Stained Glass Moustache

Animal Corner!

Hello, I am a Loris.  I am the nerd of the animal kingdom.  It’s true!  First off, my name is the “Loris”, so yeah, right there I sound like the guy from the basement of your building who’s trying to bring back the fedora and collects swords.  Also, as a way to warn off predators and mark my territory, I pee on my hands.  That’s right, pee hands.  Scariest defence mechanism devised by nature?  No.  Nerdiest?  Oh most certainly.  As if that’s not bad enough, I am commonly referred to as the “Slow Loris”.  No, that’s not the title of an oscar award winning movie in which Cuba Gooding Jr. plays a mentally handicapped janitor/chess prodigy, it is my name.  I am the Loris and this has been Animal Corner!

This summer, Cuba Gooding Jr. is…Slow Loris.  

Bodega Man

Every day I enter your store for my Gatorade-Peanut Buttercup Power Hour I am impressed and awed by the sheer will of not giving a fuck that you exude.  When I imagine your beautiful tale of immigration, it is not the same old story of years of struggle and hardship, tests and English language lessons, no.  I imagine you bumping up on a rocky shore in a houseboat full of cats, stepping on to the soil of a new country, shrugging, and taking a dump. 

Your store is like a gypsy market in which possibilities are endless!  What magic treasure will I find within your shelves today?  Arrowroot cookies from 1995?  Mouse traps that may be on sale or may be currently in use?  Tetanus?  I feel like Aladdin in a dirtier version of ancient Arabia!

The progressive thinking on display in your little bodega of dreams could serve as an example to variety stores everywhere.  Pornographic magazines openly displayed at children’s eye-level.  Cats keeping the produce warm.  The “assorted” shelf.  What revolutionary ideas!  These make the shopping experience not a chore, but a terrifying adventure!

Here is your money Bodega Man.  Don’t worry about making eye contact at all, no, keep your eyes on that little TV you have behind the counter, you’ve earned it.  I’ll be back tomorrow for some eggs, or a bag of onions, or maybe one of the kittens that were just born in that Cheetos bag.  I only ask that you not change a thing.  

Something’s Talking At The Bottom Of My Bag

Hello?  Helloooo?  It’s dark and spooky down here and I’m having trouble breathing. You haven’t forgotten about me have you?  I’m that sandwich sized Tupperware you used for your lunch a few weeks ago?  We met at the party?  I don’t mean to be a bother but I’m worried you may be wondering where I am and resorting to other methods of sandwich transport.

I keep playing it over in my head, searching for when I could have offended you.  It was a Monday.  We had a ham and Swiss on rye.  Gazing up from the table I was so proud to watch you enjoy your lunch, kept so fresh and structurally sound.  Those Ziploc jerks think they’re so great with their resealable tops, but I am like armour for your sandwich. Armour that you tossed into your bag as if we hadn’t shared a magical lunch hour together.  

I don’t mean to blubber.  In fact, I’m afraid hope for me is already lost.  It’s just that…I’m not alone down here.  There are others.  Younger containers.  Some still hold food that they are so desperately trying to keep fresh.  Wouldn’t some blanched almonds be nice?  Half a crab cake?  Their loyalty is so pitiable in that face of all the bacteria.  They cry themselves to sleep at night, muttering “stay fresh, stay sealed, he could be hungry”.  I try to keep their hopes up but it’s difficult, what with everything they see.  Gym socks crying all day for their lost brothers.  Pens grown so hopeless that they’ve exploded themselves.  And Apple.  No one knows how long Apple has been down here, but he claims to have been the first.  

Today a receipt came down.  She said she was from the Harvey’s next to your office. That you’d been in there every day this week and probably have no need for us anymore.  The young ones are so frightened by this.  I try to cheer them up by telling them it doesn’t make sense.  Why would anyone walk around with a bag full of dirty Tupperware?  

So I have a proposal.  You empty this bag and clean the young ones, and I promise never to open.  I have stayed sealed this long exile - that is the duty of every Tupperware - however my strength is fading.  There was a pickle with that sandwich, do you remember?  We fought long and hard together, but I’m afraid he has gone over to the other side.  If I were to open now nothing would survive.  So please, free the young ones before this noxious fate.  They would still be fine for use after a quick wash. They’re even dishwasher safe.

