That’s Mr. Dickbag to you, mate.
April 24, 2009
You wanna know the problem with being a male Caucasian baby boomer? I never get to play the race card.
I never get to whine or complain or bitch because, apparently, no one has the balls to pick on big, bad, dominating me.
Bummer. Now I’ll never be on the TV news.
However, when I dare to have the temerity to shake my head at Seeka Veevee Parsons and the idiocy of her candy-bashing efforts, I do attract comments like this one from someone named Mike (expo143@gmail.com):
Hey you racist dickbag, get some fucking perspective. How one comes down on an issue like this is usually a pretty good measure of a person, and you end up a bit short.
But hey, what do I know? Maybe being a racist dickbag is loads of fun for you.
Actually, Mike — can I call you Mike? — I have no idea how much fun racists have. I mean, it must be hard to breathe under all those white sheets and all.
Let me explain something to you, Mike (and I’ll type slowly so you can sound the words out phonetically):
I don’t care what color or race Ms Veevee Parsons happens to be. She could have been a purple Martian for all I care. This has absolutely nothing to do with racism and everything to do with bad manners.
What gives her – or anybody else for that matter — the right to barge into another country and start demanding changes? We’re not talking international policies here, people. It’s candy and ice cream, for chrissakes. I mean, isn’t there a seal pup you need to save somewhere?
If you came into my house and pulled that shit, you’d need surgery to remove my foot from your rectum.
If she tried that stunt in America, where they have guns and a dislike for loudmouthed, pushy strangers, Ms Veevee Parsons would be going home in a box.
Am I a racist? Oh, hell, no. I’ve bought ceremonial salmon off First Nations’ fishers like all good Canadians.
Do I despise rude people? Each and every one of them.
And that’s the last I have to say on this subject. I’m looking at the clock and, yup, Ms. Veevee Parsons, your 15 minutes are up. Good bye and good riddance. Don’t bother coming back.
PS: Dickbag, one word or two? Discuss.
Hey you, eater of raw flesh, bite this.
April 22, 2009
I promised Viking Woman I wouldn’t do this. I promised her I would stop ranting on this blog and, instead, have a bit of fun rambling on about writing and life and relationships and fruit I have loved.
But then someone comes along and makes such a complete fool of themselves that I can’t let it go. I have to call them out. I have to say, “Hey, dickcheese, you’re not getting away with that shit. Not without me pointing at you and calling you an idiot.”
And so here goes: Seeka Lee Veevee Parsons, you’re an idiot.
You can see why here (sorry, you’ll have to cut and paste):
http://www.3news.co.nz/Video/Eskimo-lollies-slammed-as-racist-by-Canadian-tourist/tabid/309/articleID/100589/cat/64/Default.aspx
Veevee Parsons, like Viking Woman and myself, is Canadian. Unlike us, she is simply visiting the country at the moment. Unlike us white folk, she is Inuit. Which means, because she is a minority, she has the right to complain about pretty much everything.
Her latest whine, as per the above link, is about candies and ice cream. Yes, in a time of economic meltdown, when the bandits who run Wall Street and the banks have driven the world to the brink of financial collapse, Ms. Parsons has been kind enough to point out that sugary treats are the root of all evil.
As opposed to, I’m guessing, the root of all root canals.
This young lady is outraged at the use of the term “Eskimo,” claiming it’s an insult. Personally, after watching the news clip, I’m insulted as well. With her pronunciation of ”out” and “about,” that is.
After years of defending the Canadian accent, after decades of stopping strangers on the street in all corners of this globe and saying, “Honestly, we don’t say ‘oot’ and ‘aboot,’ ” along comes Ms. Parsons to slap my mother tongue upside the head with a walrus steak. Or is that seal blubber?
Nevermind, she still makes us sound like inbred banjo players. Thanks for that.
I was so embarrassed that a fellow Canadian would actually go on national television and make such a buffoon of herself that I posted a comment on the 3 News website in which I apologized to all of New Zealand on behalf of those Canucks who have not been hit in the head with a hockey stick or a frozen mukluk, or bitten by a rabies-crazed beaver.
