Liquid sunshine cascades over the lush flora that surrounds me. A gentle breeze caresses my cheek like a mother soothing a crying newborn. Morning dew twinkles delicately on the grass. Somewhere songbirds are gently cooing a song that sounds almost identical to George Michael’s seminal classic “One More Try”. My khaki’s are still warm from the dryer, and the crease that adorns my leg is looking more razor-sharp then ever. My stretching exercises are complete, my coffee has been downed, and I have worked my psyche into a veritable laser beam of Buddhist concentration. You could smash a coconut over my skull and I probably wouldn’t even notice. After some quick deliberation, I pluck my weapon of choice from my bag and ready myself for the battlefield that stands before me. I precisely position my Titleist 3 atop the tee, and get in a few practice swings. Only God can save me now, and in all likelihood, he won’t. I coil the 3-wood around my neck, envision greatness ahead, and let her rip. “Fuck, bitch, cunt, shit, twat, whore, cockhole, TITTY TWIST!!!” breaks the morning’s serenity with great fervour. My ball sails all of 14 feet, curving violently into the brush, quickly disappearing along with my enlarged sense of self-regard.

Even my scorecard is making fun of me. I consult the layout of the first ball-breaking hole and notice that it says Handicap: 3. That’s just rude if you ask me. Just because I swing a golf club like old people fuck, doesn’t make me handicapped, and I scoff at your attempts to try and punish my score because of it. But I digress. I usually tell people that I regularly break 100 on a good day at the links, but this is just my testosterone driven machismo talking. The sad truth is, I average around 135, and that’s including my own creative score keeping skills. Mulligans are a big part of my game, along with the tried and true method of kicking your ball out of the rough when no one’s looking.

Ahh it feels so goddamn cathartic to let all of you in on my terrible secret: Yes, I am a terrible golfer, one might even say Barkleyesque, and that’s okay. Country clubs are filled with my kind. We arrive on the course looking slick with our Big Bertha drivers, our Callaway irons and our Ping wedges, yet at the end of 18 we still suck more ass than a Guatemalan prostitute. This is the beauty of golf; you can’t fake the funk. You can walk, talk and dress the part, but when you step up to the first tee and shank that fucker into oncoming traffic, no one in their right mind will believe you deserve the $6000 clubs that you put on your Mastercard last month.

The course can be a cruel mistress, indeed. She toys with your emotions, teasing you with her freshly-manicured greens, like the flirty girl at the party who admits she just got a Brazilian wax. The path to success is often long and arduous, but once you finally hear the metallic ting of ball hitting tin cup, you will only want more. For as much you enjoy each and every lonely stroke, the real fun only comes/cums after you’ve stuck it in the hole. You have penetrated the supple womb of sporting glory, and you’ll be damned if you wear any protection. From that point on, you’ll only want to do it again and again (17 times to be exact). And yes, there will be some rough patches, but that’s when you have to reach deep down inside of yourself, connect shaft to ball(s) and trudge onward, young soldier. You are undertaking a valiant and noble crusade, and where others before you have failed, you will vanquish. Where they have tripped, you will stand proudly, smiling in the whorish face of the Golf Goddess. You will return to the clubhouse, weary but not broken. You will order a tall beer, sit down and thank her for helping you to expand your curse-word vocabulary. You will undoubtedly need to draw from it again at a later date.

The results from Saskatchewan vs. the Northwest Territories are in: Northwest Territories by a landslide, Canada’s north cripples Canada’s breadbasket and advances to round two. The next match-up in round one pits Canada’s fossil fuel giant Alberta, against some ice and shit, formed to create Nunavut. Vote by commenting.

Alberta

This province is so loaded with oil people use it in day to day activities. No lubricant for sex? Dash a little tar sand on the penis. Can’t find a good marinade for your steak? You know where to look. In our oil starved society, Alberta sits as the Sultan above a bunch of smelly, dirty serfs. They are so rich over in Wild Rose Country that the Premier (who is an alcoholic) personally sent every citizen $400. Why? Because he’s just that cool. Things are a little different out in Alberta; they tend to have an absurdly low minimum wage, are always pushing for two-tier healthcare, and were caught in the 70s trying to build a nuclear bomb to destroy Quebec. The comparisons to Texas are almost endless, but we as Canadians must embrace Alberta, as their ejaculatory fluid, laced with oil and money, is our life blood. A seemingly endless supply of oil is waved around as the trump card for any national dispute. You don’t like the fact Alberta has a drunk for a Premier and is looking to legalize pedophilia? You don’t get a sip of its sweet, nutritious oil.

I was born in this fossil fuel utopia, forcing my way out ass first, how appropriate, the first thing Alberta got to see of Luke Walker, was his asshole. Really, since then, little has changed, I’m still proudly displaying my brown eye to right wing snobs who are more concerned with how to make money than the horrible environmental disaster that said money would bring.

