7 clouds in a row.
It’s like hitting the jackpot at a slot machine, or something.
I love autumn.
REALLY, I do.
7 clouds in a row.
It’s like hitting the jackpot at a slot machine, or something.
I love autumn.
REALLY, I do.
1. Virtual Chairs
Left over from those “limited seating” Webinars, where nobody showed up.
Price: $2.00 Each. (Or $10.00 per thousand)
2. Astrological Meat-Shelter™
Basically, a big sack o’ meat. Mimics a mother’s womb. Protects against bad star signs.
Great place to hide out during unfavorable horoscopes, till things settle down.
(Caution: Meat-Shelter™ is only good for a day or so, unless your entire apartment is refrigerated.)
3. 1521 Ways to Simplify Your Life
Price: Depends. Phone our billing department at 1-800-555-KNOB to enquire about special deals, which vary by region. Enquire about our 47-week payment plan, or buy the DVD with option to get the book, unless you think otherwise, and prefer to make a 15% down-payment, and then it’s a monthly cost, minus Laotian sales tax, but only if you live in the Western Hemisphere.
4. Avatar Paint
Fill in your Twitter Avatar in the color of your choice, to show your half-assed support for the latest flavor-of-the-month cause.
Available in Grating Green, Righteous Red, or Smug Salmon
Price: $15.99 per can (good for 120 Tweets).
Our highly-trained scuba divers have been spanning the globe, carefully trapping and bottling the delicate off-gases from our noble Cetacean Sea-Brethren.
Known to have therapeutic powers. Once you experience what 10,000 pounds of digested krill smell like, believe me, you will never forget.
Price: A steal at $1000 per bottle. (If you think that’s expensive, YOU try to play along when Shamu tells you to “Pull my flipper”.)
6. Vegan Cat Food
Teach Kitty to be more environmental-friendly with these nourishing dishes he will just love.
Available in Lentil-Raisin, Mango-Chutney, and Lima-Bean-Tofu.
Price: $20.99 a can (but it’s a small price to pay for saving the planet)
7. The Big Book of Quotes
Feeling inferior to those quote-tards who constantly cite famous people you’ve never heard of before? Tired for searching hundreds of blogs every day, for that one inspirational bit of wisdom, without which your pathetic life would cease to have all meaning?
The Big Book of Quotes is the answer to your problems. It’s got everything everyone’s EVER said, from Gronk the Neanderthal’s discovery of fire (“Ook-Tah!”) to the Albert Einstein stubbing his toe (“Ach! Fuch!”). It’s all there.
Once you’ve got this book, you’ll never have a shortage of witty things to cut and paste. And now YOU can appear smart, too.
Price; $12,000 (plus rental of the Chinook helicopter for shipping and handling).
8. Organic Soot
Obtained pesticide-free, from free-trade laborers burning down virgin Ecuadorian rain forest.
Now you can leave your carbon footprint with good conscience, knowing that you’re doing your part to help keep the planet black green.
Price: $1.99 per bag (good for 10 acres of forest)
9. Clairvoyant Healing Chimp
Email us with a problem you want solved. We’ll inform Bongo, our Certified Spiritual-Freedom Musical Healing-Chimp.
He’ll play with his flute.
He’s quite good at it.
(Actually, it’s hard to get him to stop, sometimes).
Bongo’s music will send out positive psychic Oprah-vibes to the universe, and your problem will be guaranteed to be solved (*).
Price: A bargain for $1500. (Plus 20 banana pellets).
10. Snake Oil
Over-all lubricant, helpful for digesting hard-to-swallow concepts. Like earning $100K/year blogging about what your cat ate for breakfast, ponzi-scheme weight-loss diets, musical healing-chimps, and general social-media douche-baggery.
Price: $50 a bottle. But buy now, because next week the price doubles triples quintuples.
I don’t’ claim to be a Dog Whisperer, but I do have a talent with dogs. They seem to like me.
I’m not their Pack Leader. I’m their play-mate.
I don’t give them “Exercise, discipline and affection”.
I give them affection. Play-time. And more affection.
I don’t keep them in a calm, submissive state.
I bring them to a hyper, excited state. (Much to the consternation of their owners.)
I am…the DOG INSTIGATOR.
Here are some selected mutts I’ve ruined for life:
When I was 10, Mrs. C lived across the street from us. She was a kindly old lady who lived alone and worked full-time, who didn’t have the energy or time to exercise her very active shepherd/collie dog.