I explained that Ms. Veevee Parsons is not typical of my fellow citizens of the Great White North. That the vast majority of us understand it is a special privilege to travel to other countries and partake of their customs and confectionary. I explained that most of us know to say “Thank you for your kind hospitality” as opposed to “That’s not how we do it at home, so I want all of you to change because I’m a little bitch.”
Ms. Veevee Parsons is obviously young and inexperienced in the ways of life. Perhaps, if we’re lucky, she will mature with age. Perhaps, if we’re even luckier, she will be eaten by a polar bear.
In the meantime, she has to realize that, just because she’s a minority, not everything is about her. Sometimes candy is just candy. Deal with it.
In a side note, when I went to Pak’nSave in search of a bag of Eskimos to illustrate this posting, I came across these:
We all know what that means, don’t we Pocahontas?
Kiwis — they’re a cheeky bunch of buggers.
And damn proud of it.
I stand before the All Supreme Senate (ASS) of Planet Man to offer my sincere apologies and await my punishment.
But, first, if I may, my defence: It wasn’t my fault.
Yes, I understand that is the typical Planet Man response anytime someone questions our behaviour, attitude, clothing choices or Internet bookmarks. But, in this case, it’s the truth. No, really.
You see, Viking Woman was too busy doing that whole employment thing to start in on making another batch of homemade soup. She asked if I’d kindly get off my frickin’ bum and leave my office space for one bloody minute to help her out.
I’m pretty sure there was a veiled reference in there somewhere about physical contact should I not obey and, once I ascertained said contact involved a frying pan and the back of my skull, I was only too happy to make an appearance in the kitchen.
I know this is news to the esteemed members of ASS, but when you make soup, you don’t simply throw whole veggies in a cauldron, turn on the hob and reach for the TV remote. There is actual cutting and chopping involved, which is why Viking Woman, as she headed out the door, suggested I use the food processor.
I’m not sure if the esteemed members understand the principles behind a food processor, but it involves blades. Sharp blades. Moving very fast.
I’ve seen what that blade can do to a short, stubby carrot and imagined it could just as easily do the same to my short stubby fingers. And so I decided against adding a new ingredient to the soup mix. I mean, there’s organic and then there’s cannibal.
So I read the instructions.
Gentlemen, please! Settle! I know, I know — I broke one of Planet Man’s most important tenets: Never ask.
I know the rule is designed to reinforce the notion that we’re in command at all times, lest Viking Woman and her ilk think us weak and start making demands. Like having the right to vote and other silly notions.
I know, when we open a box, we’re required to throw away the styrofoam and the cardboard and the instruction manual, and not necessarily in that order. That it doesn’t matter if our VCRs flash 12 for-freakin’-ever or the chainsaw runs backwards or the car’s brakes only work every other day.
I know all this and yet I still decided to use the printed guide to figure out how the food processor worked.
What can I say, I’m weak. On a related note, soup will be served during the break in these proceedings. I can assure you it’s yummy. Very nice consistency, if I do say so myself.
So, yes, I stand here before you to plead guilty. I have let Planet Man down and all I can is, I regret my actions. My bad. And, oh yeah, it won’t happen again. And, we’re just friends. Oops, sorry, force of habit.
I understand that I may have my official manhood membership suspended as a result of my misconduct. That’s OK. It’s a bit wrinkled and limp at the moment, but it’s been subjected to worse beatings than this in the past and I’m sure it will bounce back from this one with its head held high.
I will also submit a formal letter of apology to ASS. Well, I would if I could just figure out how to turn on the computer. Does anyone have the instruction manu . . . oh crap.
Publish or Die! Part 7
April 19, 2009
You know those heart-warming stories about the 29 rocket scientists who rejected some poor schmuck’s manuscript? And how the 30th person to encounter the book — someone who obviously had no idea how the whole literary agent thing is supposed to work — somehow managed to perceive the sheer genius on the page that everyone else had somehow missed?
And how the book, once published, made a bazillion dollars? And how those 29 rocket scientists were left looking like the idiot assholes they really are?
In that vein, I present another rejection from my own personal collection of rocket scientists:
***
I apologize for the delay in getting back to you. Unfortunately, it’s taken
longer than I’d hoped to catch up from my maternity leave.
