Michael Balazo's Hogwash!

Healthful Halloween Treat Ideas

2011-10-24T12:39:00.000-07:00

Booooo! Halloween is here again, and that means one thing: it's time to feed strange children candy in a socially acceptable way. If you're like me, Halloween is an ethical minefield. How do you make it fun for the neighborhood kids without contributing to childhood obesity, diabetes, zits and murder?

Fear not! The following is a list of harrowingly healthful Halloween treat ideas that you can make at home. By being a little bit creative you can minimize your junk food footprint and maximize your fun one. And the best part? The neighborhood kids won't even notice the difference!

HARROWINGLY HEALTHFUL HALLOWEEN TREATS

Dracula Pills (extra-strength Tylenol)

Vampire Soda (bottled water mixed with red food coloring and fake cobwebs)

Wolfman’s Fudge (salad served in a chocolate bar wrapper)

Zombie Pie (tomatoes in a dark bowl)

Mummy’s Fudge (salad served in fresh toilet paper)

Psycho Suckers (twigs dipped in skim milk)

Hitler Gum (dehydrated cranberries mushed into cubes)

Ghost Licorice (uncooked spaghetti eaten under a red lightbulb)

Weird Chips (rice cakes with fake bugs on them)

Blob Pellets (raisins floating in mayonnaise)

Happy snacking, everyone!

Movie Quote Challenge!

2011-08-30T11:26:00.000-07:00

Attention: film buffs and cineastes of all shapes and creeds! Your task (should you choose to accept it) is to read the following movie quotes and identify whether they come from either Woody Allen's 1977 Academy Award-winning romantic comedy Annie Hall or Michael Bay's 2011 robot film Transformers: Dark of the Moon. Good luck—and happy film-going!

“Love is too weak a word for what I feel—I luuurve you.”

“I know who stole the Energon cubes—it was those evil Decepticons!”

“La-di-da, Megatron. La-di-da.”

“Surprise, surprise, Optimus Prime! In thirty seconds I will destroy the quirky actress Diane Keaton, then take the New York subway to a jazz.”

“Oh, jeez! I had no idea that Diane Keaton could transform herself into a car and outgrow me. I feel like the character in that Chekhov story.”

Bonus Question

“Is this a fact, Jackie? A winner in the village?”

ANSWERS:

1. Annie Hall 2. Transformers: Dark of the Moon 3. Annie Hall 4. Transformers: Dark of the Moon 5. Annie Hall 6. Waking Ned Devine

Urban Tip: How to Deal With A Glory Hole

2011-02-10T08:34:00.000-08:00

One downside to living in a major metropolis is that sometimes, without any warning, you find a glory hole in your apartment. Glory holes can be triggered by any number of events: poor maintenance, climate change or playing jazz records a bit too loud. (In my case, poor maintenance was the culprit.) The day I found a glory hole in my apartment, I nearly had a large spazz. But, instead of jumping off the roof or burning down my home to start afresh, I found a way to deal with the situation like an adult. It is my dream that this blog post will help other urbanites deal with unwanted glory holes and go on to lead rich, exciting lives in America and Spain.

THE PROBLEM: This is me discovering the notorious hole. I was not very happy to see it!

WORST-CASE SCENARIO: What if? No one should have to deal with something like this while trying to eat breakfast or relax with a couple of jazz records. (In the interest of decency, I substituted a banana for the traditional wang.)

THE SOLUTION: Using my quick wits and a little muscle power, I plugged the Godless hole with an old plastic bag I'd been keeping under my sink. Problem solved, my friends!

These days, I can relax at home without having to worry about dozens of wangs poking out the hole of my kitchen's closet door. And that is what life in the city is all about, cool cats and kitties!

Urban Tip is a new Hogwash! feature that will appear when you least expect it, like a ghost or an old friend you'd like to avoid.

Professional photos by Alex Hughes.

Planet Guy: How to "Seal the Deal" After a Date

2010-12-30T06:34:00.000-08:00

This guy has achieved the nasty with over 33,000 women.

So, you’ve taken her out to dinner and had some drinks; you’ve casually invited her back to your boarding house and, wonder of wonders, she said yes! Now, what do you do to seal the deal (i.e. take a leisurely stroll down Intercourse Avenue)? You don’t want to mess it up, right? Well, according to a survey of some Canadian women, the worst thing you can do at this stage is take her straight to the bedroom and throw your trousers out the window like some sort of impatient, horny garbage man. The best thing you can do is slowly create a romantic atmosphere that will make it impossible for her to resist you, and that means one thing: an impromptu ragtime piano concert.

No woman can resist a fellow who has mastered the ragtime canon: it's in their DNA. But, whoa!, let’s back up a second, shall we? Before you can even think about asking a woman on a date, you’re going need to do a bit of work. First of all, you’re going to have to buy a baby grand piano for your room (if your landlady objects, buy her some stockings and Chinese oranges to smooth things over).

Now that you own a piano, you're going to have to learn to play the damn thing! Give yourself five to eight years to get comfortable on the keys (we recommend starting off at the Royal Conservatory of Music, then finding yourself a good jazz teacher across the river). Once you’ve tamed the eighty-eight-fingered monster and passed all your exams, it’s time to tame the ten-fingered monster—your sweetheart!

You’ll be amazed by the intense visceral reaction you provoke in your monster when she sees you sit down at the piano bench, straighten your bow tie and launch into the opening trills of Scott Joplin’s “Maple Leaf Rag,” followed by James Scott’s scintillating “Frog Legs Rag,” and, as you whip her into the final stages of erotic euphoria, Joseph Lamb‘s “Excelsior Rag.” Before you can say “cakewalk,” you’ll be making full love to your woman’s body or face. Oh, and one more thing: in the words of Scott Joplin, “be sure to use protection!”

Planet Guy is a new men's column that will appear maybe once a year on Hogwash!

Top Exercises at the Dumb Gym

2010-11-26T09:14:00.001-08:00

- backwards dumbbell toss through the beautiful window

- squirrel hunt

- fast and violent neck twists

- chest press (with farting)

- shoulder dump

- human centipede

- Chinese buffet dips

- military butt squishes

- hard drugs

- exercise ball theft

- imaginary jogging (farting optional)

Infopackette for the Trapped Chilean Miners

2010-10-12T07:00:00.000-07:00

"What did we miss?"

It’s been a long, harrowing journey, but tonight, you, the trapped Chilean miners, are going to be lifted to safety. I’d like to be the first to congratulate you. In a matter of hours you’ll be breathing the air of freedom, stretching your legs and getting straight back to work in various other mines! Just teasing; you don’t have to do that.

Now. You guys have been stuck underground for a long time, and you’re probably wondering what you’ve missed in the news. For instance: did Tony Curtis pass away? Unfortunately, yes. He was 85 and they buried him with his beloved Stetson hat. The funeral was in Vegas. But let’s not get sidetracked and only talk about Tony Curtis, OK guys? Plenty of other important things have happened since August 5. Luckily, I’ve mined the internet and packaged this information in an easy to use Infopackette. Using my Infopackette, you’ll be able to make informed decisions in your exciting new lives as land-walkers. Let’s get started!

