I'm not gay, much to Joel's dissapointment

I hate my new lisp. It sucks. I’m spitting out extra ‘S’s and I can’t stop. I need a speech therapist.

I’m guessing you all want to hear the story about how I got my speech impediment.

There’s not much to tell. I tried to snatch a Shrek Pez dispenser from Rolf’s.

Joel kicked my ass. He broke my jaw in three places.

I don’t remember much after the Vulcan death grip. He backed off in time so I was only paralyzed.

I vaguely recollect my teeth on the curb, pressure being applied to my head, a crunching sound, the taste of copper in my mouth and warm liquid dripping down my chin.

I blacked out then, and when I awoke. I was in room 109 at the Rocky Mountain General hospital.

My jaw was wired shut. I drank my meals through a straw, and spoke on a notepad.

My time in the hospital were the best days of my life.

My metal mouthpiece gave me the illusion that I was Trapjaw from Heman.

Everyday I dreamt of defeating the powerful prince Adam and his Battlecat. I imagined Skeletor’s praise when I brought him the head of his arch nemesis.

I wanted to lead the charge into Greyskull and steal its magical powers.

Then the damn doctor had to unscrew my mouth and ruin the best days of my life.

I think that doctor might have a horrible accident in the near future.

As for Joel, you’re going down, down, down.

Yuck, Yuck, Yuck, Yuck!

This is a classic...

What's long, green and smells like pork?
Kermit the Frog's fingers.

Ha Ha

Bray Bray Bray

Ah yes. Another lovely evening working at Rolf's Groceries. Man, what an awesome body I have! So ripped, so muscular. Every movement I make brings sighs of elation from the female customers. What a goddamned stud. But all of a sudden I hear someone call my name. Sigh, I guess perfection does have to bothered from time to time by a snivelling insect.

"Joel! Heeeee! I'm right here!"
"Dane? Is that you? Stop standing sideways."

After I commanded him in my powerful masculine voice, the culprit appeared. It was Dane, and he was standing in front of the counter. He had turned to the side, rendering his skinny self imperceptible to the naked eye.

"Heh heee! Guesh what, Joel? I working in town for the shummer!"
"Wonderful, Dane. Just wonderful. Now do you mind standing to the side so I can serve some customers?"
"Ooopsh! Shorrry... I'm sho shilly."

A beautiful woman came up to the counter and gave me a sexy smile. Dane noticed this, bugged out his eyes and made a fish face, then whipped down his pants.

"Hey baby, letsh hang out and shee what popsh up, eh? Heh Hee Heee!"

The woman socked him in the mouth, which sent him flying into the chocolate bar rack. He crashed into the floor sobbing. The woman was so disgusted by the whole thing she ran out of the store, almost ready to vomit.

"Geez, Dane! Couldn't you have picked another day to go commando?" I sighed.

I noticed three inch-long hairs growing from his bloodied chin.

"Wow. Nice goatee," I said derisively.
"*sniff* Thanksh, it took me three yearsh to grow it!"
"That's great, Dane. Now do you mind getting out of here?"
"Are you shtill addicted to shugar?"
"Uh, Dane? Really now. That was you. It does take a stunning lack of brainpower to get that mixed up."
"Hey, do you wanna shee my firsht article for the paper?"
"Fine. Why not? It's not like I've got anything better to do now that you've scared away the clientele."

With that he pulled a cocktail napkin out of his armpit. I had to hold my nose from the putrid stench. It read:

kat!!! .. look At kitteeee katt, ! i luv Kat. kat skratch Meee! bad kat!! uh oh? kat Ded.

"Well, I'll look forward to reading it in this week's Mountaineer."
"No! Hee heee! *snort* Thish is the cover shtory for tomorrowsh Calgary Shun!"
"That makes sense. Well, Dane, you better leave before the cops come."
"Ooh! Letsh hang out shometime!"
"Uh... sure. Yeah, here's my number."
"Wheee! Thanksh shee ya!"

Dane waddled out into the parking lot. I could open my eyes fully again, now that his noxious presence had stopped stinging them.

Where's Joel? Here's Joel!

Vomit spewed out of his mouth. The gastric acid singed his tastebuds. The repugnant smell made him upchuck again and again and again, until nothing came up.

I can’t believe I had that much shit bubbling around in my gut, the man thought to himself.

He looked around in a daze. He didn’t recognize the brick walls that now surrounded him on three sides. It wasn’t the usual alley, with the usual trash bins, he was so accustomed to waking up in.

“Uhhhhhhh,” moaned the man when he looked at the bright light streaming in from the street. He quickly raised his hand to his forehead, casting a shadow over his rapidly contracting pupils.

He slowly crawled his way over to the brick wall, and started pulling himself up.

He looked down at himself. It was going to be a good day. He didn’t get any puke on his clothes.

He trudged his way to the street. It was about time to find out where he was and piece together the night and how he ended up where ever the fuck he was.

“That man smells like poo,” some kid said to his mom. The mother made some comment to the kid, but the guy didn’t hear. He was sure if wasn’t good.

He took a big whif. The kid was right. He smelt like a rotting, dead dog ass.

His body recoiled. It tried to rid itself of any fluid still left. There was nothing. He just dry-heaved again.

He didn’t see anything on the street that triggered his neurons. He had no recollection of getting to where he was.

