Church of Hell

I’ve been looking for the perfect hair removal cream for my balls for a long time. I’ve found some with Kiwi, and some with Mint, but never have I found a testicular depilatory cream that featured both Kiwi and Mint. That is until now…

I give you Nad’s Natural Hair Removal Cream:

The weird thing is, I don’t think it’s actually named for the colloquial term for balls (shortened from gonads to people who grew up in a cave, religious commune or New England). Apparently the creator of this fine company has a daughter named Nadine, which makes the child (now grown and most likely attending regular therapy) a great scapegoat to allow you to name your hair removal cream company after nut-sacks and get away with it.

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I was cleaning out the memory of my phone, erasing my ‘Leonard Nimoy Sings Bilbo Baggins’ and ‘My Buddy Commercial’ ring tones, and also offloading all of the low grade and silly pictures I’d snapped over the last few months. The first one to catch my eye was a snap of a poster I took at a local burgers-and-trivia place that Stretch and I visit called Scorchers (always said with great flair and a slight lisp). This was a poster for an upcoming band night featuring self-styled ‘Cleveland’s Tribute to 80′s Hard Rock’, 1988.

I don’t even know where to begin.

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Well, the weather outside is frightful since it’s been snowing pretty badly for about 24 hours straight. Being on the lake, we have nothing to block it so the parking lot is pretty bad with the drifts completely blocking in cars. We were watching some people trying to tow out cars that were stuck and blocking any plows from getting through (and making it impossible for anyone to move their cars) when we saw the following:

I was wanting the Benny Hill music to play but I don’t have any video editing software installed. They were trying to tow a PT Cruiser and couldn’t get it moving, so they added a second truck to help tow the first truck which was towing the PT Cruiser. Amazingly, it worked!

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I saw this book the other day and had to snap a picture. If I was ‘The Artist Formerly Known as The Artist Formerly Known as Prince’, not only would I call my penis the ‘Purple Pirate’ but I would also have a little purple waistcoat and draw on a little mustache and eye patch. Then it’d be time to go hunt for booty!

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If you assisted a Canadian in committing a crime (like making an Uncle Buck sequel) would you be arrested for ‘eh‘-ding and ‘aboot‘-ing?

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My bro-in-law told me about a place he saw while on the way to apple picking:

http://www.scraptacularscraps.com/

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The 5 year old is fast becoming an artist lately. On top of almost continually sporting a grape juice mustache that would shame Dali, he now spends a lot of time with his ‘art cabinet’, a set of pull out drawers filled near to bursting with assorted crayons, markers, stamps, stickers, paints and other sundry implements a creative child could use to make wonderful and permanent alterations to furniture and carpeting.

He recently received a large box of crayons as a Christmas gift. The brand name is unknown but it appears that the mascot is a smiling and slightly surprised looking sun whose round mouth hides a built in crayon sharpener:

The box, featuring a rather shocked, smiling sun.

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Valentine’s day is upon us, a day that sees love-struck men spending their hard earned scratch on expensive dinners, exotic flowers, imported chocolates, mall store jewelry and countless other services, trinkets and gewgaws in an attempt to barter with their significant other for sexual favors in a process that sounds, on paper, a lot like prostitution. Fear not! There is a big difference between this festive holiday and solicitation, namely that even after laying down (*PUN!*) three weeks pay on dinner, a few dozen roses and a tennis bracelet from Zales, you still have no guarantee that you will get any, let alone good, sex. Prostitutes, on the other hand, are trained professionals who will undoubtedly fulfill any contractual obligations to the best of their abilities both quickly and efficiently and without outraged indignation at not getting a Pawsome Panda™ Build-a-Bear® afterward.

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In my previous post , I went over a few of the theories that attempt to describe exactly why we celebrate Valentine’s day as a romantic celebration:

• Is it to honor a criminal who was executed, messily,  for capital crimes, i.e. marrying Christians?
• Is it to honor a man who, when faced with rejection, tried to cut out his own heart and mail it?
• Is it based on an ancient fertility rite which couples nudity, sacrifices, blood and lashings with raw meat?
• Is it because it was invented out of whole cloth by Classical Literature’s Geoffry Chaucer?

The world may never know the truth, at least until we invent an exciting, quantum-theory, nano-robotic, cold fusion based machine that allows us to view history through goggles that plug directly into our spines via a socket installed in the napes of our necks. Our best Hollywood screenwriters are on the case and we should see a badly written Michael Bay movie about this shortly, as soon as he can find an appropriate childhood hero of mine to completely wreck for the sake of a quick buck.

Today I want to talk about how to actually celebrate Valentine’s day with the minimum fuss and money without looking both too cheap or too lazy.

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My sister notified me that one of the few remaining local rags was asking for some sort of submissions covering recipes, stories and some kind of fantasies involving bacon. I got an auto-response that the editor is on vacation till the 4th so I was either too late or way to early, but what follows was my submission.

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The noble swine has given the world a plethora of culinary treats, from the divine, year-long cured Jamón ibérico of Spain to the vinegary tang of a fresh jar of pickled pigs feet. But of all of delectable dishes and curious cuts that your average pig offers, nothing can beat the cured and brined belly we know affectionately as bacon. (more…)

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