THINGS THAT HAVE HAPPENED SINCE YOU’VE BEEN STUCK IN THE MINE

Minka Kelly has been named the Sexiest Woman Alive by Esquire. Do yourselves a favour and look her up online. If you don’t get big wild boners you’re a bunch of idiots!*

A "Goldilocks planet" was discovered that can support human life. This means that one day humans will be able to live on the planet and continue creating cool movies and music and blogs.

The Nobel Peace Prize was awarded to jailed Chinese dissident Liu Xiaobo. Imagine getting a prize in jail? I’d be, like, “Forget about the durn prize and give me the key to my jail cell. Buh-bye!”

Robert Pattinson has been named Sexiest Man Alive by Glamour magazine. (This piece of news is specifically aimed at Alfonso, who I understand to be the gay one.)

Halloween is quickly approaching. If you’re looking to wow people with a killer costume, you’d better get to work now. Popular costume ideas this year include: Sarah Palin, the Human Centipede and Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg.

I had some awful computer trouble at the end of September and I lost everything on my hard drive. Can you believe that? On the bright side, my iPod is working like a charm again and I’m really digging the new Weezer. A lot of people are really hard on Rivers Cuomo, but I’m a sucker for everything the man does.

Canada finally has Netflix. I know you guys don’t live in Canada, but it’s kind of a big deal here.

I got a great deal on a spring/fall jacket. Only when the weather started getting cool did I realize I didn’t have anything appropriate to wear. I'm such a doy-yoy!

I hate being the bearer of bad news, but David Arquette and Courteney Cox have separated. My heart goes out to the two actors. They’re probably in a pretty dark, deep, emotionally claustrophobic space right now, similar to the physical space you’ve all been sharing since early August.

I’ve started going to the gym again and I’ve got to say it: I’m feeling great!

*Excluding Alfonso.

10 Reasons Why A Beer is Better Than A Woman!

2010-07-14T10:24:00.000-07:00

The smell of beer doesn’t make you weep the way Her old perfume does!

A beer can’t give you three beautiful children named Todd (9), Jenny (6) and Garcia (2)!

Beer doesn't menstruate all the time!*

You don't need to charter a bus to transport 24 beers to your buddy's apartment!

If your best friend moves to Berlin with your beer, it's not as bad as if he'd moved to Berlin with the woman you love!

It’s not illegal to put your penis in a beer bottle when he passes away!

Beer doesn't spend all of your hard-earned money on shoes and Sarah Jessica Parkers. Beer doesn't even know where the mall is!

You can shotgun a beer without ruining everything!

You can drink beer out of a funny hat, but you can't keep a woman on your head for very long without hurting your neck muscles!

Beer doesn't have old boyfriends that highlight your failings as a man!

*Although I once saw Criss Angel make this happen. I was blown away.

Party Animal

2010-03-29T06:48:00.000-07:00

I have . . . a confession to make.

I don’t usually dress this way!

Ha ha!

Usually, I just wear civilian clothes.

A leash.

To be honest, I feel a little uncomfortable dressed up so fancypants!

Oh, I could’ve said no, but I figured what the hell.

It’s Jeremy’s 8th birthday, and….

I’m too accommodating! That’s my problem!

Yup yup yup.

Mum was right: I’m a big, spineless pushover.

You know I’m the first man in my family to have to wear a bow tie?

If grandpop could see me now he’d eat chocolate.

They’re taking advantage of my good nature.

Just because Jeremy is turning 8 doesn’t mean that I should have to be made to look ridiculous.

I don’t even like Jeremy—he’s a disgrace!

There: I said it. He’s a disgrace. A waste of time.

Well, today it ends, my friends.

Today, while they’re singing Happy Birthday to the waste of time I’m going to bite everybody.

Show ‘em who’s boss.

I'll teach you to put a bow tie on a proud man!

. . . .

On second thought . . . if I bite everyone, they might take me somewhere to get destroyed.

Which is not so great.

. . . .

Maybe I'll just shit somewhere they can't see.

Toronto Sun Cover Review - 27 March 2010

2010-03-27T07:33:00.001-07:00

Happy Saturday, everyone.

Front and centre: A teenage murder case ends in mistrial. Not funny, except for the alliterated mmmms in the sub-headline. Must they?

Top centre: "Keep your doors locked," warns a tiny convicted rapist. That oughta scare EVERYONE. On a different note . . . what a bad rapist. This knucklehead is giving away the secrets of his trade, like a disgruntled magician who tells everyone how the Chinese Linking Rings trick works. Idiot!

Top right: Buy a lottery ticket, monsieur. Chances are you'll win!

Bottom: You lost the lottery, you poor piece of shit. Now how are you going to pay for that toilet you installed on the roof of your cottage?

Summary: Law and order has broken down. Teenage thugs murder with impunity. The streets are teeming with retarded rapists. On top of it all, you've got a roof-toilet that you'll never be able to afford. Stay indoors, near the window, with a gun.

*** (out of 5)

NOTE: From now on, my Toronto Sun cover reviews will be posted on a new blog created just for that purpose: http://torontosuncoverreviews.blogspot.com/

Toronto Sun Cover Review - 26 March 2010

2010-03-26T08:17:00.000-07:00

Today's cover:

Front and centre: The Sun doesn't hate all immigrants. Take the couple on today's cover: they're white, own a $321,000 townhouse and are "proud Oakville taxpayers." Heck, the husband even appears to like rockabilly. Yet this couple is being deported to England for failing to fill out a form correctly. The Sun then goes on to point out that an illegal Jamaican immigrant who killed a cop is being allowed to stay in Canada and enjoy our domestic rockabilly scene at the expense of taxpayers.

Top: The Sun is outraged that there is no doghouse; the Ontario Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals is temporarily operating out of a "ritzy" hotel, like a bunch of Rufus Wainwrights. Beneath this, we are promised a glimpse at the grizzly details of Ontario's provincial debt, a.k.a. "7 Years of Red," which sounds like a fine title for a menstrual porn film.

Top right: If I won the $15,000,000 prize, I'd buy a new everything!

Bottom: The Fully Loaded Event is here. In the Judeo-Christian world, this means that spring is just around the corner.

Summary: A dull effort. The only interesting part of the cover is the deported man's sideburn and beard combination.

* (out of 5)

Toronto Sun Cover Review

2010-03-25T11:59:00.000-07:00

I am going to start doing daily reviews of Toronto Sun covers. The Toronto Sun is, of course, the city of Toronto's most reactionary/hilarious newspaper, with a broad readership that includes everyone from old men who wear track pants and fish in the Don River to young women who think bicycles are gay.

Today's cover:

Front and centre: Well, hello there! If it isn't notorious child-killer/sex offender Clifford Olson. Why is this old blast from the past on the cover when there's so much non-pedophile news to report? Because, thanks to an "investigation" by the Sun, federal prison inmates like Olson will no longer get old age pensions. Not the worst idea in the world, but did they need to include a pedophile on the cover? Technically, no, but a Toronto Sun cover without a pedophile is like a Tigerbeat without a Justin Bieber.