We stand at a fork in the road fellow Canadians: do we play along with Alberta’s fantastic supply of oil, or do we say ‘nay, nay,’ and push for a more environmentally conscious world? A vote for Alberta is a vote for the corporation and globalization, a vote against it is a vote for pretty trees and shit. The choice is yours…

Nunavut

A deer and whale having sex with with Nunavut’s flag, arguably the coolest coat of arms in the history of man…

This place is insane. Remember the barren wasteland of the Northwest Territories? Well Nunavut was basically created from the crap the NWT didn’t want. With economic centers such as Pond Inlet and other shit I can’t spell, Nunavut really isn’t a major player in the Canadian game right now. This is not to say it should be forgotten, as a defender of Native Rights, I must say there is a vast historical importance to the region, one that is for the most part ignored by the rest of Canada. Nunavut is by far the largest province or territory in Canada, but it also has a population of about 30,000, I know kids that have more friends on facebook, they’re lame as fuck and are suckling on Zuckerberg’s recently descended testicles, but they do have more friends than Nunavut has people. With a population of 30,000, mostly distributed in small outposts around the territory, there isn’t much to do in this territory of the damned. I have never been to Nunavut but I can imagine the excitement level is somewhere in between reading The Stone Angel and waiting in line at the grocery store. Nunavut may have an advantage in this battle however; its relative obscurity may save it against Alberta, who has far more visible negatives.

I, of course, will refrain from voting, but I expect this to be a far more interesting battle than Saskatchewan and the Northwest Territories. My vote would however go to Alberta.

I can smell Vin Diesel from my apartment in Montreal — he is lathered up in body lotion and some generic cologne from Italy — the smell is difficult on the nose, but is universally recognized as being the stench of douche. Bros and Jersey Douchebags the world over worship this fairy as their savior, reciting such insightful lines as, “You had me? You never had me, you never had your car,’ or ‘It doesn’t matter if you win by a mile or an inch, winning’s winning.’ I remember when I first saw The Fast and The Furious, the theatre was packed with spiked haired little shits draped in over sized button-ups with flames and dragons depicted on the front. Every kid in there professed to know the inner workings of street racing throughout the film, “nice hood” a kid in front of me bellowed, “I go 150 all the time… in my dad’s Acura,” another boasted. Ridiculous claims, especially when most of the kids went to the movie with their moms. I found the whole film terribly amusing, the writing seemed to have been done by Vin Diesel himself and it was almost as if they had brought in actors off of the street to perform major roles. Throughout the movie I realized that I could blame only one person for bringing out the entire skid population of Waterloo, Ontario… Vin Diesel. Diesel was worshipped by these people; he was the life size poster the kid three rows up from me would jack off to at night. He was the demi-God whose lines would be memorized by everyone in my row, and he was the asshole to whom everyone in the crowd aspired to be.

Vin Diesel is the tangible representation of everything I hate about ‘bro-culture,’ read these simple qualities of a bro that Diesel possesses:

• Talks like he’s mentally handicapped.
• Tests scores indicate he is mentally handicapped.
• Steroid user.
• Obsessed with everything MAN: cars, guns, women, circle-jerks with other bro friends.
• Has security issues: will act tough and run his mouth, but if anyone sizes him up he will cower like a little bitch.
• Possesses no talent whatsoever, actually represents a regression in the development of humanity with his foul odor, unappealing grin, and goofy voice.

Diesel Thwarted by Motion Light Sensors

Vin is a disease, comparable to the bubonic plague in Europe, or the blight catastrophe in Ireland. The problem with his douchebaggary is that his effects on the general population aren’t noticeable for many years; it is a graceful degradation into stupidity. The affected my not realize it for quite some time, and then one day they wake up and realize they can’t dress themselves, brush their teeth, or wipe their ass. They type LiKe DyS aLl dA tYmE and aren’t allowed to borrow their parent’s car. They will spend the rest of their lives at car shows, all ages clubs or covered in sun tan lotion at the beach, they are more Diesel than man at this point.

Thanks Vin, you made the intellectually feeble portion of our population dipshit assholes too.

