SATURDAY NIGHT CONFESSIONAL

On the way to work the other day, I told my wife that I'm beginning to forget things. Her immediate response: "Just make sure you're wearing the underwear on the inside of your pants. Everything else can be deflected."

Deflected, eh? How the hell do you deflect the fact that you momentarily forgot that the Bishops -- not the Knights -- go beside the King and Queen? Huh? Answer that one. For Christ's sake... I've been playing chess since I was six.

There have been several such instances lately. Example: Stopped at an intersection, the light turned green. In a panic, I forgot where I was or why I was there. Just for a split second. But it scared the fucking ass off me.

Tonight, my wife told me that I've probably forgotten more things than most people ever knew. She meant this as a compliment. But most people know a hell of a lot of stuff. And if I've forgotten a hell of a lot of stuff, how much is really left?

So, um, thanks for the confidence, babe.

Who are you, again?

THIS IS SICKENING

Hey, I can poison people right here at the Lunch Counter for a hell of a lot less than a hundred and thirty fucking pounds a head! Snail porridge? You gotta be joking. My Puffer Fish Omelet checks in at seven dollars and fifty cents a pop. Follow that with a nice Velvet Ant Sorbet and an Inland Taipan Iced Tea... you're looking at fifteen bucks, tax included.

And at least you'll know why you nearly died. English wankers.

The Lunch Counter* -- proudly poisoning people since 2005.


* The Lunch Counter is the Canadian-owned subsidiary of Eat This and Die (Nairobi).

GOOD NIGHT, MISS BRAHMS

Wendy Richard, arguably the most recognizable face on British TV for many, many years died today. She gave this old geezer a ton of laughs (and probably as many tears) in her television roles. Thankfully, Are You Being Served? is still rerun on a regular basis.

It was a sad day for me, about a decade ago, when the nearest PBS affiliate dropped EastEnders from its Friday night lineup. I had watched the show from the beginning and was particularly affected by the trials and tribulations of Pauline (Wendy Richard) and Arthur (Bill Treacher) Fowler. The chemistry between the two actors was wonderful.

So sad.

Here's to you, Pauline. Thanks for the memories.

AESTHETICS, 101

According to this study, women appreciate 'beauty' using the whole brain while men apportion the task to the right side of the brain.

Makes sense.

Men only need half their brain to size things up. The other half is busy figuring out how to get that thing of beauty into bed.

Evolutionary, my dear Watson.

WHAT BARACK SAID TO MAKE MICHAELLE LAUGH

"I was commenting on the red carpet. 'Nice rug,' I said. He touched his hair and replied, 'And it stays put in a stiff breeze.'"

Now accepting your captions. The prize is Dinner for Six.

THE DAY MY FATHER SHOT ME IN THE ASS

Well, it makes a change from reading the usual 'My Dog's So Stupid That....' or 'I'd Like to Fly a Starship' or 'A Really Scary Story by Ben'.

A+

(From now on, I bet the old man takes more of an interest in the kid's homework and writing projects. As an educator, that's all I can ask.)

Below, the cover illustration from the boy's forthcoming novel 'That's What Sisters Are For'.

DESIGN A NEW RELIGION

Finally, a contest worth entering. I don't know if 750 words will do the job, though. I mean, a religion has to have a creation myth, thirty or forty thousand prohibitions, a list of festivals and holy days, some shit about faggots, women, unbelievers, body parts, talking tuna, rainbows, lucky colours, unlucky numbers, secret handshakes, inspiring songs, prayers, chants and raps, and where your spirit goes after the bars are closed. It's a tough job.

EVERYTHING'S SYMBOLIC OF SOMETHING, I GUESS

{{{ }}}



( ~ * )
^
O
""

Look -- it's a guy winking. See? And he's got his mouth wide open. (That's the red circle.) And he's sporting a little gray quotation mark goatee. (I couldn't get the brackets to make a whole humongous head, so the rest of the guy's face is just kind of hanging there. Probably the result of a flesh-eating disease I s'pose. Dunno for sure.)

Oh... that stuff right at the top? That's two families of seagulls heading their separate ways after spending a day in the McDonald's parking lot, scarfing down french fries.

NOTEBOOK: FEBRUARY 14th

Still, you gotta go with the flow. A woman and her expectations are one of the forces of nature, stronger than nuclear tides. Gentlemen: Ignore this warning at your peril.

Hugs and kisses from me and Llewellen.

'OUTRAGED' RELIGIONS -- IS THERE ANOTHER KIND?

Fucking religion. I don't know how many times in my life I've uttered those two words, but the frequency seems to be on the rise. This time it's Muslims. And their 'hurt feelings'.

Tough shit.

Live with it, morons. Pull your heads out of your backsides and grab a breath of fresh air.

Jeebus H Keerist! Arresting people for expressing a fucking opinion. This is one slippery-ass slope we're on.

I read Hari's column when it was first published. I agreed with it then and I agree with it now. Find me something to 'respect' in that dark ages crap that celebrates a fucking nutball child molester. And in those other books of so-called wisdom from the days of the bicameral mind. Go ahead. I'm waiting. What the hell is there to respect, exactly? (Oh yeah. And the death threats are a nice touch. Lovely bunch, those pricks.)