Top left: $15,000,000 is nothing to sneeze at.

Top right: A hockey man has a bar mitzvah?

Bottom: Hakim optical is offering a sweet deal. Do you think the bespectacled couple in the ad are dating or are they just friends?

Summary: There's a little something for everyone today: a forgotten child-killer, some hockey news, the tantalizing prospect of $15,000,000 and discount eye wear. This scattershot approach actually weakens the overall impact of the cover. I would have preferred the use of the word PERV or $ICKO in the main headline to counteract the relative banality of the other stories/advertisements.

*** (out of 5)

Other Names They Considered, And Rejected, For PEZ

2010-03-24T07:10:00.000-07:00

PIZ

Austrian Maniac Tablets

Potatoes?

LEGO

Tiny Sugar Bricks For An Imaginary Bungalow

Flavored Dust Blocks

Little Ms. Powder & Her Mouth-Watering Children

PUZ

Tiny Sugar Bricks For A Miniature Riot (The People Must Be Free)

Pffft....

My Genes Know Where They're Not Wanted

2010-03-22T09:36:00.001-07:00

This man is my nemesis.

Last week I read a disappointing article about how women living in countries with high rates of disease and low life-expectancy prefer “masculine”-looking men to their “feminine”-looking counterparts. The belief is that a child with healthy, hunky genes has a better chance of surviving than a child with wimpy, clarinet-playing genes.

Great.

It looks like a certain someone I know is going to have to rethink his wife-hunting trip to Sierra Leone. What a nightmare! Those stuck up dames won’t give me the time of day, and I finally know why. I bet they didn’t even listen to all those Smiths mix CDs I mailed them.

I’m also going to have to tweak my domestic mating strategy, based on this sentence: “A woman in an unhealthy, germ-laden environment may prefer a macho man….” Well, thanks for the news bulletin, ladies! Do you know how many moonlit nights I’ve spent strolling the dump in my tux, hoping to find a sweetheart? Do you know how much money I’ve spent buying drinks for women who live in the Filthy part of town? Do you know how many times I’ve unsuccessfully proposed to a bag lady in an outhouse?

This wouldn’t happen to me if I were tall, dark and handsome.

I guess it’s my fate to be attracted to women who live and thrive in squalor. Too bad these Dirty Dianas don’t care about my scarf collection or all the poems I’ve written about the pink-billed lark. I’ve been wasting my precious time.

From now on, I’m only going to pursue women who live and work in antiseptic environments (surgeons, meat plant inspectors, tattoo artists, etc.). In their eyes, I look as virile as Wesley Snipes. And, when I finally have a child with one of these super-clean women, our baby will make it into the Guinness Book of Records for having the weakest constitution in the history of mankind.

Take that, Mother Nature!

Hands of God

2010-03-19T11:42:00.000-07:00

Hey, Hands of God! What you sayin'?

Hey, Neil.

Made anything lately?

Naw.

Well, why not? You're the Hands of God, aren't you?

I know. I guess I'm just feeling kinda, you know, down.

Feelin' blue, huh?

Yeah. Sometimes I wonder if there's any point to all this –

Shut up! You're the Hands of God! You got no right to be a crybaby.

Hold on; that's not true.

You should be makin' shit all the time. Like a hurricane. Or a new animal.

(sigh)

I'll tell you what I'd make if I were the Hands of God.

What?

First, I'd make myself a big motherfucking sandwich: ham and swiss cheese on focaccia.

Well, that sounds positively delicious!

Then I'd give myself two solid-gold hands, so I could sell them each for a cool million.

But, Neil. Wouldn't you miss having hands?

And after that, I'd make me a sex woman. A huge one. And she'd love me forever!

Hmmm.

Fuck it, Hands of God! Why don't you make me all that shit right now?

I can't... really... do that. For you.

Yeah you can! You made the mountains and the sky and all the beasts of the field. You gotta help out your old friend Neil!

It's not as simple as you think!

You know I could just as easily ask the Hands of the Devil.

DO NOT DO THAT.

....

OK, fine. I'll give you one solid gold hand. And a small sex woman.

No sandwich?

A St. Patrick’s Day Message from Father Martin Brennan

2010-03-17T06:57:00.000-07:00

Priest

St. Patrick’s Day is a wonderful celebration. For many of us, it is the only opportunity we have all year to paint our faces green and cause chaos in our communities.

Yet, having a temporarily green face needn’t automatically lead to evil acts. Many men with permanently green faces have lived noble lives – sometimes under appalling conditions.

Look at the Ninja Turtles. These four young Italians lived deep in the filthy, disease-ridden sewers of New York City. My God, their home smelled awful. A gigantic lake of urine and feces literally ran through their living room. (Dante couldn’t have imagined it himself!) During one of my visits to their lair, one of the young men – Donatello, I think it was – offered me a slice of pizza. I refused, of course, terrified of eating in such an unhygienic atmosphere. (I pray I didn't insult him.) But despite their squalid living conditions, the Ninja Turtles managed to protect New York from Shredder and Krang and still find time for break-dancing and pizza parties.

The Mask was another man with a green face who led an upright life. He risked his personal safety to save Cameron Diaz from those bad guys. And, like Job, he kept a sense of humor during his trials. “Smokin’!” he’d say, after receiving some disappointing news. Or “Somebody stop me!” Did you know that Jim Carrey (the fellow who played the Mask) also played in Ace Ventura? “Alrightee then!”

Gumby was also a green man. He could stretch and bend himself into the most wonderful shapes, you’d never believe it! God rest his soul.

So, tonight, as you’re drunkenly overturning cars or taunting police officers to hit you in the face, pause for a moment to reflect on the lives of these great, green men: the Ninja Turtles, the Mask and Gumby.

Praise be to God.

Silly Real Laws

2010-03-15T10:34:00.001-07:00

Did you know that it’s illegal to walk around with an ice cream cone in your pocket in New York City? Or that in Hawaii, it’s against the law to put coins in your ears? And don’t even think about keeping an alligator in your bathtub in Arkansas unless you want to go to the Bighouse!

Ah, silly laws! Every state has them, but why are they still on the books? These laws are the relics of yesteryear, and though they were once meant to protect public safety and propriety, they seem crazy to us today.

Here are some other silly real laws that still can still land you in a heap of trouble:

- Murder is illegal in Chicago, Illinois, so be sure not to “kill” anyone while visiting the Windy City. Whatever you say, Mr. Lawman!

- Dumping poison in the river and laughing about it is illegal in the state of Kansas.

- Publishing and distributing hate literature is a no-no in California. Hmm, I wonder if all that sunshine got to the politicians’ heads?

- It is illegal to shit on a wedding cake in Connecticut.

- Forcing The Chieftains to have sex with you at knife-point is frowned upon in Ireland.

- Building a dirty bomb and detonating it in a shopping mall for political reasons will get you a $35 fine in Nantucket, Massachusetts. What?

- Playing video games with a gay guy is prohibited in Oklahoma.

- Making George Clooney feel hopeless is illegal in Minnesota.

- Cutting off your enemy’s penis and choking him with it is banned in France. We saved their asses in War II.

