Cross Marketing Smells Like My Last Dump

When Celine Dion released a CD that had the Chrysler logo adorned on the back inlay I felt a little sick.
More than sick maybe, she's a Canadian artist. I don't want to own her CD's, or pay hundreds of dollars to see her in concert, but I did want to be proud of her as a French girl who came from my country and made it big.
Then, she did make it big, HUGE even.
She had more money than I will probably ever see in my life.
Enough to sustain the life of a Hilton party girl.
And then she sold out, and I don't care what any of you fuckers say, she JUMPED THE FUCKING SHARK.
"As a singer, I've had many opportunities to travel, and one thing I've learned is that through my music, I can be accepted by people all over the world. I often wonder why so many of us can't accept people who are different here, in our country? It's just not fair to be prejudiced against those whose race, religion or colour aren't the same as ours."
Okay, I take it back, Celine Dion is a fucking MORON.
My apologies to the Chrysler Corporation.
You guys totally got butt fucked.
BUT.....
What about Snoop D-O-Double-G?
That mother fucker sold out For Schizzle when he decided that he wanted to endorse Dodge. Better yet, when the fuck did Dodge's target market shift so dramatically? I must have been napping.
C'mon snoop. You're an artist, and a porn producer (has anyone even seen 'Doggy Style?)
ahem
anyway, Why does Hip-Hop sell a Dodge?
It doesn't!
It fucking sells yogurt drinks for kids. How could I have forgotten the commercial with the cartoon tiger spinning some serious beats for a bunch or prepubescent minors who crave a good cold yogurt beverage. XL, that's the shit yo!
Are we not supposed to see that this commercial mimics perfectly EVERY beer and liquor commercial that is marketed towards us of the 'legal age'.
Oh no wait, not mimics perfectly, there's no obvious sexism in the yogurt commercials.....
YET!!!!!
About the C- Walk:
"It's a heredity thing that comes with the set, the neighborhood... When I was a kid I saw my big homies doing it. It spread throughout the neighborhoods in '79, '78, somethin' like that."
Okay....Wait....Maybe if he's still "walking" like they did in '79, '78, he left his dignity there too.
But to be on commercial hitting balls about the course and telling us all how cool we would be if we drove a dodge?
C'mon....
I know it's not literary genius, but I have two words that come to mind...
FUCK OFF.
and p.s. rhythm and Gangsta was mediocre at best!
Then.....
after this cross marketing assault on my senses I walk into the beer store for some escapism and what do I see?
Well, Colonel Saunders telling me I need a bucket of chicken to go with my 'Lucky Lager'.
As if that weren't bad enough the 'beer dude' hands me a sample stick of 'Degree' body responsive, ultra clear deodorant for MEN.
Obviously, because women don't drink beer.
I buy beer, and I get deodorant?
Fuck the Tsunamis and Hurricanes, the world is fucked on a more base level when I get pit stick after buying a 12 pack.
What is next?
For real...
p.s. I just did the spell check provided on this website because I want to at least appear intelligent, and it caught the word GANGSTA, which it didn't recognize, the first word it offered to replace gangsta with was GUNSHOT. I kid you not!

