Anagram Funzies

So this little wiener kid comes up to me at the desk today and asks if I know the answer to the last scrambled word in the paper's daily 'Jumble'. No problem, I tell him, it's 'hansom'. It's a kind of carriage. That was a tough one, I say, and I mean it.

But then, some other patron who had been eavesdropping, decides to get a little cheeky. 'If you are so smart', he says, 'anagram this'. And he hands me William Butler Yeats' epitaph, Cast a cold eye on life, on death: Horseman, pass by! Then he tells me to arrange all those letters into a meaningful phrase, without omitting a single one. OK, you mega-dick, I think, yer on.

Twenty minutes later, I go up and hand the guy the following--letting him know that I even utilized all the puntuation marks:

Old man Yeats has passed: An echo, once, of Liberty!

The sad sack of a patron was too stunned to reply. Looks like it's Dr. Giggles 1, Patron challenger 0. We'll see if he returns for a rematch.

Ha.

Five Shy Guys -- A tale told of idiots

So this guy comes up to me at the desk today asking for a reference guide to songwriting and publishing. No problem there; I took him to the appropriate volumes and he seemed pleased. But then it hit me. It hit me like I was some French dude in silk pyjamas staring at a gooey cupcake. The memories came rushing back in a fetid, stinking deluge...

The year was 1986. I was 19. I was a freshman at University. And I was in a band.

Now this was no ordinary band. This was a rag-tag conglomerate of clowns and boozebags who just happened to take up residence in the same 1200-person dormitory. But, to this day, this jokey band still holds the single-evening attendance and bar sales record at a local booze can downtown. The name of the band was Five Shy Guys--and there were seven of us.

Member #1. The Giggler.

Yes, a young Giggles was the lead singer and harmonica honker of Five Shy Guys. And, in this particular year of 1986, was fresh off completing his first two original song compositions. The first was called, 'Six Cheeks'--inspired by three young lasses preceeding him down the street. I can only provide a snippet here, as decency and dignity forbid a full disclosure:

"Six cheeks
Bouncing up and down
Six cheeks
Vertical smiles, not frowns,
Six cheeks
Strollin down the avenue.
Six cheeks
Dressed in Levis
Six cheeks,
But only three red eyes..."

You get the picture. I can only add that there is a gentle refrain of, "I just got out of prison" in there too. Yes, the young giggler was a moron, and certainly no Woody Guthrie. And, indeed, his second original song, 'Frank', was no better:

"Frank was sitting in the shrubbery,
I was also in the shrubbery,
We engaged in butt-chubbery..."

Again, not too good. Although the chorus:

"The north end of his whang
Found the south end of my crack"

still holds some semblance of charm, if not merit. Yes, gentle reader, Giggles was a fool.

Member #2 -- Big D.

Now, unlike Dr. Giggles, who was a talentless rube, Big D. had already taught himself guitar, bass and drums at this point in his young life. And, here at the dorm, he and Giggles had become buds, fueled in no small part by the music of REM, the suds of Black Label, and the mutual hatred of pretty much everyone else in the building. This crummy band was their idea. Now Big D. was always the go-to-guy for a good cassette to put on if you were 'entertaining' a young co-ed. My favorite, hands down, was the tape he once used while, during, and after seducing a young lass. Side A: Best of the Ventures. Side B: Best of Iron Maiden. And, he informed me, he actually got up in medias res to flip sides. Wicked. He was also a master prankster: the king of the 'Shave Bomb', the 'Piss Leaner' and the 'dump a bucket of water over the guy pinching in the stall gag'. [And I, once a hapless victim...] He also ran for president of the dorm under the code name of 'Shekel'--and one of his campaign posters featured his nutty head next to the Giggler's bared buttocks with the slogan, 'Shekel: A little bit tongue in cheek'. Genius, pure genius. In the band, he played bass mostly, but also did some drumming and some guitar licking.

