Lesson #2, or The Löwenbräu & Baked Beans Gambit Pt.1

Continuing along the path through college life's many valuable lessons, we must pause for a moment at this critical juncture and explore a phenomenon quite common in the young male freshman: total fucking stupidity.

You see, many young men do not realize that things they and their buddies enjoy might not be exactly fun on a bun for a young woman. And it was no different back in the Giggler's day. But before I set the scene of the infamous Löwenbräu & Baked Beans Gambit, I feel I must introduce the supporting cast in this little tale, for some of these gentleman may come up in further escapades reported in this educational series. There were six (6) lads involved, and they were all roommates in the shittiest, smallest, smelliest house in town.

Idiot #1: The Giggler

As we are already familiar with the Giggler, nothing more need be said here--except, perhaps, that he is the gentleman responsible for allowing a female to experience the L&B Gambit.

Idiot #2: Big D.

We have discussed Big D. in the post below about our sheissy cover-band, but perhaps a few more titbits could be added here, as they tangentially pertain to the L&B Gambit. First off, it was Big D. who invented the dreaded 'Venting Manoeuvre'--a fiendish olfactory trick that had all his roommates living in constant, gnawing fear. The manoeuvre went thusly: If Big D. ever passed gas in the S.B.D. category--that is to say sans son--he would quickly create a vented 'carpal' tunnel with both his hands, and fiercely blow the offensive odour in the direction of his chosen victim. After three or four gusts, the victim was treated to a faceful of poorly digested hot dogs, Doritos and Black Label, quietly released in a hideous, yet invisible, gaseous cloud. Needless to say, this manoevre was as disgusting as it was clever--and it really does work. Drink 12 Guinness and eat some cabbage rolls and try it on your friends today. Tell 'em the Giggler sent ya.

Big D.'s other claim to fame in those days was his beer-pounding ability. For example, a group of co-eds decided to play 'Century Club' one night--that is to say, they were to drink 100 1 & 1/2oz. shots of beer in 100 minutes. That's about 12 & 1/2 beers in just over an hour & a half. It's not as easy as it sounds, folks, but the Giggler and Big D. did finish the ordeal and joined this 'illustrious' club. The other five jokers were puking and crying by about the mid-70s. Anyway, 100 was not enough for Big D., no siree. He decided to take on the 'Sesqui-centennial', and keep going for 50 more shots in as many minutes. That's about 19 beers in just over 2 & 1/2 hours, folks. And Big D. triumphed. A classic, plain and simple.

Big D. also had a habit of naming his bowel movements, and forcing his roommates to view them. I remember with horror 'The Cobra', 'The Hamburger', 'The Dairy Queen Tip', and the dreaded 'Mound'.

Idiot #3: The Animated Huckster

Now Huckster is actually Big D.'s bigger brother, and he, unlike the rest of us clowns, was not a student at the time. Instead, he worked as the early morning Doughboy at a local pizza joint. This proved to be a real boon for his roommates, for he was able to bring home a bag of shitty, stale pizza crusts every week--crusts that got tossed around the room to be chomped on while the lads got boozy, giving them all a nifty, yet nutritionless snack. A lesser perk of the Huckster's job, however, arose when his boss asked him to dress up as the pizzeria's mascot for a children's party. Sadly, the mascot was called 'The Pizza Monster', and resembled the Red Sox mascot, Wally, and not in a good way. Needless to say, Hucky was none too pleased by this turn of events. In fact, his turn as the Pizza Monster actually lost him his job that night. It appears that a young lad of four or five years pulled on the Huckster's costume and cried out, 'Pizza Monster, Pizza Monster! Say something funny, Pizza Monster!' But Huckster, to very little parental approval, gruffly replied, 'Fuck you, kid. Tell yer story walkin''. And that, sadly, was the end of his job, and our weekly pizza crust snacks.