So she gave me the key to her house, and I took Honey out every day and every weekend. We played with her till dark.
Honey was my best friend growing up. It was the classic story of A Boy and his Dog.
I never really corrupted Honey. But she was the first dog who ever really went nuts for me, And she sure did miss me when we moved.
She spent her remaining years staring out the window at my old house, waiting for me to come out by and play. It was kind of sad. She pined for me.
But we kept in touch. I still got to babysit her whenever Mrs. C went on vacation.
She would drive 120 miles out of her way, to drop Honey off at our house, rather than put her in a kennel.
When I was in my 20′s, I baby-sat my neighbors house for a few weeks, including their Sheltie-dog, Quincy. We instantly bonded, and after that, he wouldn’t leave me alone.
My Stupid Quincy Tricks included making him sing/howl on demand, chase imaginary flies, and when I said “Fish!”, he’d lunge at the guppies in the aquarium.
For years after, anytime he heard my voice at home, he’d squeeze through the fence and invite himself into our house. I would always pour him Pep cereal into a bowl.
To get him really wound up, I would say all three things:
“Quincy…Fly…Fish…Pep. Fly…Fish…Pep! FLY FISH PEP!!!“
That was guaranteed to activate the launch sequence. Every time.
Eventually the neighbors would realize their dog was missing, and call out. “Quin-ceeee!. Where is he? Oh..he must be visiting Friar”.
At that point my dad would say “Quincy, GO HOME“.
And he would.
Until next visit.
Hansy was a big lummox of a Bernese Mountain Dog that my other neighbors had.
I was first introduced to Hansy when he was a tiny pup. I’d wrestle and play with him and get him so excited, he’d go “Cracker-Dog” and start destroying baskets and furniture and such.
At that point, Mrs. H. would throw her arms up in the air, and leave the room.
I was such a bad influence, she said, that if she ever got a pup again, she would NOT let me ever see it, until it was full grown.
Now, the funny thing about all this was that Quincy and Hansy lived across the street from each other.
And they were both extremely jealous for my attention.
If I’d go to pet Hansy, Quincy would scream bloody murder. (Come play with ME, Friar!)
So then I’d go pet him, but Hansy would start yelping. (No! Don’t pay attention to him…love ME!!)
So then, if I’d stand in the middle of the road, not knowing which dog to go see first. And they’d BOTH go ape-shit, and the whole neighborhood got to hear it.
At that point, Mrs. H would open the door and yell:
“JESUS CHRIST! Will you PLEASE COME say HELLO to my DAMNED DOG so he will SHUT THE HELL UP!?”
Ahh. Nice to feel wanted, eh?
When I went to grad-skule, I lived next to a 100-lb Yellow Lab, with a thick skull like a cinder-block. He was big, strong, dumb, and lovable. I played with him almost every day, and got to be good friends with is owner, as well.
Stupid Basil tricks included the Fence-Pull:
Oh, and if I said the word “BOTH” he’d go nuts.
(As in: “Bass-hole…do you want the stick, or the ball…or…BOHHHH-TH? “).
That’s when he’d wiggle, snort, and do laps around the living room.
He liked to head-butt my chest. His perpetually wagging tail destroyed glassware.
Another good trick: whenever he heard me next door, he’d put his paws on the fence, and make a stupid plaintive yelp, calling for me.
It wasn’t a “Woof woof” or “Yip Yip” bark.
Instead, it sounded like “NEE! NEE!”.
Just like Monty Python. The Dog who goes Nee.
Of course, that’s when his owner would yell:
“For F*** SAKES, will you COME say HELLO to my STUPID DOG so he WILL SHUT THE HELL UP??
(Hmm…anyone notice a pattern here?)
Goes without saying. I”m Tipper’s favorite two-legged person in the whole world (or so my sister tells me). And Tipper is my favorite four-legged critter in the whole world.
All it takes is for the word “Uncle Friar” to be said, and she’s ready for action. In fact, that’s how they ‘d coax Tipper to do things, even when I wasn’t there.
Like the time she was hiding under the van after getting quilled by a porcupine. “Come see Uncle Friar” was how they got her to come inside and drive to the vet.
Whenever I visit, Tipper is about the 180-degree opposite diametrically opposed from “calm and submissive” as you can get. She’s literally smashed through screen doors to come and greet me.
And there’s a mutual understanding. As soon as I walk into the door, there’s no saying “hello”, no having coffee, no taking off the coat.