Member#3 -- Swoop.

What can I say about Swoop? This guy was the classic 1980s suave, guitar-playing, new-wave poser. He had a suede jacket, long sweeping bangs, and the worst ass-gas of any human being I have ever met. I mean it was if the guy lived on onions, sauerkraut and boiled eggs, and then swallowed it down with Guinness and Squeez-Meez. Jeebus. Yet he is perhaps best known for the eponymous pizza slice that still makes an appearance with every delivery to this day. [Please see Tearaways thread below] You see, Swoop would inevitably leave the room every time the pizza delivery guy rang the dorm buzzer to run and get a Coke. All this did was leave the Giggler and Big D. free to snag all the big slices, cut the remaining slices in half, eat them and leave the skinny little 'Paul's pieces' for Swoop. [Editor's note: Please disregard the use of his real name] He would then enter to exclaim, 'Aw, c'mon, guys.' But the next time, same ol' routine. Loopy. He also had a friend called Sloth, who would shamble his ample ass into our room occasionally and steal beer and annoy the living crap out of us. He was the type of guy who would take a beer from our fridge five minutes before an all-you-can-drink party, slug a bottle of cheap white wine from a beer-bong, and splatter puke all over the hallway, blaming his pyloric sphincter for failing to open. Anyway, Swoop played lead guitar, and Sloth was our Roadie.

Member #4 -- Bongo

Now Bongo was a talented drummer and an excellent singer. Truth be told, he probably should have been the lead singer and Giggles merely the hapless, drunken roadie. But Bongo was also an arrogant, effeminate little jagoff with a set of goofy, fake dreads and a love for Cat Stevens and reggae songs every dumbass white guy knew. At our first show, he actually asked if the drums could be placed center-stage, while the rest of us stood behind him, obscured by his beauty and transplendence. [And I use that word incorrectly]. Fortunately, the soundman just looked at him and asked Big D., 'Who is this little tit?' Sweet. Bongo played drums and sang a couple of tunes.

Member #5 -- The Wildman

The wildman was a guy who lived on Big D.'s floor in the dorm, and desperately wanted to be in the band. So much so that he consistently allowed himself to be photographed with a pair of male genitalia dangling precariously above his head. In each snapshot, despite the presence of Big Steve and the Twins, the Wildman just grinned widely and proudly. [I have the proof if you would like to send away for a copy. Two bucks.] Anyway, the Wildman asked if our band needed a bongo player. Since we played REM, the Byrds, Echo & the Bunnymen, Hoodoo Gurus, and Beatles tunes, of course we said, 'Yes, of course, we must have bongos.' And bongos we got. But we got more, much more...

Member #6 -- Germanica

Now begins the true idiocy of this band. You see, Big D. had a thing for Germanica. However, since he was to much of a chicken to talk to her, he had an intermediary ask if she would like to play tambourine and sing back-ups in our band. She, not willing to give up this chance of a lifetime, agreed with only mild trepidation. Her skills were few: she was tone deaf, could not dance, and always hit the tambourine on the off beat. But, hell, she looked great. Did Germanica ever get from stage to Big D.'s workbench? Another story, perhaps.

Member #7 -- Brussel Sprout

Much like Germanica, the Brussel Sprout was a beautiful young co-ed. However, it was the Giggler this time who fancied this lass. Given that he, too, was afraid to talk to the girl, an emissary was sent to ask if she would like to join the band. She was more than happy to comply. However, just like Germanica, she was tone deaf, could not dance, and hit the tambourine on the off beat every time. These girls were so spazztic, in fact, that we had the soundman turn off all their mics when we played live. No matter, they sang, danced, and beat on without knowing or caring.

