Spring Cleaning

Dear Sir,

Firstly, I would like to extend my kudos. I don't know how you were able to get my email address, but clearly you did some top-rate investigative work, and for this, I commend you.

Secondly, thank you. In my daily perusal of my emails, I happened upon your message. Granted, it was in my Junk Mail, but as they say, one man's trash is another man's treasure.

And this, my good man, was indeed treasure. The title you gave to this email is absolute poetry. In fact, I would like to present (in the Dadaist tradition), my first ever Found Poem:

Found Poem Alpha

Remove Toxic Sludge from your Colon.
As seen on Oprah.

Now, I can only attribute your (correct!) foresight to more of that stellar investigative genius. I do have toxic sludge in my colon, and it does need to be removed! Finally, I can now get the colon-refreshing relief that I so sorely need.

Again, thank you so very much. If I can ever repay you for this wonderful gift, please, do not hesitate to ask.

With warmest wishes and

sincerest thanks,

M. Wood.

I'm Gay For...

Blip.fm

Restaurant Review: Mother Tuckers

Ok, so I've been here many times. I grew up in Calgary, and this place has been around since before Woody Allen fucked his daughter.

A friend and I decided to go out for dinner, and he left the restaurant up to me. What shall I choose?

Being a red-blooded Canadian girl, I like a piece of meat between my teeth. Steak. But where?

"Hey Ryan, we haven't been to Mother Tuckers in a while. You wanna meet there at 6?" "Sure", he concedes, and the date is set.

Now, a little background: Said friend and I go way back to Grade 8, when one day, he walked into my homeroom classroom wearing a T-shirt that read "Ask me about my cat", with a picture of a kitten peeking out of a coffee mug. I commented on how much I loved it (still do), and we have been friends for lo these past 15 years.

We go out to dinner whenever he's in town (flight attendant), and Mother Tuckers has been one of our 'places' for many years. But for some reason, we stopped visiting the establishment about a year ago. Memory provides no apparent motive, hence my (ill-fated) decision to return.

That was mistake number one. Mistake number two came when we sat down, ordered our dinner via the transgendered server, and skipped off to the salad bar.

Horrors. Absolute horrors. Apparently, since we've been away, the restaurant has rented out much of it's salad bar to a family of fruit flies. I concetrated most of my attention of dry goods, such as croutons, and hoped for the best.

Shortly thereafter arrived the entrees. My scalloped potatoes were covered in brownish-tan chunks. Curious, I asked the server "What's this in the potatoes" and the prompt reply? "I don't know".

"Wait wait wait" I call after her as she walks away, "could you find out for me?" "Ya, ok" she agrees begrudgingly. Upon her return, I am informed of the ingredient in question: "Cheese" she says, "but probably way overcooked". Confident that this has cleared up any doubt surrounding the culinary merit of the dish, she again turns on her heel and walks away.

Left with nothing but my wits and "way overcooked" cheese, I err on the side of safety and decide not to consume the carbohydrate element of the meal. Focusing on my sirloin, I dig in. I didn't know it was possible for meat to be flavourless. Like, entirely deviod of flavour. I add salt. No dice. Pepper. Mmmm, my steak tastes like pepper now.

My friend fared mildly better, but his prime rib looked... off-colour. Nothing really obvious, but, you know when you look at someone's face and you just know they're about to puke? Now you see what I mean.

Upon procurement of the bill, I toddle off to pay my portion by means of debit. I ask the host "Where can I pay this on debit?" and he walks away. I follow. He turns around and sneers "No, wait over there, I'm going to go get it". A wireless debit machine! So modern. But he doesn't come back with a wireless debit machine. He comes back with a second copy of my bill. I explain I've already recieved it from the server. And-- here comes my favourite part of the evening-- he says "Well, you didn't have it in your hand when you came up to me the first time!" and snatches it from my hands. Not having moved more than two feet from where he left me, I certainly did have the bill in my hand. Stunned by the sheer rudeness, I handed him my debit card. He swipes, I punch away, and the transaction is completed.

Later, in the movie theatre, my friend's stomach starts to hurt. Big fucking suprise.

Rating: 2 fluorescent dinner rolls out of 5

Here, Smoke These!

No matter what, NEVER EVER tell your wife that the Newport Girl came out of the TV and handed you a pack of smokes. The old battle-axe just won't understand.

Thought of the Day

Phlegm is fucking gross.

I'm Gay For...

Used book stores.