He fished through his pants pockets. His jaw dropped when he found a wad of cash in his pocket. There must have been five grand.

A grin formed across the lips of the man. He started to remember.

All the blood. The chipped teeth. The sound of fists and boots pounding flesh.

Two rows of nicotine stained teeth turned the grin into a smile. A small chuckle erupted from his bowels.

Last night, he attended a party. He wasn’t a guest. He was the entertainment.

The social function was a birthday party for the next Escobar Martinez.

Martinez was busted two months ago by some undercover fed.

A new drug lord was about to reign over the land. His name was Julio Sanchez, and he was about to turn 36.
He was a little young to take over such a large operation, but he had the cunning, tenacity and insanity of his three predecessors.

The man, who 21 hours later would wake up in an alley, was third of four bouts on the fight card.

If he won, he’d receive 10 large. If he lost, he’d likely be dead.

He got himself into a bare-knuckle street fight. He needed the money, and didn’t care if he lived or died. It was the perfect occupation.

He also brought in a bigger crowd than most. He was an ex-underwear model.

His head was shaved and he no longer had glasses. His people told him to get laser eye surgery once he could afford it. People don’t look at your face when you’re modelling ginch, but glasses ruin careers. Even more so than the dreaded pixie stick.

The streetfighter was about to battle a Canadian hotshot. He had a pretty face that just needed a beating. That’s what he heard anyway. The guy’s name was Court Aubuchon.

The once undestructable model had become an invincible fighter. He could hear the sound of the announcer mumble. The crowd roared.

It was his turn. The door, to the room he sat in, opened. He made his way to a ring, which was a empty concrete pool.

More than 200 people lined the edge of the pool. They wanted blood and he was going to give it to them.

The former model wore a pair of Calvin Klien jeans and a pair of vans. His chiseled muscles rippled with ever little movement.

He eyed his opponent standing on the other side of the pool.

Ding! The bell rang.

The two combatants charged one another. Neither competitor hesitated in taking the first blow.

Hotshot took punch one to the face. An immediate bruise developed just under his eye.

Pukey took a fist to the side. A rib snapped. He landed another knuckle sandwich to Court’s head. This time, blood burst from the nasal cavity. The nose bone bent at an irregular angle.

Court landed one more blow, but it glanced off of the prettyboy’s abs.

Court fell to the floor of the pool and got stomped on by a pair of skater shoes.

The man wearing the shoes didn’t stop until the last breath escaped the Canadian’s lips.

He raised his hands in the air victorious.

“Joe L, Joe L, Joe L,” the crowd chanted.

Joel got out of the pool, and grabbed a towel. He wiped as much of the blood off of him as he could.

A wad of American 20s were placed in his hand. He was escorted to a limo that took him to a strip club downtown.

The night became a bit of a blur after the first bottle of tequila. It became pitch black after the second.

He did remember the stripper that sucked his dick for a 100 bucks. It was worth it.

Joel leaned against the side wall of that strip club right now.

He decided against a morning drink and headed over to McDonald’s just a block down the road.

He wanted two cheeseburgers, supersized fries and a thick chocolate milkshake.

He still had five grand. It was enough to go home, back to his life in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains.

Racist Jokes

Warning: I'm not trying to offend anyone. I'm just sharing some jokes I heard last night in a bar.

Joke 1

A mexican, a native and a Canadian are sitting in a bar, each with a shot of tequila in front of them.

The mexican drains his drink and tosses his glass into the air. He grabs his six shooter and takes aim. The glass busts into tiny pieces.

The Native asks “why did you do that?”

The Mexican replies “in Mexico we have so many shot glasses you never have to use the same one twice.”

The Native tilts his head back and the shot trickles down his throat. When it’s gone, he tosses the glass into the air. The Native takes out his bow, grabs an arrow and fires at the glass. Bullseye.

The Canadian asks the Native “why did you do that?”

The Native responds “Every month I get free money from the government so I never have to drink from the same glass twice.”

Finally the Canadian slurps back his tequila. He slams his glass on the table, takes out his shotgun and blasts a hole in the Native’s head.

The curious Mexican inquires about the Canadian’s actions.

The Canadian says “there’s so many drunk natives in Canada I never have to drink with the same one twice.

Joke 2

What’s the difference between a Native and a couch?

A couch can support a family.

Joke 3

What’s the difference between a Native and a trampoline.

You take your shoes off to jump on a trampoline.

Joke 4

An American, a negro and a Mexican are sitting on a sandy beach along the west coast.

The Mexican finds a magic lamp. He rubs it and POOF a genie pops out.

“I’ll grant you one wish,” says the genie.

“I want you to gather up all the Mexicans, send them back to Mexico where they’ll prosper once again.”

“Done.”

The lamp falls to the ground. The African/American awakens the genie.

“I want you to gather up all my people and send us back to Africa where we will live off the land and prosper.”

“Done.”
The genie looks over at the American and asks “well I guess you want a wish too. What is it?”

The American says “I’ll take a coke. You got rid of all my troubles with the last two wishes.”

Joel isn't who he says he is...

After a little investigation, my story about Joel being an underwear model (see the Story Joel didn't want told) is not completely accurate.

Joel did head to Brazil. He was a underwear model, and his life did turn to a pixie-stick hell. But, Joel never came back to Canada.