Bike Wheels On A Gravel Path

www.envirolet.com/visapotty268.html

Okay, please have a look at this link. It is a dream come true for me.
I have a fear of public restrooms, acquaintances restrooms and sometimes even my own dear toilet makes me sweat.
I have left all kinds of parties, bars and functions to go back to the toilet I am most comfortable with and achieve release.
Once in college I felt the onset of a pretty serious shit at like 10am.
Normally I would have just jumped on the bus then headed for the hills, but I had an afternoon exam, I couldn't leave. I know the option to use my educational facilities facility was viable, but, there really was no question. I would have to hold it.
This one turned out to be something I'd have to hold, negotiate with and beg.
By the time I got home (after walking with no bend in my knees from bus stop to front door) I was shaking, sweating and, well, crying just a little bit.
I whipped the front door open and took what could only have been 3 seconds but felt like an hour to contemplate if the upstairs or downstairs Lou was closer. I went up.
My hands were shaking so much that my zipper became a logic puzzle, I was just thankful that I was going to shit myself at home where I could keep it a very dark secret.
I made it though, I got the pants and gitch down, bent to reclaim my rightful (and needed) spot on the throne, and had begun, endured and finished my shit by the time my ass cheeks met the cool plastic of the toilet seat.
It was like a "THWOOP".
Rolaids spells relief? My Ass!
Nothing spells relief like the relief a person with a social phobia of shitting in public gets when they make it to their 'comfort throne'.
Sometimes the gross inevitability of a persistent turd forces me to ignore my beliefs of a public can.
I'd rather take the plunge than explain why my pants got heavy while driving in a Chevy.
I combat this with excessive flushing, loud coughing and trying to pinch it off until all the footsteps from the stalls pat their way out the door.
A few weeks ago I was camping up North (Tobermory, Ontario).
The 'outhouses' were actually kind of clean. Not too busy either, I only had about three shit attempts that ended with me zipping back up and putting it off.
THEN....
10:00 am. The morning sun was starting to get hot, all the keeners who wake up at 6 am to walk dogs and brew coffee had already taken their dumps, and all the partiers who would be dropping some pretty serious beer shits were still trying to sleep off a hangover.
I saw my chance, and I took it.
I announced to my camping buddies that I was going to take a shit, and I headed up the path.
My stomach was knotting a bit, both with the urge to purge, and the onsetting fear of what I was about to do, the indecency of it all.
I tried to casually glance into the campsites I was passing to see if there was anyone looking like they had to go, or outrightly announcing their intentions as I just had.
It seemed clear.
I saw the facilities in the distance.
The sun shone gently on the wooden and plastic exterior, not disturbed by the entrance or exit of any civilians.
I made it all the way there, no one to be seen.
I got inside, glanced at the toilet, assessed it to be as clean as I could logically expect, and I sat down.
I felt good.
Confident even.
With the relaxation of the appropriate muscles, my 'private time' had begun.
Then gravel started churning and crunching under the wheels of a bike.
Sounded like the bike was coming fast, and a skid to stop by the toilet.
Great, a fucking dream come true this was, shitting in relative public, and a child in the area.
I glanced at the lock on the door (which was one of those J hooks that sits in the O and keeps my door firmly shut for privacy) all locks in place, now it was a waiting game.
I heard this child walk across about 3.12 feet of gravel and come to a stop in front of the only two doors that had toilets behind them.
It was 50/50.
If he tried the door on the right, he'd find an empty toilet to call his own, if he tried the door on the left it would pull until the lock was taut, and then make his way to the right.
Child tried door on the left first.
Door on the left pulled until the lock engaged.....
then said lock disengaged, and door opened wide.
My vanilla white upper thighs and knobby knees highlighted in the sun, but even more shocking was the wide eyed horror of child who was looking at me crapping.
He stood there, maybe 3 seconds (again, felt like a fucking hour) and then just let go of the door, didn't push it shut, but let it fall from his fingers.
My useless fucking bathroom door fell slowly toward me.
I grabbed the J lock, hard too, like I was trying to pinch it the way an abusive parent would grab their kid in a time of disobedience.
The lock didn't care.
It hated its job.
I could understand too.
Then I heard the same 3.12 feet of gravel being crossed and Child getting back on bike and peddling away.
Logically, I knew he was red faced and running away from what he had seen.
But, in my head, he was hauling ass back to his campsite to tell everyone his new story of seeing some guy with a Mohawk taking a crap.
I could hear them laughing.
I could feel the laughter spreading from site to site.
The story spreading like gossip at a southern united states beauty salon.
There wasn't much I could do.
I saw another opportunity, and I took it.
I bared down.
Wiped like I was on 'fast forward' and got the fuck out of there.
I didn't want to be the 'Butt' of this kids joke.
By the time I got back to the campsite, I was sweating even harder.
It was a shit to remember, and to reinforce the reasons that any sort of public release has the potential to end in humiliation.
Again, see link above.
If I were an inventor I would have made that!
I'm not, instead I just send big kisses and social anxiety abolishing hugs to the inventor.
Toot Toot!
literally!

Your truly,
Crappy McScaredypants

DISAPPEAR HERE

I was just sitting down to check my email, and I was trying to decide what CD I should put on for background music.
Then i remembered this CD that one of my best friends made for me in the Fall of 2003.
It's perfect.
Although I usually can't get all the way through it without slipping into some pretty heavy nostalgia.
Track two is a song called 'Autumns Here' by Hawksley Workman. This song for me is the only thing in the world that makes me believe that sometimes pain is beautiful.
On the inlay of the CD he made me is written this;

"And an angel of rock and roll piss and dangerous guitar riffs lifted the weight of inherited guilt. The angel sang songs about whiskey and decay. He spoke words infinitely sad and frightening. He played music about the blessing of new moments and the freedom in forgetting. And he wrote. He wrote about tireless nights and passionate souls. He wrote about nights when there's nothing left to hold. He wrote about knowing how the worst will come and the worst will go. He worte about helping people away from fear. He wrote about cities fading and brake lights on highways blurring into the sky. He wrote about people like us, not sure where they were going. He wrote about being drunk and acting tough. He wrote about how you're not the only one who feels this way. He wrote about what we were doing in our last moments and what brought us here to begin with. He wrote about moths and suns, stars and gigolos, front porches and warm rain that ran down cheeks like tears of happiness. But with the happiness came envy. And with envy, came the angel to make it all okay. The angel looked at me with blue and beautiful bloodshot eyes and just as the music started playing, he began mouthing out these words over and over. Disappear here. Disappear here..."