Go get 'em, Johann.

Let's get 'outraged' ourselves at the stifling of free speech.

IT'S ALWAYS BEEN LOVE

I woke up this morning with a song spinning in my head. The tune has been stuck there all day, playing over and over, and I fear I'll get no relief until I post something here at The Lunch Counter.

I played the song to death on my mid-sixties 'record player'. The walls of my room were plastered with the singer's pictures.

I love this woman and I love this song. Twenty-two never looked so good or sounded better than this.

All I Want is you, Ronnie.


Your loving fan,

Phineas Boogaloo


Now, please... let me get some work done.

LOVE AND LIZARD SHIT

When I left for university, my parents must have thought they'd won the lottery. For them, my absence meant more space; an extra room; fewer meals to prepare; and possibly even reckless sex on the kitchen counter. (Yeah. Right.)

Now, the point of this post is not the real or imagined shenanigans of my parents. The point is absence and oversight. Because I was no longer claiming squatter's rights at the homestead, my mother felt herself suddenly empowered to systematically remove my chattels and declare my former pad to be her long sought after 'sewing room'. In other words, my stuff was either tossed into the bin and removed at curb-side by the garbage man, or distributed amongst the neighbourhood riff-raff. My stuff. The collections I'd spent a childhood and adolescence putting together. Needless to say, words were exchanged that first Christmas home. (And though I am not one to hold a grudge much past a fourth decade, she has been reminded of this traitorous betrayal every Mother's Day since... albeit with jolly good slaps on the back and thin-lipped grins.)

Absence and oversight. Which brings us to Love and Lizard shit. Man, I feel your pain.

ANCIENT CIVILIZATION (Part of Retro Friday Nights)

I'm glad I grew up in the fifties and early sixties. We had more freedom back then, back in the day... back before the education eggheads, child psychologists, do-gooders and dickheads stuck their chubby little fingers into all the nooks and crannies of childhood and twiddled about, leaving their flaccid mark on everyone and everything. Back then, the rules were simple: shut the fuck up when you're in class; listen and learn; and be kids the rest of the time.

Recess was kid time. There was only one rule: don't draw blood. (Well, there were actually two rules. The second one was: don't touch Cindy Cullen's tit, even if she wants you to. Who knew? Live and learn, eh?) These days, a kid (especially one of the male calibration) can't seem to draw a breath without having a whistle blown, a time out, a lecture, a consequence or a suspension.

School is so 'safe' these days that outdoor recess is cancelled when the temperature dips to minus 15. Everyone is required to get in touch with their feelings (what I call the inner wimp); kids need goggles and the presence of a staff member to play floor hockey or mini-stick; aiming for a guy's head in dodge ball is a punishable offence; saying 'shut up' is unacceptable -- even if some prick is on your case and whispers that your sister fucks toads. You can't play Red Rover -- after all, someone might get an arm ripped off. You can't slide down a snow hill face first, or standing up, or if you've forgotten to bring snow pants, or if there's a bit of ice half-way down, or if Timmy twisted his ankle doing it last week, or -- heaven forbid -- the school board's Director of Dickheadedness decides to pay your little community a visit.

Ah, fuck me. I'm glad it's Friday night.

Oh yeah: Cindy... it was worth the punishment, babe. And I'm glad we're still friends. Hey, here's our song.

THE ALL GOD NEWS

My oh my. The God boys (Blair and Obama) are a-prayin' and a-worshipin' and a-sippin' and gettin' all hot and juicy with faith-based initiatives and Bible thumpery.

And there's old Tony -- newly baptized Roman Catholic -- bringing God's work to the Middle East peace process. Yeah. That's what the bloody process has been missing: invocations of God.

Sweet Jeebus. I fear we're fucked.

I should have known better. We can try to separate church and state. But we can't seem to separate Presidents and Prime Ministers from bum-fucking God. They're all in too deep.

Now that's shagging we can believe in.


Note: That fire behind Blair is Armageddon.

A BUTCHER WRAPPED IN A MYSTERY INSIDE A STEAMING PILE OF SHIT

Fucking Narzees. They only pretend to be dead. (Can't croak while there's still work to do.) I'll bet this scumbag is still practicing what he calls 'gynecology' on someone, somewhere.

Two bits there's a trail of organs leading from his cottage to the beach. You know: lungs, livers, vaginae.

The 'conversion' to Islam is a nice touch, though. Wouldn't doubt that for a second.

A man is what he is not and is not what he is. Don't quote me on that. (That's because I didn't say it first. ) Look it up; you got the Google, no?

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Hey: on a lighter note, it's gonna rain here on Saturday. That will be the urine -- er, icing on the cake. Cause then it's s'posed to freeze up again in a matter of hours. Yippee... if I get a decent push off the twenty feet of fucking snow in my backyard -- and with a half-assed tailwind -- I'll be in Stockholm by breakfast. Just in time for one of their planet-saving conferences. Win/win.

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I like pie.

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This space for lease.

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