The Joel you see power tripping on minors trying to buy cigarettes is Jose Alfanzo, a Brazilian secret agent. He's the equivalent to James Bond or G.I. Joe.

It was July 2001. Jose found himself undercover in the world’s largest drug cartel.

Six years of his life he spent playing the roll of the criminal.

He killed, snorted drugs, stole and beat up prostitutes to gain credibility as a crook.

It was finally paying off. His opportunity was upon him.

Escobar Martinez, the head honcho, was over-seeing the biggest drug smuggling endeavour the States would ever experience.

Jose made his first contact with his boss in the last five years. He told them about the billion dollar operation.

It all went down a month later in a shootout fit for a Terantino flick.

Jose managed to escape the gun fire with only a few scratches.

His reward for bringing down the empire was a life of luxury. A life in a distant land where he’d be treated like a king.

He was sent to Rocky Mountain House, Alberta, Canada. His new job didn’t have the flash as secret service agent, but being a clerk at Rolf’s was exactly what he wanted.

Now Joel/Jose is in the witness protection program. You can tell Joel is really Jose because of his tanned skin and Brazilian accent.

He fooled me over the summer. I should have known better. Damn I'm dumb.

He still has the Pele tattoo. It’s for his son he left behind in Rio.

Where’s the real Joel? I’ll have to make that story up some other time.

The story Joel didn't want told

“Is that everything?” Asks the clerk with an upbeat tone.

“Pack of Du Maurier Light King Size!” States the customer without looking at the man behind the till.

“That’ll be $14.76, please.” The tellers voice is so full of life and vigor, but it wasn’t always that way.

His name is Joel. He works six days a week at Rolf’s convenience store. He loves life.

How did his life get to this plateau of perfection? Let me tell you.

I’ll start with the summer of 1996. Joel just finished grade 11 with honours for the 11th straight year. He was ready for four months of playing video games and watching movies.

He was much like all the other nerds; such as Court, Jamie, Mike, Dane and the rest of the video-game posse.

Well, Dane was cooler than the rest and much better looking. All the ladies wondered why he wasted his time with a bunch of losers, but that’s a different story.

Joel, like the rest of the group, couldn’t wait to sprawl on his sofa, sip soda and navigate the levels of the latest game.

His summer came and went. He bragged about the number of games he finished. He retold the plots of movie after movie.

The rest of the gang were bored with Joel’s seemingly endless tales. We were all there. We all played the same games. We all watched the same movies.

Joel saw the tiresome look on his compadres’ faces and knew it was time for a change, and change happened.

Joel wandered into Will Sinclair High School on that brisk October morning. It was only seven days until he turned 17, and the metamorphosis was complete.

Joel opened the school door and entered, with his head held high. His thick glasses slid a centimetre down his nose, but it didn’t matter. No one looked at his glasses. They were staring at his hair.

Joel rid himself of his bowl haircut and actually styled his hair, with gell.

Actually no one stared at his hair. No one except for his immediate circle paid any attention.

But this haircut altered the course of Joel’s life.

Let’s skip three years down the road. Joel was studying at SAIT. He had the goals and dreams of becoming a computer geek, and was well on his way.

It didn’t happen though. Joel might tell you it was his computer getting stolen that made him leave the technical institute. Don’t believe him. That’s just his cover.

The real story began one Thursday evening at Loco Lou’s. It was students’ night and Joel was getting tanked while discussing HTML with a couple of classmates.

Joel was heading to the pisser to break the seal, when he was approached by a man. A tall man in a business suit.

He had a proposition for guy who celebrated Dane’s birthday kneeling in front of toilet in the Republic.

“Are you interested in making some serious cash?” Asked the man with a lisp. “I’m looking for a someone. That someone could be you.”

Joel had a blood level twice the legal limit and would have done anything.

The Will Sinclair grad followed the man to his house.

There was a studio set up in the guy’s basement.

“I just need to take a couple head shots,” said the suit-wearing man.

He fired off a couple shots of Joel, and sent the 20-year-old on his way.

Two days later, the man called Joel at his apartment on Frobisher Boulevard.

“Hello, journalist in training Dane speaking. How may I help you?” Asked the guy who had just been accepted into the Mount Royal Journalism program.

“Is Joel there?” Inquired the voice on the other end. “I have some work for him.”

“One moment please, and I’ll grab him,” said Dane as he handed Joel the phone, who was sitting on the couch or Jay’s bed which were one in the same. Dane walked to the balcony to wave at all the girls who were hoping to get a glance at him through the window.

“Hello,” Joel spoke into the mouthpiece of the phone.

A two-minute conversation followed. It ended with Joel saying “see ya soon.”

Joel left the apartment right after. He took only the bare essentials.

Little did Dane know, but he lost a roommate that day.

Joel headed to the Calgary airport, where he met the man he first saw a few days prior.

The man handed Joel a plane ticket. Luckily Joel still had his passport from his trip to Europe in grade 11.

Joel was heading to Brazil. He had found work as an underwear model.

What got him that job? The scout for Hanes Brazil had liked Joel’s hair. The same hair that he first sculpted Oct. 3, 1996.

Joel’s first show was a success. No one cared about the new fly on the boxer briefs. They all wanted to know who the new model from Canada was.