- Dressing up as Mo’Nique and telling people "I am Mo'Nique now!" is forbidden internationally.

Internet Abbreviations for Sad People

2010-03-11T13:24:00.000-08:00

col – crying out loud

pmsc – pissing myself crying

rotfc – rolling on the floor crying

cmfao – crying my fucking ass off

bit – bursting into tears

bff(sf) – best friends forever (sad friends)

L8R G8R (B) – later gator (bereaved)

ipnaw – I'm posting naked and weeping

ggp(d) – gotta go pee (depressed)

gbcw – goodbye cruel world

How My Life Would Be Different If I Were Named Michael Balzary

2010-03-08T07:46:00.000-08:00

Michael Balzary?

My name is Michael Balazo and I am a man. I know how to make breakfast, take the bus and enjoy fireworks down by the river. My life will likely continue in this way for many years without variation until, finally, I am murdered, either by thugs or God. I can’t complain.

And yet, sometimes I can’t help but wonder how my life would have been different if instead of "Michael Balazo," I’d been named something more exotic and spicy – something like Michael Balzary. For if my name had been Michael Balzary, I wouldn’t have become the breakfast-making, bus-riding, fireworks-enjoying monstrosity you see before you, but Flea, the gloriously unpredictable bass-player for the Red Hot Chili Peppers (RHCP).

Flea’s real name is Michael Balzary, and if I could only steal his noble title I’d be able to do all sorts of unusual things I can’t do as Michael Balazo. I’d be able to wear a sock on my penis while crossing the street to visit an old friend or a sick relative. I’d be able to sign autographs “Flea” instead of not being asked for my autograph at all. Why, I’d even be able to attend dinner parties at Anthony Kiedis’ mansion instead of having to imagine the kinds of dinner parties Anthony Kiedis hosts (I imagine that Anthony Kiedis hosts fantastic dinner parties – the kind of parties where the conversation is as nourishing as the meal).

Oh, Michael Balzary! Our names are virtually identical! Why can’t I be you? Don’t tell me that the years I spent learning to play the bass line for Suck My Kiss were a foolish waste! Won’t you let me be one of the Chilis? Won’t you let me be an outrageous punk-funkster and occasional actor? Who will wipe these hot, bitter tears from my face if not you, Michael Balzary?

But enough! I suppose I’ll just have to continue as “Michael Balazo” and live vicariously through Michael Balzary, warming myself on the smoldering remains of his great and funky fire. Who knows? Maybe Michael Balzary secretly longs for a simpler, less-outlandish life than the one he currently leads? A bracing thought.

All I ask is that they bury me with a sock on (or near) my penis. And in that final act of rebellion I will live!

Let's Do Business!

2010-03-05T09:44:00.000-08:00

Hello, you must be Jonnio? I’ve heard a lot about you.

I hope it wasn’t too bad!

Ha ha aha aha aha.

Hoe o eohooojo joho.

You hungry?

Yeah. Give me some food, please.

Ever eaten a pig’s heart?

No. I don’t know about them.

Ha ah. You’re very handsome.

Thanks. You have de nice body.

Hoa ahhahaha aha aha ! Welcome to the Big Time.

I can’t believe this is all really happening. Me dream job!

Ha aha aho bip. Whatcha got in the folder?

Oh, just some poems I’m working on.

Love poems?

Yes, sir. She doesn’t know how I feel.

I'm more of a slam poet myself.

Slam?

Slamslamslam. Ha haahad haho ho djojo.

Haha ahaoojo jo.

Dojo.

Famous Last Words

2010-03-03T06:34:00.000-08:00

Edmund Kean found comedy difficult.

Legend has it that at the end of his life Oscar Wilde, his sense of wit and irony undiminished by scandal, hard labor and poverty, entertained the faithful gathered around his deathbed with a final, dainty bon mot. “Either that wallpaper goes, or I do,” he is reported to have said as he took one last disapproving look around his dingy Parisian hotel room.

When asked if dying was easy by an overzealous young apprentice, the great English stage actor Edmund Kean replied with the immortal phrase, “Dying is easy, comedy is hard.”

I applaud these famous men for being so hilarious during their final moments. Even when the Grim Reaper was sitting on their faces and wiggling his dirty butt around, they found the strength to fire off zingers and depart this world with class. We could all learn from their example.

Unfortunately, my last words will probably not be very eloquent or witty. I imagine that in my final moments I’ll be too terrified of annihilation to be on my “A-Game.” My last words will probably be an embarrassing, unintelligible mess, something like, “OH NO . . . HERE COMES DE GUY!” Then, as I expire, my bully (who has been holding a menacing vigil for me in the truck) will begin praying for my soul using a Rosary he’s fashioned from garbage. The phone will ring and my bully will tell the student loan collection agency that I’m “unavailable at the moment, forever.”

So, what can I do? Perhaps I should record my final message to the world in advance, to ensure that I’m remembered fondly. Ideally, I will pass away at the age of 99 in my favorite store (Footlocker) as a result of being hugged too hard by female fans. With that in mind, let it be known for the record that my last words will be: “Only the buxom ones!”

And my legacy as a Great Man will be secure.

Dances From the 1950s That Never Quite Took Off

2010-03-01T07:54:00.000-08:00

The Uncle Chicken

The Peanut-Flavored Popcorn

The Khrushchev

The Full Squirt

Interracial Marriage

The Daddywhacker

Seafood Vermicelli in Soup

The Tennessee Williams Strut

The Gigantic Dirty Hotel

The Pariah

The Simpsons: Things You Need To Know About Them

2010-02-24T07:12:00.001-08:00

Castellaneta

MAJOR CHARACTERS:

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.

MINOR CHARACTERS:

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.

The Evil One

2010-02-22T07:33:00.000-08:00

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?

Nope.

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

Really?

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.

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

2010-02-18T07:14:00.001-08:00

Remember?

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

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

2010-02-16T07:25:00.000-08:00

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 café… 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.

Sincerely,
Michael Balazo

What’s a Jason?

2010-02-12T11:14:00.000-08:00

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....

A Letter of Reference for Lemmy Kilmister

2010-02-10T07:28:00.000-08:00

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.

Sincerely,
Michael Balazo

A Poem for the Winter Olympics

2010-02-08T06:28:00.000-08:00

Goldie

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

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

2010-02-05T13:13:00.001-08:00

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

Popeye: My Struggle With Illiteracy

2010-02-03T07:07:00.001-08:00

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.

Things Overheard in a Space Brothel

2010-02-01T06:56:00.000-08:00

Whorehouse

“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. ”

The Wit and Wisdom of Benjamin Franklin

2010-01-28T15:23:00.000-08:00

“Early to bed, early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.”

“Not tonight, madame; it’s nearly 3:00 pm!”

“Get some sleep or you’ll wind up fat, poor and stupid.”

“We've been over this before: fat people are bums. Now get into my bed before you catch a disease.”

“See that guy in grubby clothes with the huge lard-ass? He doesn’t know about my saying.”

“I don’t like the look of our fat new neighbor. I swear he stayed up all night, just staring out his window into our house . . . By George! He covets the bed.”

“What’s he building in there?”

