Defacing the Food

A vegetarian friend of mine says she doesn't eat "anything with a face".

I'm not worried about faces.

Me - I don't eat anything with a giant, bloody malignant tumor.

To me, that seems a bit more realistic.

Nevermind Oscar....Enter the Smonks.

It’s finally arrived! Oscar weekend! The Academy Awards – something that gets me even more excited than my semi-annual brazillian testicle waxing! Yay for the Oscars!

I know what you’re thinking. Aww Monk, you’re not about to turn all sardonic and trash the Oscars now are ye? Well, calm yourself fellow blog-chum. Truth is, I am somewhat connected to the filmworld and have been privy to almost all the films nominated, so it would be hypocritical and back-handed of me to do that.

Still, I must say…

I’ve never quite understood the hype surrounding the Oscars. And it is hype. It’s all about red carpets, designer gowns, anticipating the possibility that Joan Rivers face will be so tight her eyeballs will pop out of her head…you know, all of which have little to do with the movies they’re supposedly celebrating. These days, the Oscars have about as much depth as Paris Hilton daydreaming about the color pink at a Mensa meeting.

But as I said, I’m not here to be cynical.

I actually look forward to this weekend. It means that tiring, over-bloated Oscar hype will soon go away. Maybe we’ll even start turning some attention back to important things that are happening in the real world. But I’m not holding my breath.

Anyhow, to catch up with the Oscar fever (in my own Saucy way) I now present to you my Saucy Monk Awards, or The Smonks (for short).

Most Over-Exposed, Under-Talented Male Actor - Ben Stiller. Please go away for at least a couple weeks, you one trick pony.

Most Over-Exposed, Under-Talented Female Actor – Paris Hilton. Which is weird because I don’t think she even starred in any movies and isn’t even an actress. But you tell me – haven’t you seen more of her bony frame than your own mother this year? Which reminds me, don’t you think you owe your mother a call?

Best Supporting Bra – Tara Reid (for not wearing one at P.Diddy's Birthday Bash).

Sexiest Actress The Monk Would Break His Oath of Celibacy For – Halle Berry, as long she wears that Catwoman costume. Meeee-ow.

Most Daring Performance In A Movie – The Fat Guy who runs out of the house buck-naked chasing Paul Giamatti in Sideways. With all that disgusting full-frontal bouncing flab, this was the bravest role I’ve seen all year. I nearly puked. Bravo!

Most Mysterious and Unmerited Box-Office Success – Meet The Fokkers. I seriously give up on people. Any movie with a play on the word “fuck” in the title is pure “shid” in my opinion. If they really wanna milk this, they’ll call the next one “Go Ask Fokker”. (giggle, giggle – they almost said Ass Fucker) Ka-ching! 200 million in the bank.

And finally…

Most Over-hyped, Under-delivered and Ultimately Insignificant Event of 2004 – The Oscars.
So that’s it. Celebrate Oscar weekend in your own unique way. Me, I will be honoring it in my own honorable style. I’m going to Montreal to eat smoked meat sandwiches, get wasted in smoky pubs and try to pick up a cute French girl.

Hooray for Hollywood!

More High School Memories

One of the strange things about my high school was that it actually had a racquetball court.

No one used it ofcourse, except for one day, when a group of us affectionately and ironically formed the Danger Club (ironic since we did nothing that required high adventure of any sort).

In the court, we assembled a large group of 30 or more people. We announced that we were about to make a pact and that anyone who would not want to participate had to leave immediately before knowing what the oath would be. Otherwise you were in. Many scrambled for the door, no doubt in fear that someone was bound to eat a hard-boiled egg out of the crack of someone else’s ass.

Then the announcement came. From that day onward, we were all to wear the exact same clothes that we were wearing at that moment, day after day, until someone broke the oath and changed their style. You were allowed to wash the clothes all you wanted but you had to wear the same shirt and pants all day, everyday until the pact was broken. You weren’t allowed to tell anyone what you were doing either, and if anyone happened to become suspicious, you had to play ignorant and say “I just felt like wearing this today”.

I’d say the oath lasted about a week before my locker partner Ken cracked and got caught telling someone. As punishment, the rest of us dressed him one day in women’s clothing and put him in gaudy make-up.

He had to go to his classes dressed like this and if anyone asked why he was dressed like Klinger from MASH, he had to exclaim “I just felt like wearing this today”.

I think Ken was kicked out of Mr. Istvan’s social studies class and even sent home but true to his word, he never let on that he lost a bet that day.

I used to think that we were really quite quirky and clever in high school, but I’ve come to realize, we all just really needed girlfriends.

aka The Unstoppable Kow Killers

It occurred to me this morning over my usual breakfast of 2 eggs, scrambled, bacon, extra crispy and a glass of freshly squeezed mescaline juice that the world’s biggest hamburger baron, McDonald’s must have a lot of nicknames. Hell, right there on the spot I could think of 4 I hear often:

McD’s, Mickey D’s, The Golden Arches, Rotten Ronnie’s…

Then the nicknames started rushing into my mind (or it could’ve been the juice). Either way, see if you can distinguish the legitimate nicknames from ones I invented.