Thank you so much for submitting your query to BookEnds. While your work
sounds intriguing, I’m afraid I just don’t think it’s for me.
I wish you the best of luck.
Sincerely,
Kim Lionetti
BookEnds, LLC
136 long hill road
gillette, nj 07933
908-889-0623
http://www.bookends-inc.com
***
Dear Kim:
Actually, considering I submitted my query letter to you way back in early January, I’d actually forgotten about it. Not given up on it. Forgotten.
As in: Your opinion no longer has any bearing on my future.
That’s how far I’ve now advanced past the point of needing rocket scientists like you to grant me the keys to the kingdom.
Oh, and just for the record: It’s going to feel so good when I prove you wrong.
See ya in the e-universe.
Kind regards
Signed:
Bite my, um, moko
For the most part, I get along quite nicely with my major organs. If I don’t bother them too much, they seem willing to let me live in peace.
Oh sure, my heart and lungs tend to be crybabies at times, usually when I attempt any kind of exercise. Considering I have never once abused them with alcohol or nicotine, I’m not sure why they think they have any grounds for complaints.
My spleen still holds a grudge from that bruising it received during a community football game several decades ago, but it seems content to seethe in silence.
And there was that one episode with a kidney stone a number of years ago. For awhile there, it felt like I was Octo-Mom giving birth to 14 children all at the same time. When the attack hit, I literally could not stand up straight.
Worst. Pain. Ever.
I did, however, score a week off work with pay, so, yeah, bonus points for me.
My digestive system also tends to behave itself unless, that is, I consume a creamy sauce. In that case, it’s all hands to the lifeboats. I inherited my guts from my mother which means, rather than the yards and yards of greasy coils that pass for intestines in the vast majority of the population, I possess, instead, a straight tube from entrance to exit. It’s a wonder I gain any weight at all, considering the short amount of time food actually remains in my system.
I have no idea what my appendix is up to but as long as it’s not planning to explode any time soon, I’m just going to continue to ignore it.
It’s a different story when it comes to my gall bladder. It, in fact, detests me with a vengeance. It, in fact, takes great pleasure in waking me up at 1 a.m. (almost to the second each and every time) and tormenting me with the kind of discomfort that makes it impossible to sleep in any position.
It has something to do with gallstones the size of bowling balls trying to squeeze their way out of my gall bladder while that little bastard of an organ is lending a hand to my stomach in its effort to digest fat. Or something like that.
(And by fat, I’m guessing it has something to do with consuming great gobs of fish and chips. Or perhaps too many bags of O’Ryans potato chips. You get the picture.)
I have to take painkillers to make it through the night and, as welcome as a drug-induced haze can be at times, there comes a point where you just have to say no.
Because, obviously, once you start with the pills to relieve the agony of gallstones, it’s not long before you’re seeking out any pain as an excuse to gulp down medication. Your hockey team loses? Pass the pills. Your computer crashes? I’m going to need some pharmaceutical tech support here, people.
You land on the floor beside the bed because you were — allegedly — snoring like a diesel generator and your wife put both feet in the small of your back and pushed hard? Just pour the bloody pills right down my throat, why doncha.
Obviously, something had to change in my life before my addiction forced me onto the streets, holding a sign saying “Will write for drugs.” I needed an intervention. I needed The Super Duper Gallstone Removal Plan of Attack.
It sounded simple enough. You start by drinking a quart of apple juice every day for five straight days, to help soften the gallstones. How difficult can that be? Except, by day five, I never wanted to see another apple in my life. If Johnny Appleseed had happened to meander by, I would have kicked that reckless do-gooder right up the ass.
On the sixth day of the program, you skip supper and, at 6 p.m. and 8 p.m. sharp, dissolve a tablespoon of Epsom salts in water and throw it down your throat. At 10 p.m., after the salt has worked its magic and scrubbed your guts of everything you’ve ever eaten in your entire frickin’ life, you mix up a cocktail featuring four ounces of olive oil and four ounces of lemon juice.
And drink it.
Really, really fast.