“Are you guys still cool with my plan to torch the fat man’s house? I want him in Hell by sunrise.”

“Burn the beast’s body until there’s nothing left! Just do it. What? You're not having second thoughts, are you? Fine. Then, I'll just have to burn both of you. Hahaha! I am BENJAMIN!”

“No, officer, I have no idea who could have held a grudge against such a friendly, well-rested fat man. Would you care for one of my famous kites?”

"I can't believe I got away with it. As a little treat, I'm going to bed extra early tonight. We're all going to be rich and healthy!"

A Genuine “Vampire Weekend” Would Be Cataclysmic

2010-01-27T08:16:00.000-08:00

Worse than Hitler?

A few years ago, the people of New York City got together and made a band called Vampire Weekend. This band has gone on to release two critically acclaimed albums and has been feted by everyone from Brooklyn hipsters to people who dream of one day visiting Brooklyn. Very well.

What concerns me is that in all the hubbub and musical excitement, we’ve forgotten a very important historical lesson: a genuine "vampire weekend"—a two-day period during which vampires run amok on our streets, bite our daughters and defecate in our malls—would be a disaster.

According to government sources, a vampire weekend would turn nine out of ten people into vampires and cause incalculably gross damage to our cities (I'm referring again to vampires shitting in malls).

Is this the future you want for your children or whatever?

Just say "no" to these diabolical music boys and their genocidal dreams.

And the next time you're at the mall, stop for a moment to admire the gloriously feces-free floors of our excellent society.

What Are You Listening To?

2010-01-25T06:48:00.000-08:00

"M.J."

"M?"

"J.J."

"Michael."

"Macko."

"Jackie."

"Jacket!"

"Jackson."

"Michael Jackson."

"Wacky."

"Flacko."

My Bully Is A Dad!

2010-01-22T10:49:00.000-08:00

My bully, a.k.a. "Pappa"

It brings me great pleasure to announce that today at 6:45 AM, my long-time bully, Luke, became the father of an adorable baby boy!!!

Bundle of joy

It was a beautiful occasion and even Luke's wife, Kayte, was in high spirits:

Mum

Luke has been my bully for over twenty years now, so I felt honored when he chose to force me to midwife his son against my will. I didn't know the first thing about delivering a baby, but Luke's ceaseless stream of verbal and physical threats meant that failure was not an option....

Kayte's tummy a.k.a. "The Forest of Arden"

After the hard work was finished (and I'd washed my hands) I had the opportunity to meet and share a beer with Luke's father, Steven. Coincidentally, we both love the show Prison Break.

Grampy

Steven's wife, Vanna, was also in attendance. Even though she didn't speak English I got the gist of what she was trying to say. The gist of it was that she didn't like me.

Russian?

The baby certainly is a chip off the old block. As I was holding it for the first time, the little fellow punched me in the eye, called me a "fag" and tricked me into revealing my PIN. Everyone wrote it down, and now I'm super worried about money.

Ouch!

Congratulations, Luke! Your son is lucky to have you as a father. One of these days I will fight back.

This I swear by the stars.

My Neighbors Are Driving Me Nuts!

2010-01-20T12:33:00.001-08:00

My apartment building

When I first moved into my new apartment, I thought I'd literally died and gone to heaven. It had everything I'd ever wanted: windows, floors and a gorgeous full toilet that made all of my troubles disappear at the touch of a button. It seemed almost too good to be true.

It was.

Turns out, I have the worst neighbors in the world and they're making my life a living hell. Let me introduce you to the stupid idiots....

Jamie- apartment 14c

Jamie lives in the apartment next to mine and he's always doing anarchy. At first I thought it was endearing, but now I actually wouldn't mind a bit of law and order.

Doug- apartment 13a

Doug is always wandering the halls in his housecoat which hangs open in the penis area. Cover it up, buddy!

Jordan- apartment 11d

Jordan really gets my goat. Not a day goes by that he doesn't knock on my door to ask if he can die in my apartment. You wish, buddy!

Reuben Horowitz- apartment 12d

Reuben is always either yelling at women, lifting weights or recording spoken word albums that are neither funny nor interesting. He's the most overrated tenant in my building!

The McDonoughs- apartment 10s

These wrinkly rascals keep me up all night listening to old-school punk rock at full blast, skateboarding inside the building and having ear-splitting unprotected sex. A night in prison would straighten these two out.

Smokestack Johnson- apartment 9h

Smokestack has a knack for setting off the smoke alarms just as I'm settling down into a nice relaxing bubblebath. I hate him.

Iggy Pop- apartment 15h

Iggy is always causing blackouts in the building with his energy-sapping Bad Boy Machine. They say if he doesn't use it he'll just turn into a dessicated flap of skin, which would bring down the building's property value.

Anne Murray- apartment 9

Here's a thing Anne Murray never mentions in her song lyrics: she never holds the elevator door open for me. Try being polite for once, you huge old bag of ice.

Honestly, sometimes I wish I'd never moved into my beautiful apartment.

How To Tell If Your Picasso Is A Fake

2010-01-18T07:01:00.000-08:00

Fraud in progress?

It’s signed “Bablo Picasso.” (Picasso’s real first-name was Pablo, with a “p.”)

The dealer who sold you the painting asked you how many copies you wanted.

The painting is an elegant portrait of Billy Corgan. Noble though he may be as a subject, Picasso never painted him.

When you scratch the surface of the painting lightly with a knife, you hear it say “Ouch!” In this case, not only is your painting not a Picasso – it’s a man. If this happens, take the man off the wall and offer him a drink.

The bottom right-hand of the canvas reads “© 2005 Marvel Comics.”

You bought it at an Imaginus poster fair.

When you turn the painting upside down, the woman’s clothes disappear. (Your “painting” may in fact be a novelty pen.)

The painting looks like Guernica… but with Tupac in it.

Picasso never glued “googly eyes” or scratch-n-sniff stickers on to his works.

The painting drips blood when you pray.

Hire My Uncle!

2010-01-15T11:45:00.000-08:00

Please?

I'm a hard-working uncle!

I've stopped acting wild.

(Within reason!)

I remember when you were just a little kid.

I used to call you Peanut!

The old days.

Now you're the one with all the power.

Mr. Peanut, CEO!

♫♫

So, how about a job maybe?

I see.

You won't hire me because I'm a "risk?"

Because I ruined my own company?

Tons of guys ruin their own company and bounce right back!

Snob.

Excuse my, uh, outburst...

Maybe a small joke will improve the atmosphere?

Hey?

???

Fuck you, Peanut.

Metallica Hates Me

2010-01-13T10:14:00.000-08:00

What a sad day for me. My favourite band of all time – Metallica Band – rejected a song I wrote especially for them. Talk about rude. How could they let down their biggest fan? Now I have nothing to live for besides my rock-hard glutes and my Slovak heritage.

Normally I wouldn't brood too much over a song rejection, but I believe Metallica made a huge mistake by not recording my song. It's called The Metallica Dance, and it would have put them back on the top of the charts and made teenagers fall in love with them. I'd like you to take a look at what James, Lars, Kirk and bass-player were too dim to appreciate:

The Metallica Dance
by M. Balazo

Hey, everybody! Welcome to our concert
Is everyone feeling nice?
We’re all gonna have some fun, OK?
We may even do it twice!