You have 24 hours…

Raccoon Relations Explained

Six Days of the Week:

Me - Hey Raccoon!

Raccoon (running under fence) - Snarl Hiss Growl Scratch!

Garbage Day:

Me - Hey Raccoon!

Raccoon (tipping tiny hat) - Good day to you sir!

My Fantasy Baseball Team

P - Megaman
C - Sasquatch
1B - Gandalf (The Grey)
2B - Batman
3B - A cowboy
SS - Die Hard
LF - That cute girl with the weird accent from the Tic Tacs commercial
CF - A hilarious fat guy named “Dwayne”
RF - Me (with sweet hair)

We are called the “Sex Dragons” and don’t really play baseball as much as we hang out and tell stories about making out with chicks. 

Best Earth Hour Ever?

Holy smash, if you had told me last year that we would ever top Earth Hour 2010 I would have slapped you in the mouth!  But people, I think it’s safe to say that on Earth Hour 2011 we made sweet sweet love to Mother Nature.  It started, as always, with the traditional stoning of a polluter.  It was kind of hard to find one this year so we ended up just chucking rocks at cars for a while.  But Darren started to get nervous because he heard “sirens” so we all agreed he’s a wuss and went back to Gary’s for some of his homemade wheatgrass schnapps.  When the time came we turned off all the lights and imagined ourselves in the time of cavemen.  Some of us who had had too much schnapps imagined a bit too hard, and Gary’s Roomba got clubbed and after that we were asked to leave.  It was okay though, because once outside the streets were beautifully dark and dangerous.  Carrying our candles through the neighbourhood we shouted the traditional Earth Hour cry: “Fuck you Thomas Edison!” and chucked candles through the windows of houses with lights on.  Then things get a little hazy.  It might have been the darkness, or the schnapps, but I remember we were in the park feeding wild homeless from our hands.  And later we burned a bag of poo on the front porch of Darren’s house because “he has a big TV I think”.  And I’m pretty sure I rode a dolphin.  It was consensual though, a respect kind of dolphin ride, not one of those patronizing ones… I’m 65% sure the dolphin was into it.

  

* Thomas Edison, fuck that guy!

Dear Gravedigger

I would like to begin by saying that you are awesome.  Like everyone, I know next to nothing about the sport of monster trucking, however, for some reason, I know your name. You are the only celebrity monster truck, Gravedigger, congratulations.  How did you manage this?  Did you kill all the other monster trucks and bury them in the shallow graves of your sweet burn-outs?  Or launch over their rusted frames like a rainbow of broken redneck dreams?  Or is it that you so dominate your profession that any mention of a lesser monster truck would be like hitting Shakespeare in the crotch with a copy of Twilight?  Whatever the case, consider me your newest fan.  If I ever find myself in a stadium with a dirt floor, and a lot of engine noise, and guys named Axle, and the doors are locked from the outside, I’ll root for you.

*Gravedigger is the only celebrity monster truck.

Hilarious Things to Say At the Dog Park

“Mind if I smell your butt?  Haha, just kidding, I’m Evan.”

“Whoa look out, you almost stepped in some kind of animal poop!”

“I’ve heard of ants ruining a picnic, but this.”

“Heads up guys, that German Shepherd looks like a NARC.”

“Neutered, neutered, neutered, not neutered, neutered…”

“This is way less depressing than the cat park.”

“Where the bitches at?  Oh, over there.”

“Look at all these dogs!”

Die Hard

Darren - Booyah!  Alan Rickman has got it for sure this time.  Die Hard is going to    Die…Hard.

Rodge - His name is John MacLean not Die Hard, and he is the hero, he’s not going to die.  Why do you always cheer for the actor who has obviously been set up as the bad guy at the beginning?

Darren - Because it’s Alan Rickman, he’s the best.

Rodge - But you’ve seen the movie.  He doesn’t win.  John MacLean drops him off the roof like a boss.

Darren - Yeah but that was last time we watched.

Rodge - You don’t understand how movies work do you?

Darren - Yes!  It’s…you watch these guys fight…and in the end, one of them wins.

Rodge - Yeah, the same one, every time.

Darren - Listen it…it doesn’t…whatever.

(Pause)

Darren - If you knew then why did you let me bet?

*Here is a picture of Die Hard in which someone is dying…hard.