My kingdom for anything without sand in it!

Burp!...

Pardon me... my manners are a bit rusty...

(misleading title, ain't it? yeah, I got nothing...)

Rejuvenating, isn't it?

So anyway as I was saying earlier, Timmy was getting ready for his day at the spa.
What? What do you mean 'Who's Timmy?' Weren't you listening? You should really be more focused...
Timmy is in no way gay, nor is he particularly curious about anything; he's just an ordinary man with a somewhat childish name. As a matter of fact, the only noticeable thing about Timmy is that he doesn't feel the need to blink a lot (he says that blinking is a form of weakness and that most traffic accidents occur while the motorists are blinking...). Most of his friends, like him, enjoy the simple pleasures of life, like watching several cars race around an oval track for hours on end, cheering loudly when the occasional, but always brutal, crash occur. And in between those crashes, they talk about hockey, that lovely lady they saw at McDonald's last weekend, and the price of gas. Timmy doesn't like talking about his body, or any part of it except maybe his partial right pinky. He's proud of it and always willing to explain, in great and sometimes very gory details, what happened on that fateful Christmas eve of 1998. But we won't dwell on that story, so let's just say that operating a brand new snow blower while inebriated is not a very bright idea.
So on one of their Nascar nights, during a shampoo commercial, the subject of dry skin came up for some reason. Timmy didn't say much, except that his right pinky didn't feel dry at all... But after consuming several cases of beer the four of them decided it was time they joined the twenty first century and became aware of their subtle feminine side. They all decided that a day at the spa was the way to go. Needless to say the next morning Timmy felt like he was being pulled into this against his will, but decided to follow his friends because who wants to be alone on a Saturday afternoon?...
And that's about when you came in. So Timmy was getting ready for this endeavour, a little bit nervous but mostly apprehensive about the prospect of showing his partially naked body to strangers. But whatever he was feeling at that moment, he couldn't possibly have been prepared for what was going to happen next.
He got to the spa center, somewhere in the forest but still relatively close to the city, and the sheer size of the complex confused him. He was expecting a small cabin with a couple of massage rooms, a hot tub and a small pool, or something in that general idea, but what he had in front of him was more like a collection of mansions surrounded by trees, large rocks, a waterfall, and small concealed speakers playing a soothing melody. But that's not all; when he got the the front desk, there were so many people waiting in line that he thought he was at a Metallica concert. And not just middle-aged women, but teenagers, young men and women, couples, and even middle-aged men. 'Am I at the right place? Is that really a spa?' Timmy asked the corpulent 37-ish man standing before him. 'Yup! And if we're lucky, we won't wait more than an hour and a half! Today the spa seems not too packed...' So he had been here before. He wasn't being dragged here as a result of a drunken promise.
Fast forward two excruciating hours of standing in line and listening to conversations around him about how wonderful this place was, and how lucky they were to live in a society that allowed them to take such good care of their body and mind. By then his three friends had left. The lady at the front desk greets Timmy with a very exaggerated smile of total wellness and happiness, and asks him what his reservation number is.
'Reservation? Huh... Well I didn't know that.... What?????'
'I'm sorry sir but you need a reservation to have access to our facilities. Next!'
...
...
I could tell you everything that went through Timmy's mind at that moment, and I could tell you how much he wanted to jump over that counter and insert the clerk's head in the computer monitor. But violence is not welcomed in such a peaceful environment, and Timmy decided to calmly leave, keeping all the violent and ugly things bottled up in him.
But there is one thing about Timmy that I feel I should mention at this point. He doesn't give up easily, and takes any offence really seriously. There was no way that this stupid spa would win. He was going to spend that day at the spa even if it killed him. So when he got home he called and made a reservation for the next Saturday. That'll teach'em.
So after a week of furious anticipation, our rebellious Timmy is back and ready to feel rejuvenated. After once again a really long wait, he gets to the counter and proudly, even maybe a little too loudly, says his reservation number. The clerk asks him what package he wants, and the emptiness in Timmy's eyes tells her that he has no idea of what he's actually here for. So she explains all the options very quickly, and saves the bomb for last. Brace yourselves.
'But our best service is definitely this: Rectal Bliss.'
'I'm sorry, what?'
'Rectal Bliss. We pour warm coffee in your rectum, which liberates special hormones and pheromones and envelops you in a state of pure bliss. It's the new thing, and it's the best ever!'
'You pour what in my what now?'
'Coffee in you rectum. It's very relaxing!'
'...'
'You'll see, sir, everybody loves our Rectal Bliss.'
'WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE??? You're supposed to DRINK the coffee, not pour it in you arse!!!!!'
'But sir, don't you know that coffee is very bad for your body? You shouldn't ingest it, caffeine is bad for you.'
'So I guess that one morning you saw that on the news and told yourself "Then I guess I'll pour it in my rear end, that'll be better!"'
'...Sir there's no need to be vulgar! It is a genuine treatment for stress and I personally vouch for it! And by the way I never drank coffee, I always knew it would throw my body off-balance.'
'Off-balance?? Lady you have no idea how "off-balance" you sound right now. You people make me sick! You're all messed up! I'm outta here!'