Joel was booked solid for three months. Underwear show after underwear show, Joel loved his new life. He had a bigger grin on his face than when he found the last esper in Final Fantasy III.

Joel was popular. People loved him. He was the next big thing. He changed his name to Joe L, with a capital L.

The fame didn’t go to Joe L with a capital L’s head like most fashion models. It shot up his neck twice as fast.

Within a week Joe L was hopped up on the stick. The pixie stick. He had a bikini model on each arm, and one night he kicked the crap out of Christian Slater.

Capital L started to get demanding. He wanted his underwear to be fresh from the dryer before each show. The briefs had to be tumble dried with two sheets of bounce.

After the first three months of solid bookings, Joe L’s schedule started freeing up. Like most underwear models, Joe L was about to take a spill from the top. The stick was eating away at his six-pack abs, and their wasn’t enough Visine in the world to keep his eyes white from all the sugar coursing through his veins.

Rock bottom came when he found himself holding a “I will flash my underwear at you for a dollar.” He was living on the streets of Rio.

He lived that way for six months. He ate out of garbage bins and beat up kids for the sweet sugar.

Joe L’s life altered again. It was July of 2001. The ex-underwear model peered into a window. He saw a kid playing a super nintendo.

The pure joy on the kid’s face made Joel cry.

“What have I become?” Joel shouted in the air. “I’m a monster. A monster I say.”

The outbreak landed him in the slammer, which grabbed the attention of the Canadian Embassy, which got Joel a trip home.

Joel returned to Rocky Mountain House. He bounced around a few friend’s places before landing in a room in his mom’s trailer near Leslieville.

Rolf gave him a job at the store, and life was on the up and up.

Now whenever Joel feels like using an AK-47 on his next customer, he remembers the little kid playing video games’ face and thinks about the hell he lived in Rio.

Next time you see Joel, ask him about the tattoo on his ass that says "Pele.”

I suck, your suck, the Bruins suck!

Well it happened. I had someone complain about my reporting abilities.

I missed the Battleford Bruins’ one win this year. Yes the team that upset the second last place team now has two points on the season.

Which is incredible is that this is two more points than last year.

The manager, we’ll call him Brent Menssa because that’s his name, wrote me an email wondering why I was a week behind writing about the Bruins loss and not their victory.

If he would have actually talked to me in person, I would have said a few things.

First: since about loss five on the season, you and your team hasn’t been cooperative when I ask questions. But really how many times can you think up a new way to say we lost cause we suck?

Plus you don’t fax over game sheets or even update me with a up-to-date roster.

Second: the game was on the same night as the North Stars. The team that the city cares about. No offence, but only 50 people show up to watch the Bruins, unless the other team brings a bunch of fans with them to watch the onslaught.

I went to the game, against the same team, the following night. You guys lost 9-4. You were dominated and played like crap. I didn’t think you would have had a chance. That’s my mistake. You’re 0-37 record made me believe that you wouldn’t win. I’m an ass.

Why are you in the paper a week late? I only have three pages on Wednesday. Everything else gets bumped back to Sundays paper.

You guys losing every game doesn’t make for front-page news. People ask me ‘how much did the Bruins lose by this time?’

The answer has never been closer than four goals.

Third: I am sorry for missing your win. It will be the only one this season. It was some pretty big news. Joel will probably leave Rolf’s before the Bruins win again.

Sorry Joel, but if no one bugs you you’ll never leave.

Anyway the Bruins’ season is over tonight, when they lose again.

The Bruins suck!

Goodbye NHL or Gary Bettman's a loser!

It’s nice to see how much Canada actually misses hockey.

With the 11th hour negotiations going on this past weekend and spilling over into the next three days, the news made it seem like a shortened hockey season was a sure thing.

The spin they put on all of the stories made the entire country rise to our feet. We awaited that emergency broadcast on CBC, interupting Cornation Street, announcing the NHL was back in action for a shortened season.

Fans hopes were up. People were talking pro hockey once again. Calgarians were wondering if the Flames could go on another run for the cup after a 28-game season. That sparkle returned to the eyes of hockey lovers across the land.

The sport of hockey had a life force. Its pulse started beating and hockey awoke from its coma. It was alive. It was growing.

But, once again, the dreams of millions of hockey fans were crushed Wednesday.

Gary Bettman killed all our hopes. He finally called off the entire NHL season.

Couldn’t the two sides find some kind of agreement? They were only $6.5 million apart. Is their nothing that could have been done?

At first I was all for the owners. The players were getting paid to much. It was the owners fault for paying that much, but something had to be done to fix the problem.

I still sided with the owners when they didn’t take the 24 per cent salary roll back a month ago.

Owners are stupid without a cap that 24 per cent would be erased in no time.

Now I’m with the players. They did all the budging. They cracked first.

The NHLPA was against a salary cap the entire negotiation process. Sunday night they broke. They offered a $52 million salary cap.

They didn’t want to, but for the game they love they did.

Bettman probably started ripping off his business suit and dancing around his office when he heard the news. He had won.

Still it wasn’t enough for him. He wanted more. He wanted a $40 million cap.

The players dropped their number to 49 million. The commissioner countered with 42.5 million. It ended there.

Now Bettman is the loser. He lost his league.

I have never seen anyone want to be rid of their job so much. He doesn’t have a league to fix anymore. He should be unemployed.

