a direction so much as a named culture, for reasons which I articulated thus: “If you go far west enough, you know where you end up? In the OCEAN. Seafood is thus the most definitively and inarguably WESTERN food there is! If your issue is one of ‘western identity’, then I can assure you that you stand no risk of betraying it by eating sea food!”
He would have none of it, though; to him, as to many Albertans “Western” had nothing to do with concepts as concrete as longitude or geography. It was just something they felt, somewhere deep in their skulls, where the brain would in any other case be located. It was a brand name, a label, a state of mind. The Albertans had long ago claimed for themselves the identity of “Western Canada”, and fuck anyone who claimed to be more western than them based upon evidence as flimsy as a compas’s wavering needle. To be more western was to be more definitively Albertan, which meant among other things being more closed-minded to ideas such as that “west” was an indication of direction which was relative to the actual spot where you happened to be standing.
He ultimately refused to taste my cockpunchingly awesome pizza, and in retrospect, there’s a part of me that’s glad; I’m not sure I would have wanted to share it with someone whose concept of direction was as arbitrary as a man standing at the north pole’s might be. I feel it would have sullied my awesome Spite Pizza in some way, and then it would have been cursed with the presumably-less-delicious second intangible topping of dismay. And I know for a fact I wouldn’t pay for a Dismay Pizza. The very thought of it fills me with a certain nameless sense of agitation, alarm, anxiety, apprehension, and so-forth on down through the alphabet.
tl;dr: Stupid people shouldn’t get to name regions in ways which involve directions without first consulting a map of the landmass they’re standing on and a geography teacher capable of explaining the concept of longitude to them.
“Cockpunchingly” is a conjugation of the word “cockpunch”, which I have employed in a novel fashion here. Whereas the word has been employed and defined in a literal sense before (such as in the definition at urbandictionary.com, which in part reads “A closed fist hitting of the male genitalia, meant to evoke surprise and/or pain.”), I wish and endeavour to expand upon this rather pedestrian definition, and in so doing stride boldly into the realm of neologism.
We are all familiar, of course, with the term “kickass”, which is used in order to express strong approval for a given person, object or phenomenon, such as in the sentence “That was a pretty kickass cockpunch you gave that guy, buddy!” And indeed, this term is not without its merits, in that it evokes an action which is both aggressive and contemptuous, thus demonstrating both a decisive and entitled position.
However, it occurs to me that to kick one in the ass also carries with it a connotation of cowardice; coming up to one’s foe from behind, skulking and craven. And a kick? A kick is delivered by a foot. And do you honestly mean to tell me that a foot is ever as awesome as a fist? If you do, then I decry you as a liar and/or a fool.
A punch to the cock, then, to me, is the next step beyond a kick to the ass, and excelling in ways which a mere kick to the ass can never excel. Braver, more forthright, and above all, more fisty. On that grounds, I would like to put forth “cockpunch” as a word which can be understood to mean “Like kickass, only better.”
In the coming days, weeks, and even months, I expect and intend to make use of this term frequently, both in service of purposes of demonstration and description. It is my sincere hope that you will all come to see the merit of this term and take up its torch, then use it as it is intended; to set fire to the very culture of the english language itself, that your very conversations themselves may be a vast, cockpunchingly great sacrificial pyre to the greatness of this new term.
As anyone who knows me knows, I dress exclusively in black, about 99% of the time. This is not a question of slavery to some external trend or movement; I’ve never considered myself a goth, for instance; I realized in high school that, as much as I liked the way that goths dress, it’s mostly about a music style which doesn’t speak to me in the slightest, and that in any case the idea of suborning my own sense of style to anyone else’s expectations of what I ought to look like or present myself was just sort of fundamentally ridiculous and loathsome to me.
Similarly, anyone who has known me for more than ten years – which is admittedly a vanishingly small list at this point – knows that this has not always been the case; my later days in high school were a process of experimentation for me, as they were for many people. In my case, I worked very aggressively to define myself along very personal lines so as to prevent anyone from being able to sort me into any group or clique at the time. One day I would show up in a suit and tie, wearing leather loafers and a briefcase. The next day, I would be dressed head to toe in bright green, including an elabourate facepaint design (which would come to be the foundation upon which my body painting skills would later be built). The day after that, a blue housecoat, tattered jeans, orange reflective safety vest and floppy brown leather hat. It was only very gradually that I fell into a single style which I felt comfortable with and which I felt represented me well to the world, and this is a style which to one extent or another I’ve stuck with ever since.
I’ve had any number of people attempt to dissuade me from this course, of which the most laughable was a horrendous little cretin named Jason Engel, who worked day and night to conform to every “goth” stereotype he could, and was among the most superficial adults I’ve ever met. He viewed my dressing exclusively in black as a sort of trespass into “his” territory, and one I wasn’t entitled to. He attempted to get me to dress more colourfully in the service of his own vanity. I laughed in his face and remained steadfast.
Today, I’ve had a friend attempt to get me to wear colourful t-shirts and bluejeans so as to make myself more superficially appealing to women. The thought was utterly repulsive to me; being told that in order to find that right woman, the thing to do was to toss aside my own individuality and sense of visual identity in favour of a sort of generic mediocrity; blending in with the anonymous and faceless crowd. I don’t deny that this might be effective if my intent was to find some woman who were attracted to the bland and the generic, and I needed some camouflage or disguise in order to deceive her into believing that I was one such person, but I daresay that this illusion, and the feelings built thereupon would be shattered quite swiftly the moment that I began to discuss virtually any topic with her. Besides which, what use would I have for such a woman? It would be a trying ordeal for me to be involved with such a lady, I fear, and a trying ordeal of a relationship, startling as it may sound, is not actually something I’m actively seeking out.
Besides which, there are practical concerns, ranging from the physiological to the psychological. My legs are twin pillars of rippling muscle, bulging against the world with seething power. There is a terrible cost to this, however; they also bulge against one another in a manner which is fairly destructive; as my thighs press against one another, the friction caused ends up destroying the inner thighs of any pants which I wear. Even this, though, is preferable to the fate which awaits me if I were to wear more durable pants; a pair of blue jeans would rub against my legs no less than my preferred slacks, but whereas slacks would give way, the heavy weave of jeans would cause my flesh to be worn away, leaving a pair of oozing blisters in their wake. Not only is the agony of this sensation – which is all too well-known to me – a significant disincentive to following this advice, there is the question of how attractive oozing and infected sores on my inner thighs would be to that prospective Miss Right.