No, it’s just YAP! YAP! YAP!
And the yapping doesn’t stop, until we’ve fulfilled our contract.
Tipper expects me to go out back and throw the ball. And I expect Tipper to retrieve the ball I throw. We’ve both trained each other this way. We feed off each other.
Doesn’t stop either. It lasts the whole weekend.
Even the next day, the dumb dog will have a bursting bladder from being inside all night…the rest of the house is already awake, and has finished breakfast.
But Tipper will keep lying in bed next to me, until Uncle Friar gets up. So play-time can start again.
And of course, there’s our mandatory Filthy Mud-Walks in the woods.
And when it’s finally time for me to leave, the dog grieves.
I’m told that after I’m gone, she lies on the bed where I slept, sulks and won’t move for half the day. She won’t even accept treats or anything.
Wow. Kinda flattering.
I wish I was one-tenth as great at that dog thinks I am!
Ahhh…my latest convert.
Walter is just a pup. Brett only got him a few months ago.
Dumb sack of shit, we (affectionately) like to call him.
(Well, to be fair, he’s still a baby). So it’s not his fault if he doesn’t quite grasp some concepts, like how to avoid falling over a sharp drop-off….
Walt’s only seen me maybe half a dozen times. But I’ve already planted the seed.
(C’mon…tell me you can’t see it in his face!)
It all started when Walt would be sleeping quietly in his cage when I’d visit.
Of course, that was just INVITING me to take him out, and wrassle with him on the kitchen floor.
Which he does, each time, with extreme enthusiasm.
Chewing on me, tail thumping, unable to stand up for more than 10 seconds.
He’s delighted. He’s having fun. (Who IS this guy? he’s asking himself. He’s fantastic!)
Then it’s time for bed. Brett puts the leash on him, to take him out for one last pee.
And that’s when Walt digs his heels in, and refuses to move.
Because he wants to stay and play with Uncle Friar.
So now the patterns’ been set.
Already, at that young age.
So now Walt now goes ballistic every time he sees me.
Yet one more canine I’ve corrupted.
Like I said:
I am..the DOG INSTIGATOR.
PS. I’m also the same way with kids.
These are actual self-proclaimed bio-descriptions from some of my Twitter followers.
(I couldn’t make these up if I tried, folks!)
- Shooter of photos, not people
(Well, GOOD for you!)
- Clairvoyant Healer
(So, theoretically you should already be able to make me better, without me even asking.)
- Lover of People
(I bet you also don’t shoot people.)
- Idea Explorer
(Personally, I’d have narrowed this down to “Good Idea” Explorer.)
- Eco-geek into Human Evolution and Sharing
(Let me guess. You don’t eat meat, right? )
- Connector of Marketing Dots
(Do you use a crayon for that? )
- Personality Consultant
(Funny, that was my guidance counsellors’ 2nd career choice for me.)
- Human Nature Specialist
(Please tell me, what accredited university do you need to go to, to get a degree in that?)
- Journey Learner
- Believer in Forgiveness
(Does that also include spammers?)
- Serene Journey Blogger
(…as opposed to just “Blogger”?)
- Confidence Coach
(Not a Life Coach, but a “Confidence” one. There’s apparently a difference.)
(C’mon, I’m pretty sure you could get a theologian job, if you just applied yourself.)
(I think the Curious Christian should team up with the Vagabond Theologian. Imagine the ADVENTURES they’d have!)
(I wonder if they’d know how to do a Poetry C-Section, then?)
Avid Art Journaler
(So…do you actually DO art, or just journal it?)
(Well, THAT pretty much covers it, dosen’ it?)
- Purebred Douchebag
(My personal favorite! At least, this one I can relate to!)
Dear Parents (Moms, Dads, Mommy-Bloggers, Helicopter parents, Breeding-Couples everywhere);
On behalf of single people everywhere, I apologize.
I’m sorry for only putting in 80% of the effort into maintaining our friendship. It should be 100%, the onus should lie squarely on me. I should realize you’re Moms and Dads now, and that you are no longer able to take 5 minutes to drop a line to your best friends every few months.
From now on I will do all the driving, visiting, calling and emailing. Rest assured, you’re now officially exempt form these duties for the next 16 years.
I’m also sorry for wanting to have a “conversation” with you, for wanting to tell you about MY life as well.
I should be more sensitive to your needs, and realize that it’s basically a monologue you want to deliver, about astounding tales of your wonderful offspring. And it’s my duty to be mesmerized and enthralled by each and every detail, over what Kirsten had for breakfast and what Adrian did at pre-kindergarten.