“Time to suck Today’s dick” – Pineapple Express

I very well might repeat that line every morning in the mirror for the rest of my life. I am on my last ounce of strength right now, I’m in Montreal for absolutely no good reason and have crippled myself with my exploits over the past week or so, Lollapalooza in Chicago’s Grant Park being the…fuck, I don’t even know, I have lost the ability to put words n’ shit together or function right, I am seriously considering rocking the Velcro shoes again because the concept of laces strains my brain so hard I forget to look both ways when I cross the street. What I thought was a simple hangover days ago has not subsided and I now believe that my temples are trying to pound out Morse code to tell me to simply lay down and die, which would really not bother me much because I recently saw Jonny Greenwood perform live (he plays in an underground rock outfit no one has heard of – Radiohead. They’re alright)

To describe them live is like trying to describe fluorescent lights to a blind person, or the sensation of lovemaking to a solitary gold fish. I just can’t do it. They transcended the sound on their albums, to think that they are capable of replicating songs of Kid A in front of people boggles the mind. As usual Rage Against the Machine inspired civil unrest and had to threaten to stop playing after too many skulls accumulated in front of the stage and fans were fighting for position on top. Girl Talk was a drug fueled bachelor party shot into space as usual and NIN rocked so fucking hard I almost made the effort to learn the titles and possibly listen to one of their songs when I got back. I also drank an astonishing amount of beer for cheap. This was made possible by a couple of boys in the beer tent who had devised a racket that involved me getting drunker for less money, organized crime is a work of art. You were only allowed to buy two beers at once so when my friend Mitch returned with six and proclaimed,

“Boys, we no longer buy our beer from the beer tents. We buy our beer from Shawn”

I simply bowed my head to my liver and sang it a lullaby. Thy will be done.

Festival life is like this all the time, it is the promised land but can really only sustain itself for a matter of days before collapsing and returning us all to the tormenting lives of structure and responsibility from whence we came. It is awesome and I will even encourage the deaf to go as well, even though you can’t hear the music every one treats everyone like family, family members who aren’t really related to you and are hot. A music festival looks like a refugee camp where all the good looking people were finally evacuated and dressed in next to nothing. Oh, and if you actually are deaf they’ve got you covered. Some bands, notably The Gutter Twins (personal favorite), had a woman hippie-swaying and hand jiving out the lyrics. So just absorb the reverb and watch her go, it’s amazing. I wouldn’t get too close to those speakers though, the bass can make your bowels drop sure as they can make the bodies drop.

I need to stop typing now because I can’t afford to exert my mind any further if I want to be able to manipulate a knife and fork for dinner. I am also going to the casino tonight – it will be by far my most Christian outing in weeks. Amen

Canada… what the fuck?

Over the next couple of weeks I intend to answer the question that has plagued Canadians for over one hundred years, what province (or territory) is the best? I know there are inherent flaws in my scientific study, namely, the fact that the entire study relies on the subjective opinions of the fools who frequent this site. That being said, it will allow you, the reader, to determine once and for all the greatest province/territory in the most fabulous country in the world.

Voting is done simply by writing the name of the province as a comment. The bracket will be made visible later this week.

The format is a simple knock out system, the province with the most votes advance. Kicking things off is Saskatchewan vs. the Northwest Territories. Let the games begin:

Saskatchewan

Population: 1,010,046

Major Cities: Regina (Capital), Saskatoon, Prince Albert, Moose Jaw, Swift Current.

Pros: Easy to draw the province.

Cons: Inbreeding, nothing to do, cold.

Saskatchewan is to Canada as South Dakota is to America. Meaning it could vanish off the face of the Earth for a few months and nobody would notice. Saskatchewan is known for three things: a wasteland of agriculture that extends across the province, the most NHL players per capita in the world, and insane Canadian Football League fans. I’ve been to this province once, on a trip across the country, really my dad would have driven right through this land of farmers and weirdos, but we needed gas. My dad and I stopped in Regina at a fast food joint, upon getting out of our BMW, gawkers remarked, “must be city boys,” I looked around, and whispered to my dad “we are in their largest city right?”. Cities to these inbred cowboys probably meant Winnipeg (six hours to the East), or Calgary (six hours to the West). My dad, noticing my slight discomfort, firmly held my shoulder and said “don’t look directly at them son, you’ll turn to stone.” This province is weird and I wasn’t even made privy to the backward towns in the north, this was a major city, and I felt like I had just landed on the planet Kahn inhabited in Star Trek. Horses rode people, they offered leaded fuel, and everyone looked the exact same: bad hair cuts, overalls, and doc martens. I wanted to proclaim to the whole province that they were fashion delinquents, but they were eyeing my Timex watch like I had just stepped out of a time machine, I was certain they wanted to eat me. I wasn’t sure if I was a pilgrim in an unholy land, or some minion of Lucifer in a pristinely innocent utopia. Needless to say, my dad and I took the food to go and made a pact not to stop the car until the Alberta border.