Then there’s the psychological, and here I cite no less an authority than one Mr. Albert Einstein. Einsten decided early on in his life what fashion was comfortable and serviceable to him, and he stuck by it. So consistent was he, in fact, that he came upon a startlingly utilitarian approach: He simply bought dozens of identical suits, and they formed the entirety of his wardrobe. Every morning, he could simply pick any shirt, any pair of pants, any jacket, and not waste so much as a single moment, a single spare thought on the topic; there was no question of what mood he was in, what went well together or what the occasion was. This was a guy who had bigger fish to fry with his brain than a question of what to wear. “But Dave”, you may ask, “What about the ladies? What about making a good impression with the ladies? Don’t they demand of their suitors a sort of blind adherence to an arbitrary sense of style chosen for them, against their will, by the mindless pressures of the society around them? How could a man of even Einstein’s towering intellect possibly be a role model for you in this regard, given that he must logically have been a romantic failure in light of his decision to be happy with his own appearance, rather than abandoning his own principles in an effort to satisfy the mindless shrieking demands of the collective unconscious?”
Well let me tell you a little about that. Albert Einstein married his cousin Elsa. Most women would be like “Ick, no! I will not grant you access to my vagina! Incest is disgusting and wrong!” But Einstein, being the cockpunchingly pimpin’ guy that he was, was able to brush that shit aside and be all like “Shit, bitch! I’m Albert motherfucking Einstein! You gonna let a little thing like THAT get in the way of you gettin’ with my fuckin’ same-suited, no-haircut-gettin’, not-shavin’-my-moustachin’ self?” And she was all like “Aw, what the fuck.” Cause you know why? Because chicks dig confidence, that’s why. And a guy like that, as confident as he was of the way he looked and dressed and groomed himself had a lot going on in that regard.
I’m not trying to put myself in Einstein’s bitch-gettin’ league or anything here; he plainly had a great deal else going on that I could only ever asprire to. Why, he once had a three word conversation with William Golding!* What have I done that can compare to shit like that, right? But as far as role models go, I figure I could do a lot worse.
* This conversation, retold in Golding’s essay “Thinking as a Hobby”, took place atop a bridge over a small river at a time when Golding knew about one word of German, and Einstein knew about no words of english. As a fish swam under them, Golding remarked “Fisch”, thus expending the bulk of his german vocabulary. “Ja, fisch”, Einstein responded, entirely accurately (one presumes; in fairness I’m actually giving the two of them the benefit of the doubt here; they could have as easily mistaken a bit of garbage for a fish, in that neither of them are known to have been marine biologists of any repute).
Quizno's - a submarine sandwich company - has evidently decided it would be a fine notion to create an add campaign called "2 Girls 1 Sub." For those of you who get the reference, yes, this is pretty much exactly what it sounds like.
For those of you who do not get the reference, I will say now that you do yourself no favours by continuing to read this post, nor do I do you any favours by writing it, but in the interests of documenting the unlikely and bizarre, I will persist, and invite you to do likewise only with a spirit girded against the unimaginably unpleasant information to come.
The commercial is modeled after a viral video called "2 Girls 1 Cup", which is one of the internet's most notoriously unpleasant spectacles of all time, standing confidently shoulder-to-shoulder alongside Tubgirl and Goatse (those of you unaware of 2 Girls 1 Cup will likely also be unaware of these. In the interests of discovery, I encourage you to go and google them yourself, and make sure the safe search feature is turned off when you hit the images tab). Indeed, the video is so graphically unpleasant that even videos of people reacting to seeing this video are often hard to bear. Here's a Wikipedia article devoted to it here which should bring you up to speed.
This having been established, have a look at this new ad here:
For my part, I was actually unable to watch it all the way through on first viewing, and even on a second attempt, at which I went into it knowing what I was getting into, I had by the mid-way mark a mask of horrified astonishment on my face which did not fall from my features until well after it had run its course. It is so effectively evocative of the source material that I found the concept of eating a Quizno's sub to be a nauseatingly unpleasant one somewhere around the 20 second mark. And what possible point could there BE to this video aside from evoking thoughts of "2 Girls 1 Cup"? To people who have not seen this video, the ad in question would only be confusing. To those who have seen it, which one presumes are the target market, it can only bring about a reaction of horrified wonder.
Was this an elabourate letter of resignation on the part of some mid-level Quizno's executive, who decided this joke was so funny it was worth tossing his job away by green-lighting a project which he figured his superiors were unaware of the reference of? Was this some elabourate ploy to entice the interest of irony-loving internet hipsters? I'm aware that this wasn't Quizno's doing per se; it seems to have been produced by Playboy (who I can actually not only forgive but applaud for this bit of lulz-inducing madness), but someone at Quizno's plainly signed off on this in the hopes that doing so would reflect well on their corporate brand. The final scenario, which I find hilarious to contemplate, is that someone at Playboy pitched this to someone at Quizno's, who was unaware of the connotations of the video, and signed the papers to approve this product placement without ever grasping exactly what it was they were associating their product with, and that ballsy Playboy employee in question managed to sneak it by them, giggling in private the entire time at the insanity of the ploy.
If this is the case, I applaud that magnificent bastard for tricking Quizno's into agreeing to an ad which is the most effective counter-incentive to eat at their restaurant I can imagine, and I hope the executives at Subway are smart enough to send this fellow a nice gift basket in return for his efforts.
After far too long an absence (for reasons which a handful of my friends and readers know, and which I yet hope to see bear fruit), Dr. Sir Reginald Kingsley II returns.
Where last we left our hero, he was recounting a tale of his youth, during an island expedition in the south Pacific, during which he found himself an unwitting participant in one of the islanders' most sacred rites, and was about to learn first hand the secrets of the dreaded martial art of Mookalakapeekapo.