Together, these folks made up what could have been the worst cover-band ever to overfill a bar so badly that the entire three front rows ended the night with slashed hands and chests from all the broken glass and bottles, and to sell so much beer and hooch that three bartenders quit before the night ended. But, even to this day [it happened last year in Boston, in fact] I am approached once in a while by someone saying, 'Excuse me, but weren't you in Five Shy Guys? You were the best band EVER.' Seriously. Now that is what I call an extended hangover...

Marketing Schemes Redux

As I read the delightful comment from 'Sillysams' yesterday, I was immediately transported back to a happier time: a time when it was OK to whizz wildly off the porch, pass out in gutters singing 'Psycho Therapy', engage in keg races, write songs about gerbilizing, and, most importantly, come up with brilliant marketing strategies for pizza joints. As to the latter, allow me to elaborate.

One winter evening, as the Leafs typically battled weakly against the mighty Habs, and we fellas drowning in Jockey Club ale, I came up with what I felt was a superb idea. As our greasy wheel was delivered by some hapless schmo from Domino's, I got to thinking: 'What if we started up a pizza delivery company geared to the PG-13 crowd?' And, at that pivotal moment, the high-brow concept of Tearaways was born. Now I must say that, even after more than a decade, I am the only human being who feels that this idea was pure genius. So please, gentle reader, let me know your thoughts.

The idea begins and ends with this simple, but mighty, triad: pizza, sweatpants, velcro. In this light, each deliveryboy at Tearaways will be strictly vetted before hiring in the following categories: buttock firmness; rump shapliness; hemispherical rondure; showmanship; and punctuality. Why? Well, this is how Tearaways differs from other pizza joints, as you will see.

At Tearaways, each delivery boy is given a pair of sweatpants, equipped with velcro strips down each leg, and a loop of string at the waist. Once the lad arrives at the correct addres, he loops the string around the doorknob and rings the bell. When the hungry occupant opens the door, the string will grow taut, yanking open the velcro strips and de-panting the deliveryboy. Once he is pantless, the deliveryboy yells, 'Tearaways!!', and waits to collect his bounty.

Now there is no way that you can convince me that this idea would not make hundreds, nay thousands, of people ecstatic. The lonely widow? Thrilled. The lonely widower? Possibly disgusted, possibly thrilled. The single ladies? Please. The college student? It could go either way. But I think even the heterosexual lads would be diggin' this scene. Experimentation, she wrote.

Of course, there is always the ability for the deliveryboy to go rogue on the company. He might offer a large double cheese with full release pleasure pack; he might utilize the pizza box as a prop for stagette parties; or, he might wear stained and/or soiled Stanfields to sully the company name. In any case, that is the idea.

Thoughts?

C'est ça.

Promotional Campaign--The Wang Whisperer!

So this guy comes up to me at the Reference Desk today, and whispers something about 'enhancement'. I asked him to repeat the question, and then he says, a little louder, 'Does natural male enhancement work?' Of course, my first response should have been: 'No way, dude. I once swallowed half a bottle before going to the beach and not only did the little Giggler get smaller, I soiled myself twice before I got to the public showers.' But I directed him to the medical section instead.

But it got me to thinking. What if I could get into this Enzyte type racket...Not being a pharmacologist, however, my thoughts strayed instead to the very sad, very common, problem of male impotence. And I got an idea. What follows is a transcript of what went through my mind:

Announcing: The Wang Whisperer!

Yes, the Wang Whisperer. Finally there is a viable option for those suffering from unwanted erectile disfunction. You know what I mean, gentlemen. I speak, of course, about embarassing bouts of 'whiskey-dink', 'jellyroll johnson', 'down periscope', 'floppy fusilli', 'sloop john b.', 'the sudden innie', 'cocktail wiener', 'the Jaeger dangler', or 'Dr. Wrinkles'.