So Timmy never experienced the Rectal Bliss, or any other wellness package for that matter.
He still enjoys beer, chicken wings, and Nascar.

Of rednecks and yokels....

Sometimes the weirdest things happen. Take this blog for example; I'm probably the laziest blogger out there, but when whoever reads this thing thinks it's over for good (because of the lack of posts...) there I go again, some random thought makes me want to write some more nonsense.
Today I will tell you of a beautiful and magical country.
It all begins when, while going west towards Toronto, you see a glorious tower standing high above the tallest buildings in your wildest dreams (that is, if you're a yokel that never went further than the corner store to buy a pack of smokes... It's actually a grain silo and it's about 100 feet tall). 'What is that place?' you ask yourself, having never heard of it before.
'Have I been living under a rock for the past [insert your age here] years?
-Let's visit this wonderful place!' says whoever is in your car with you.
So you drive past the silo , come to a traffic light (so they have electricity, it's a good start), pass a garage, a funeral home, a corner store and a post office, and then you're done, you're on the country road again with nothing but empty fields around you. 'What? Is that it?'
No, it can't be... So you turn around and pull over on the side of the street (which has no sidewalk, only a narrow parking lane) in front of the post office to ask for directions. You walk in the post office, and that's when you meet Betty and Skeeter.
Betty is a slightly overweight late-middle-aged woman dressed with very fashionable and also very used matching sweat pants and sweater, the latter embellished by a washed out picture of a wolf in nature. A subtle scent of cigarettes and fries completes her charming features. She gives you a warm smile (which allows you to catch a glimpse of her five remaining teeth) and says "Hi there! What brings you in this part of paradise?', to which you answer:
'Well, I was driving by and...
-BAM! You saw our beaut'ful new sign! See! I told ya t'would bring tourists!!'
That was Skeeter. He proudly stands 5'1" tall, his blue jeans is gray and brown from all the oil stains, and the coarse leather jacket that covers the rest of his body has probably seen more winters than the three of you combined.
He presents his weathered hand and says:
'The name's Skeeter. I'm the town's plumber and mayor. Oh, and I also drive a snowplow during the winter.'
You think you've stumbled on a movie set, but instinctively you shake his hand and make a fake impressed face: 'Wow, quite the handy man! You must be very busy!
-Not really... I had a call on the telephone machine last week, some kind of salesman I think. And yesterday I went to the city dump to find me a hot water tank.
-The city dump? But isn't that where all the garbage goes? You can't find a working hot water tank there!!
-Who said it had to work? I just want to cut it in half and weld it to my pickup truck to use as a snowplow!
-Oh, I see! So anyway, it must be my lucky day! What an honor to meet the mayor! Can you tell me what should I visit and how to get there? All I saw was this street called "Main"...
-Well that's the Main Street! It has everything! A garage, a funeral home, a corner store and this post office!
-...Oh, ok! Well then, I guess I'll be on my way! It's been very nice meeting you and...
-Wait! You can't leave like that! I still have to show you my brand new snowplow!'


And that's when you have to make the following choice: fake a heart attack to get out of there as fast as possible, or buy a house in that incredibly charming country called Odessa.