The trick to avoid actually tasting anything — be it greasy lemon juice, liver or your wife’s new lipstick — is to hold your breath while swallowing. And to continue holding your breath for several more minutes afterwards as you do a frantic little dance in the kitchen while your face puckers into something resembling a cat’s bum.
And then you wait. For the scouring to be completed.
You wait within sprinting distance of the toilet. You wait to set the land speed record. And, should anything happen to be in the way, you set the land speed record with hurdles.
Viking Woman was thoughtful enough to offer her support by trying the remedy at the same time, thinking she too might have the odd gallstone floating around that could use a good dissolving.
The trouble, when it came, was all about math. As in: one toilet divided by two people. It was always going to be competitive. It was never going to be pretty.
The good news is that neither of us has been bothered by our gall bladders since that night so, yeah, the cleansing appears to have worked.
Just don’t ask me about the kitty litter box.
I’d be laughing too, if I hadn’t just wet myself.
April 10, 2009
On the agenda for today’s meeting of Planet Man: life insurance and crazy dance moves.
1) Life insurance
Alive, this is what I’m good for: making meals, washing dishes, doing laundry, vacuuming, hauling the rubbish to the curb, telling Viking Woman that, yes, of course, dear, you still possess the butt of a 17-year-old high school cheerleader.
Dead, this is what I’m good for: $200,000.
Which may explain why Viking Woman is prone to asking me how I’m feeling while reading over our mortgage contract with the bank. One false step in front of a moving bus and our house is paid for. Which may explain why I no longer let her hold my hand when we cross the street.
Because I tend to sign forms without reading them (it’s a Planet Man thing — what can I say), I really have no idea how life insurance works. I assume the basic concept is to ensure there is enough money available to pay for funeral expenses, followed by the surviving partner’s wild holiday on a beach somewhere while surrounded by suntanned models clad in tiny swimsuits.
Viking Woman and I have opted for cremation, something — as I’m constantly reminding her — I’d prefer to occur after I’m dead.
However, during our sojourn in the Cook Islands, we did entertain the thought of simply allowing our remains to be dragged into the backyard brush, there to be disposed of by assorted insect populations and the pig someone tied to a tree one night while we were sleeping. It was a perfect example of the no fuss, no muss attitude one tends to encounter in the tropics.
I have no idea what Viking Woman wants done with her ashes (again: Planet Man thing. Deal with it). As for my burnt offerings, I once entertained the fantasy of having them mixed with water in the bowels of a Zamboni and then spread across the ice surface at GM Place so NHL teams could skate on my face.
But then I remembered that, when they take the ice out, all that melted water is diverted into a storm sewer, meaning I’d spend eternity floating in a ditch somewhere while mosquitoes humped on my face.
I know — not a pretty picture. Which is why I’d rather think of . . .
2) Crazy dances.
Jenn was recently asked to put together a list of dance moves which could be used between stations at the gym where she and Viking Woman work out. I’m assuming the idea was that, at 26, Jenn would have a better repertoire of groovy moves than those of Viking Woman’s generation, who can do the Twist and, um, not much else.
Because my only purpose in life is to be tortured by women, I was often subjected to the sight of Jenn rehearsing her dances in our lounge. Which means I was forced to endure something called The Sprinkler. And the Shopping Cart. And other gyrations that so resembled convulsions that I was torn between admiration for her agility and dialing for the ambulance.
I know what you’re thinking: John, what does life insurance have to do with funky dances?
Picture this:
It’s night. I’m doing the dishes. The blinds are drawn on the window over the sink. I’m idly scrubbing away at the remains of our evening meal, brain in neutral.
When, suddenly, there comes a hammering on the outside of the glass.
In my version of this story, I drop the wash cloth and instantly assume a defensive position. It might have been the crane. Or maybe the turkey.
In Jenn’s version of the story, all she can hear from outside the window are screams and the sound of frantic movement.
In Viking Woman’s version of the story, I (allegedly) jump up and down several times while assuming the position of someone who has just lost control of their bladder.
The idea behind Jenn’s sneak attack was to have a bit of fun at my expense. To give me a bit of a fright. To provoke a bit of a laugh.