We’re gonna teach you something
You’ve never seen before
And once you learn our special dance
You’ll want to do it more!

You take a step to the left and a step to the right
And you flippity-flop your hands,
You wiggle your tuchus around a bit
Now you’re doing the Metallica dance!
Now you’re doing the Metallica dance!
Now you’re doing the Metallica dance!
Now you’re doing the Metallica dance!

That’s right, you fuckers!
You’ve got it!

Oh! Kiss your sweetheart on the cheek
And keep her by your side
And in a couple of years, my son,
She’ll be your blushing bride!

A marriage is a sacred bond
Between two gentle souls
So don’t be false of heart or else
A-weeping ye shall go, sir
A-weeping ye shall go

(Metallica drum solo)

So, take a step to the left and a step to the right
And cast your eyes askance
Cupid’s watching over ye
Doing the Metallica dance!
Doing the Metallica dance!
Doing the Metallica dance!
Doing the Metallica dance!

Motherfuckers

© 2010 Blaztunez

So, there it is: my finest work.

I have half a mind to never write another dance-gimmick song for Metallica again.

The Top 10 Best Sitcoms of All Time

2010-01-11T09:37:00.000-08:00

The votes are in, and here they are: the top ten best sitcoms of all time, as chosen by you. Sit back, relax and see if your picks made the cut!

10) We Three Kings (CBS, 1976-2000)

Three old men sitting on a bench doesn't exactly sound like a funny premise, but it was. Who will ever forget the episode where Donnie farts?

9) Guess Who's Coming To All of the Meals? (FOX, 2006-Present)

This was one of the first sitcoms to address the fact that people from all races can be terrible. Hilarious.

8) Hawkeye (CBS, 1972-1983)

Hawkeye never let a medical operation get in the way of his work on M.U.S.H.

7) The Brick Boys! (Disney, 1990)

It may have only lasted one episode, but The Brick Boys! was the show that proved the dangers of putting too much junk in your trunk.

6) Just Chillin' (BET, 2004-2007)

Just Chillin' took the classic premise of "nerdy guys trying to score chicks" and turned it on its head. Ouch!

5) The Golden Girls (NBC, 1985-1992)

Blanche, Sophia, Rose and Dororthy. 'nuff said.

4) Fish Man (ABC, (2001-2008)

He caught no less than three fish per episode.

3) ALF (NBC, 1986-1990)

Hide the cat -- ALF is in the house!

2) The Helmet Brothers (BBC, 1968-1983)

Will Jason ever got that darn helmet off? Some shows just don't date.

1) Seinfeld (NBC, 1989-1998)

Hello Newman.

Epigrams Written by an Alien in the Style of Oscar Wilde

2010-01-09T07:01:00.000-08:00

"I'm terribly old-fashioned; I never teleport without a brandy."

"They make a wonderful couple; he's rich and she's goopy."

"Is there anything duller than a Neptunian dinner party? Let's destroy Neptune."

"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the spaceship. Is the spaceship ready yet? No? This is unacceptable."

"Blurrrgh."

"London’s atmosphere is simply awful – I can’t breathe it! Help!!!"

"Money is very much like space-goop; the more you have in your wallet, the wetter your pants become."

"As long as an alien woman’s tentacles can look ten-times danglier than her own daughter’s, she is perfectly satisfied and won't vaporize her daughter."

"Is sodomy totally illegal on Mercury?"

"I have nothing to declare except my moon rocks."

The Winter Olympics are More Fun than a Torture Investigation

2010-01-07T09:10:00.000-08:00

Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper is under fire for proroguing Parliament until after the 2010 Winter Olympics. His detractors accuse him of undermining democracy and running away from his problems, the biggest of which was the investigation into whether Canada knowingly handed Afghan detainees over to be tortured by awful men. Thanks to the prorogation of Parliament, that investigation is now dead.

Now, before anyone gets too worked up, let me ask a simple question. What looks like more fun?

This?

Or this?

Would you rather spend your day with these guys?

Or these guys?

I thought so.

Let's face it: investigations and "human rights tribunals" are one-way tickets to Yawnsville. Who wants to sit in a stuffy room with nerdy diplomats, lawyers and soldiers when they could be hitting the slopes, playing hockey or having homoerotic fun doing God-knows-what with some outrageous old rascals?

The truth is, winter sports are fun in a way that torture investigations can only dream of. I say congratulations to Stephen Harper for bowing down to Old Man Winter and saying, "I am in love with you."

* An interesting fact: the Nuremberg Trials were paused several times so that everyone -- Nazi and Jew alike -- could cheer on the West German curling team.

My Sperm Vs. Vincent Gallo's Sperm

2010-01-05T07:43:00.000-08:00

According to Vincent Gallo’s website, any woman wishing to have his baby can buy a load of his sperm for $1 million. What a glorious deal, huh ladies?

Not sooooo fast!

Before you reach for your American Express Black cards, let me play devil’s advocate for a moment. No matter how you try to justify it, $1 million is a lot of money to spend on actor jizz. Sure, Vincent Gallo has that “bad boy” quality that women like and he’s appeared in one of the Brown Bunny movies, but why not do a bit of comparative shopping before you fork out the cash for his you-know-what? After all, Vincent Gallo isn’t the only actor who knows how to ejaculate into a tube!

Let’s weigh the pros and cons and see what else is out there on the market. For simplicity’s sake, I’ll compare Vincent Gallo’s sperm to mine:

Vincent Gallo's Sperm	Michael Balazo's Olde Tyme Semen™
$1 million per load	$28.72 per pound (but I'm willing to negotiate)
Contains famous genes	Contains prized, short-lived Slovak genes
Will likely make kid a showoff	Guarantees kid won't be too tall
Offer limited to women only	I don't judge anybody
Guaranteed 100% disease-free	Available in regular or tutti-frutti

The winner is clear: Michael Balazo’s Olde Tyme Semen™ is superior to Vincent Gallo’s sperm in several ways. (Sorry, Vincent, but no one ever said the jizz biz was pretty!) I admit that my sperm isn’t as “flashy” as Vincent Gallo’s, but think of the money you’ll save. To paraphrase Nike: Just buy it (my sperm)!

Direct all enquiries to orders@mbspermz.tv

Up-and-Coming Celebs to Watch Out For in 2010!

2010-01-02T07:34:00.000-08:00

How the time flies! 2009 was a banner year for Hollywood and its famous celebrities. Despite the global recession and thousands of deaths across the world, the stars proved that they could still act, sing and dance beautifully. The good news is that 2010 looks set to be an even bigger year for Hollywood. Here are my picks for up-and comers to keep an eye on in 2010! And remember -- you heard it here first.

Jason

We loved him as Mario in Twilight, and rumour has it that hunky Jason is set to star in his own blockbuster movie later this year. Let's just hope he wakes up in time to win that Oscar!