(previous chapters can be read here)
The Curse of the Rhino King
A Ripping Dr. Sir Reginald Kingsley II Adventure
Chapter 4
I found myself separated from my father and my guide, both of whom looked on with considerable distress at the dire straights which fate had guided me into. All around me, short, sweaty men stood about me, looking upon me with an air about them which bespoke hostility less than it did a fierce expectation. This latter I would under ordinary circumstances have been quite comfortable with, but my calm in this respect was somewhat marred by the fact that I did not for the life of me know what was expected of me.
A dozen or more of the islanders who surrounded me had their fists raised in what I recognized as their "Koolookoo" stance, and yet, though each of them breathed heavily and was plainly quite agitated in their own way, not a one of them made a move to strike me. I looked about to my left and my right, desperately hoping that I would see some sign - some gesture, some movement, some written instructions - SOMETHING - to indicate what I was to do. All the while, I was busy shedding my jacket, my tie, my cummerbund, my white silk shirt, my dinner gloves and my top hat, placing my spectacles upon the ground at my feet and adjusting my cufflinks for maximal ease of movement and dexterity. All the while, an elderly villager who I had taken to be some sort of headman or witch-doctor or some such was chanting in a low, guttural voice. I noticed, to my surprise, that not only were the men in the circle surrounding me swaying about in time with his chanting, so too did I seem to be. What witchcraft was this, that I should be compelled to such alien movements by nothing more than the sight of a dozen other men doing exactly likewise in the presence of a compelling rhythm? I knew then - if it had ever been in any doubt - that there was indeed foul magic at play here, and I would be its helpless victim if I allowed myself to be.
Well, I was having none of that. I turned to my guide, who stood well outside the circle of men, but was watching the proceedings with rapt attention. I shouted at him "What in the name of the Lord's bastard son Jesus is that old one chanting? I require you to make use of your knowledge of his monkey-tongue, dash it all!" I shook my fist at him so as to convey to him the violence I intended to inflict upon him if I should be beaten to death by these natives, and as I did so, I noticed with a start that the savages which stood between he and I seemed half-prepared to lunge at me like cobras, in the admittedly unlikely scenario that these cobras were to be magically transformed, perhaps by some island curse, into island men who were versed in the art of Mookalakapeekapo.
The guide, quite cowed by my threats, stammered in incoherent dread for a few moments before beginning to repeat, hoot-for-hoot and grunt-for-grunt, the chant of the witch-doctor, thus conjuring a sort of echo-like effect which, although not altogether unpleasant, was sadly altogether useless to me. I shouted at him once more, this time taking care to keep my posture essentially neutral towards my tormentors, lest - like the wild dogs they all-too-closely resembled - they should descend upon me as a pack. "In English, blast your eyes! Tell me what he is saying in the king's good English!"
My guide looked startled, his eyes betraying an air of confusion and perturbation. "Sir", he shouted uncertainly, plainly trying not to offend with his correction, "surely it's plain that he is saying nothing at all in English! That is his own native tongue he is chanting in!"
I had to grant him this point, though I would have rather shined the devil's own shoes for a nickel than admit this to him. Instead, composing myself so as to mask my embarrassment at having been caught out by him so, I replied "I had rather hoped for something more in the nature of a translation!"
"Well, you should have said so, sir!"
"Yes, I suppose I should have been somewhat more precise! I can see now that I was insufficiently clear in my intent!"
"It takes a big man to admit that, sir!"
"Yes, rather!", I shouted, raising my voice still further. The village witch doctor's chanting was becoming increasingly loud and insistent, and it was becoming ever more difficult to make myself heard over him. I shot him a dirty look, as though asking him to pipe down a bit so that I might carry on my conversation like a civilized man, and was lucky to do so, as in that moment, one of the savages standing behind me took a savage swing at me which I would have failed to notice otherwise. As it was, I was able to dodge only to the extent that I took the blow upon my shoulder rather than my firm, patrician nose. Shielding my face from further assault with my forearms, I shouted at my guide and clarified my point yet further: "Now, if you would be so kind as to translate his gobbledygook into English...!"
"Ah, yes! Of course, sir! It's a sort of invocation to action, sir! Some of the concepts are too foreign to translate precisely, but if I were to provide a crude notion of their intent, it would go somewhat along these lines: 'Fight! Fight! Fight!'. If I might be so bold as to offer an opinion, sir, I believe they intend you to do battle with them!"
"Very good," I replied, frowning tightly. "I feel I would surely be lost here without this keen insight into their motives."
The guide beamed at me, positively radiating with job satisfaction. "Thank you, sir!" he replied, evidently without expression nor comprehension of guile.
I turned my attention once more to the savages surrounding me, each of whom seemed to have grown ever more savage in mein, baring their teeth at me in sinister grins, perspiration now beading heavily upon their bare skin with barely-contained enthusiasm. My odds, I had to allow, seemed rather on the long side here. However potent these islanders might have seemed, though, the fact remained that they were yet primitive beasts without the wits of modern man, and thus it was not impossible that I might yet gain the upper hand in the struggle to come by means of my towering English intellect. I shouted at my guide "Quickly, now! I need to convince them that I am a god, come among them to teach them the folly of their ludicrous foreign ways! What do I need to say in order to convey to them a sense of their innate inferiority and heathen barbarism?"
"An excellent plan, sir!", he shouted, clapping his hands together in a manner which would have seemed charming if demonstrated by a five year old girl on Christmas morning. "Simply repeat after me!" He then let loose a string of hoots and grunts in the islanders' native tongue, which I struggled to memorize, their beastly syllables like a tarnish upon my sterling mind.
As ingenious as my plan was, though, it seemed I had underestimated their low animal cunning; it was with some considerable distress that I saw them turn their eyes en masse towards my guide, and then back towards me, their look of feral rage replaced with what I would, in thinking men, have called amusement. Too late I realized the flaw in my ruse; against all odds, they had managed to discern the intent behind my guide's shouted words in their own language, and my brilliant deception was in a moment undone. I knew with shattering clarity in that moment that if I were to make an escape, it could only be now, while their aggression was momentarily leavened by their tittering reaction. I lunged for a space betwixt two of them, shielding my face with my arms as I did so, valiantly striving for the freedom which was my birthright.