Soap and suspenders

Well, it seems that I am a homeless person as of today. I decided to throw away the shackles of home-ownership to run free of that burden and experiment the life that so many hippies have been living since the original Woodstock.
...
Ok for those who know me, this is fucked up right here. I would never, for any reason and under any circumstance abandon the pleasure, and necessity of soap. Nor would I ever renounce that love for luxury I am known for. "But then, what did you mean by "homeless" then?" are you asking yourself. Well let me tell you right now what I mean by "homeless". Pull up a chair, a log, or even the corpse of a dead monkey; whatever suits you.
I sold my house so now I live in a hotel for a couple of weeks, until I get my new house.
There. Are you sorry you killed that monkey so you could have a comfy seat, expecting a captivating story?? Well don't be, I strongly suspect that monkey of stealing my suspenders! I'm wearing my pants around my ankles, right now... It's a disgrace.
So due to an unforseen monkey-related disturbance, I have to conclude this post with this remark: don't ever befriend a monkey wearing loose pants.

Later dudes.

Mmmm... Beer.....

To answer Yofed's question, no, I haven't found another beer fridge gnome. And it really has an impact on my stock... Lately, beer has been flying out of my fridge at a dizzying rate!!
But it's not only because Albert's gone; with summer just around the corner, and all those pretty ladies finally getting rid of all those unnecessary clothing items, one has to enjoy the best time of the year.
I plan on doing that on a daily basis.

An update on Albert, my beer fridge gnome

I fired Albert.
He drank himself stupid the other night and started humping a couple of bottles in the fridge. It got so intense at one point that the fridge began to rock left and right, until it fell on its side. Every single bottle of beer that was inside broke. Albert got out, crawled to a tissue box nearby, dried himself with way too many pieces of tissue, then "marked" the whole living room. Gnome urine smells extremely foul, especially after drinking that much.
I'm a patient man, and I really respect Albert, so normally I would've just laughed and let him sleep it off. But what motivated me to fire him was the words he wrote with his urine on the wall: "Death to Guinness; Viva la Corona!"
How he learned our language so fast, I'll never understand. But the fact is that he is no longer sane and I can't have a wuss for a beer bodyguard.
His position's open, so send your applications and resumés.

On apprend de ses erreurs...

"Une chaussette rugueuse, c'est comme un condom passé date! On n'en veut pas, pis en plus, ça pique!"
Ce fut l'une des dernières pensées de Fafouin avant sa visite chez le médecin.
Fafouin, voyez-vous, n'ayant comme revenu que la bonté de quelques vaillants passants qui osaient braver les rigueurs de l'hiver jamaïcain, n'avait que deux paires de chaussettes. La première, verte de sa couleur, n'était utilisée que lors de grandes occasions, comme la sortie d'un film concept, ou encore l'inauguration d'une manufacture de ponchos. Par contre sa deuxième paire de chaussettes, beaucoup plus banale, était sa seule protection pédestre depuis la perte de son emploi chez le cordonnier du coin. J'ai décidé de vous épargner les détails de sa démission, puisque le but de cette histoire est d'inciter votre charité, et non pas de ridiculiser le principal intéressé.
Sur ce, je continue.
Donc sa paire de chaussettes d'usage courant avait la caractéristique d'être la seule. Après quelques mois, qui devinrent rapidement quelques années, Fafouin dû se rendre à l'évidence: ses chaussettes étaient trouées. Toute personne qui apprécie un certain confort aurait sans doute eu le réflexe d'aller acheter une nouvelles paire de chaussettes. Mais, comme mentionné ci-haut, Fafouin devait se contenter de la bonté de braves passants. Or, cette année en Jamaïque l'hiver fait rage et rares sont les âmes généreuses.
Après avoir passé plusieurs soirées endiablées accompagné de ses compères, Fafouin en est venu à la conclusion logique que les chaussettes n'étaient qu'une façon sordide que le gouvernement avait trouvé pour contrôler la population... C'est alors qu'il décida de se joindre au mouvement que ses amis avaient formé quelques heures plus tôt. Dans un élan de créativité ils le nommèrent "Le Bloc Québécois".
Armés d'une confiance inébranlable et d'un dégoût des chaussettes trouées, ils enlevèrent tous leurs chaussettes d'un mouvement vif et décisif. "Mort à la dictature! Mort aux conformistes!".
Sans chaussettes et sans scrupules, ils démolirent ce qui les offensait: les barrières, les panneaux de signalisation routière, les voitures de police et les vitrines de boutiques de mode.
C'est alors qu'avec plusieurs éclats de verre logés dans les pieds, Fafouin prit rendez-vous chez le médecin.

Depuis, Fafouin a renoué avec la raison, et porte de belles chaussettes neuves avec ses bottes à cap d'acier.
Et il vote ADQ.