Death by Sloth

There is no worse way to die than death by sloth. Take a look into the eyes of a sloth. Two pools of terror. Those eyeballs lock up with yours, and you realize their evolutionary path has wound through places you can't fathom. I'm pretty sure they started out in the scorching red beaver sores of hell. To peer into those pupils is to peer into a vacuum of lucid malice.

Don't be a pussy, don't peek in for a few measly seconds- I want you to take a good look. Snoop around for five minutes, and you'll learn that their climb back to Earth was a God-damned nightmare. Thousands upon thousands went up in flames on the trek, like Christmas trees on a bonfire. Their refreshment situation, a petty asterisk in comparison, was a whole other headache. Being the last-minute escape that it was, they could only scrounge a handful of backpacks and three to four water bottles. Worse still, there's a shortage of water in hell, and an outrageous surplus of milk. Tough break. Hunched over, on lava-soaked crags, trying to catch a breather before their next of kin erupts in flames, and they had nothing but hot milk to wet their whistles. I'm telling you, the pupils of a sloth tell this tale and countless others. Death Metal bands have been citing "eyeball of sloth" as a creative touchstone in their work for many years.

So please, stop what you are doing. Put down your Tahiti Treat and imagine that you're tied to a chair in the middle of the rain forest. You glance to the canopy. A mellow, three-toed son of a bitch locks eyes with you. He's strung upside down from his vine like a hammock. Tidy little Scott Baio haircut, claws like banana peppers. His eyes meet yours. He licks his lips, then winks at you. Chewbacca dressed as Scott Baio for Halloween is about to eat you to death. How do you feel about that? It takes him half an hour just to reach the ground. Once he gets to his fours, it's a three hour count-down to death by sloth. Three hours to sit in that chair, and stare into the soul of the goofy looking bastard that's about to end your life. I've always thought they've been a little too deliberate with their movements, and their glances express a degree of self-awareness that I am not at all comfortable with. Perhaps it's the painful speed of their movements that creates an "image" of deliberation, but I don't buy it. I'm positive they're up to something.

I know you Sloth, you wire-haired prick, and I know you speak English too. I'm cock-sure of it, and when I hear you speak, I know it's going be a smug, biting tongue that snaps a bare crack of wit. You wear a monocle when I'm not looking, and your fur (when groomed) looks like a pompous cardigan threaded from a fabric that I cannot afford. The worst part is, I can't do a bloody thing about your pricky demeanor, because I'm tied to this chair in the middle of a jungle, waiting for you to eat me alive. I'm the only one who knows your secrets, and they're about to waste away in the pits of your belly.

Hopefully, I'll be immediately reincarnated as a vengeful piece of text-shaped stool that reads "http://arthuragee.blogspot.com/." I'll get a ton of posthumous visits to my site, and you'll be exposed as the complex but seedy creature that you are.

Terry Fox as a Conversation Piece

I was the world's worst Terry Fox for Halloween. Consisted of a homemade Marathon of Hope t-shirt and a cardboard leg.

Sexy Cat: What are you supposed to be? Homeless?
Terry Fox: No. Are you Canadian?
Sexy Cat: No, I'm a sexy cat.
Terry Fox: (Under my breath) Ah Jesus fuck.
Sexy Cat: Sorry?
Terry Fox: I said I have to go meet my nana.
Sexy Cat: Your nana?
Terry Fox: Yes, my nana. I have to go now. I'm late. I'm taking her to see Pirates of the Caribbean in 3-D.


Sexy Tuna Fish: Why do you have a box on your leg?
Terry Fox: It's not a box.
Sexy Tuna Fish: What is it then?
Terry Fox: It's a prosthetic leg. Are you Canadian?
Sexy Tuna Fish: No, I'm a sexy tuna fish.
Terry Fox: ( Gives the Tim Canterbury glare of disbelief into a nonexistent camera ) Exactly.
Sexy Tuna Fish: What?
Terry Fox: I'm Terry Fox.
Sexy Tuna Fish: Terry Box?
Terry Fox: No, I want to eat your box.
Sexy Tuna Fish: It's loud in here, I can't hear you.
Terry Fox: I know.
Sexy Tuna Fish: Why do you have a box on your leg?
Terry Fox: It's not a box. It's a prosthetic leg. I lost it in 'nam. A shark bit it off. '68.
Sexy Tuna Fish: You're weird.
Terry Fox: You're a sexy tuna, and I want to forget this conversation. Would you mind if I drank some gin now?
Sexy Tuna Fish: Can I have one?
Terry Fox: (Befuddled) Why not...