I should also realize that any moment, we can be interrupted mid-sentence by a random toddler screaming “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!“. I shouldn’t be annoyed at this, because our Precious Children need to express themselves and be listened to, 100% of the time, 24/7. We must respect that.
I’m sorry that I get bored, after the first few hundred baby photos. It was easier in the old days, before digital cameras. But (please bear with me), I find it hard to pay attention on dozens of snapshots of the same scene. I mean, there are only so many ways I can look at a baby sitting on a floor sucking Duplo blocks.
I’m sorry that I roll my eyes about breast-feeding, when the kid’s old enough to Trick or Treat for Halloween candy and cut the meat on his plate. What do I know? By all means, go ahead and nurse the kid until he’s 15. When they’re old enough to be weaned, they’ll tell you.
I’m sorry for being annoyed at a screaming 1-month old infant in a movie theater. I should be more patient, and understand that it’s more important for the two parents to get out of the house, than it is for the 300 people who paid $10 admission to enjoy the show. After all (as I learned from Star Trek), sometimes the needs of the few outweigh the needs of the many.
I’m sorry you find your $1200 government child allowance insufficient. You see, I didn’t get ANY tax rebate. But let me know how much you want. I’ll just dig deeper in my pockets, and pay more tax myself, to cover your needs.
As for you Moms, I’m sorry your careers haven’t progressed as quickly as the rest of ours. The fact that you take a year off now and then to have kids should in NO WAY put you at a disadvantage on those who regularly work the full 52 weeks every year. Just say the word. I’ll gladly turn down my promotions and pay raises, and ask that it be put aside for the next person who comes back from mat leave.
And last, and most importantly of all, I’m truly, truly sorry for not being one of you.
You see, I’ve been told again and again, that there is NOTHING more important than raising a child.
And I shamefully haven’t fulfilled this duty….The Most Important Thing in Our Society.
No, I’ve been pursuing my own interests like education, career, travel, hobbies, art, music, friends, family and volunteering.
Not to mention working full-time and paying my share of taxes , so that Junior can have access to free health care and public schooling, and disadvantaged single parents can get welfare.
But now that I think of it, that’s all been pretty damned SELFISH of me.
I should have realized that anything I accomplish, no matter how important, still comes in a distant second, compared to parents who make babies.
I mean, if you’re not raising kids, then what the Hell did God put you on Earth here for? What’s the point of it all, then?
(…So I’ve been told).
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to dress sack-cloth and ashes, and repent.
And when I’m done, I promise I’ll try to find the right mate to pair-bond with, so that I can ultimately join the rest of you.
Most wild animals have a healthy respect for humans.
They know we’re predators, so they usually try to stay away from us.
We think they’re so smart and industrious.
But REALLY…how bright can they be?
You see, given a whole huge empty MARSH to live in…
…they’ll go out of their way to cut down trees hundreds of feet away…
…drag them through the swamp…
..and build their home, RIGHT NEXT TO THE BOARDWALK.
Good survival instincts, there, bub.
(But seriously, who REALLY builds those dams for you?)
1. Remember to Breathe…
…hard! And grunt when you do so.
Think about that a-hole who took your parking spot. Or your boss yelling you at work. Gettin’ mad? Do you feel your breathing getting shallow and fast?
Good! Now, start becoming aware of your body. Listen to the tight breaths whistle between your clenched teeth. Feel your jaw ache. Keep this up, till your head throbs.
Do you feel a tightness in your chest?
Ahhh, excellent, Grasshopper.
That means you’ve getting it right.
2. Keep a Proper Diet
Forget the nuts and berries crap. What do those Buddhist monks know anyway? Sure, they live long. And they’ll probably reach Enlightenment.
But lookit how skinny they are. Bet you guys never enjoyed a good Porterhouse in their life.
Just remember the four basic Anti-Zen food-groups: Sugar, Salt, Caffeine and Fat.
Discipline yourself. If you make a small effort, it wont’ take too much effort to get all these basic food groups in one shot.
A McDonalds’ Big Mac Meal. Donuts and Coffee. Movie theater popcorn with a gallon-sized tub of soda. Any one of these snack will meet all your daily “Vitamin J” requirements.
3. Don’t be afraid to F*#$ing Swear a Lot
Hmph. Those Zen folks getting all high and mighty about never losing their temper. On account of they’ve learned to accept things that they cannot change…yadda yadda yadda.