RAVE: Twitter

Hey, are you on Twitter?
Hey, are you on Twitter?
Hey, what's up? Oh me, not much... Hey, are you on Twitter?

It's like, the best thing ever!!!

First, you create an account. Then, you search for people. Yay! Can't find anyone? Try searching again! Ok, still haven't found anyone? Ok, try searching one more time. Oh, oops, it appears you have exceeded your maximun search allottment for now. Please wait an hour and search again.

Now that you have a whopping 5 friends, you can update them! And, just as exciting, they can update you. Then, you update back! Actually, they're not on Twitter right now, you might want to wait the standard '1 hour - 8 days' which is the typical time between most Twitter updates. Unless of course, there are "Too Many Tweets" (cute!) and you can't update, in which case, just wait longer.

Why don't you just send a text message, you ask? Because these are the friends that you're really not friendly enough with to exchange numbers. Isn't that what Facebook is for? Well, yes... and no.

You see, Facebook allows you to interact with people in a much more complex manner. But who needs that in this work-a-day world? It's just *so* much better to express yourself in 140 characters or less. After all, the deepest and most consequential feelings can be expressed in 140 words or less:
"I love you"; "I'm really happy"; "I love pistachios"; "Where's the remote"; "John Mayer sucks"; "I hate when the remote is covered in pistachio crumbs"; "Where did that remote get to again?"

Hey, guess what?
I'm 'following' Anderson Cooper! And John Mayer! And Ashton Kutcher! I know, exciting, right?!?!? Well, actually, no, they didn't add, me. Um, no, I don't require their permission to 'follow' their updates. Why is this such a big deal? Because my life is such an empty vessel, I love attaching myself to more successful people so that when my 5 Twitter friends look at my profile, they see that I 'follow' famous people. No, this doesn't mark me as a shameless social climber, but as a Really Cool Person who has the connections to 'follow' famous people whose participation is not in any way required.

Hey! I gotta go now, but I'll text you later! Wait, scratch that... I'll just post an update! Are you on Twitter?

Pepsi Presents Faith

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Tired of the old Things of deities past? Sick of God's gifts which never seem to change?

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FAQ

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The exact nature of JOM, Inc. Things© is a closely-guarded secret,
but you have the guarantee of Joel Osteen himself that his Things©
will dramatically improve the greatness-ocity of your life.

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works, or acts of faith are redeemable for Things©).

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ther person who has everything? Why not buy The New Things© of God for:

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Source (Unfortunately)

Happy Earth Day, Bitches!

Don't forget to recycle-- paper, water bottles, men.

There's a Yeast Joke In Here Somewhere...

Did you know-- a lot of brown bread is just white bread coloured brown?

All kinds of people are doing it!





I miss the good old days when it was perfectly natural to sexualize baking.

Thought of the Day

You can't get much cooler than Mickey Rourke.

Photo

I'm Gay For...

Louis XV-era French writing desks.

RANT: Creepy Next-Door Neighbour.

Hi!
It's me, the girl who lives next to you! I know you know who I am, because you've seen me walking into my apartment many, many times. I also have looked at you with scornful contempt after watching you dump disgusting garbage sans bag down the garbage chute.

I just wanted to send a quick note to say what a creep you are. I'm not sure what the specific infractions are, but I know that you're violating your parole.
When you make those frighteningly violent noises at about 1:30 in the afternoon, I have to put my textbook down to explore the possibilities. What are you doing to make such a sound? I would describe it as sounding like a bag of potatoes being hurled at a wood-panelled wall, followed by the wailing lament of damned souls.
I have reflected on this, for lo these past 3 years we have been sharing a wall, and I am now ready to present the only possible origins of the terrifying cacaphony:

1. You are a serial murderer/rapist a la Jeffrey Dahmer. I sincerely doubt this however, because I have an unsually well-developped sense of smell. Which leads to...

2. You share your apartment with an anal fissure-stricken water buffalo. Again, I would probably sniff this one out, so we move on to the most likely scenario...

3. You have 32 speakers pointed at our shared wall, and you watch "Cannibal Holocaust" every afternoon at full volume.

If this is correct, please signal that I have solved the riddle by remaining completely silent.

Sincerely,
Michelle

Anyone Need An Organ Transplant?

Because this ho doesn't deserve any of hers.
She decided it would be fun to jump into the polar bear enclosure at the Berlin Zoo to give a shout out to her favourite furry bitches. Apparently she timed it just right, too- feeding time. Enjoy.




