Wednesday, February 24, 2010

The Simpsons: Things You Need To Know About Them



Homer Simpson is one of the most important men on this show. He is white. And he is named Dan Castellaneta. Dan is in love with a woman named Marge Simpson. Their children are, from oldest to youngest, Bart, Lisa Simpson and Maggie.

Marge is the love interest on The Simpsons.

Bart is no good. He is disrespectful, rude and messy. They should fire him from the show I think! Turn off the TV whenever Bart appears on-screen and you will feel better.

Lisa Simpson is so smart. What she lacks is self-confidence. I think she will go to university, unless the writers have other plans.

Maggie is only a baby.

Homer has appeared on every episode of The Simpsons. He must be tired. The Simpsons is a show about his life.


Apu runs the town’s store.

Ned is their neighbor.

Stewie is from another show.

Please contact me if you have any other questions about the Simpsons.

The Simpsons currently live in Springfield.

Monday, February 22, 2010

The Evil One

Did you hear about Laura?

No. What happened?

The Evil One has claimed her soul.

Shut up!

Seriously. It happened last night while we were Skyping.

So that's why she isn't at school today.

Yeah. It sucks.

Big time.

...does Brad know?

She hasn’t told him yet.

Oh my God. He’s gonna flip.

Poor Brad.

Did you know his last girlfriend’s soul was also claimed by the Evil One?

No way! I thought she devoted her soul to Virtue?


They say that the Evil One can assume any form or shape.


Oh yeah. He can be as big as the world or as tiny as a DJ.

God. I’m so scared of Him.

Me too.


But maybe this means Brad will ask me out?

The only law is Chaos.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Old-Fashioned Animals That You Just Don’t See Anymore


ignorant bee

Elizabethan duck

racially-segregated horse

Dark Ages bunny

dog in chains

antiquated beaver

swing-dancing monster

dusty ape

Plague buddies

afraid-to-come-out-of-the-closet shark

Lost Generation owl

single-celled organism (in the 1960s)

openly misogynistic giraffe

wolf mother

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

An Open Letter to the Counter Staff at the Portuguese Bakery Near My Home

Dear Ladies,

How are you? I am fine. You look very lovely today, despite your unflattering aprons.

I’ve been patronizing your bakery on and off for three years now. In that time I’ve always tried to be polite and pay promptly for my bagels, coffee or pastries. Despite my friendly overtures, I am convinced that you all want to murder me. How can this be so?

As sure as Sumol is made from pineapples, your immortal souls are made from hatred for Michael Balazo. Why do you hate me? You don’t even know me. If you knew me and hated me, I would applaud your sagacity. I would even make the job of hating me easier by supplying you with humiliating details about myself as ammunition (e.g. I avoid certain streets because I’m afraid of the homeless man who chased after me in December). Until you make the effort to get to know me, until you can articulate specific reasons for despising me, I can have no sympathy for you. All I can do is speculate on the nature of your hatred….

Perhaps you hate me for not being Portuguese? If so, I can’t do anything about it. Yet. Maybe one day gene-therapy will allow me to “become” a Portuguese man, but at that point the ideas of “race” and “tribe” will be meaningless. Do you agree with my views, ladies?

I also have my “Paradise Lost" theory. This theory is based on the assumption that my face reminds you of the warm tropical winds that blow in from the Atlantic onto mainland Portugal—the very winds that comforted you in childhood. Looking at my face, you dream of sunning yourselves on a beach in the Algarve or of enjoying a glass of porto at a Lisbon cafĂ©… but then reality comes crashing down on you in all its inexorable bleakness. And you hate my face, the reminder of all you’ve lost by exchanging mediterranean sunshine for the brutal Canadian winter. This is probably what’s going on between us.

Maybe a role-reversal is in order. Why not let me serve you coffee and pastries for once? I think it would be educational for both of us. I’ll get to scowl near bread and you’ll get to dress up in my clothing. “Hello, Michael!” I’ll say to you, my unhappy, female dopplegangers. And you, as the “customers” will see what it feels like to be rebuked for the crime of paying for your croissant with coins.

You don’t like the idea?

I guess what I’m trying to say is: please spare my life.

Michael Balazo

Friday, February 12, 2010

What’s a Jason?

Some Jasons are men...

Some Jasons are boys...

Some Jasons are shy...

Some Jasons MAKE NOISE...

Some Jasons are dead...

Some Jasons are living...

Some Jasons are mean...

Some Jasons* are sinning...

Too many Jasons...

Now not enough...

Nice try, but no Jason!

If you wanna be a Jason, you've gotta be tough!

Have a great weekend, all you Jasons out there!

* It has come to my attention that the leathery gentleman in this photo is not a Jason at all. His real name is Douglas Hume and he is a pervert of the highest order. Douglas has made a mockery of me and this blog with his auto-armpit-licking photo. Is that even a sex thing? Had I noticed this outrage I would have cut Douglas' photo from my list of Jasons and we all would have been much happier. Rest assured, the police have been notified. Again: the man in this photo is not a genuine Jason. My apologies. This is the last thing I need. My life is basically falling apart around me. No wonder I drink so much....

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

A Letter of Reference for Lemmy Kilmister

He is a hard worker

To Whom It May Concern:

I would like to heartily recommend one Ian Fraser Kilmister (known to his legions of fans simply as “Lemmy”) for employment with your firm/government/boutique, etc. You are no doubt familiar with Mr. Kilmister’s legendary involvement with the Grammy Award-winning English metal band Motörhead.