Too late, though! Too slow! The legends of the deadly art of Mookalakapeekapo were all too true, as I learned to my horror and dismay. Faster than the eye could discern the transition, their laughter transmuted itself into aggression once more, their fists arching once again over my head like a ring of five-fingered, sweaty swords of Damocles, and then like lightning fell upon me. Stars seemed to be sprayed across my field of vision and the tang of blood filled my mouth. I felt the grit of sand and dirt impacting upon my face only distantly as I fell to unconsciousness.
It was only then that the true inner mystery of Mookalakapeekapo was made evident to me, and the very course of my noble life was changed forevermore...
(To be continued in chapter five!)
A few years ago, I was living with a colossal douchebag named Aaron. He and I eventually grew sick and tired of one another (because this is the function of a room-mate), and he moved away to become a harbour hobo.
A harbour hobo is someone who lives in a boat and floats that boat just far enough off-shore that they're in, shall we say, communal waters, and as such doesn't need to pay rent to anyone. His theory was that he could get a loan, buy a houseboat, pay back the loan instead of paying rent, and then, once he had the boat paid off, he could live rent-free and have some collateral towards buying something which someone might conceivably want to live in. In the mean time, he would live in a little thirty foot box with his thirteen year old yowling, shitting, puking beast of a cat, floating out in the middle of the harbour for several years without electricity or the ability to have people over.
Aaron was kind of an idiot.
Amusingly enough, it seems that, as has so often been the case in his life, he's vastly overestimated his own abilities. In this case, predictably enough, he seems to have realized living in a floating box with no power and nowhere to dock kind of sucks, and has rented out some space at a marina. I know this because I've been getting mail from his marina at my place, some year and a half after his departure. I find this a trifle puzzling in light of the fact that he LIVES at the marina, and one would think that whoever is sending this mail could walk from the office to the boat and hand him the letter, rather than paying to have it sent to another city, and one which - and I feel this is an important element here - he does not in fact live in anymore.
In a fleeting moment of curiosity, I decided to try to figure out where he actually lived so I could have his letters and such sent there, and in the process of this, I checked out the marina in question and discovered, to my combination of amusement and seething contempt, that he's named his boat after his putrid, dying cat, after a fashion, and called it "The Cat's Meow." This, to me, is around as clever as naming his cat "Tigger" in the first place.
It did get me to thinking, though: If I were a boat owner, what would I call my own vessel? The answer came to me in a moment, and was blinding in its obviousness. I would call it "The Drowning Moron". I would then have a wooden masthead carved in the image of a drowning man, flailing about in the water, eyes wild and unfocused, and I would have it affixed to the front of my boat in such a way that the water line would be right around the mouth of the masthead, so that as my boat bobbed gently in the water, he would periodically surface and submerge in the water, his desperate, pleading eyes only occasionally meeting those of passers-by, his hands reaching out for aid he would never receive, because he is made of wood and physically connected to the boat along his hypothetical spinal column.
"Cat's Meow", indeed. Have a little dignity, you jackass. Name your boat something awesome or don't name it at all. If that's not one of the laws of the sea, if fucking well ought to be.
Last night, my friend wronske came over to my place to hang out, and we decided at one point to go through Craigslist's local "Adult Gigs" section for shits and giggles. In spite of her own fairly extensive knowledge of Craigslist, she had somehow failed to notice that this often hilarious section even existed. For my own part, I had discovered it while trying to discern which section I ought to post a want ad for body painting models in (and quickly discovering this was not the one), and every so often, I poke my head in just to see what wonderful "adult" things people are looking to pay one another for.
Presented for your consideration, then, are the fruits of our labour: The best of the craziest from the past week or so (with my commentary in italics).
***
http://vancouver.en.craigslist.ca/adg/11
Looking for an offpring (Burnaby)
I have a place to live, it's newer, the Child will be taken care of. I have some equipment that needs some up
keep and working on other things, and don't have time for much else.
- Location: Burnaby
- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
- Compensation: have a place to live and stuff like that, and money too
This is actually one of the best ones of all. The fact that he doesn't specificy what kind of equipment he has, what it has to do with the "offpring" in question, and what "other things" he vaguely alludes to is, altogether, a pretty good indication that this guy will be a pretty good father.
http://vancouver.en.craigslist.ca/adg/11
wanted: obedient, submissive sex slave (vancouver)
looking for obedient, submissive sex slave to satisfy my voracious sexual appetite. I am a powerful supergenius ascending to a higher state of humanity. I must be worshipped through sexual celebration of Life. Do you deserve to serve Me? tell Me why ...
- Location: vancouver
- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
- Compensation: no
What I find most interesting here is that this doesn't even look like a paid gig per se; more like a barter type of arrangement in which you would be exchanging sexual favours in return for sexual favours. But perish the thought that this is just some kind of crazy personal ad posted in the wrong section. This is a business deal, plain and simple!
http://vancouver.en.craigslist.ca/adg/11
What I Can Do For You?!?! (everywhere)
Hi;
I'm selling my used panties, dvds & photo cds of myself. Will consider custom dvds & pics. Also offering phone sex at $1 a minute.
- Location: everywhere
- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
- Compensation: pay
http://vancouver.en.craigslist.ca/adg/11
p*Y 2 pL*Y SUGAR BABY! (VANCOUVER)
I LUV DRESSES..... CARS.... PERFUMES.... & JEWELS..
I LUV.............MONEY....... POWER!.......