I must concede that Saskatchewan does have one thing that as a Canadian I have to thank it for: universal healthcare. Tommy Douglas, a politician from this wheat filled monstrosity of a province and voted as the greatest Canadian of all time by the CBC, championed socialized medicine in Canada. Had it not been for him, our healthcare system in Canada would be vastly different, the half dozen surgeries I’ve had in my life may not have been free. But Saskatchewan has no daylight savings time, which caused me great confusion upon my visit, what makes matters worse is that some regions of the province do have daylight savings time, shit’s fucked. It’s amazing that this province is responsible for one of the most progressive acts in Canadian history, but they don’t understand the concept of time as it relates to darkness.

The Northwest Territories

Population: 42,514

Major Cities: Yellowknife

Pros: Due to sparse policing, you can basically get away with anything.

Cons: Few roads, bitterly cold, perpetual darkness in winter, wolverine attacks.

And I thought Saskatchewan was a barren wasteland. The Northwest Territories take up a massive section of Canada’s north, but the entire population couldn’t come close to filling up a football stadium. The population density of the Northwest Territories is a staggering .037 people per kilometer squared, meaning a piece of land fifteen kilometers long and fifteen kilometers wide holds two legs, a hand, and a bit of a torso… fucking freaks. The majority of these body parts either work for the Canadian government or work in the mines of Canada’s north, I’ve never harvested uranium at forty below, but I’m sure it’s fucking awesome. While the Territories usually get made fun of by the rest of Canada, those who live in Yellowknife have it made in the shade. The city recently was discovered to be literally sitting above a near infinite supply of diamonds, people are moving from all over the world to try and get a hand in this lucrative cookie jar. Unemployment rates are well below the national average and the median household income is over $100,000.

That being said, the rest of the Northwest Territories, although beautiful in places, actually resembles the 8^th level of Hell. It is absolutely desolate, often entire villages are cut off from civilization during the winter and sit in a never-ending darkness for months at a time. I’ve never met someone from the Northwest Territories, but I’d imagine that it would be a nauseatingly delightful experience. I’d be regaled with stories about the time he actually shot his friend thinking he was a wolf, we’d play Euchre, and he’d make fun of the fact I had running water. He’d smell of stale smoke and straw and would have an eye that was slightly wonky. His fleece lumberjack shirt would expose a gut filled with whale blubber and two or three First Nations children.

Fly boys crack me up, and I love airport bars, there is truly nothing better to combat the atmosphere of this awkward and sterile vestibule in between real life than alcohol, and airports would suck bad without it. I am sitting at my gate in the Philadelphia airport right now. It is nine at night and I will soon be flying back to Chicago. Let me first just say that the Philadelphia airport should have its blueprints photocopied and launched into space to one day birth some wonderful utopia in a distant galaxy. There are quality stores, duty frees, bars, and rocking chairs galore (I shit you not – white, old thyme rocking chairs in between gates and terminals so you may sit and contemplate your travels, where mother can nurse child, where fat American pant loads can sit and breath normally for two seconds without inhaling shit right off floor into their gargantuan lungs.) Man, this post is already pure gibberish, but I am in time zone limbo right now so I thought I’d report on it. I have become everything I once hated, a rambling narcissist who seems to think people are interested in hearing about a day that I didn’t even find interesting living. Bottoms up.

Wait, here is one minor development. Just recently I overheard a woman talking on her phone about the driving in Greece and figured I`d share with her a couple of anecdotes about my own experiences and understanding in Greco society. Firstly, Greece is a beautiful country with an incredible history and has terrific people and food. That said, like most Europeans, they drive like psychopaths on roads that seem to just be gentle reminders that you are in fact behind the wheel of a thousand pound hunk of steel and yes, you are quite mobile. It is as if as children they were simply not encouraged to crayon inside the lines in their colouring book, merely just acknowledge that they have the power to create a giant incomprehensible mess.

If you have no frame of reference here just imagine these so called roads and infrastructure as one giant pinball machine, your standard Greek jalopy is the ball that is fired without calculation into a minefield of pedestrians, dead ends, pitfalls, and other vehicles. You are instantly doomed to hit and possible leave to die whatever or whoever you hit without a moment’s hesitation and then repeat it and pretend that those pleas for mercy is not a cyclist trapped in your axle but rather just your muffler dragging, even though part of you knows that fell off years ago. Oh, and this is all done at several hundred kilometres an hour since you are traveling alongside cars that do not have functioning speedometers, probably just totally sweet stickers pulled from Sugar Crisp boxes that denote warp speed ahead.