He should have been given a deadline to get it done. If it wasn’t finished by then, he was out and someone who could do the job was in.

Bettman’s job was to make sure the league is profitable and efficient. He couldn’t do it, so soon there will be no more NHL.

People are saying the league will dissolve, and something new will arise from the ashes.

I sure as hell hope Bettman isn’t in charge of that league.

Hockey will survive. It’ll get through being the first pro sport in North America to cancel a season. It will take a lot of time. A lot of hard work, and a lot of chance that the loyal fans don’t skate away from the sport in its absence.

Kick in the crotch

Valentine’s day is nothing but a pain. It’s horrible trying to find a decent present. Seeking out that perfect gift.

The horror, the stress, it’s too much for one little day.

Damn commercial holidays. There’s no reason to celebrate Feb. 14. Well, none that anyone cares about or remembers.

It’s all about spending money to show how much you care for your significant other.

To open your wallets and buy, buy, buy. I think it should be erased from the calendar. I think every male on the planet is with me.

You could take the lazy way out and grab flowers or candy. That’s what I did.

I picked up a heart of chocolate fudge. I’m glad my girlfriend doesn’t care too much for holidays and the such.

I’m a lucky guy. The fudge went over great. I, of course, made it seem like I didn’t get her anything and popped it out around 8 p.m.

I also treated her to a bottle of wine, some pizza and a couple of movies.

We watched the Grudge and Shrek 2. Both movies rocked.

The Grurdge was way better than I would have guessed. I’m not a Buffy fan. It was one of the creepier movies I’ve seen.

Shrek 2 was just as good as the first in my opinion, which means everything.

It was a good evening. Although, I didn’t get anything in return.

But that’s okay, guys don’t need gifts. We don’t want big hearts with fancy lettering. We don’t care for flowers that are going to die in a few days.

I think we should make a Valentine’s day for men. Get them something they would like. How about Comic Day? Or Sports memorabilia day? I’m sure Joel would like a Video Game day.

Let’s make a second holiday for men or change Valentine’s day to something both sexes can enjoy.

Loud, obnoxious and dead.

A flying bodycheck collides with the glass right in front of where I’m standing. The two players fall to the ice. One lets out a groan and is slow to return to his feet.

I click off a couple pictures, and hope they turn out.

Behind me is some yutz yelling for a penalty. Actually he’s been screaming the entire game. It’s really starting to get on my nerves. I have to act.

I pack up my camera and notepad, and head for the washroom.

I pass numerous fans watching the game. They look at me and wonder why I’m leaving.

After trudging all the way across the arena to the washroom. I take off my T-shirt. Underneath is a brown costume with a Dung Beetle on it.

Yes, the average everyday sports reporter can’t handle this. A mighty superhero needs to make an appearance. Dung Beetle Guy must put an end to the obnoxious fan.

I remove all my “average” clothes. I pull on my mask and start making my way back.

All I can think about is pushing this guy against the wall and hearing his bones snap. Seeing his little eyes bug out of his head. Tasting the blood that spurts out of his body and onto my tongue when I’m laughing with delight. The Crimson liquid flowing down my chin, leaving little spatter marks on the floor. His last breath escaping from his mouth searching for a way to get into heavan.

It’s going to be so great. I pass a kid. His mouth drops in amazement. It’s probably his first time seeing a live superhero.

I give his hair a little ruffle. Kids are so cute.

I keep going. People take their eyes off the game for a gander at me and what I’m up to.

Finally after ten minutes of walking around the arena and getting changed, I’m ready to put a stop to the unnecessarily loud fan.

Here it comes.

“Com’on ref! You gotta call that. What’re blind?”

He’s still at it. A smile crosses my lips. I can’t wait. This is going to be great.

“Look at the hooking. Can you not see that? You suck ref!!!”

I walk up to the guy. He still doesn’t see me. He’s too into the game.

I tap him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me sir. Is all your yelling really necessary? It’s offending some of the other parents in the crowd.”

“Oh, I didn’t know I was being offensive. I guess I should stop.”

“Yes, that would be nice. Thank you very much for your cooperation.”

“No thank you for letting me know I was getting out of hand. If you didn’t come along and say something, I would have kept it up for the rest of my life.”

“That’s what I’m here for. I’m trying to make the world a better place, one person at a time. Have a good day and enjoy the rest of the game.”

“You too.”

I start the long march back to the bathroom. I think about how pleasant that guy was. He was super nice. I hope I wasn’t too rough on him. He really didn’t deserve me almost raising my voice at him.

I get to the washroom. I toss my T-shirt back on. It has Calvin and Hobbs on the front.

I slip into my cargo paints, grab my camera bag and head back to my seat to take pictures.

The cute kid doesn’t even blink when I pass him by. He doesn’t notice that Dane Lutz sports reporter is one in the same with Dung Beetle guy.

The guy is smiling. “That was a good call ref. You’re really doing a good job. Nice shift Timmy. You didn’t score that time, but next time it’s going in.”

I look up at him. He gives me a smile in return. Another person changed. Only six billion and change to go.

Son of a Parsnip!

I had JUST finished an awesome, excellent, fantastic post; but Blogger screwed up when I tried to post it. So instead of something amusing, you get this. So complain! March upon the Blogger offices! Make them pay for this trangression!