AND I LUV MY S - X !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
- Location: VANCOUVER
- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
- Compensation:
I don't have a lot to say about this one except that - as hilariously ambiguous as this one is (it doesn't even indicate if this is a man or a woman, nor yet what he or she is offering PER SE) - it's about a hundred times funnier if you read it out loud as a sort of breathy and full-throated shout, with all of the pauses indicated by the "..."'s intact.
http://vancouver.en.craigslist.ca/adg/11
ladies are you exhibitionist at heart please read even if not (lowermainland)
every night on my ride home from work I stop for a bite or coffee and find myself looking for entertainment and people watching. especially this time of year as i have a thing for womens feet, well more than a thing a full blown fetish. all the sandles and heals with shorts and skirts at this time of year lol , I find myself stareing at the loveley girl across the resturaunt dangling her mules of her toes seeing those lovley arches. I am looking to stage something i would like to have someone there to tease me at a location on purpose. if you are a non pro and cute and think you can tease me from across the room with your feet get intouch. mabey you and a friend. or ultimate fantisy you catch me and as if i like what i see discretely of course then say come show me where we retire to my car and you have me massage and lick them ok far fetched i know. i am also interested in worn socks you just pealed off. please send pic for details i am serious and looking for tonite finish work at 11pm who knows could be great for us both not wanting sex i repeat no sex
- Location: lowermainland
- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
- Compensation: to be discussed
"Mules?"
http://vancouver.en.craigslist.ca/adg/11
Looking for a baby factory (Burnaby)
I've been told by god to knock some one up so that he or she can help save the world. I think
thats the best way to describe it. I have other plans.
I have a place to live, and help for this child to be taken care of.
Anyone interested can send a picture would be nice? Any one want to be taken care of, kinda ?
I'll try to be around.
I prefer hot blondes, but I'm willing to take a look.
- Location: Burnaby
- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
- Compensation: no pay
Logically, this is probably the same fellow from the above entry, but I actually like to imagine that they're two COMPETING guys, both with their own agenda. One needs a baby in order to operate his special equipment (with sinister goals), and the other one has been instructed by his god to produce a child to help the world by stopping the sinister first baby from wreaking destruction by means of that equipment.
Also, my guess is that his god likes hot blondes especially.
http://vancouver.en.craigslist.ca/adg/11
MAN FOR HIRE (VANCOUVER)
DO YOU NEED A MAN - HIRE ME
- Location: VANCOUVER
- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
- Compensation: $$$
By all means, good sir. I will gladly pay you three dollar signs to have a man come over and scrub my floors. That IS what you had in mind, isn't it? You left is so vague, I was forced to guess what it was I was hiring you for...
http://vancouver.en.craigslist.ca/adg/11
Need temporary girlfriend for a day (van)
i need temporary girlfriend for my family reunion tomorrow for two hour .no sex involve just probably kiss lips or cheek. and if there would be sex involve we could settle in a agreement on how much you'll charge me.I'm 25yrs old.looking for age 19-30 pls send pic and how much you'll charging me
- Location: van
- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
- Compensation: compensate
I love the fact that he's prepared to compensate you with "compensate". It occured to me that a man as obviously incoherent as this poor chap is likely to have a tough time selling this ruse to his family on such short notice.
I feel we've spent enough time up on dry land with our past few entries in this series. While the beasts of the land may provide a certain familiarity and concomitant horror for it, everyone knows that the sea is a multi-strata stew of nightmares and madness, and if you really want to injure a human mind, it is visions of the ocean and all that swim, squirm, scuttle and spawn in those terrible depths that we must turn.
The giant squid, captured - in a delicious bit of irony - in the act of attempting to capture a less-giant-squid. How the tables have turned, Archeteuthis.
Squids are different. They're not like you and I. Unless you're a squid, or something else which is like a squid. Perhaps an Octopus, or even a Vampire Squid From Hell. And if you are and have somehow managed not only to pierce the barrier of the sun-lit world but master the language of man, then allow me to bid you a hearty IA, IA, CTHULHU FHTAGN!, and perhaps could you put in a good word for me with the big guy next time you swing by the sunken city of R'lyeh? Giant Squids are even more different, and not just in terms of their size - after all, they share their plus-sized dimensions with the similarly big but lesser-known Colossal Squid. They're different from their fellow squids in that their mating habits are particularly unpleasant, in ways which perhaps not surprise those ancient fishermen whose nightmares they haunted for the many centuries during which they were held in a deep and superstitious dread; specifically, they're apparently quite violent, though many of the specifics of the process still elude us today.
For context, let's have a look at one of the constants that remain true of the mating practices of all squids (and indeed even the horrifying and mysteriously-though-whimsically-mis-name
Squid spermatophores, in their "comin' at ya" sausage-state (left) and "all up in your business" unpackaged state (right)
Spermatophores are essentially packages of flesh-like wrapping containing vast numbers of sperm, as well as a sort of nutritious chemical "yolk" which serves to keep the sperm contained within the spermatophor alive and healthy for some considerable amount of time after the male squid shoots his load. Since squids don't exactly have penetrative sex in the way that we tetrapods tend to, but rather, sort of aim their dicks at their intended mate and then fire off a stream of spermatophores in a manner not dissimilar to one of those baseball pitching machines which unpopular and lonely rich kids who can't find a friend to pitch to them use. Only with sperm. At least it's my assumption that rich kids don't have machines to pitch sperm at them. I don't actually know. And like they say, "When you make an assumption, you make an ass out of you and motion". Anyways, the spermatophores keep the sperm on-target, instead of swimming off in random directions in the water, and have a few ancillary benefits as well, which vary somewhat from one type of squid to another.
Some of them have a sort of enzyme on their surface which - upon contact with flesh - will cause them to burn a hole through said flesh and then embed the spermatophor inside of the body, where the sperm can get to work. The Japanese - whose cultural infiltration some decades ago by Mind Flayers has dulled their instinctive loathing of the horrors of the ocean - provide us with a wince-worthy anecdote in this regard, as a Japanese man some years ago ate a quite-recently-deceased squid which still had active spermatophores in its systems, and ended up having one of these things attempt to impregnate the inside of his throat, burning through the flesh of his esophagus and deposit its rich load of swimmers into the soft tissues of his neck. Unsurprisingly, surgery was called-for here. If it has not already done so, I fully expect this to inspire in the twisted and only marginally human brains of the masters of Japanese culture the notion of zoophile guro bukkake (look these terms up for yourself, kids! Learning is fun! Make sure google's safe search feature is turned off while you do so, or you might miss the really interesting bits that grownups think you're "too stupid" to understand!). Nor are Japanese epicureans the only unexpecting and less-than-thrilled recipients of these little bundles of chemical joy: Certain fish and other aquatic life which are known to prey on squid have apparently been found with scars all over their faces which are evidently the results of them getting face-fulls of spermatophores voided from the bodies of squid as they were being devoured.