Anyway, this woman was talking about how her uncle goes over there all the time because he owns a Toyota dealership and every time he drives there he gets hit. The most recent “accident” involved a single lane two way road, basically a game of chicken, and let`s just say this driver here did not have the benefits of time travel to learn him the values of restraint like one Marty McFly did and that the result was catastrophic. I laughed so I thought I`d share with her a story that was told to me by my one and only Greek buddy: Johnny D, aka, John the Greek (Cyprian.) Johnny has hair on every square inch of his body except his head, his compulsive generosity borderlines on a carelessness often associated with Alzheimer’s (it is highly likely he is 50 years older than he says he is) and he always knows when to hold them but most certainly does not know when to fold them (we play poker where John notoriously acknowledges his fate in time to save himself but never feels compelled to do so, something about this demands psychotherapy.) Shit, I’m off topic, and I really don’t want to talk about John anymore. Basically what happened is that he was left at an airport in Athens with a standard car (he had never driven one before) and was instructed to drive it alone across the country. I think he told me it took him an hour to get out of the parking lot, a feat only made possible after his discovery of the clutch and revelation that it was integral in starting the vehicle. I also think he described the horrors of an enormous round about that entombed him in a game of vehicular roulette for days… Hmm, the funny thing is that what I just told you is about all Johnny ever seems to recount about this road trip from Hades, the rest is just repressed into a small black pit that lay dormant inside him like so many other emotions, frustrations and possibly even new hairs (here’s hoping John.)

Good, my flight is boarding soon. Johnny D I love you and your culture and I sincerely hope I didn’t – Oh fuck! I forgot the other story I was going to tell you, about an equally colourful friend of mine. It involves getting an eyebrow pierced in the post apocalyptic slums of Athens. Mind you this is a procedure that can induce paralysis if done improperly and let’s just say that this ranks among the funniest life choices I have ever seen. Kids if you are looking to revolt and get a piercing make sure you seek out sanitary conditions to do so, not, say, I don’t know, in the fetid bowels of Athens’s Skid Row.

Try to guess which one Addison is…

I have a distinct recollection of my friend, I’ll call him Addison because that’s generally what I call him, sweating buckets in a stolen dentist chair in this little shit box tattoo parlour. From my seat I could see into two rooms, the room with the rebellious Addison awaiting what could have been the final bit of sensation he ever felt in his face, and the other room that was booming with Greek obscenities as the two piercers flipped through textbooks like they were cramming only minutes before an exam they knew they were going to fail. I knew they had absolutely no idea what they were doing for this risky operation, I also knew that Addison was concerned sitting in that hot seat, like an old dog at the vet starting to wonder why his owner is acting so strange. So as I watched both dramas play out I recall Addison looking at me through the doorway as he could hear the commotion in the next room. With worried and glassy Basset Hound eyes he then reached out to me and said,

“Ed, tell me they aren’t looking up how to do it. Tell me they know what they are doing.”

What to say to an old friend who is having second thoughts in such a reckless situation, a friend desperate for some guidance, entrusting me, asking me for help in his time of need?

I gave him the thumbs up and said,

“They know exactly what they’re doing. You’re already here, may as well do it!”

On the surface this looks pretty irresponsible, but the fact of the matter is that the procedure went perfectly and Addison secured himself as the biggest rebel in the class, topping only himself for like the 50^th consecutive time. My disregard for caution clinched the moment, besides, being cool is far more important than being able to blink in unison or comfortably hold water in one’s mouth. If they had disfigured his face, or worse, somehow killed him it is not like they would have just let us prance on out of their anyway, we’d all be dead. The honey on this Baklava is that Addison was immediately forced to remove his spike by his parents thus rendering the whole game of Russian roulette incredibly pointless, and so I hope I have somewhat immortalized this incredibly ballsy piercing here as it has since been lost forever in ancient high school lore. Ok my flight is boarding. The moral of these stories is that life is fickle, especially in the wonderful country of Greece, so I don’t know, tomorrow try and impress someone by driving really fast or looping a piece of metal through your skin. Peace.

If you’re a child of the 90’s such as myself, chances are you grew up with several staples in your formative years. These include but are not limited to: Darkwing Duck, Ace of Bass, Devil Sticks, Nirvana, Pogs, YTV, Pop Rocks, personal computers, Bill Clinton and his philandering, Chia Pets, Body Break and last but certainly not least…the Ninja Turtles. The truth of the matter is the Ninja Turtles played a bigger role in raising me than any other singular influence (sorry Dad). I began a decade long love-affair with martial arts because I wanted to learn how to kick the shit out of Shredder’s Foot Soldiers. I ate pizza not just because it tasted amazing and every other pre-pubescent mongrel listed it as their favorite food, but because Michaelangelo and Donatello made it look so goddamn cool. So if you’re like me (and God help you if you are) then I know you can’t be democratic about your Ninja Turtle preferences. The kids that answered the eternal question of “Who’s your favorite Ninja Turtle?” with: “All of them”, can’t possibly be trusted. Fuck that, we’re at war, and if you can’t answer as simple a query as this, then I can only assume you don’t know who the Ninja Turtles are, which is punishable by public hanging. You will be dealt with swiftly and efficiently. So without further ado, here’s my take on the best (and worst) our Heroes in a Halfshell have to offer.

