I stood in my kitchen. I was very thirsty, but too lazy to open the fridge and pour myself a glass of Kool-Aid. My brother stood beside me, dumping a purple splash down the crack of his smile. He was tall and young, still a teenager. I stared at his Adam's Apple. It protruded. Stray hairs poked through the skin and stood at crooked angles. I imagined a collection of miniature pot-bellied men with great woolly beards, clad in felt green hats and snug woolen sweaters, scaling the length of his neck and firing grappling hooks at his chin. They navigated the lump with tiny pick-axes and spiked boots. I focused on the pile of cartilage as it gulped at the sugary water-treat, chugging like pistons on a sump pump. The violence of the convulsions shook the mountaineers loose. They plunged to their death. One impaled himself on a fork. My brother put down his glass and exhaled in satisfaction. A puff of cherry mist got tangled in the hairs of my nostrils.
I said “give me a drink of that.”
He has an annoying tick about germs, and replied no.
"Give me a break. I don't have typhus."
"Get your own and get fucked."
I had no respect for his neurotic dick-abouts, I also liked to spite him. I grabbed the glass and raised it. "Woooo,spring break!" I started chugging, but mid-gulp the cocksucker chopped at the drink. The glass chipped off some tooth, fell to the floor, and exploded. My fist drove into the bridge of my nose as the glass popped. Tiny shards spread across the hardwood like raindrops. I saw red.
I once read somewhere that you should kick a shark in the nose if you see its fin slicing towards you in the ocean. The shark has a sensitive nasal cavity, and it will dart in fear the instant it is struck. I do not function like this. My nose controls my temper like the flick of a bedroom switch. When disturbed, the switch flicks, light floods the room, and my rational faculties squint. At that instant, I want to chew holes through leg bones. At that instant, I would like to suffocate a baby in a potato sack filled with dog fart.
My brow crumpled and my lips pulled tight to a sphincter. Blood was shooting through unusual valves and time was blurring my surroundings into a Pollack painting. I clenched his t-shirt between my fingers and slammed him into the refrigerator. The next few seconds washed out. Sound popped and a white flicker of light appeared, like someone had turned on a television set.
I made a mistake. I slipped up. My brother is no bum. He is the owner of two hulking fists, a pair of lead grapefruits dressed in barbed wire. For the most part, they swing limp by his waist, disfigured knots mapped with a network of scars. I've caught myself staring at them during meals, retelling his bar fights in my mind. He once told me he threw a concrete block through the back window of an SUV, and didn’t recall doing so until he coincidentally strolled by his damage the next day. He can be a mean motherfucker, and he's built lean, like a Doberman. His skin is wrapped tight, with swollen veins pressing through his forearms, the blood coursing within, feeding his fists, healing wounds on knuckles that hang anxiously waiting to reduce their next eye socket to dust. He’s more than happy to pound his older brother, and that's exactly what he did. A split second after I shoved him, he uncoiled two quick blows at cobra speed. Bap bap. His fists sunk a combo deep into my jaw. It felt like I had poked my head through a glory hole and met a wrecking ball on the other side.
My father, who is a tough hunk of shit in his own right, separated us before my brother could run my face through the cheese grater any longer. He snatched us by our scruff, and there we hung.
Strung up like prize coneys in our father’s fists, we caught our breath and stared at each other. Our chests inflated, deflated. My face splashed with blood, my brother’s spotless. My eyes hung in place, but wished to roll down the hall and plunk into the toilet. We stared. A painful thought arose. “I no longer have any power over you.” My double decade reign as champ was no more. The mighty had fallen. A two second decision by technical knockout had stripped me of my championship belt. Years of King Kong terror on his dinkie car maps reduced to myth. He focused on me briefly with his ADD eyes, and then his pupils twinkled. A Kool-Aid smile that still hangs in the corridors my mind emerged and froze. My mother shouted “Merry fucking Christmas,” and my brother continued to grin at the assessment of our year’s holiest day.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Monday, June 8, 2009
Good Legs, Bad Jokes
I'm sitting at my desk in the teacher's room, marking a stack of papers. I want to leave. My boss Ronald walks by on his way out. "I’ll see you guys around."
Me and the funny Peruvian guy I sit beside are stationed in the “Korean” sector of the office, we somehow slipped through the cracks. We are an island of anal jokes in a vast sea of aunt-an-uncle riffs and over-exaggerated laughter. Half of the 20 teachers in our office are Korean broads.
My spot in the office is a mixed blessing. Koreans have no bubbies, but 1 in every 10 has an ass. They disguise these structural deficiencies by showcasing their legs with tiny skirts and heels 3-4 days of the week. 2-3 of those days, the skirts are accompanied by every man's kryptonite, the knee-high sock. The boners are furious. My dick gets headaches. I look down my shorts periodically to see him wheezing like my Dad bent over during half-time of his yearly touch-football reunion. I offer him my puffer. He labours to wrap his urethra around the blow-hole, takes several deep tokes, and waddles back to his post as a flaccid fire-hose patiently waiting to put out the burning school house on Memorial Day.