You know damned well they’re just bottling it up, and it’s a recipe for a heart attack at age 39.
A true Anti-Zen Master lives in the Moment. And often that moment dictates that if you’re pissed off about something, you need to vent off some steam and let the whole world know.
That’s when swearing comes in.
The best profanity invokes images of humans and animals engaged in various acts of carnality. You may also want to include the deity of your choice.
So let loose. Don’t be afraid. Be creative.
But if you’re not the artistic type, hey, there’s nothing wrong with dropping the classic F-Bomb.
Ideally, try a sport that involves a motorized vehicle of some sort. Fishing with a motor boat. Snow-mobiling. Motorcycling, or any kind of off-road driving.
If you MUST do something physical, at least make it something intense, where you can get really aggressive and yell at people, and risk tearing some cartilage.
Tennis is a good one (think of John MacEnroe). Touch football is also highly-rated (so long as it’s actually tackle). Golf is also good (provided you remember to get really MAD when you miss your putt.)
But none of that Yoga bullshit. (C’mon! What USE is that?)
If I can’t touch my elbows together under my knees, then so be it. I could live with that. (Especially being a guy)
And forget Tai-Chi…(I mean…WTF?)
Unless you speed it up..and then you’re doing kung-fu. (Which at least falls into the acceptable aggressive/injury category).
5. Motivate Yourself with Appropriate Music
Sorry, Zamfir, Master of the Pan flute, but you gotta go. So does Enya, whale-songs, and any other music that belongs in a Tampon ad.
Replace this with heavy metal. Preferably Viking Death-Metal.
If the music doesn’t make you feel like smashing your head into a brick wall, then it ain’t Anti-Zen.
This is an excellent exercise, to help you with your hard breathing.
6. Un-Clutter your Environment
Do you have too much crap around your house? Are you feeling crowded and cluttered?
Easy solution. Move to a bigger house. Now you can spread out more, and your home will feel emptier.
Repeat as often as necessary, until you die.
7. Find Good Role Models.
There are lots of Anti-Zen Masters out there.
Here are some, to name a few.
- John MacEneroe (as mentionned above)
- Chef Gordon Ramsay
- American Idol Contestants (the shitty ones, at the beginning of the season).
- Oscar the Grouch
- My Grade 11 English Teacher
Observe them. Follow them. BE them.
Because one day, you will.
8. Keep a Closed Mind
You made it this far in life…so obviously you’re doing SOMETHING right. So WHY change things now?
The last thing you want to do, is read all kinds of books and blogs with tips on how to improve your life.
Think for yourself, and just ignore all those do-gooders trying to help you.
Starting this this post.
Remember when you were five and you misbehaved? And your parents would count to three?
But of course, they’d never get to three.
Because in those few seconds between “Two!” and “THR..”, that’s the point at which you’d cave and start acting right again.
Because you’d be too terrified of what would happen if Mom or Dad ever finished the dreaded three-count.
(Probably nothing too serious, actually).
You were almost tempted to find out, though. But it just wasn’t worth the risk.
And your parents knew you’d never call their bluff. That’s why they used three-count was used so often.
But it only works up to a certain point.
Because as kids get older, they get smarter, and they start pushing the boundaries and questioning authority.
Idle threats used on a five-year will no longer work on an older child. He won’t feel respected, and he won’t respect his parents.
Good parents realize this, and they’ll adapt by using more sophisticated, age-appropriate methods of discipline.
Fast-forward, 40 years.
At the Factory, they want everyone to fill in their Weekly Timesheet Forms (WTF’s) by Monday Noon. No exceptions.
Because the World will End. Civilization as We Know It will cease. If the bean-counters don’t get their WTF’s by Monday.
And they’re going to enforce this.
If you miss the deadline the first time, your manager will have a chat with you.
If you miss the deadline the second time, then the Director will have a chat with you.
But if you miss the deadline for (gasp!) the THIRD time…(Wait for it…)
…then you will get a one-on-one chat with the SENIOR DIRECTOR-GENERAL GRAND-POO-BAH: Lester McFester.
And BELIEVE ME (they tell us, trying to get us to tremble in our boots), you do NOT want to he having THAT chat with Mr. McFester!
It’s like “One….Two…THR”, all over again.
But I’m not five anymore.
One of these days, I’m NOT gonna fill in my WTF’s.
Just to see what happens.
What’s Lester gonna do?