GRRAAAARRRGGGGHHHAAARRRGGHH!

EDIT: Never mind, it posted. Somehow. I'll let you go this time, Blogger.

A Good Title

Well hello, there! Joel here!

And I'm Dane! Betcha never thought we'd back!

But you were wrong, of course. We wouldn't just disappear! You people love us too much!

That's right!

In fact, we're probably the best damn thing about this blog.

That's one way of looking at things...

Hell, everything else just sucks and shouldn't have even been written in the first place!

Um... yeah.

But fear not. We're back, and we're lean and mean! No more guest stars!

Yep, it's just us. No more shoddy graphics, no more absolutely shitty and overblown storyline!

Yeah! Hah hah! Shitty. Good one, Dane.

Just us bantering back and forth like before.

Yep, saying whatever's on our minds.

...

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You fucking son of a bitch. Do you know much work that whole Crisis thing was?

No, of course I don't! I disassociated myself from that hunk of shit the second I saw it! And you know what? A damn eight-year-old could have finished it in an afternoon! But not our pal Joel! He was too busy whining, eating candy, and whackin' off to the cast of Passions!

Hey, that was just the one time! And you know what, peckerhead? If it wasn't for me, there wouldn't be this blog in the first place!

I AM THIS BLOG! Who kept posting while you were off soiling your shorts, huh? HUH? These cat posts suck! It's me who keeps people coming!

Yeah, sure. I bet. Keep lying to yourself; whatever makes you feel better.

Go fuck a donkey, you piece of shit.

Oh yeah? Go suck a Pixie Stik, you goddamned junkie!

THAT'S IT! Where's my crowbar?

Like I'm scared of a hunk of metal that can break any bone in my body. Now if you'll excuse me, I believe I left my bathtub running...

Get back here! Hey, tune in time next time when Joel has to contemplate his new life as an eunuch!

Sigh, it's good to be back.

Gender challenged golfers

Transsexual golfers will be allowed to play in this year’s Women’s British Open.

I read this in the Star Phoenix. I couldn’t believe it. Now guys who couldn’t make it are going to go get castrated.

Why not? The amount of money some of the female golfers are pulling in might just be worth it.

Although, I think I’d get a sex change and play a sport that has a little more certainty that I was going to win.

Golf is more about precision than power. The only thing men have over women is strength, and that’s only some men.

I, for one, don’t have superior strength. Joel, on the other hand, does. He’s a monster.

Men willing to change sexes should go for something like tennis. You’d have a faster serve and a harder smash.

I don’t know if anyone remembers when one of the Williams sisters said they could play against men and then was beaten by a low ranked male.

If that guy changed over, he’d be the top winner. And when it’s nearly one million dollars a grand slam, it could make him a rich girl.

For the whole sex change thing, I’m against it.
Transsexuals should play against other transsexuals.

I believe men and women should compete as equals in sports that they can. Golf is one. Darts, pool and those sort of games.

Let’s leave the transsexuals doing their own thing.

Lots of grease equals lots of good.

How can anyone order a salad at McDonalds? All that fatty goodness. I’m starting to drool just thinking about it.

The deep-fried chicken. The grilled all-beef patties. the super salty fries.

Is there anything better? Who cares about their health? I think a lifetime of Macdonalds and other fast food is worth a couple of years in an old folks home remembering the good old days.

A salad. All that goodness and some people still choose salads. A fast food salad. I wouldn’t eat those. I’d go home and make a fantastic caesar salad for two bucks. A head of romaine is $1.50. Croutons take about four slices of bread. That’s about 25 cents. The dressing is also cheap. A sprinkle of lemon juice and a little asiago cheese. Mmmm.

That’s the type of salad I’m talking about. Not one of those pieces of crap sitting in a crisper all day for who knows how many days.

MacDonalds has freshness guidelines, but they’re not always followed.

If you want to, a nice chicken breast is a nice addition to the salad. Chicken breasts are quite expensive, so maybe a inside round steak would suffice.
To make the meal a little tastier, a nice white wine helps the lettuce slide down your throat.

Maybe something from Germany. A lot of people say French wine because of romaine and croutons, but I find vino from France too dry.

Well, you know what time it is. It’s a beautiful in the neighborhood. A beautiful day in the neighborhood. Oh would you be mine. Oh would you be...

Screw it. It’s dinner time. I'm going to MacDonalds. Not for one of those salads. I want a supersized double quarter pounder. A side of mayo for my salty, salty fries.

Quicker like a fox!

CSI: Las Vegas, CSI: Miami and CSI: New York are all great and wonderful shows.

I try to watch at least one of them once a week. It’s hard with my schedule, but I usually have one of the three evenings off to catch up on some crazy crime scene investigations.

I like all the science involved in the show, that’s what makes it better than Law and Order.

I am getting a little frustrated with all the minute clues they seem to pick up. The single hair on the book shelf, the half finger print in the soap or the hair die face print on the chair. It all seems a little too far fetched for me.

It does give me reason to be concerned. I think the show is giving away too many little secrets to criminals.

Burglars are starting to wear gloves. They’re thinking about what they’re doing and not just ran-sacking a joint.

Just from watching CSI, I would wrap my body in cling wrap, a no name brand from Superstore so they couldn’t trace a rare type.