A Time and Place for Sobriety

You're at a crowded house party. It smells like plastic cups and flat beer in the rug. A group of legs are at the booze counter cracking surprisingly subtle labia jokes. You're definitely going to want to join in and knock their socks off, remind them why they date ugly guys on occasion. If you're sober, it's going to be a train wreck. I'm sure you have wild peyote visions of strolling over to their camp like a care-free Don Johnson, looking to shoot the breeze and share some bubble-gum, but that balloon's going to pop as soon as you arrive. Instead of delighting them with a festive greeting or a cozy pinch on the bottom, odds are you're going to take a few cautious steps in their direction, hover about five feet from their hilarious fun station, then b-line it to the ginger ale counter. Before you know it, you've got shaky Parkinson's hands, and your plastic cup is filled all the way to the tippy-top with ginger ale.

Your choices have been rash and foolish thus far. You lost your courage, you needed to look busy, so you decided to lean against the refrigerator, alone. You cautiously nurse your topped-up cup of Schweppes like your grandfather. You might as well recline in the nearest lazyboy with a bowl of pepper mints on your lap, and doze off to the Jays game while a dribble of peepee slowly emerges through the crotch of your slacks.

Luckily, the hilarious babes are not familiar with your grandfather's late afternoon soda-drinking habits, so your hasty actions have only made you appear incredibly anxious to enjoy a tall glass of refreshing ginger ale.

After a few moments, you get overzealous, lean in, and say something unbearably jokey. For example, "I couldn't help but overhear you ladies discussing labias earlier, and I thought I'd let you know that I think vaginas are the most hilaaaaarious little creatures. Yes?" The silence strikes hard and fast, like a horny pedophilic lightning bolt. It has eyes, and it's hungry to rape all of your reputable qualities. The babes are looking at you with the squinty, confused eyes they usually reserve for tough spots in compound math equations. Quick man, recover. Remember funny? Be it, be the funny. Be it now. Fonzie's "Heeeeey," drops out of your mouth. More silence, more puzzled babe faces. It's all over, and you weren't able to spare yourself a shred of dignity, because your retreat to the cheese and cracker table included an uninspired Bill Cosby shuffle.

Chief Raisin

Cold water ran through his hair, and dropped to the tub floor. He looked down at his dink, "the chief raisin," he called it. Bite-size, tiny, wrinkled, yet proud; a chief raisin if there ever was one. Wouldn't look out of place wearing a tiny tuxedo, or riding shotgun in a convertible with a flashy pair of shades on. The chief raisin was his dinker, to hell with any damn whore that had a problem with it.

Creativity is a Gyp

Writing something you like is akin to peeling back the top of your skull and having a potion of well-bread, supple and hilarious thoughts dumped in. The conception of ideas has nothing to do with you. Thoughts spontaneously pop in to say hello, and the best you can do is entertain them, offer a few light alcoholic spirits, coddle gently, and hope these exotic visitors linger a few days so they can be shown off to the neighbours.

I'm pretty sure that a beardy fellow, with a belly full of laughs, a large staff filled with spells, and a thirst for spiced milk is behind all your great ideas. Periodically, he's gracious enough to grant you access to a few of these choice insights, all of which are culled from the rich breadth of his dusty library. These thoughts, which you translate to the page, are the result of a cool blue potion of tightly-bound wit, which he has dribbled softly through your brain cells during the moments you are looking the other way.

And still, the peculiar mixture of wild cloves and robust dick jokes that manifest themselves from within the potion, create a crass tone and abrasive flavour, novel sensations that perk your suspicion. Perhaps the fertile potion our dear wizard has been trickling down the cracks of your mind was conjured by Haxbury County's local apothecary after all, and not the ancient friend you once thought. Does it deflate you even further to suspect that the recipe to your most creative ideas is a product of outsourcing?

Recipe:

1 Andrew Dice Clay VHS cassette tape, (title not specified) preferably rewound.
3 Large cloves.
1 Bottle of Brio.
3 Teaspoons of blue food colouring.

1) Combine ingredients in pot, cauldron, etc.

2) Find a newborn baby.

3) Without detaching the tiny hands, scrunch the infant fingers into a paw and whisk the contents into a froth, do not heat the cauldron while whisking, the baby is still alive.

4) After whisking is complete, heat to a boil, let simmer, then refrigerate for 24 hours.

Note: The VHS tape will take nearly 18 years to whisk to a froth using a human hand scrunched into a paw, at which time the infant will have matured to the age by which it is legal to whisk the contents of a boiling pot with a hand fashioned into a paw, (assuming that consent is implied). Despite this being a fascinating note, the truth is, boiling the mixture after the whisking is complete adds just ten minutes of extra preparation time, which is relatively inconsequential considering 18 years have passed.