And then, invent some for yourself!!! Get the kids involved!!! Make it a family event!!! Making fun of money-grubbing corporate giants can be fun!!!

McDick’s
McRaunchy’s
McFatty McNasty’s
McDiarhea - over a Billion served!
The Big Mac Bitches
McTasteless
McStinko’s
Burger King: The Prequel
The House of GreaseThe Golden Arches of GoatAss
The Gonorrea Arches
Grimace's Circle Jerk Cafe
The Place I Avoid At All Cost
Mayor McCheese’s Taint
McCrotch Rot

18th Century Hangover

(a play in one act)

Why doth mine head feel like a scraped out pumpkin?

The seeds to be roasted upon an open fire.
Thine eyes are like triangles, but alas no candle to light upon the inside of thee empty vessel.
Could it be the libations of the night previous?
Alas, me thinks it could sadly be.

O, bright lights. Thee make the eyes ache. And the pounding of the keyboard is deafening upon my ears.

I shall go hither upon my steed to pay a few shillings to the apothecary for the courtesy of an Advil.

But i fear my efforts will be in vain.

When It Comes To Eating Fruit...

Maybe it's just me but when it comes to eating fruit, finding a big black spot on the inside of an otherwise seemingly perfect banana instills about the same amount of nausea as removing a girl's top to discover a third nipple.


* * *

Am I Missle-ing The Point?

A test of the national missile defence system failed Monday when an interceptor missile did not launch from its island base in the Pacific Ocean, the military said. A statement from the Missile Defence Agency said the cause of the failure was under investigation.

Doesn’t this concern you just a little bit? How’s Bush going to explain it when the next “failure” ends up taking out the Mir space station or ends up in some poor Norweigan farmer’s beet farm?

Wait a second, wouldn't something like that be called a weapon of mass destruction?

nahh...couldn't be...

Now Put This On A Greeting Card

Ok, so it's that time of year, Valentine's Day, when all the lovers in the world obscenely celebrate their loving relationships. For those without partners, it can be a difficult time...ya know, if you buy into the consumeristic horseshit that you MUST have a boy/girlfriend, and you MUST buy them candy/flowers/jewelry today, and you MUST take them to dinner...

Now, that may sound cynical and jaded, but really, I'm just being frugal. I just don't like paying 4 bucks for a lousy greeting card that can't accurately portray all the things I really want to say.

Still, I am single, and therefore warming the bench for those who may be down about their status this holiday, and therefore I feel I have some responsibility to boost my team's morale with this short reminder, courtesy of the eloquent and perceptive Rich Hall:

When someone says, "it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all", keep in mind you are talking to a loser. Try to find someone who's never loved at all and get their side of the story.

Now...You Too Can Smell Toxic

By now, you may have noticed Britney Spears has her own perfume called "Curious".

While I actually couldn’t care any less, it just refreshes my belief once again that we are quickly sinking into the Age of Self-Importance.

After all, this Bush-supporting bleach-blonde gum-smacking git has somehow maneuvered herself from Mickey Mouse Club personality to music idol to movie star to fashion queen and now, a perfume delegate.

Shoot, that’s a lot of jobs for a brainless twat.

Hell, even Howard Hughes kept it to 3: aviation, making movies and banging hot celebrities. Mind you, what else would any American, red-blooded obsessive-compulsive want…..well, other than a lifetime’s supply of Purell hand sanitizer.

But not anymore! It’s no longer about aviation. It’s not even about making movies. It is a little bit about bangin’ hot celebrities, but more than that, it’s all about that narcissistic whore called self-aggrandizement.

Do you really think Brit’s spending a whole lotta time in the lab with the scientists trying to get just that “curious” scent so she can help trailer trash in Middle America to smell less skank? Hells no - I’m sure the wet squib is more likely to be found on the penthouse of the Chateau Marmont demanding her dancer/hubby feed her skinless grapes while she sniffs the scent cards. “Oooo, I don’t like that one – it reminds me of temporary, fleeting splendor”.

This is why millions of people try out for shit like American Idol or Fear Factor. Instant fame. Well, instant as a bowl of luke warm instant Quaker oatmeal....and I’m talking plain, not the fancy maple and brown sugar kind…which reminds me, when are we gonna let William Hung in on the joke?

Does anyone really wanna make a difference anymore out there? Or do they just wanna grab the cash, sign some autographs, have sex with some dumb actress and make sure their name goes above the title of the movie? Hmm, me thinks the answer may be closer to not.

Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to engage in all of the above items. Hell, I’ve even fantasized about Halle Berry riding me around the room like a wild pinto in her Catwoman costume. “Go on, gimme the spurs, Catty!”. But those things used to be the fruits of success, not the point of it. Think JFK’s career foresight included a hummer from Marilyn Monroe in the Lincoln bedroom?

Okay, bad example.

Still, point is, just once I’d like to meet someone who wants to succeed to be successful. To earn their glory with integrity, not just take the magical instant superstar pill given the chance…

Well…as long as that person knows who I am and asks for my autograph anyway.

The Viscousness of Oatmeal

They say oatmeal sticks to your ribs.

This seems incredibly misleading to me. If oatmeal even comes close to your ribs, there is some serious shit going wrong in your digestive tract. So why does it stick to your ribs? Does anyone get this stupid shit?

But even more curious than that......if oatmeal sticks to your ribs, does Cream of Wheat stick to your clavicle?

These are the things I wonder about when I'm trying to keep my sanity on the subway.

Ten MORE Stores You'll Never Set Foot In

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Athlete’s Foot Locker.

Sars ‘R’ Us.

Clothes With Cooking Smells.

Club Mosul.

Syphillis Feet.

Bullshit Jewellers.

Old Navy Lingerie.

Baskin Robbins Hairy Ice Cream.

Coles the Abusive Condescending Book People.

Eddie Bauer’s Bitches.

Ten Retail Stores You'd Never Set Foot In

Le Gitch.

The Great Bellylint Superstore.

Hell Inc.

Crabtree & Eva Braun.

McColitis.

Jimmy's Horseshit Emporium.

The Bacterium Shop.

The Gap for Kids with Multiple Personality Disorder.

Guess My Stomach Contents.

The Anusol Stop.

Sex Tips (for Your Soap Dispenser)

* * *
I’ve begun noticing that a few public washrooms are now installing ‘automatic soap dispensers’. I guess the mediocrity of ill-timed, myopic automated faucets weren’t enough to discourage the further exploration of bathroom minutiae (how many times have you waved your hands under a tap only to remove them and then watch the water flow?).

I dunno why automated faucets have been such a successful washroom venture anyhow. Did anyone really find turning a tap that challenging? Oh sure, sometimes the knobs have been installed backwards – the hot’s on the right, the cold’s on the left…and then, there’s the outrage that comes with stepping up to a sink only to find the tap turns in the opposite direction than you expected it to turn – boy, it just sticks in my craw thinking about that one!!!

On the whole however, I’m hard-pressed to say the frustration of working a public sink has ever driven me to the point of aggravation where I punch a mirror or hold the poor bastard in one of the stalls hostage. I save that kind of behavior for driving on our public highways.

No, working the faucets have never been that much of a problem to me. Then again, having been born with the physical gift of thumbs, maybe that’s arrogant of me to say.

Automated soap dispensers on the other hand, are an anal-retentive reaction to the growing paranoia of actually having to touch germ-ridden soap dispensers to obtain the soap with which one is about to use to clean one’s hands free of germs obtained by touching germ-ridden soap dispensers.

If you are not familiar with this new technology, please consult this set of simple directions:

1) place hand under tap repeatedly until you find the ‘sweet spot’ that actually automates water to run. Be patient. This may take some time.

2) place hands under automated soap dispenser until you find the ‘sweet spot’ that actually automates soap to be dispensed. This may also take a few moments longer than say, having to place one hand under the nozzle and by using the other hand, press down on a lever to access the soap. Spend this extra time waving palms frantically under the nozzle and reflecting on the wasted redundancies of counterproductive new techno-gewgaw.

3) When ‘sweet spot’ is finally found, a small dollop of soap will be ejaculated into your hands. Giggle slightly, then work the soapy spunk into a lather and rinse.

Now, to compare with the old set of directions for using ordinary, archaic bar soap, I will borrow this old line from Dennis Miller:

Wet it. Wipe it. Goodnight.

Critical Analysis of a Fairy Tale

* * *


Pinocchio.

Think about it.

That is one fucked up story.

Ode To A Dumb Rodent...Light.

How do we know the groundhog sees his shadow?

Sure, we might see his shadow, but big deal – that doesn’t mean it sees it. And isn't that what counts? How do we know the groundhog isn’t myopic? Maybe it’s got a bad case of glaucoma. Or maybe it’s just a really dumb rodent.

If we’re going to stake our faith in future weather patterns based on whether vermin see their shadow or not, then I think we need to test this more thoroughly. I say we place a big rat trap loaded with Groundhog Chow outside of the hole.

If the groundhog comes out, sees his shadow and runs off, fine, six more weeks of winter.

If the groundhog comes out, goes straight for the chow and gets his head snapped off at the neck, then screw it – I say that groundhog’s not smart enough to tell US what’s goin’ down in the weather department.

It’s the only way to tell if these groundhogs aren’t full of shit.

(for much more foul, offensive material, check saucymonk.blogspot.com)