Michaelangelo:

Now look at this dude. Sure he probably masturbates a little too much, and hasn’t so much as smelled a girl in years, but he sure knows how to pick em’. Michaelangelo provides some much needed comic relief in the ever serious world of TMNT. When Raph gets too emotional, or April hits that time of the month, Mikey always steps up to the plate and swings for the fences, even making the ever stoic Splinter crack a smile from on the rare occasion. His comedic timing is impeccable, and his taste in video games and abnormal pizza toppings is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Mike is probably the most famous of the brothers, and his catchphrases are still widely used in the vernacular of pop culture (see: tubular, cowabunga etc.). This leads me to believe that Michaelangelo gets the most action from the opposite sex/species. He strikes me as the orgy type. Do you need a condom when being penetrated by a giant turtle penis? Someone should look into that shit.

Raphael:

I’m sorry ladies, but I just don’t understand the infatuation. Almost every girl I’ve talked to who has even the slightest interest in TMNT absolutely loves Raphael. They want to ravish him right there in the dark smelly sewers where the turtles reside. Maybe it’s the mystery factor he has going for him. He’s dark, brooding and emotionally fragile (read: bitchy). He’s constantly throwing temper tantrums that would put your 3 year old cousin to shame. Not to mention he’s almost ALWAYS the one that gets the turtles in trouble. I’ve tried to replicate Raph’s behavior at bars in order to pick up chicks, and for some reason it never works. I’ll stamp my feet on the floor, beat up unsuspecting bystanders and sometimes even break out the sai’s (that’s his weapon of choice for those of you who are ill-informed). Typically, this display will get me kicked out, and most times, arrested. In case you’re wondering, I haven’t gotten any action from this little experiment of mine, unless you count that large scary man from the holding cell. His name was Rufus. He said he’d call me.

Donatello:

I firmly believe that Donatello is the closet fave of every true Ninja Turtle fan. He’s smart and goofy in that precocious way of his, and he can kick some serious Shredder ass when he has to. He invented half of the turtle themed toys and vehicles that you had as a child (or in my case, just finished playing with 20 minutes ago). Let’s see if you remember any of these Don-helmed ditties: the Turtle Blimp, the Turtle Party Wagon, the Bubble Bomber and my personal childhood playtime preference, the Turtle Pizza Thrower. One particularly epic Sunday afternoon of mine from way back in 1993, was spent shooting those pesky little plastic pizzas at the family cat. I smoked him in the face one too many times and my Persian feline friend had evidently suffered enough abuse and ferociously attacked my ankles and shins. Evidently, Ryker the cat was a Foot Clan sympathizer and I only have Donatello to thank for allowing me recognize the traitor that was in my midst. The only criticisms I’ve ever heard of Don is that he’s a nerd and he wears purple. To the former I say this: you’re just jealous. If Bill fucking Gates showed up at your house to challenge you in a little multi-player Halo action I find it hard to believe you would refuse. And after you got your ass handed to you medieval style, you would run up to your room and facebook all your friends to let them know that the most famous nerd of all time just raped you on the Xbox (not literally of course). To the whole purple thing that Donatello gets so much flak for I respond to the critics simply by saying this, you are all homophobes. Just because a genetically mutated turtle is smarter, more skilled in Ninjitsu and can rock the colour purple better than Whoopi Goldberg, that’s no reason to hate the dude. Quit drinking Haterade by the gallon and recognize the truth. Don is the coolest, you don’t even know.

Leonardo:

Look at this fucking kid. No, really take a closer look. Bear witness to his posture. Don’t you just wanna smack the self-righteous, shit-eating grin off his arrogant face? You don’t? Well, what the eff is wrong with you then? He personifies the stereotypical Leo fan; glib, trite, and woefully conceited. If this kid ever showed up at my front door spouting out “Trick or Treat” in his high nasally voice, I would ask him if there was another option I could choose from, namely kicking him square in the balls. How dare he even think about draping that piece of blue felt around his head. This kid has overtaken Cher as the bane of my existence. My sole mission in life from this point forward will be to eliminate him, and any other Leo-tardo fan that may be lurking in the shadows. You know who you are, and take my word for it, I will find you. So now you’re probably wondering why I have so much hate in my heart for the leader of the coolest mutant fighting team in the world (Take that, X-Men!). Well, for starters, he’s the lamest of the four. He has his reptilian head so far up Splinter’s ass that the only thing that the Giant Rat can possibly taste is turtle shell. Secondly, he’s always harshing the other dudes mellows. Don and Mike just wanna crack jokes and eat some za in peace and what does Leo do? He barges in like he fucking owns the world, and reminds the guys that they should be training. Who all of a sudden up and died and made you fucking Mussolini, Leonardo? He thinks he’s so tough just because he has not one but TWO swords while Donatello is left wielding a glorified stick. You’re a pussy Leonardo, and I loathe you. If you know anyone, and I mean anyone that actually likes this brown-nosing heathen I suggest you punch them right in the liver. Or better yet stab them with a giant katana. A little taste of their own medicine might be good for those little bastards.