Seriously. Someone needs to just take her liver and give it to some old Grandmother.

On The Next Episode Of "Mad Men"

Ok fellas, we've got the Lane Bryant account. Now, they've told us they're sweet-talkin' the Chubby demographic.

They've put together a Chubby Fashion book, full of Chubby-size clothes for the typical All-American Chubby.

Keep in mind boys, that this is not your father's Chubby. This is a new, bold and modern Chubby we're courting. We need to think outside the box on this one, and really sink our hooks into those Chubbies.

If we make good on this, the Husky account is gonna fall into our laps, like the food that falls out of the mouth of a Chubby.

Now. Who's gonna handle this one? How 'bout you, Jones? That wife of yours can give you some inspiration.

Let's break for lunch, and don't forget boys-- we need those Chubbies.

I'm Gay For...

Mr. Nutty - Peanut-encrusted chocolate Easter novelty.

Thought of the Day

Sometimes-- just sometimes-- it's OK to go without a shower for a week.

Um... No Chocolate For Me, Thanks....

I'm.... not even going to say anything.

Proselytism FAIL

I just went to get some coffee and on the way I FOUND A SAVIOUR!

... So many questions.

Let's begin: Why the excessive (ie. exclusive) caps?

I mean, I *guess* religious tracts found on kitchen appliances warrant caps. God certainly speaks and writes in caps.

As for Jesus... I'm not so sure. He probably gave God shit for writing in caps. He's all "Bitch, please".

This note also features one of my favourite usages of exclamation points: Excessive!

Or, rather, EXCESSIVE!!!!!!!!1!!!!!!

Because with each additional exclamation, I come closer to the Lord!!!!! Here I come, Sweet Baby Jesus!!!!!!!!! Testify, tell it to the sky!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I must note that there are 10 exclamation points in total. If the study of Renaissance art has taught me anything, it is the iconographic meaning of numbers in 15th and 16th century religious painting.

Mrs. Klondike (for such is her name) is clearly alluding to the 10 commandments. In addition, the 5 ellipsis points after her concluding statement refers to the 5 wounds of Christ, (an apt reference during this most sacred season of Lent). Combined, 10 + 5= 15. 1+5 =6, the number associated with Creation. The red font suggests The Passion, which is completed on Easter Monday.

Therefore, the iconographic interpretation is thus:

The body of Christ, residing in the Klondike Bar, is meant to be accepted as the Eucharist on Good Friday. There will be additional Klondike Bars purchased on Easter Monday, which will then undergo transubstantiation and be stored in the freezer next to the peas.


(In other words: Bitch, please. It's just ice cream).


Source

Thought of the Day

Gretchen Mol's breasts in "The Notorious Bettie Page" are perfect.

Just.... perfect.

Species: Puma Concolor Cougarus

Attn: Woman with Huge Newsanchor Hair

at the Gym.

Dear Hair,

I just wanted to go over a few things with you while I have your attention.

First of all, please don't ever give me that look again. Contrary to what you might believe, you are not hot shit. You're not even hot tuna. You are a cranky 45 year-old crusty bitch. It's not my fault your vagina dried up and fell off.

Secondly, it's a gym. People go there to work out (ie. exercise). No matter how you slice it, one set of three reps on each machine does not constitute exercise. I can see just by looking at you that you're not the type of gal who likes to sweat, but if you're going to go to the gym and sit on the machine that I'm waiting to use, at least make an attempt to look like you're getting something out ot it. To be honest, I'm not sure why you even joined a gym. Your workouts last about 15 minutes in their entirety, and when you get on a machine, I suspect you do so because you simply need a place to sit.

And lastly, the hair. "Who's hair?" you ask, looking around in every direction. Your hair. Now, I know that popular Cougar-Bar trivia games remind us that hair is, in fact, dead. I concede this point. But I feel that you might have taken this fact and decided that there's no point in nourishing something that's dead. I completely agree (and so do many of my late plants).

But-- and here's the rub-- something dead attached to something living is legally able to claim status as a semi-living entity. I would suggest conditioner, but frankly, it's too late for that. May I suggest olive oil, followed by a leave-in treatment of clarified butter (or ghee, as my Indian friend says). That should be the first step in restoring movement to your hair. I don't mean texture and body, but actual, visible movement.

Please take these suggestions to heart.

And if you're ever rude to me again, I will set a cougar trap for you next to the Ab Glider and tell our fellow gym-goers you're the one who leaves puddles of sweat on the machines.

Ta,

Michelle

Photo