I love this friend of mine!

It's The Small Things

1) The hanging seconds between when you first fart, and when you can smell your fart. There is some excitement to be found in those moments.

2) The change in phone voice when you say good night to a potential bf/gf on the phone. It's like it softens.

3) Autumn, it's around the corner. Everything about the fall is poetry. The smells, the colours, the way the breeze feels. It's nostalgia at its finest.

4) The first sip of a beer when you're hanging out with your best friends. You know it's going to be a great night. That first sip is like the stepping off point.

5) Other Animals - Matmos, Autumn's Here - Hawksley Workman, Brokedown palace - The Grateful Dead, Kissing You - D'esiree, I'm Still Your Fag - Broken Social Scene.

6) Mixed CD's that people make for you. I don't know about anyone else, but for me, these are the best gifts ever.

7) Campfires.

8) Making out.

9) Margaret Cho.

10) Dead baby jokes and the people who laugh at them.

11) The smell of the fog that they make to ensure dance floors look mysterious.

12) Used record stores.

13) Flipping through pictures. Even the ones that make you groan.

14) Nights at home, bored and sipping cheap beer and writing lists of things you love.

A.D.D.

http://add.about.com/gi/dynamic/offsite.htm?zi=1/XJ&sdn=add&zu=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.amenclinic.com%2Fac%2Faddtests%2Fadult1.asp

ok, so one whore of a link, i didn't bother trying to figure out what was unnecessary.
Anyway, a friend of mine at work got 'diagnosed' with ADD, the other day, and she told me some of the reasons they believed she had it.
I recognized all of those reasons in myself.
I took to online searching for ADD tests to get a general idea of whether or not I have it, or i fit's even a real disorder.
i found this test, see link above.
It told me that it was Highly Probable that I had Adult Attention Deficit Disorder.
And all this time I thought I was just eccentric.
Please....take the test and let me know what it says about you.
Also, if you think this is a recognizable disorder.
Any and all feedback would be dreamy.
Sorry for the lame blog, but it's interesting once you take the test!
Peace Out YO!
Ian

20/DUMBASS

GAYDAR
see radar; An individuals ability to gauge a persons sexual orientation through interaction or exposure.
Do I have Gaydar?
Sure, as much as the next person.
I can point out a stereotype as easily as I can identify when I am dehydrated and need a glass of water.
Am I a 'gaydar' expert?
Well, no!
The same as I am not an expert on the 'Tooth Fairy' or 'Nessy'.
The areas of expertise differ but the reason I am not an expert are the same.
THEY DON'T EXIST
But, ABC's news program 20/20 must have missed the memo, and sordidly arranged a segment on tonight's show to 'test' Gaydar.
They found ten willing men to submit to the scrutiny of Gaydar experts.
Five gay men....
Five Straight men....
The idea was to have members of the general public with finely tuned Gaydar interact with all ten men, and then vote on who was gay and who was straight.
The findings were monumental.
People were absolutely shocked to discover that a man who displayed no 'feminine' attributes was in fact a homosexual.
They were beside themselves to hear that a slightly 'effeminate' man could actually still be a heterosexual.
CALL IN THE EXPERT
Professor Pussylover from The University of Grasping said that, in all, Gay men are more 'feminine' than straight men.
He stated that a straight man uses more animated arm motion from shoulder to finger tips, where as a gay man will only use his arms from elbow to finger tips.
Which is true, and making it difficult for me to type right now.
Doctor Pussylover also said that a straight man will tend to slouch, where as a gay man will sit "more properly".
An audience member said that you can tell a gay man from a straight man by how much their eyebrows move when they're talking.
As she stated 'A gay guys eyebrows are always higher' (insert surprised look) 'where straight guys are like' (insert furrowed brow).
The interviewer; "Some gay men are up in arms saying that your research just perpetuates stereotypes"
Prof Pussylover; "Well, research has proven that gay men are more feminine that straight men".
Well 20/20, this gay man thanks god that he has use of his arms from elbow to fingers, so that when he is flipping you the bird, you get the exact idea of what the message is that I am trying to convey.
And while we're at it, tell Maury he's a Loser.