Douglas "Dirty" Shakespeare

Unless you've been living under a rock for the past twelve months you'll know that Douglas Shakespeare is one of the hottest (and messiest) young celebs on the planet. We're looking forward to seeing "Dirty" in his first major role later this year in Jason Reitman's The Clean Freak. Talk about casting against type!

Toots

Rumour around Lala-land is that teen sensation Toots is legally married to her horn. Hey, whatever works, girl! Toots is living proof that acting with a saxophone in your hands all the time doesn't have to be glum.

The Farnsworth Brothers

Over the past decade, The Farnsworth Brothers have quietly built a reputation as one of the most diverse showbiz families possible. We look forward to seeing them play a neurotic undertaker later this year in Woody Allen's Dirt Nap.

Rikki Noel

He may only be 14, but Rikki has already made more films than most actors do by 40. As if that wasn't cool enough, he also sings and plays guitar in his own band. Take a number, ladies!

Cars of the Year

2009-11-26T09:29:00.000-08:00

Vrrrroooooooom! That's the sound of 2009 speeding out of Time's Parking Lot, driven by thieves who will sell the car to feed their drug addictions. So, with the year almost finished, it’s time for me to do my annual roundup of the year's best cars. Gentlemen, start your engines now!

10. BLUE CARS

This year, blue cars were my favourite ones. Sure, they're not very fast and their fuel economy is atrocious, but sometimes I like to strip off all my clothes, paint myself blue from head to toe and lie down on the hood to see if anyone notices me, chameleon style. It's a lot of fun and it's something I need to do.

9. SQUISHED CAR

This funny little car is for the kind of driver who isn't uptight about getting from A to B. BONUS FEATURE: if you sit on top of the boulder long enough you'll begin to feel like a king.

8. CAR WITH A WIFE ON TOP

Last summer, my wife, Claire, participated in The Wash For Bones, a charity car wash that raised money for people with terrible bones. By the end of the day, Claire had raised over $87 and all the cars in town were sparkling -- which is more than I can say for the state of our marriage at present. For those of you interested in my personal life, Claire and I are currently separated, due to some problems we've been having with her not liking me.

7. TRUCK WITH HIS OWN BALLS

This truck scared me off the road when I saw what was dangling from him -- I thought it was some sort of bio-chemical weapon, or the Rise of the Machines. Thankfully, I was wrong and the "truck scrotum" is meant to be a joke for blue-collar people. I didn't "get it." And furthermore, why does the truck have a scrotum but no penis? A continuity error if ever there was one. Back to work, proles.

6. STOP URINATING ON MY VEHICLE

ATTENTION: If anyone has information about the boys who've been answering nature's call on my car, please contact me or the police IMMEDIATELY. The urine smell is really getting on my nerves and giving my wife headaches (at least, it used to, before she packed her bags). How would these dirty boys like it if I drove my car into their toilets every night? I thought so.

5. MY SON'S CAR

I guess this is more of a license-plate shot, but my son has a compact SUV that helps him cruise the streets with his friends all night. I don't know what they get up to, exactly, but they always seem to have a nice time together. It's very musty in there, so I usually open the windows to air it out while he sleeps all day.

4. BATMAN'S MOBILE

I've only included this one as a joke; this car is fictitious.

3. VICTORY CAR

HONK! Know what that sound is, little dude? It's the sound of Mankind conquering Nature.

2. ANNOYING CAR

This car is a real hassle. Every time you open the door, your grandpa has to fall out of the tree, which adds unnecessary tension to an already stressful Grandpa & Grandson Day. Grandpa makes me nervous!

1. HELL'S CAR

A flashy, "look-at-me" vehicle, hell's car is one of the only automobiles on the market that you can cook your dinner over. (Just thinking about this car makes my mouth water. I'm a burgerholic with a nasty case of french fry-itis.) It's also a good car for single women looking to snag themselves a fireman or mechanic!

Stay Safe Abroad!

2009-11-13T08:50:00.000-08:00

Fact: Everybody loves to travel.

Fact: Everybody hates getting mugged, beaten up or (heaven forbid) murdered in cold blood while broadening their horizons.

I've travelled all over this crazy world and I've never once been murdered. So, how did I do it? Am I some sort of modern-day Messiah or a man/machine hybrid, impervious to bullets, pickpockets and Gypsy spells? No – I'm just a regular Canadian man who knows a few practical travel tips that can help make any trip abroad up to 67% murder-free.

TIP #1 - Secure Your Valuables

When out in big cities, keep money and other valuables in a secure place, such as a fannypack or an anus. Come to think of it, it's not a bad idea to hide things in your anus even when you're in rural areas . . . or at home, when you're not travelling at all. Why not see how much stuff you can fit up your anus?

TIP #2 - Respect the Locals

When being mugged, don't sarcastically ask your assailant if he has a university degree.

TIP #3 - Keep Your Love of The Cure To Yourself

It's a good idea to keep your love of The Cure or The Smiths to yourself. This is especially important when travelling in Africa, where it's difficult to tell which band the locals prefer (e.g. Sudan loves The Smiths while Rwanda is nuts for The Cure). Admiring the wrong band in the wrong country can lead to bloodshed – or worse.

TIP #4 - Befriend Criminals

As soon as you arrive abroad, make friends with some local criminals. These men will protect you from rival gangs and corrupt police officers (who are arguably more evil than the gangs they're paid to break up). You may be required to commit a few crimes or get a tattoo to earn your gang's respect, but you'll probably enjoy the God-like sensation of taking a human life.

TIP #5 - Avoid Spiked Drinks

Don't accept drinks from strangers or leave your drink unattended. Many criminals pour ketchup in drinks when no one is looking, thus ruining the drink's flavour forever.

TIP #6 - Dodge The "Flooded Town" Scam

Don't fall for the "flooded town" scam when travelling in tropical countries. This is a large-scale ruse designed to play on your emotions and bilk you out of money. Newsflash: all those people splish-splashing around are actors and they should be ashamed of themselves for trying to take advantage of English-speaking tourists.

TIP #7 - Travel Safe in Pairs

At all times, be aware of Soon-Yi's whereabouts.*

TIP #8 - Don't Mess Up Your Mission

When meeting your North Korean contact, don't hand over the enriched uranium until you've received the cash and intelligence dossier. What are you, an idiot?

TIP #9 - Charm Your Kidnappers

If you find yourself kidnapped abroad, try charming your captors by reciting as many classic Simpsons lines as you can remember (e.g. "Mmmm, donuts!"). If this backfires somehow and drives your captors to execute you, switch to Family Guy quotes until the decapitation is complete.

TIP #10 - Beware of Dolphins

If your plane goes down over the ocean and you survive, be wary of dolphins. Dolphins are the pickpockets of the sea and they are also motherfuckers.

* This tip applies solely to Woody Allen.

How To Find The Perfect Butler

2009-11-10T07:36:00.000-08:00

Sometimes life gets so impossible that the only thing you can do is hire a butler to help out around the multi-million-dollar house in which I live. But with so many different kinds of butlers on the market, how do you know which one is the right guy for you? Never fear, buddies -- your old pal M. Balazo is on the job! I've compiled a list of some of my favorite butlers, complete with pros and cons. Right this way, Master Waynes....