The Giant Squid is not known to produce these flesh-eating spermatophores, but nor are they known NOT to; their spermatophores, at the very least, CAN be said to be coated with a gelatinous sheath of ooze of unknown but presumably disgusting purpose. Moreover, their spermatophores HAVE been found, a number of times, sunk deep in the flesh both of females and males of the species. The latter in particular is a source of lurid speculation: Are these the result of deep-sea homosexual trysts, or are they the result of the males attempting to shoot their loads into the waiting flesh of a female and missing, hitting themselves by accident in the process? To this day, we cannot know. Certainly this latter scenario is leant a certain amount of strength by the fact that the Architeuthis is known to have long, muscular penises, sometimes up to THREE FEET IN LENGTH, and it seems that the process of controlling ten limbs, each of them several meters in length as well as coordinating the discharge of this penis during the evidently violent struggle between a male which is itself the size of a big rig and a female which is around 30% larger than themselves might be a bit much of a feat for a creature even with the large and well-developed brain of these kings of the deep.
A slightly mangled and fairly dead, but nevertheless demonstratably manly giant squid.
Possibly complicating this delicate dance of deep-sea desire even further is the fact that these spermatophores have been found in deep wounds along the tentacles of the females in question, suggesting that the males may actually need to slash open their mates' flesh before shooting these sausage-like bundles of love down the length of their firehose-like dongs AT the wounds that they have just produced, all the while thrashing about in the blackened depths of the ocean. How they make their way from these wounds up to the pouches of eggs which the female giant squid is as of yet any one's guess; the various squids of the world do so in any number of different ways, ranging from internal insemination to firing off a mucous-covered sack of eggs in the direction of an attached spermatophor and causing external fertilization, only then to attach the glob of fertilized eggs to the squid's own mantle until they're ready to hatch. There's no one consistent model that they seem to follow.
So, let's review in brief: A giant squid swims up to its corresponding and even-more-giant lady-type and begins to wrestle with her, slashing the shit out of her arms and legs in the process. He then aims his three-foot-long dong at her and fires a swarm of love sausages full of his jizz into the wounds he's creating, where they root themselves, maybe by burning and melting themselves into the ravaged and shredded flesh of her wounded limbs. He then takes off, swimming for his life, after which, the female does whatever mysterious-as-fuck thing she does with these horrible things to make more of herself.
Now I want some fucking calamari, and you do too.
I take no credit for the following, but post it in its entirety and with credit given.
( Know, O prince... )
(taken from http://www.poe-news.com/forums/sp.php?p
Oh! And I would be remiss if I did not also mention THIS:
http://www.newsarama.com/comics/030
It seems that Devil's Due Publishing is producing a very similar comic book series, hillariously entitled "BARACK THE BARBARIAN: QUEST FOR THE TREASURE OF STIMULI", which I fully intend to procure when it's released. It sounds so amazingly, balls-to-the-wall crazy that it HAS to be worth at least a look.
Some years ago, my friend Paul was visiting Vancouver, and he and I found ourselves at my best friend BJ's place. We were having a fairly weighty discussion about morality and government, revolving around whether a government ought to have a greater responsibility to its people or to the cause of justice as a whole, and what, ultimately, one ought to expect out of a government in this arena. BJ, who had in large part been quiet and a little disengaged up to this point, tossed in his two cents, which derailed the conversation, but in this very act spawned a much more interesting conversation. It's been long enough that I'll have to be just a little creative in re-creating the conversation from memory, and indeed after a certain point I remember the flow of the conversation better than which contribution was made by which specific person, and so I might be slightly inaccurate in my attribution.
"Just to bring this conversation down to my level, you know what I think society knows? Every community ought to have, like, a guy with a dolphin in the place of his head to make moral judgements over the community. Dolphin Judges."
Me: "An entire dolphin? Not just a dolphin's head, but like a reverse-centaur sort of arrangement, where it's a complete human body up to the neck, and then from that point up it's an entire dolphin, minus the tail or something?"
BJ: "Something like that, yeah! Dolphins, you know, they have a much simpler and less-complicated view of the world, but they know right from wrong, and they could communicate this through clicks and whistles and stuff."
Me: "You know what I think would be even better? An old village wise man who has a machine affixed to their head, with a big LCD display screen on it, and they hear peoples' grievances, and then the device on their head measures the relative morality of one path or another and then reads out and displays a numerical rating for them. Like a... a 'Moralometer'. And that way, if someone has a problem with a ruling, you can be like 'Hey, listen, man, one option has a morality rating of 4.3, and yours only has a 2.7. You want to tell me 4.3 ISN'T higher than 2.7? You go get me a calculator and I'll show you, buddy."
Paul: "But then someone says 'Oh, these moralometers are all well and good, but where's the HEART? Bring back the dolphin judges, I say!'"
Me: "Why, they have TWO hearts! One in the dolphin torso, and one in the man-torso! You want to tell me two isn't larger than one? Go get a calculator! And the old men with the moralometers are all desperately pointing out that bringing back the Dolphin Judges has a much lower morality rating than keeping the Moralometer Judges, but nobody is paying attention, and anyways they're drowned out by the delighted clicks and whistles of the Dolphin Judges, who are being brought back in from the wilderness after their long years of exile."
My best friend BJ is over at my place, and we had one of our characteristic screaming matches just now. About gum. because BJ is a son of a bitch about that shit, and he doesn't treat a man with the respect he deserves in his own house.
BJ: "Where's my gum!?!"
Me: "I've got gum right here, you son of a bitch!"
BJ: "No, I want MY gum!"
Me: "It's my place, and you'll chew my fucking gum if I tell you to!"
BJ: "I won't owe you anything!!!"
Me: "Oh, if I could only breath flame at you right now...!"
BJ: "I'd be smoking hot, that's what!"
Me: "...YES! But not in the good way, not like you're talking about!"
BJ: "I don't know how being smoking hot could ever be in a bad way... unless you're talking about breaking hearts!"