But now there is a solution! Just call the Wang Whisperer! No more fumbling apologies, fits of weeping, or feeble tuggings! No more popsicle-stick splints! No more 'stretch and duct tape' experiments! The Wang Whisperer will save the day. Just listen to what some satisfied customers have said:

"I couldn't recommend the Wang Whisperer more highly. One night, crippled by Campari and O.J., I was unable to get the little Sergeant to salute. But, in a flash, the Wang Whisperer was on the job. I don't know what he was saying down there to that sad, droopy soldier, as all I could hear were some mellifluous murmerings, but within a minute I was back, knee-deep in the hoopla."

"Sure I was skeptical. Sure I was a little sickened when I saw what he was doing. But, he was there when I needed him most, kneeling above Mr. Puppet uttering a silent prayer. Of course, my lady friend left disgusted, but the Wang Whisperer didn't flinch. He just put on a pair of gloves and said, 'Never leave a man's behind'. Needless to say, he is now on my speed-dial."

So there you have it. A new marketing plan for a new generation of drunks. Nice.

Sin é.

Ah, memories...

An interesting thing just happened here at Destination: Enjoy headquarters. As I was typing my last post about the worst break-up songs ever, I couldn't get 'Desperado' by the Eagles out of my head. Go figure. So, just for kicks, I typed 'Desperado crap' into my search engine and found this little nugget:

http://www.peak.sfu.ca/the-peak/2000-1/issue3/defecating.html

Wow. At first, I was understandably disgusted. Then I was a little upset. After all, why didn't SFU alert me to this problem? I could have easily solved the case. Surely everybody knows that, in my heyday, I built a solid reputation thwarting this type of filth-flinging villain, and should have been called upon to assist in this matter. Permit me to elaborate.

While sealed records do not allow me to reveal the names of those whom I have previously apprehended, I can at least give you their noms-de-plume, greatest shits, and places of capture.

London, Ontario: 'The Mad Crapper' -- A true dastard. His classic sneak? He once dumped a pail of fecal stew over the head of unsuspecting stall-squatter.

Hamilton, Ontario: 'The Shitty Speller' -- Once wrote the word 'Crap' on the bathroom wall with his own feces. I remember thinking, truthfully, 'Ah, the genius of that'.

Largo, Fl: 'The Smear Campaigner' -- Once 'sculpted' a perfect representation of Al Gore on the stall door. In preparation, he was thought to have eaten a plate of succotash and sauerkraut the night before.

Burlington, VA: 'The Dung Beatle' -- Known for offering his own pinch on a platter to those sitting in the stall next to him. Often with the offer of a side of mayonnaise.

Halifax, N.S.: 'The Exploding Steamer' -- His modus operandi involved cherry bombs and a lotta homemade deuce.

Largo, FL: The worst, most heinous anus of them all. The man known to this day only as, 'The Smudge'

So, as you see, I was clearly wronged not to have been consulted on the aforementioned case.

That is all.

It's a bio

Well, folks, I can now say that I have a blog. Quite exciting.

So, I hear you asking, who is this chubba?

Well, I have a dog, two cats and a Muscovy duck--all rescued.

I also just got a baby cottontail. He was abandoned and I found him in the street on Hallowe'en. Just rolling around on his back. Turns out he has a twisted neck, no sense of balance, and runs and hops in circles, flopping over on his back all the time. I call him Tumbles.

As for wives, I have one. As for opinions, I have some. Such as:

I think Ishtar was an awesome movie, and As Good as it Gets totally sucked.

I think Paradise Lost may be the best thing ever written in English. Atlas Shrugged is probably the worst.

I think you will like this video. It's Marvin Gaye. Enjoy the enjoy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y9KC7uhMY9s

I also think Marvin sang the best version of The Star Spangled Banner ever. Period.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QRvVzaQ6i8A

I think 'New Day Rising' by Hüsker Dü is the best break-up song ever. Great lyrics. The worst break-up song? Probably 'The Slop' by the Olympics. Or maybe 'Choo Choo Choo Boogie' by same.

That's about it. Oh, I am a Reference Librarian. I once owned a bar. My pants fit pretty well.

That is all.