Idiot #4 -- Hoot

Now this particular fellow had some odd habits to say the very least. Perhaps the most impressive, though also completely disgusting, habit was to chew his toenails in the living room while we were all watching TV. Seriously. He would sit like some yogic-flying dick on an easy chair and yank his foot up and start chomping on his nails--spitting the offensive remnants onto the floor. Compaints were always met the same way: 'What?' One time, when his feet stank so bad that he was told to go shower, he emerged moments later reeking of English Leather--shitty cologne he had just dumped all over his feet. Complaints were met with Hoot saying, 'Shower in a bottle, is it not?'

He was also seen creating one of the more bizarre culinary experiences imaginable. One evening, Hoot entered the living room with a 16 oz. can of pineapple, and a small, precut ham. He began to stuff slice after slice of pineapple into his cheeks, while swallowing none. Once the whole can was in his mouth, he started shoving ham slices in there, and began slowly chewing, mixing, and swallowing bits of this hideous bolus-y mélange. This delightful process also included Hoot attempting to tell a story to the room as he 'ate'. So, you've got an entire pound of pineapple in your mouth, half a fucking ham, and you're trying to tell me about your day pickin' dick? Just great.

Idiot #5 -- Pummus

Pummus was a great guy, but he had a couple of strange character flaws that tended to both amuse and annoy his roommates. The first flaw became known as the 'Drunken Mathemagician'. You see, on nights when the fellas would gather to drink and order pizza, each guy would usually buy a case of beer or a 12-pack for himself. Pummus, the Mathemagician, was always a little worried that his beer would be pilfered by one of his house mates--so he drank OV rather than the classier, and heavily favoured, Black Label. He always bought a 12-pack. This is all well and good--You buy it, you drink it. But here is where the Drunken Mathemagician became legend. Pummus would--without fail--drink his entire 12-pack of beer, sneak a few Black Labels from his roomies, and later pass out in his room on a pile of drool soaked gitch. The next morning, however, Pummus would open the fridge and curse loudly, shouting that 'I lost 9 beers last night!' Always 9 beers. And always oblivious to the fact that he not only drank them all, but stole a few others from his buddies. Classic Pumm.

The second wacky flaw also relates to theft. But this time of foodstuffs. Pummus' inability to ever buy his own condiments, preferring instead to swipe schmears and glops from others' personal tubs, was a never-ending source of glee and mild anger. In fact, some guys began setting traps in the mayonnaise, butter and mustard in order to establish a lexicon of proof of these dastardly dips. The lengths that were gone to just to prove what we already knew merely showed us all as the idiots we truly were.

Idiot #6 -- Danno

Danno was a classic guy. In retrospect, he was probably the only one of us who actually went to his classes and took school seriously. But while we dreamed of getting locked overnight in bars, he tried--unsuccessfully--to elude the security guards so he could spend all night in the library. Kooky cat. He also had an ability to turn any conversation onto the topic of anal sex. How? Why? Good qustions all. For example, this was an actual conversation from 1986:

Danno: Gentleman, gentlemen. Still sitting watching TV. Yer wastin' your lives!
Me: Ferris Bueller's Day off is on.
Danno: Man, I'm tellin ya, ya gotta just turn her around and hit it. Fifty more muscles and five degrees warmer, I'll be done in a second. Bam
Me: I see.

Memento Pinchi

Since I have spent the better part of two weeks suffering from some type of bovine mega-flu--brought on no doubt by one of the drooling, anal-leakage-suffering visitors to my fine library establishment (my money is on the slovenly woman with the moustache whom I recently dubbed Burt Reynolds)--I have been trying desperately to heal myself without visiting the dreaded chump-and-mump fest known as the clinic. Sadly, the constant vomiting, horseradish enemas, garlic & chive wang rubs, cheese doodle inhalers, bean salad facials, & self-fellating flights of whimsy did nothing to alleviate my misery. However, during this wonderful stretch of bedsore-forming delights, I did have a lot of time to muse upon my stupid life--in particular my initial experiences in college after leaving the cold discomforts of home. So, I just felt that I should preserve some of the critical lessons that I learned back in the day to both instruct and horrify my future progeny. Butt first, have a listen to this wonderful little ditty from local Tampa troubadours, Have Gun Will Travel, and enjoy the enjoy:

http://hypem.com/track/682305/Have+Gun%2C+Will+Travel-When+We+Were+Kings
or
Star Maker Machine: The Aristocrats: When We Were Kings

Anyhow, to the lessons. The year was 1986; I was 19; I was a freshman living in a 1200 person dormitory; and I wore flannel.