I’d also fashion my cranium with a hair net. You can’t be leaving strands of DNA everywhere. Those investigators pick up every damn piece.
Of course I’d also wear some sort breathing apparatus, so DNA couldn’t slip out of my mouth or nose.

I’d grab a pair of shoes from a second hand store, and float them down the river when I was done.

After all this, I think I could pull off a proper crime.

Unfortunately all that work isn’t necessary in a small city.

The CSI: North Battleford guy came in and took fingerprints. The evil doer wore gloves, so it didn’t help.

The agent didn’t look for hair or any other kind of clues. I was a little disappointed. I’m starting to think my DVD collection is gone for good.

Damn, something just flew into my eye. They’re starting to water. I think it was a little dragon or something.

Now, I’m going undercover to find my stolen belongings. I’m going vigilante on these criminals.

Fear Me! I have no head. I have no head.

I took the What's Your 19th Century Horror Character quiz.

I scored as The Headless Horseman.

You are the Galloping Hessian from Washington Irving's The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, surrounded by secrecy and rumor. Your disembodied head is nothing more than a carved pumpkin, which you hurl at frightened schoolmasters who trespass your forest. Darkness is your greatest weapon, and arbitrary cruelty is your delight.

83% --- The Headless Horseman

71% --- Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

54% --- The Invisible Man

42% --- Count Dracula

34% --- Dorian Gray

33% --- Frankenstein's Monster

So now instead of a wrist lock, I'm just going to hurl my flaming pumpkin head at Joel. Since oak burns, Joel should wind up a piece of charred wood. Joel, Joel, Joel is on fire. Let the mother fucker burn.

Missing: one DVD player and 25 DVDs

I came home after a hard day of making appearances as Dane Lutz, my alter ego.

I had just spent the past three hours taking pictures of the North Stars. It was time to lay my head on my pillow, close my little peepers and rest up for a hard Sunday of crime fighting.

My key slides into the lock. I twist. The apartment door opens.

I trudge up the stairs. The three flights made my knees ache.

I started to feel a little weird. Something was amiss. A tingle raced up the back of my neck and tiny little bumps appeared on my skin.

I got to my door, number 304. I slid the third key on my key chain into the door and turned.

It opened too easy. The door was unlocked. Strange, I thought I locked the door when I left around 5:30 p.m.

I was flooded with fluorescent light from the kitchen. Unusual, I thought I turned off the lights before I left at 5:30 p.m.

I felt a really cold breeze coming from the dining room window. It was wide open. Odd, It’s the middle of winter. I’m pretty sure the window was shut before I left at 5:30 p.m.

I walk into the living room and take a glance around. Queer, my DVD player’s gone along with all my DVDs. I know I had a DVD player before I left at 5:30 p.m.

I fall to my knees, raise my hands into the air and yell: DANG NAAABITTT.

Salt water erupts from my tear ducts leaving a trail of moisture on my cheeks.

I’d been robbed. I fall forward, roll my fingers into fists and pound them on the floor.

“Why. Why did they have to take my Best of the Wonder Years DVD? It was a collectable,” I sob into the carpet.

I crawl onto my side and into the fetal position. I start sucking on my thumb. The salty taste on my fifth finger makes me wonder if I washed my hands after my last piss?

Hmmmm. I guess I’ll never know.

A message to the burglers: Dung Beetle Guy is coming to get ya. He’s coming to get ya. So get yourself up and jump around. Jump Around. Jump. Jump.

The jumping makes it easier for me to find out who it is.

Thanks.

Lots of beer equals bad headache equals bad day at work

How many people are hung over today?

The biggest game of the year happened yesterday. The Superbowl has been played, the victors celebrated and the losers have walked away from the sunny shores of Jacksonville.

The Patriots win 24-21. It was an easy game to predict, but I had the Pats up by a touchdown.

I started to think about the millions and millions of viewers. The coach potatoes stuffing their faces with chips, pizza and beer. I wondered how much beer the average person consumes during the day and how bad they feel come Monday morning.

Let’s try to calculate the amount of beer consumed. The game lasted about three hours. Then there’s the pregame show. There’s half time, the post-game celebration and of course the pre-pregame show. In total about seven or eight prime hours of alcohol consumption.

Now the average person can casually drink a beer in 20 minutes. Well, I can. That’s three beer an hour or 24 beer. A cube. Now that number can increase or decrease depending on the type of drunk you are.

I’ve noticed that some people drink quicker once inebriation enters its access code.

Others drink a little slower. Either way a lot of beer is going to get pissed out.

SO...

I’m now wondering why the Superbowl isn’t played on Saturday?

It gives all the overly enthusiastic beer drinkers a chance to recuperate. A day to relax and guzzle water in an attempt to relieve the pounding headache and queasy stomach.

Don’t make all these football enthusiasts go to work still half pissed Monday morning. Don’t make them call in sick. Let them have one day of recovery or a day for Eagles fans to mourn their loss.

I’m one of the smarter people. I didn’t drink at all yesterday. Hell, I didn’t even get to watch the game.

I was busy watching the Midget Barons defeat the Unity Lazers 7-6 in a exciting provincial playoff hockey game. Good times.

It's a life, a good life

I had my FM-10 slung over my shoulder, standing at the perfect vantage point to take my shots. It wasn’t quite time yet though. The clock was ticking down the seconds as I waited, but it wasn’t yet time.