Coming from the exotic state of Hawaii, this surfer boy has changed the music scene for all time. Bringing his unique style (just him and an acoustic) and delivering some of the most devastating lyrics of our generation, it is no wonder why jocks and beasies alike have joined forces to provide one of the most delirious and incoherent fan bases since O-Town. His albums each share a different story, whether it is the pitter-patter of rain on the roof of his million dollar home in Oahu, or hanging out on the beach, Johnson creates a deafening maze of lyrical profundity where only the attentive listener can unlock his veiled symbolism.

Johnson’s success was put on center stage this spring as he headlined the Coachella music festival with Prince and Roger Watters. I caught up with him before the concert to discuss his thoughts on his performance, “it’s just really good that people are starting to hear my voice,” said Johnson, “I feel like I have so much to say, and with my eclectic fan base, many ears are showing up to listen. To be honest I’ve never heard Prince’s music and I’m not sure who Roger Watters is, but I’m glad they have the chance to headline with me.” Johnson’s whirlwind road to success has been attributed to a never say die attitude coupled with a bad boy image that appeals to today’s youth. At a recent interview in Omaha, Johnson reflected on his place in the music scene, “You know, when I was just getting started I thought to myself ‘what do kids like these days?’ And after listening to the chart topping hits of the last five years it clicked, they like themselves, they like people they can relate to. Well today’s market is inundated with vapid lyrics and bro-culture, so I slapped on some collared polos, slipped into cargo shorts, and broke out the flip flops. The music just came naturally. I would pick an object in the room and just describe it. Kids don’t want to think about something, they want to be told what to think. I like to think I’m a mirror, reflecting my fan base.”

Really his brilliance comes in the fact he’s so obnoxiously stupid. He is the 40 foot statue erected in Dumbsville, worshipped by Game Cube playing football players with security issues. His posters are hung high in the rooms of vapid teenage girls, who cry while masturbating at the thought of being with those very same Game Cube playing football players.

To tell you the truth, I got Jack Johnson stuck in my head earlier this afternoon when I was walking home. Sitting in a puddle was a half eaten skunk; the smell was foul, his innards were blatantly spilling out of his belly. It was so gruesome that I couldn’t look away, like something out of one of Tarantino’s bloodier films the site of complete death was something oddly fascinating. Then a revelation struck me as I took a closer look at the insides of this furry creature… hundreds of flies had congregated, sucking the remaining nutrients of an already mangled beast. And that’s the madness behind Johnson’s success, those flies could go in search of more tasty treats, but the smell of festering death coupled with dead skunk was the most prevalent odor around. Like that dead skunk, Johnson’s appeal is that he is the lowest common dominator, something that isn’t very good or thought provoking, rather, it is the most available sound coming out of the airwaves, and dumbasses gobble it up like its candy. The scary thing is that the majority of people are dumb. Prediction, the first President to come out of Hawaii won’t be Obama… Johnson 12’.

God I hate that douchefuck.

Devotees will recognize this post from my first stint on Luke’s now neglected and soon to be resentful baby thingsifuckinghate.wordpress.com

I know it’s cheap and lazy to recycle material but I have added a great picture not included in the original. As for any newcomers you can now enjoy my tirade against Flav restored here in all its former glory.

The Flavour of Hate (Redux)

Oh Flav, why couldn’t you just stay in your soggy cardboard box under the bridge? Who played Fear of Black Planet backwards and uttered those magical words of hype that awoke you from your crack slumber? Who has doomed you to walk the earth like the slow witted mummy you are? Whoever it was (VH1) I hate you almost as much as I hate you, Flava Flav.

Now, I’ll admit that irrelevant pop culture would be lost without the antics of Flava Flav, and am especially not here to criticize his (ahem) musical contributions to Public Enemy. I’m just sick of this bum on my TV making millions of dollars for slobbering over poontang with the restraint of an erection. Has anybody seen his so called “shows” before? He first appeared on the moderately popular and reasonably entertaining program The Surreal Life where the nation watched his frail naked body get cradled and groomed by the mighty Brigitte Nielson. This is lovemaking? It looked like and Amazonian warrior princess nursing a baby spider monkey whose mother had left it to die.