Lesson 1: The Truth about Track Pants

Before I attended college, I assumed that these marvellously cozy pantalettes were worn exclusively by track athletes and Donkey Kong-playing tubbagoos. But I soon learned that there was more to these nifty numbers than I ever dared imagine. So much more.

My first observation concerning this particular style of pant came as I was dating a lovely young lass during the first few weeks of freshman year. Now this co-ed was extremely fashion-conscious, and was an ass & foot model, or something like that. So imagine my surprise when she appeared at my dormroom threshold one morning wearing baggy, standard grey track pants. What, I thought to meself, gives here? In a few moments, however, I had my answer. You see, it was quickly revealed to me that many young women who only have an hour between classes, yet still have an unquenchable thirst for the thrill of the boom boom, often prefer not to bother with the many difficulties involved with donning and removing jeans, and opt instead for the easy access and speedy drop-ability facilitated by the track pant. [Editor's note: Again, had the Tearaways business model been accepted and not openly mocked, there might be a velcro strap here to aid the youngsters in their quest for speedy tumbling. Just sayin'.]

So, given the recent sexual freedoms afforded many teens in the building since leaving the roost, the versatile track pant turned out to be quite a popular clothing option amongst the young women in the dorm. Stores began stocking pink pants, blue pants, puce pants--all the colours of the rainbow. In fact, this boom in sales also allowed the lads to see who might be more willing to round the bases with them after a night of kegstands and chardonnay bongs. What a time to be alive.

But, as with all things, fate played a nasty trick on the youngsters in the dorm. Seems that, for some odd reason, eating a steady diet of deep-fried dormitory foodstuffs for six months, while maintaining a lifestyle of sloth and asso-horizontology, might not allow students to maintain their high-school weight and shape. So, the lads got beer-bellies and sizeable love handles, as one might expect. But the women tended to experience exponential expansions of hemispherical rondure in the buttock region--at once eliminating jeans, cords, and skirts from the daily wardrobe, leaving only--you guessed it--the track pant to be worn. You can imagine the confusion. A young lad spies a lass in track pants at a floor party. Eureka, he thinks, I am to be soon bedded. However, after an inspired attempt at flirtation and seduction, the lass wearily exclaims, 'Buddy, I'm not horny, I just have a fat ass'.

So there it is. Lesson #1 from my college years: 'Don't judge a booty by its cover', or, more plainly, 'Life is ass'.

Stay tuned for Lesson #2.

They call me Mr. Peeps

There are certain things that you never really expect to hear your wife say when you arrive home from work. Things like, 'I really love the ol' pelvic pinochle', or 'You know, I really think I have a taste for human blood', or 'Damn, the rutabaga got stuck again'. That kind of thing. So imagine my surprise when I hear the following words uttered by my teary-eyed better half yesterday: 'Honey, my little girl has a penis!'

No joke.

But perhaps a word of explanation is needed. You see, a few months back we rescued a baby Muscovy duck who had been mauled by some local critter. We brought her back to health, and she has been our house-pet ever since. She even wears a diaper around the house courtesy of some Internet 'Goose Mother' seamstress. Loopy stuff. But we had been convinced for months that she was a girl, and the wife named her 'Miss Peeps'. Since we have two male cats and a boy dog, it was nice to have a little girl. Until yesterday. Seems the wife saw something resembling a Scooby-doo noodle hanging out of what she thought was Miss Peeps' rump. Turns out, after a few unsuccessful tugs to eradicate the 'noodle', an idea slowly formed in my wife's head: 'This may actually be a wiener'. So, where else, to Google images she went. If you concentrate on the picture below, you will see what comes up for a 'duck penis' search.

Hot dog, we have a wiener.

And, thus, our little girl is actually a boy.

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.