To pass the final moments away and to calm my nerves, I was chomping on a hotdog smothered in mustard and ketchup with some diced onions for a little extra flavour. Damn it was good.

People were starting to flood into the building as 7:30 p.m. drew closer and closer. It was almost time for some action.

The number of people strolling in started to make me a little nervous. You attract a little more attention they’d you’d like with an FM-10 resting on your shoulder. Everyone wonders what you’re going to shoot.

My hands started to shake a little bit. Mustard oozed out of my hotdog bun and onto the front of my jacket.

I didn’t even notice. I couldn’t help but think my jitters would affect my performance. This was the only night to get the job done before deadline

The seconds kept ticking away, 4:41, 4:40, 4:39.... I finished my hotdog and tossed the tin foil wrapping to the ground.

I took out a cartridge and loaded my weapon of choice.

Sweat started dripping down my brow. I was having a little trouble with the ammo thanks to my unsteady hands.

My dexterity dropped two-fold, my fingers clumsily got everything in position.

I raised the device to my eye and looked through the sights, checked my setting and fired off three warning shots.

Everything was fine. My agenda would go off without a hitch.

Then my buddy Kevin stands beside me, leans up against the railing and says: “hey, how’s it going?”

“I doing alright. Damn snow sucks though.”

“Yeah, I hear ya,” Kevin replys. “So what’s your prediction?” He asks of my intelligence.

“We’ll take them down,” I retort as an evil smile crosses my lips, and I think to myself ‘we’ll take them down good.’ I suppress a cackle that would have given a snake shivers.

I look at the clock. 1:01, 1:00, 0:59.... It’s almost time.

My hand reaches for my equipment. I get it ready, bring it to my eye and make sure everything is ready to roll.

“Here’s your Battleford North Stars,” the P.A. system announces to the chorus of some really loud music.

I hold my breath, take aim and fire a couple shots. Guillaume Miszczak shot. Captain Dylan Wiltermuth shot. The same with Michael George.

It’s a good start. Three of the people on my list are done. I only have 16 more to go.

My nerves have been conquered by my excitement. Adrenaline courses through my veins. I have to consciously think about breathing. I pull in a deep breath. Exhale. Repeat.

No one seems to be taking note of what I’m up to, except for Kevin but he’s witnessed me doing this a dozen times before and doesn’t care anymore.

The game begins. The music stops. The action starts.

There’s shouting from the crowd. I take another couple quick shots.

I chilling smile exposes all 28 of my teeth, much like the robotic shark from Jaws about to take a bit out of some hot girl skinny-dipping.

A little drool slides out of my mouth. My tongue darts out and licks it up before the wetness can get very far.

There’s an opportunity. I take a few more shots. I have to be selective. Infinite ammo is in the world of cheat codes and video games.

This is life. My life and I love it.

There’s nothing better than pure joy of watching hockey and taking pictures of all the action with my Nikon fully-manual SLR.

I wish it was a D-60, but maybe soon. Then I’ll be able to fire all the shots I want and not worry about running out of film. It’ll be great.

I snap off shots of the remaining 16 players of the home team. Using two more rolls of Ilford 400 film, which I’ve pushed to 1600 to allow for a 1/250 shutterspeed so I can clearly capture all the hockey action without ending up with blurry negatives.

I’ll get the negs back on Monday after they’re developed, choose my shots, write the story, layout my pages and you could be reading about it come Wednesday.

It’s all in the News-Optimist, Wednesday's edition. North Stars battle the La Ronge Ice Wolves. It's a duel to the death. Well not really, but neither team wants to lose. There's ego on the line, and hockey players have some of the biggest chips on their shoulders than most people I meet. Even Rolf's employees.

When I grow up I want to be a child molester

One day I hope to be so famous that people cheer for me when I’m going to trial for raping children.

Wouldn’t it be grand to have adoring fans screaming my name, while I walk to the courthouse.

People lined up down the block just to see my face. The one which a 13-year-old boy accused of getting him drunk and sexually assaulting him.

I doubt this is going to ever happen being a journalist and all. I don’t think even the great Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward could get the same treatment. So I doubt there’s any possible chance for me.

I’m starting to wonder about all the people dressing up as him, cheering him on and totally adoring him.

I never would have guessed there’d be people applauding a possible child molester, a possible repeat offender.

If they’re going to do this, why not spread the love to all the child molesters out there. Let’s not focus on just one.

I know if I just had some kid say that I raped them, I’d probably lose my job, family and friends. I’d be lonely and could use a couple people to yell out my name and cheer me on. It’d make me feel better about ruining a young boy’s life.

Maybe this isn’t about just child molesting. Maybe it’s about ruining a young person’s life in general.

Hell there’s a lot easier and quicker methods than sending him to the Neverland Ranch.

I’m sure this guy could help out: BELLEFONTE, PA-February 1, 2005 — A 36-year-old Centre County man has been convicted of more than 500 counts of child abuse against one victim.

There’s a lot more abusers out there as well. Let’s cheer them all on. Share the wealth. Michael Jackson shouldn’t be the only possible molester getting cudos for his evil deeds.

Who’s interested? We could rent a bus and go from courthouse to courthouse congratulating all the child abusers in the world.