I don't know how many of you have read any or all of my old webcomic which I have linked on my left sidebar there, Dave & Vyacheslav. My guess is "probably, not very many". This is okay; if I had any great level of emotional investment in it, I would still be doing the strip today, or at the very least updating the main page with something to the effect of "Strip's over! For further entertainment, just go visit my journal" or something. However, though I have little commitment to it at this point, I do have a great deal of commitment to this journal, and so some cross-pollination can happen in the other direction.
Here's a two-part strip which you can read on its own and without any knowledge of the story or the characters. The reason for this is that the script was actually not originally written FOR the comic, but got adapted for it when I realized that the "protagonist", whom in my head I was simply calling "Mr. Pompous" was speaking with kind of the same voice as the Colin character in D&V, and the comic was as such a good place for this material. As to the actual origin of the script, I shall quote myself from the time when I first put the strip up:
This is the first of two parts of a script I wrote some time ago. It was early in the morning, and I was all sleep-deprived and crazy, and on my way into a Knight & Day restaurant, and just sort of envisioning the ultimate exchange between myself and a waiter. Even as I was being seated, I was at once both biting my tongue and giggling madly. As soon as I was seated, I whipped out my notebook and began to madly scribble down the conversation as I would have had it.
They say that every writer, in some sense and at some point, writes their own perfect world. This is a peek into what mine would look like.
Good day, friends and fellows! As promised, my latest re-write is ready for consumption by the public!
For those of you new and unfamilliar with the process, allow me to explain in brief: For reasons of my own - principal among them the entertainment of those depraved souls out there in the ether who share my comic sensibilities - I have taken to taking japanese horrific pornography and turning them into english-language pornographic horrors, and in so doing, crafting the finest of comedy gold.
Previous such works are to be found here.
And now, without further delay...
( Seventeen additional pages below the cut! )
The Curse of the Rhino King
A Ripping Dr. Sir Reginald Kingsley II Adventure
Chapter 3
I first witnessed the ancient Samoan art of Mookalakapeekapo some seventeen years previous during an expedition about the islands of the savage south pacific which I had embarked upon with my late father, Reginald Kingsley Sr. We had come ashore to re-provision our ship, the Regal Swine (which remains in my family's possession to this very day), and while there, had the good fortune of witnessing a sort of trial-by-combat between two of the tribesmen of that island. Our guide, who was not entirely unfamiliar with the practices and language of these peoples, explained to us that one of the men had been accused of using witchcraft to keep the rains from coming to the south side of the island as retribution for one of the southerners having supposedly sent a "Booka-Tika" or jungle goblin, to bite off his foreskin. The southerner claimed never to have met the Booka-Tika in question, and said that if he had bitten off the northern man's foreskin, he was likely just hungry. The goblin had been cooked and eaten by the peoples of the northern tribe, but the charges between the two still needed to be settled, and so this trial by combat between them was adjourned in order to settle the matter.
"Mookalakapeekapo", we were told, was an ancient martial art which had been practiced by these people for many hundreds of years, and had been honed to perfection by masters who passed the art down from generation to generation. Even in the mystic orient, where martial arts are as common as grains of sand on the beach, and the martial prowess of even the most common of street urchins was a thing to be feared, Mookalakapeekapo was spoken of in hushed whispers and awed tones for its deadliness and grace. Few outsiders had ever been taught its seemingly-supernatural secrets, but those who had born witness to its use in combat could attest most certainly to its fearsome effects.
"Mookalakapeekapo", literally translated into the king's good English, meant "Striking with the fist, repeatedly", a name which it amply deserved. As we looked on, the two combatants took their places some thirty feet apart from one another and prepared to enter their "Koolookoo" or "Punching people" state. Both raised their right arms over their heads as a scorpion might raise its tail in its deadly poise and balled their corresponding hands up into fists.
"What are they doing, pa-pa?", I asked, positively a-quiver with excitement.
"Dashed if I know. Looks dangerous, though, doesn't it?" he replied, stroking his long, luxurious moustaches.
"The tribes of this island have devised a technique", our guide whispered to us breathlessly, even as he attempted to shush us, "whereby they sort of lever their arms up and down in such a way as to bring their fists into contact with one another's faces in a rough and swift manner."
"Whyever for?", I asked, bewildered.
"It seems", he said, "that by doing so with enough force and enough times, one's opponent can be rendered incapacitated by the pain inflicted by the blows."
"Superstitious hogwash!", my father harumphed, ever the skeptic. "Surely if one of them falls over, it's just a... a hysterical response to their belief that they SHOULD be incapacitated by it."
"You say that now, sir, but see for yourself!" the guide replied, pointing towards the two combatants.
Even as he spoke, the two men charged one another, each screaming savagely as they did so. Just as our guide had said, their arms began to lever upwards and downwards in a manner distressingly similar to the deadly scorpion's sting. They were like two savage pagan deities in that moment, like Greek gods calling down the fire from Olympus, and all three of us felt our breath catch in our throats at the awesome, terrible power in them. Even then, I knew I could not leave this island without learning this art for myself.
The combatants collided with one another, and as predicted, their fists fell upon one another's faces over and over again as the two men stood at arms' length from one another. We could hear the impact of fist-upon-face again and again from our vantage point, even over the din of the members of the two tribes gathered around to watch this amazing spectacle. I could hardly believe my eyes: How could such primitive people have devised and mastered such principles in the absence of any formal education or schooling? Even as I looked on, I could begin to discern the science of it; they were employing rotational inertia, kinetic energy exchange, and even the very force of gravity itself to move their right arms up and down with each thunderous blow. Why, if they could do so much with so little knowledge of WHAT they were doing, imagine what I, a man of education and letters could do with such skills! I could conquer the world with the abilities these savages squandered on their small, parochial disputes!
As we looked on, the southern man began to flag. As our guide had predicted, it seemed as though the repeated blows to the head were indeed serving to incapacitate him. My father quietly crossed himself, muttering "God save us!" at the sight of it. As obviously shaken as this normally stout-hearted adventurer was, however, I was just as thrilled! As the southerner fell to the dirt, I found myself joining in the cheers of the onlookers, who even now set about separating the southerners head from his body with their spears: it had been made clear he had indeed sent a Booka-Tika to mutilate the other man's genitals, and for that, the punishment was death.