These images were so otherworldly that Flav and Brigitte were even granted a spin off called Strange Love. Strange love indeed, Brigitte and Flav continued their impossibly unjust sexual exploitations while traveling the globe as ambassadors for the Western World’s marital and coital traditions, and man was it awkward. The two of them in the throes of passion looked like a gender confused seven year old vigorously mashing his Hulk and Barbie doll action figures together desperately trying to recreate what he saw mommy doing to the mailman. I am not one for censorship but if it weren’t for the irregular blurs covering their Chernobyl’d boils and genitals every six seconds (basically the premise of the show) civilization may as well have been handed over to a couple of humping dogs. Now take all this and set it to the tune of Flav’s incoherent babbles and Brigitte’s soap opera babbling incoherents and you have a basic idea of how offensive this show could get.

The highlight of Strange Love (It’s actually the only episode I ever saw) was when Flav and his behemoth Brigitte (remember this is woman who pleasured Rambo in the sack) somehow squeezed into a tiny basement bathtub, buck naked of course. Flav tried to pour them champagne but his crack addled motor skills caused him to shatter everything and surround the tub with broken shards of glass trapping them in the tub. The camera crew refused to help and after four minutes of starvation Brigitte was eyeing Flav like the little tootsie roll he is – I will never forget the fear I saw in his eyes.

Which brings me to VH1’s latest pestilent and third Flav instalment, The Flavour of Love. After shit went sour with Brigitte, (Shame, they’re offspring would have been straight out of a mythology textbook, half Titan half bat turd) Flav began his quest for true love again only this time it was obvious he had completely lost whatever lingering cob web of a mind he had left. This show encapsulates everything that is wrong with everything. It features Flav, adorned in royal robes, Viking shit and clocks the size of tractor wheels as he stoops around a gigantic mansion complete with obedient black butler, sizing up a group of whores who either want to be on TV or are hopelessly insane, definitely both. Flav looks like a fifteen year old boy who won the lottery and has surrounded himself with shiny things and boobies, he has become motherfucking Caligula.

Remember, this was once a notable personage in the rap community, a staple in one of the most socially conscious and important musical acts of all time. And now? He spends his time rubbing off on the legs of mildly attractive delusional skanks as they tear each other a part for his googly eyed approval. It is the ghetto Playboy Mansion on crack cocaine. Flav is so mystified by what he must believe is an acid flashback of a life that he cannot even remember a single girls name and so he gives them nicknames like Buckwild, Hottie, Bootz, Lik Dat, Toasteee –I wish I was making this shit up, he can’t be fucking serious…what he is? WHAT! HE NICKNAMED ONE OF HIS GIRLS “SERIOUS”! Mother of God. The only thing that even falls out of Flav’s mouth anymore is worthless non cohesive constants that he drawls out as if to somehow amuse himself and alleviate his sadness until he can get his wilted bighand wet. Flav you are no longer a human being, even Chuck D, a man who no doubt once saw you gobbling ecstasy like tic tacs while banging prostitutes in medical waste in your hay day thinks you’ve gone too far. Stop for the good of humanity. I know you might be a little strapped for cash, but don’t you think it might have something to do with your irresponsibility towards drugs and sex? Don’t you think these shows that are geared towards getting you laid by multiple gold digging delusional self depreciative (or possibly brilliant) women is counterproductive? I know you’re having money problems and that can’t be fun….when you got 99 bitches and 99 sons! Serves you right you miserable idiot.

I was also going to try and incorporate Bret Michaels from Poison into this for I hate him and his show Rock of Love way more than Flav but I’m done here. It’s the same format anyway: Bret Michaels putting on mascara and Bret Michaels banging skanky plastic mothers of three who he claims to have seen at a few of his shows in the 80’s. Let’s hope Chlamydia turns out to be the Antidote and Bret shrivels and dies.

Oh one last thing. Remember those great celebrity odds of death in the back of MAD MAGAZINE. I half assed one for Flava

Flava Flav Odds of Death

1 -1: Flav goes digital and electrocutes himself as well as all his whores when he hops into the hot tub. Remarkably, Flav’s charred corpse is hot wired to sporadically vibrate and cane jungle booty ever so often. Viewers are fooled and the show carries on to finish off the season. Last words? “Yeeeeaaah Boy!” Moments before his cannonball into the water.

1-2: I kill him. Straight up murder that piece of shit. Probably with a math problem.

1-16500090: Brigitte returns because she couldn’t stand being apart from his impressive social skills, handsome face, and robust physique. She fucks him into a fine powder and discovers just a dash of it hypes up any dish, starts a cooking show –The Flavour of Flava Flav.

1 – 4559908358589: Finds God who immediately strikes him down.

1-485774887959498490458500000: Dies in the loving arms of a wife, surrounded by loved ones out of the public eye. Last words? They’re spoken in English.