Call It By It's Name

The Musings Of A Demi-Slut
We all know that the ignoramus view of sexually active individuals is that men are studs and women are sluts.
*dry heaving*
Ahem *wiping mouth*
Lets tear down the gender barriers on what makes a person too promiscuous and try to analyze the reasoning.
First off, there are no sluts here, no people who fuck for the sake of filling the psychiatric 'void'.
Here, we are just looking at people who are in tune with their sexual appetite, their desire to get off, and to get other people off.
What aspect of multiple partners is so offensive to such a vast majority of people?
Is it jealousy?
A dogmatic ideology of who and when humans are supposed to fuck?
Why is it such a topic of discussion?
Albeit, I was sickened when I learned that the guy I was in my one and only 'long term' relationship with had been with upwards of 30 people.
Why was I so put off?
Because I had wanted to do just that?
Because I felt less attractive for not having bee able to 'bed' that many men?NO
It was because I had been poisoned by my upbringing.
I had learned that masturbating was a private but dirty thing to do.
Fuck, the roman Catholics say yer jerking yer cock if you shake three or more times after you take a piss.
I was brought up to believe that you save yourself for marriage.
A man commits to one woman and they fuck to procreate.
Well....
No more pussy for this kid...
So, you'd assume the rules were out the window, but for a long time, they still applied. I viewed sex as an act that plays out between two people who love one another.
I believed that if you had sex with some random guy it made you dirty, cheap, undesirable.
It made you less appealing for the guy you wanted to date.
To a certain degree I am still 'that guy'.
I mean, I wouldn't want to walk into the Zellers bathroom and have every guy at the urinal start tapping his left foot in recognition of my boyfriend....
but...
the lines have blurred.
Sex has become a more tangible release than a romantic notion.
I am not a HO.
I feel it's necessary to qualify that even as I write a blog that in some fucked up fashion is in defense of HO's.
I don't want to go to sex parties, have orgies, get pissed on.
But, I have seen that it is immature to disregard and disrespect the people who do choose to express themselves in seemingly 'slutty' ways.
I believe that anything healthy and consentual is healthy and consentual, therefore deserves no judgment or comment by the likes of me or some bible toting Christian.
I also think that if I were to meet a man, fall in love, or just heavy petting in the back seat of his Volvo, I would approach the situation from that day onward.
The past, has passed.
If they were useful enough to be safe, protect themselves and others, then who am I, are you, to judge?
We're all so self serving in our ideas of what makes a person loose anyway.
My mom would tell you that anyone who has had sex with more than one person is a slut.
My friend Dayne would tell you that there is no such thing as a slut, and that sexuality is to be embraced and let flourish.
It's all opinion.
And I guess the biggest thing is....
Your opinion doesn't matter for one 'fuck'.

Cross-eyed to the poltergeist

I have a hair that grows out of the exterior of my nostril.
At the ski slope part of your nose that you fingered as a child to determine if your nose was proportionate enough to escape ridicule on the playground.
Mine was.
I was never ridiculed, for my nose.
A year ago I noticed a small blonde hair.
It's nothing to send me to eternal bliss with the other freaks from 'The Crysalids' but it's there.
I'd guess 1 1/2 millimeters in length, microscopic in Gerth.
I always notice it in passing, I'm in a softly lighted bathroom, and it catches the yellow glow of a 40 watt bulb, shimmers like gold in a separating pan.
I search for it in the bright, honest light of a fluorescent bulb.
It evades me.
I forget it's there.
It haunts me, I forget I have it, and then it makes itself apparent as I'm making sure I have no boogers in my nose, or when I am brushing my teeth.
ALWAYS, when I do not have tweezers within an arms reach.
When I look for it, it hides.
When I forget it's there, it shows up.
Always in the same spot, always the same hair.
It's so small and insignificant but it presents itself like a bumblebee that has landed on my face.
I want it gone, but when I act to swat it it's not there anymore.
The surprisingly sharp edges of metal tweezers roam along my nose at the will of my eyes as guides, yet no final attack is ever recognized.
The hair hides.
Dives back into one of my pores and obtains the role of jivey soldier.
Remember that 'whack a mole' game that always had the shittiest prizes at the carnival.
This nose hair is the mole I want to whack, but the prize is monumental.
I will be free of this tufted horror.
Free of this phantasmal irritant.
If my tweezers and a 40 watt light bulb ever line up, I'm going to show a little 'whose who' to the hairs we grow at the demise of our twenties.
Live in fear tiny cursed follicle.
I am coming for your baby.