My seat in the office is a "mixed" blessing because Korean women are not funny. At all. It's a drop dead fact. There are 180 degrees in a triangle, four sides to a square, and zero jokes inside of a Korean woman. Exhibit A: Rebecca. Rebecca is a 33 year old, stone cold Korean fox who tops the over/under on skirts worn per week at 4-5 wears. Unfortunately, knee-highs are not in her repertoire. She sticks with a bare leg, or a simple black tight.
Rebecca's response to Ronald's "I’ll see you guys around," is "Goodbye Jorge." Flag on the play. A mistake has been made. Ronald's name is not Jorge. Under usual circumstances, the person who fucked up would laugh for two seconds, say “whoopsie doosers," and wave Ronald out the door. Case closed, no biggie, let me mark my fucking papers right? Not in Korea. The women here go through such epic droughts of sincere laughter and fun, that a simple slip of the tongue can cause a geyser, a fucking explosive, gut-busting 15 minutes of the worst riffs you’ve ever heard on the topic "Jorge is not Ronald's name." I am not kidding, I wish I was. The moment Rebecca utters "Jorge," ten women detonate. Proximity mines. A bland comment waltzes into the room, unzips his corduroy pants, and peels away his briefs to reveal a pixelated collage of light pinkish hue that faintly whispers the suggestion of a cock, and two seconds later the place is a mushroom cloud of laughter. I mean fuck, the preceding metaphor does not even feature an actual cock. A cock would be funny. But it's not a cock. It's a sterile, butchered excuse for a cock. I am a lonely, innocent egg in a coop of cackling chickens, and their heads are falling clean off.
I drop my pen with purpose. As I bend down to retrieve it, I snipe a coarse "what the fuck is going on" glare across the office. My malicious glance immediately realizes its karmic potential, as I find my body being towed into the Bermuda Triangle of laughter. I am helpless, and it takes me 7 full minutes to tread through the bedlam and wrap my hands around someone coherent. When I do, she pants, "Rebecca, (deep breath) Rebecca, (deep breath) Rebecca (her jazz hands are up, shrieking 'get a load of this') called Ronald...Jorge." She collapses on the floor, and thrashes around like T-1000 in the giant bathtub of lava during the climax of Terminator 2. The rest of them follow her descent like lemmings.
After the dust from the initial blast clears, traces of the explosion can be heard 30 minutes later in those tiny, guilty, giggles that burst out after your Dad has given you shit at the dinner table for sculpting lude appendages into your brother’s mashed potatoes. As the last wave of snickers refuse to snuff themselves out, I am struck by an image I can't shake. It's haunting me. The mash of lude appendages I covertly whipped up all those years ago, has slowly, giggle by giggle, transformed into a veiny Mount Rushmore of the most hilarious cocks ever witnessed, by man or beast, when the laughter it produced is compared with the laughter a simple slip of the tongue created just 30 minutes ago. God bless you Korea. God bless you for being so hilariously unfunny that my childhood memories have emerged as a Throbbing Deity of phalic comedy that I'll never forget.
Me and the funny Peruvian guy I sit beside are stationed in the “Korean” sector of the office, we somehow slipped through the cracks. We are an island of anal jokes in a vast sea of aunt-an-uncle riffs and over-exaggerated laughter. Half of the 20 teachers in our office are Korean broads.
My spot in the office is a mixed blessing. Koreans have no bubbies, but 1 in every 10 has an ass. They disguise these structural deficiencies by showcasing their legs with tiny skirts and heels 3-4 days of the week. 2-3 of those days, the skirts are accompanied by every man's kryptonite, the knee-high sock. The boners are furious. My dick gets headaches. I look down my shorts periodically to see him wheezing like my Dad bent over during half-time of his yearly touch-football reunion. I offer him my puffer. He labours to wrap his urethra around the blow-hole, takes several deep tokes, and waddles back to his post as a flaccid fire-hose patiently waiting to put out the burning school house on Memorial Day.
My seat in the office is a "mixed" blessing because Korean women are not funny. At all. It's a drop dead fact. There are 180 degrees in a triangle, four sides to a square, and zero jokes inside of a Korean woman. Exhibit A: Rebecca. Rebecca is a 33 year old, stone cold Korean fox who tops the over/under on skirts worn per week at 4-5 wears. Unfortunately, knee-highs are not in her repertoire. She sticks with a bare leg, or a simple black tight.