During a musical career that has spanned over five decades Mr. Kilmister has played, literally, tons of bass. He’s played bass fast. He’s played bass slow. But, most importantly, Mr. Kilmister has played bass LOUDLY and with a genuine sense of mischief. Indeed, Mr. Kilmister was born to raise hell in a way that few of us will ever fully comprehend. (When he passes away, I wonder who will claim his eternal soul: Jehovah or Lucifer? I shudder as I type these words, Dear Reader!)

In addition to being an accomplished bass player, composer and enfant terrible, Mr. Kilmister has that most elusive and valuable of all personal traits: I am, of course, referring to “the common touch.” His language is that of the simple tailor; his song is that of the factory worker; his gruff manner is that of the ageing prostitute whose best years are behind her, yet has no choice but to go on.... Lemmy is the poet laureate of the Underworld, the man who speaks for thieves, homosexuals, fallen women and deposed Kings. In essence, he is a Christian missionary worker whose “sermons” have been released on over 20 albums (and counting).

Lemmy’s hobbies include motorcycles, smoking grass and having unprotected sex. He can type at 22 w.p.m. and is proficient at some Microsoft Office applications. He is relatively well-organized, can work alone or as part of a team and has an OK sense of humor.

Please hire Lemmy. I am confident that he will make a fine addition to your organization/kiosk.

Michael Balazo

Monday, February 8, 2010

A Poem for the Winter Olympics


The Winter Olympics begin on Friday, so I thought I'd get into the spirit of things by composing a small poem about every athlete's dream: going for the Gold. My poem is from the point of view of an Ancient Greek athlete who has been arrested by the authorities and transported through time to Vancouver 2010. I hope you enjoy it!

Winter’s Prize

O inedible golden cookie!
Symbol of snowy aptitude
Do I dare to dream of wearing you around Me neck?

O gilded trinket!
Awarded to the world’s Smartest Men
Are you the ultimate in sports Jewelry?

Yes, you are!
Shall I wear Thee on the street, beloved accessory?
I shall!

Lo! I care not for Silver—the Saddest metal
And Bronze is a farce—like a Wayans Brothers movie that you can wear around your neck
Only Gold can satisfy my athletic hunger
Feed me gold in my Sports Mouth!

I am not embarrassed of ice
I do well in snowstorms
I am Winter’s Poet
And my opus is called “Curling.”

The World is a Vampire

O beautiful yellow product on sale in no store!
I need you to dangle from my neck
Like a Fancy pendulum

Ah ha! I have seized you at last, Goldie!
Now, we, the members of the Golden Brotherhood
Must wait for the perfect moment
To storm the Gates of Heaven
And destroy God!

© 2010 Coca Cola

Friday, February 5, 2010

Alternate Titles J.D. Salinger Considered for The Catcher in the Rye

J.D. Salinger (1919-2010)

Shopaholic Takes New York

Parents Just Don’t Understand

Death Of A Salesman

The Original Harry Potter

Fahrenheit 9/11

Precious: based on the novel Push by Sapphire

Private Parts

Smells Like Teen Spirit

The Novel That Defined A Generation

According to Jim

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Popeye: My Struggle With Illiteracy

Hey, everybody! Bet you never thought you’d see Popeye's name on a blog, hey? It was my grandson’s idea! Anyway...

The other night I was dining with Garfield and the dad from For Better or For Worse (whom I don’t care for), when the subject of regret came up. Garfield told us that his biggest regret was never getting to know his son, who now works as a gender-bending multimedia artist in Berlin. The father from For Better or For Worse told us that he’ll never forgive himself for accepting the role of the father in For Better or For Worse. We all laughed!

It was now my turn. I think it’s fair to say that neither of my dining companions was ready for what Popeye was about to unload on them. “My biggest regret,” I said, winking painfully, “is illiteracy.“

That’s right. I, Popeye, was 58-years-old before I learned to read. You see, back when I was making my name as a sailor man in the early 1930s, reading was the last thing on my mind. I was too busy learning about boats and trying to keep Bluto from assaulting my girlfriend to focus on education.

My dining companions, coming from a more educated generation of silly characters, were shocked. But I insisted that I was merely a product of my time. All the great comic strip characters were illiterate: Li’l Abner, Dick Tracy, Betty Boop. Why, even Charlie Brown died never knowing how to spell his name (God save his ignorant soul.)

Illiteracy almost killed me, too. One night, 25 years ago, I ate a can of spinach for supper—at least, I thought it was a can of spinach. Unable to read the label, I didn’t know that I was actually eating a can of green paint. God bless Olive Oyl. If she hadn’t been home to call the Coast Guard, I wouldn’t be alive today.

And that's when I decided to learn to read. I love doing it. These days, I hardly ever eat paint! I can even read my own comic strips now, with help from my tutor, Mr. Consaglio.

As I finished my tale, Garfield and the father from For Better or For Worse rose from their seats and we all hugged in the restaurant. I was touched... until that idiot from For Better or for Worse ruined the beautiful moment with one of his "hilarious" farts.

I hate the father from For Better or for Worse.

Monday, February 1, 2010

Things Overheard in a Space Brothel


“Do you want me to speak Neptunian while I twist your penis?”

“Ooh, baby! That’s right! Lay your eggs on my balls!”

“Stop it! You’re scaring the hell out of me!”

“Can I wear the E.T. mask while we do it?”

“I’m only working here until I save up enough money to buy my own Unidentified Flying Object.”

“I think you’re the most beautiful . . . thing . . . I’ve ever made love to.”

“Do you want me to speak English while I twist your penis?”

“How’d I wind up working here? When I was 14 I got in a fight with my dad and he kicked me out of my universe.”

“Do you think Bush really knew?”

“Golly! you space girls sure know how to show an old cowboy a good time! I wish y’all hadn’t destroyed Planet Earth. ”