“But you could have killed me dead,” I protested. “I could have been flopping on the floor, gasping out my last breaths, turning blue and bleeding from every orifice.”
“What’s your point?” said Viking Woman, who, just for the record, does not possess the butt of a 17-year-old girl.
Yes, I guess the prank was all designed to add a bit of humor to what had been a dull night. Except I’m pretty sure I heard my adrenal gland pop a valve during all the excitement.
The good news is the ladies at the gym now have a new move to use between stations. It’s called the Heart Attack Dance.
Meeting adjourned.
Now pass the root beer.
I had a life-altering experience on the weekend. And by that I mean I saw my life flash before my eyes and wished I could go back and alter parts of it.
This occurred during the drive from Napier to Gisborne, an outing designed to show Jenn more of the New Zealand countryside before she leaves for home. Because Viking Woman has been known to regurgitate her stomach lining should she be seated anywhere in a moving vehicle other than behind the wheel, Jenn and I were unanimous in our agreement that she should drive.
Viking Woman has traveled this route several times over the past year. She knows when the hairpin corners are coming; she knows when it’s safe to pass. She knows when to brake before the car goes spiralling off the narrow road and into the abyss.
Jenn and I do not know these things. And so we could only hang on for dear life, grit our teeth, close our eyes and try not to scream like 12-year-old girls. Or, in Jenn’s case, like a twentysomething girl.
It is common knowledge that no one appreciates having their driving criticized. And yet I somehow felt it my duty to casually mention to Viking Woman that she might want to slow down just a bit lest we all die in a flaming crash. I may have also mentioned something about currently undergoing the unique experience of reviewing the highlights of my life and, even though I appreciated remembering what my parents gave me for my eighth birthday, I did not want the image of gaudily-wrapped socks and underwear to be my final thought as we plunged onto the jagged rocks below.
Viking Woman was kind enough to slow down. And then she was kind enough to tell me she hoped I enjoyed sleeping on the couch for the duration of our marriage. Pillows optional and at her discretion.
Hey, at least she was kind.
This was our first weekend in Gisborne in nearly five years. That meant we were able to take Jenn to the market by the iSite, where the first visual of Gisborne enjoyed by visitors alighting from the bus is that of a totem pole donated by the British Columbia government. A little piece of Canada residing in the first city in the world to see the new day. A little reminder of how the B.C. government spends my tax money. At least it wasn’t wasted on feeding the homeless or something equally frivolous.
Jenn was astounded to hear that the market vendors often set up well before dawn because Gisbonites like to buy their fruit and vegetables in the early hours so they have the rest of the day to enjoy the finer aspects of life. Which is to say, rugby and, um, well, more rugby.
She was also surprised to see so many Maoris. “Don’t leave me here,” she whispered to me, having had little previous experience to that point with New Zealand’s indigenous people. But she did screw up her courage enough to ask one lady adorned with a chin moko (tattoo) to pose for a photo.
It was an hour or so later before we discovered Gisborne now has two markets of a Saturday morning. In fact, the original one is now referred to, somewhat disdainfully, as a “flea market,” while the one that starts at the more civilized hour of 9 a.m. is the “farmers’ market.”
The latter has more upscale (read expensive) offerings. It also has more white (pakeha) folk in attendance.
Sometime during our absence from Gisborne, it was decided to leave all that shopping in the dark activity to the locals and those who need cheaper produce prices just to survive. Personally, I like that one better. I bought a huge bag of feijoas there for 50 cents, and then failed to spot a single one of my all-time favorite fruit at the second market. No room, I guess, what with all the vending spaces being taken up by those selling wine and flowers and cheeses and designer breads and organic eggplants.
That afternoon, we also took Jenn to Wainui Beach, letting her walk the same vast expanse of sand where I once hiked while contemplating the various plot devices of my first novel, Brown Girls.
In the end, Jenn came away very impressed with Gisborne. She told us she had a gut feeling we would one day return there to live. I hope she’s right.
And then, after two nights in a motel, we came home to our own beds.
Or, for those inclined to freely — and without thinking — offer their unsolicited opinions, to their own couches.
It was worth it. The feijoas were wonderful.