Rebecca's response to Ronald's "I’ll see you guys around," is "Goodbye Jorge." Flag on the play. A mistake has been made. Ronald's name is not Jorge. Under usual circumstances, the person who fucked up would laugh for two seconds, say “whoopsie doosers," and wave Ronald out the door. Case closed, no biggie, let me mark my fucking papers right? Not in Korea. The women here go through such epic droughts of sincere laughter and fun, that a simple slip of the tongue can cause a geyser, a fucking explosive, gut-busting 15 minutes of the worst riffs you’ve ever heard on the topic "Jorge is not Ronald's name." I am not kidding, I wish I was. The moment Rebecca utters "Jorge," ten women detonate. Proximity mines. A bland comment waltzes into the room, unzips his corduroy pants, and peels away his briefs to reveal a pixelated collage of light pinkish hue that faintly whispers the suggestion of a cock, and two seconds later the place is a mushroom cloud of laughter. I mean fuck, the preceding metaphor does not even feature an actual cock. A cock would be funny. But it's not a cock. It's a sterile, butchered excuse for a cock. I am a lonely, innocent egg in a coop of cackling chickens, and their heads are falling clean off.
I drop my pen with purpose. As I bend down to retrieve it, I snipe a coarse "what the fuck is going on" glare across the office. My malicious glance immediately realizes its karmic potential, as I find my body being towed into the Bermuda Triangle of laughter. I am helpless, and it takes me 7 full minutes to tread through the bedlam and wrap my hands around someone coherent. When I do, she pants, "Rebecca, (deep breath) Rebecca, (deep breath) Rebecca (her jazz hands are up, shrieking 'get a load of this') called Ronald...Jorge." She collapses on the floor, and thrashes around like T-1000 in the giant bathtub of lava during the climax of Terminator 2. The rest of them follow her descent like lemmings.
After the dust from the initial blast clears, traces of the explosion can be heard 30 minutes later in those tiny, guilty, giggles that burst out after your Dad has given you shit at the dinner table for sculpting lude appendages into your brother’s mashed potatoes. As the last wave of snickers refuse to snuff themselves out, I am struck by an image I can't shake. It's haunting me. The mash of lude appendages I covertly whipped up all those years ago, has slowly, giggle by giggle, transformed into a veiny Mount Rushmore of the most hilarious cocks ever witnessed, by man or beast, when the laughter it produced is compared with the laughter a simple slip of the tongue created just 30 minutes ago. God bless you Korea. God bless you for being so hilariously unfunny that my childhood memories have emerged as a Throbbing Deity of phalic comedy that I'll never forget.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Semi-Precious Silence
Not much more to say about deviled eggs, really.
We stared out the window. Cars drove past. The four of us might as well have been a pile of stones. A pile of old stones with a healthy appetite for deviled eggs and potato salad. Sad to say, that even then that pile of weathered stones and their appetite would have more to discuss then us sad souls - that is, their peculiar existence as stones with fully-formed digestive tracts. A wellspring of potential topics awaited these brainless clumps of historic matter, and they hadn't yet broached the curious fact that they'd been blessed with the power to macerate, yet not recieved a pair of arms, legs, or a decent smile.
A boon of conversation awaited a lump of stones and the rambling lunchroom behind, but the four of us continued to stare like plain idiots out the window, chewing hot dogs with empty eye sockets and shit for brains.
A moment passed, and I entertained the thought of mentioning my daydream about potato salad-eating stones. I snuffed the idea out after correctly deciding that sharing would result in more silence. This new wave of silence would be worse because I'd have to take full responsibility. It would be like sharing a stifling hot tent that everyone had quietly passed hours of gas in, then opening your rectum and flaring one into a lighter. The flame erupts, stares are cast, and the last three hours of cubic fart rest squarely on your shoulders.
Sometimes silence is a semi-precious stone that needs no polishing.
We stared out the window. Cars drove past. The four of us might as well have been a pile of stones. A pile of old stones with a healthy appetite for deviled eggs and potato salad. Sad to say, that even then that pile of weathered stones and their appetite would have more to discuss then us sad souls - that is, their peculiar existence as stones with fully-formed digestive tracts. A wellspring of potential topics awaited these brainless clumps of historic matter, and they hadn't yet broached the curious fact that they'd been blessed with the power to macerate, yet not recieved a pair of arms, legs, or a decent smile.
A boon of conversation awaited a lump of stones and the rambling lunchroom behind, but the four of us continued to stare like plain idiots out the window, chewing hot dogs with empty eye sockets and shit for brains.
A moment passed, and I entertained the thought of mentioning my daydream about potato salad-eating stones. I snuffed the idea out after correctly deciding that sharing would result in more silence. This new wave of silence would be worse because I'd have to take full responsibility. It would be like sharing a stifling hot tent that everyone had quietly passed hours of gas in, then opening your rectum and flaring one into a lighter. The flame erupts, stares are cast, and the last three hours of cubic fart rest squarely on your shoulders.
Sometimes silence is a semi-precious stone that needs no polishing.
Monday, January 5, 2009
The First and Last Zinger I'll Ever Be Able to Write
The only thing gayer than a mime giving imaginary head is Carson Daly.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
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.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
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...
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...
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, August 22, 2008
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.
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.
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