"Oh, father," I shouted excitedly, "I should very much like to learn this Mookalakapeekapo for myself! Do you think they would allow it?"
"Silence, boy!" he hissed at me, cuffing me behind my head. But even as he did, a hush had fallen over the crowd. It seemed that some number of the islanders had somehow acquired some smattering of English, and had discerned the meaning behind my words. A hushed whisper went up about them, as they pointed at me and looked to their village elder, as though questioning him.
"I think..." my father said, looking about with growing apprehension, 'I think we had best be off..."
"But father", I argued, "What about the supplies? The provisions?'
"Dash the provisions, by thunder! If we don't leave now, I doubt we shall live long enough to enjoy them." Even as he spoke, he had begun to move away from the gathering, insistently pulling me after him by the arm as he did so. The islanders, it seemed, had other things in mind. They moved to encircle us with their spears. "What the devil are they doing, man!" he shouted angrily at our guide. "You said we should be unmolested!"
"Sir," he said, speaking tremulously, attempting to decipher the guttural hoots and clicks which comprised the islanders' language, "It seems... and I beg your forgiveness, sir, I did not know!" he was by now visibly shaking in his boots, "It seems that any man who is present for a Mookalakapeekapo fight may then request initiation into its ancient secrets... but... but..."
"Well? Spit it out, you poltroon!"
"But they must first survive the initiation... or else they may not leave the gathering..." he whispered hoarsely, as twenty or more of the islanders raised their fists, scorpion-like, above their heads, "...Alive."
(To be continued in chapter four!)
I'm sure that many of
you have heard, recently, about the recent resolution passed by representatives of various countries dominated by the ridiculous bullshit religion of Islam, within the United Nations Council on Human Rights, that any criticism of their ridiculous and laughable faith be considered a violation of the human rights of those who believe in their inane and nonsensical fairy tales.Naturally, I think this is a marvelous and well-founded idea. Those primitive-minded half-wits deserve all of the protection they can possibly receive from having the obvious fact that they're living their lives in the manner of deluded children who cannot separate fantasy from reality pointed out to them or spoken aloud, and anyone who plainly articulates the fact that one would have to have the mind of a retarded cave-man to ever believe any of the laughable rubbish they've dedicated their lives to ought to be treated as the beasts and criminals that they are for doing so.
It is with this in mind that I should like to see certain other obviously dangerous and/or horrible behaviours enshrined and protected by law using similar language, so that we should all have the protection that these deluded cretins seek to enjoy, and to this end, I have prepared the following thorough though non-exhaustive list.
1) The United Nations does hereby prohibit the criticism or questioning, by law-enforcement officers or others, of the act of drunken driving. The driving of a vehicle while inebriated is a precious and sacred activity for an entire class of irresponsible morons the world over, and the criticism of that activity constitutes a persecution by the sober and responsible majority of the home countries of these peoples, which no civilized person can ethically justify. The United Nations therefore condemns any individual or body of individuals who would seek to caution against this activity, question the judgement of those who partake in it or seek legal action against or compensation from damages or death arising from such actions.
2) The United Nations does hereby condemn those whose actions since the dawn of nautical history constitute a systematic and deliberate persecution of piracy. Those who live the pirate lifestyle are entirely entitled to their chosen lifestyle, and yet at all times and at all places, they have been treated as criminals and worse by those who attempt to stop them from hijacking their ships. This sort of victimization of pirates by those who would prevent said pirates from stealing the cargo of their ships and/or take part in the murder and/or enslavement of the passengers and/or crews of these ships is a clear and gross violation of the pirates' human rights, and a premeditated and systematic attempt to eradicate their lifestyle from the Earth. It is therefore resolved that those who attempt to prevent pirates from these and related acts of piracy are to be treated as criminals, and the various coastal nations of the world are encouraged to draft laws to prosecute those who would thus persecute these practitioners of this ancient and time-honoured sea-faring lifestyle.
3) The United Nations does hereby condemn those women whose actions and/or omission of actions vis a vis withholding of sexual favours constitute a persecution of obnoxious assholes crudely propositioning them in public places. Throughout the world, men are routinely denigrated, marginalized and denied the opportunity to "give women what they really need" based upon nothing more than their chosen and personally cherished activities vis a vis shouting at, groping and verbally abusing women with aggressive sexual innuendo. As these actions serve the purpose of preventing them from the basic human right of reproduction, it is therefore to be considered tantamount to forced sterilization and indeed genocide. This blatant violation of their human rights is therefore held to be unethical, and all member-states of the UN are encouraged in the strongest of terms to draft laws which would see women who refuse to indulge these advances prosecuted and sentenced to public service and/or prison terms in men's penitentiaries, where they may pay their debt to society.
4) The United Nations does hereby condemn those who criticize idiots, jackasses and morons of all stripes. Though idiots constitute large and in many cases majority populations throughout the world, they are routinely made to feel like fools by those more intelligent, better-informed and more thoughtful than themselves. This constitutes a gross violation of their human rights, as does any disagreement with or refusal to act upon any idiotic ideas which they might offer up or decide to act upon. It is therefore resolved that all nations are strongly encouraged to draft laws which dictate criminal charges be brought against those who disagree with or offer any meaningful critique of any idiotic person or idea, including, but not limited to, the drafting of said laws.
(Note that this last acts as something of a catch-all for the previous three, and indeed for the criticism of Islam, and to the same extent, all other religions.)
I expect to see these resolutions passed in brisk order.
For the benefit of any Muslim readers who may be offended by the false impression that I am comparing their insipid religion to drunk driving, piracy and verbal abuse of women, I wish it to be known that I am comparing them ONLY in terms of the fact that - like the practice of their asinine religion - these are bad and destructive ideas which the world would do better without, and that no other offense or slight is intended against their basic human rights.
After the warm and enthusiastic response which my previous video offering received, I decided that for this installment I would go straight to video. This presented a few technical problems, primary among them that there wasn't six minutes of echidna dick on video for me to work with. Second of which is that - as usual - my personal standards have risen with this second offing, and as such, this ended up being a significantly more ambitious project.
This having been said... enjoy.
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