English butler: perfect for rainy days and helping out at Oi! concerts.

American butler: similar to an English butler, but he knows Aunt Viv's secrets.

Sex butler: spends more time doing the nasty than working.

Homeless butler: a tough customer at the best of times.

Italian butler.

Young butler: full of all sorts of crazy ideas.

Space Butlers: loyal, but goopy.

Some butlers arriving for work.

Butler during his Ziggy Stardust phase.

German butler: despises condoms.

Old butler: he could pass away at any moment.

So, there you have it – a virtual butler buffet. Pick the one you want, sit back and relax. Isn't it weird that you can hire another human to live in your house and clean up after you when you make a mess?

I Have No Daughter

2009-10-21T09:56:00.000-07:00

Kids, hey? They never turn out the way you want them to. Take my daughter, Janica. She's tearing the family apart with her behaviour and filthy outfits. I'm just about at my wit's end.

Janica at 8, when she was still a good person.

Janica really makes me mad. I've worked very hard all my life to give her the opportunity to become a successful businesswoman -- an opportunity I never had. And what does she give me in return? She goes ahead and turns into a nightmare. The question I keep asking myself is: where did it all go wrong?

Janica at 13, before the Fall.

As her father, I suppose I am at least partly responsible for how Janica turned out. I shouldn't have let her drop math in high school. I should've taken her to more museums. Maybe I set a bad example with my Fight Club and my bland suppers. But I certainly never brought her up to be an irresistible sex assassin who kills everyone and laughs afterward like a maniac.

Janica at 26, ruining the family name.

Congratulations, Janica. You've made your father very unhappy. And as far as I'm concerned, you're out of the family.

10 Easy Ways to Win a Woman’s Heart from my book "Let's Date That Woman!"

2009-10-15T13:50:00.000-07:00

Every time I leave my house, men ask me for dating advice that ACTUALLY WORKS. Hopefully, the following ten tips will help men land dates with their favourite women of all time.

1) Break into your sweetheart’s apartment while she’s at work and paint the words “YOUR FACE ROCKS” onto her bedroom ceiling.

2) Show your sweetheart your feminine side by dressing up like the famous character Dame Edna and sitting in a car in front of her building for 24 hours without telling her. Never tell her!

3) Using pictures from your sweetheart’s family photo albums as guidance, paint a nude portrait of her father and present it to her as a gift. NOTE: Take care to get the dick right.

4) Break into your sweetheart’s apartment while she’s away on vacation and execute a known child molester in the living room. This will tell her two things: 1) you are a man of action and 2) you are good with kids.

5) Bring your sweetheart to a cultural or sporting event such as an anti-immigration rally or an anti-immigration air-guitar competition.

6) Spike your sweetheart’s drink, but (and this is crucial) DON’T take advantage of her. When she comes to, tell her about your chivalrous behaviour – and get ready for a sizzling night in the boudoir!

7) It may sound old-fashioned, but a box of chocolates on Valentine’s Day never fails to melt a woman’s heart. NOTE: This time, when you’re breaking into your sweetheart’s apartment, you may wish to carry a firearm. In the worst-case scenario, your sweetheart owns firearms herself. If she opens fire on you, you have every right to protect yourself and the chocolates. Try to shoot your sweetheart somewhere that will slow her down but not eliminate her (e.g. her leg).

8) Send your sweetheart a funny YouTube video or the link to your favourite anti-immigration website.

9) Track down all of your sweetheart’s former boyfriends via the internet. Lure the men to an abandoned warehouse by the dockyard at midnight. Trap the men in a large bag. Place the bag of men in the water. When all the men in the bag have drowned, press record on the camera and hang yourself from the rafters.

10) Look deep into your sweetheart’s eyes and say, “I love your apartment.”

Michael Balazo’s Illustrated History of Funk: Volume 1 - The Bass Guitar Crisis of 1968

2009-09-23T08:25:00.000-07:00

In 1968, during the height of the Vietnam war, a bass guitar shortage crippled America’s tightest rhythm sections. For nine excruciating months the nation’s funkiest bass players, deprived of their instruments, were forced to stand on stage awkwardly beside their drummers and “look busy” before paying audiences. Some twirled, some crouched, and others gave calligraphy lessons or reinvented themselves as matchmakers. But no matter how the bass players bided their time, everyone in America agreed on one thing: it was sure enough hard to shake your ass without that big ol’ bouncy, bottom-end.

The origins of the shortage were as simple as they were sinister. America, as a nation at war, had introduced a bass guitar registry in May of 1968, requiring all funky bassmen to tell the Green Berets about their guitars or face imprisonment. Most bass players complied grudgingly, figuring it was just a temporary measure. They were wrong. By August, as American casualties in Vietnam mounted, the government made the controversial decision to seize the guitars outright. What followed was neither funky nor fresh.

"Chuckie" Pigskins McCoy, former bass player for 70’s legends Funkcyclopedia Galactica told me about the seizure of his bass: “One day I was eating breakfast with my wife – eggs, buttered toast, a little coffee and I always throw some fruit in there because it keeps your groover groovin' – when there was a knock at the door. The Green Berets came in and snatched my bass right off the kitchen table, making the most terrible racket. I asked them if they didn’t know what manners were and they just told me to go on eating. What was I gonna do? They gave me a coupon and said I could redeem it for my guitar after the war. I looked at the coupon after they left and it was just an old parking ticket. Oh dear."

Sad as it sounds, Chuckie’s story is not unique. All across America, bass players were interrupted at breakfast and forced to relinquish their instruments. Robbed of their only source of income, the sad men came up with imaginative (often unsuccessful) ways to keep the bass-lines flowing. Wee-Pee Bigguns, former bassist for James Brown, told me about his scheme: “You got to remember, I had a family to feed. So, I dressed up a tuba to look like a guitar by gluing a broken hockey stick to the end and stretching some elastic bands over the keys to represent the strings. I walked on stage with this monstrosity, praying that nobody would notice. Well! Four bars in to Papa’s Got A Brand New Bag, James silences the band and asks me why I’m blowing into my guitar. I just stood there, panicking. And just at that exact moment, the glue comes loose and the hockey stick falls off the tuba and James gets hit in the nose with a rubber band. He fired me on the spot. I've never been so humiliated in my life. And that’s when I decided to become a Christian Gentleman.”

Nine months later, the crisis was over and every bass player in America was awarded a Purple Heart and some Victoria Crosses.

To read more of Michael Balazo’s Illustrated History of Funk, click HERE.

The World's Most Endangered Languages, According to the UN

2009-07-23T14:07:00.000-07:00

Pervertstani
Mumbo Jumbo
Fake Jamaican Accent
Smooth Talk
Talkin' Outta Yer Ass
Walkie-talkie
Motormouth
Jamiroquai
Old Spanglish
Scat

Puppets + Racism = Rich Man!

2009-07-20T10:23:00.000-07:00

The results are in and I couldn’t be fumier. Forbes has revealed its list of the year’s ten top earning comedians and, just like last year, the name Michael Balazo doesn’t appear once — even in anagram form.

What a first-class farce. It reminds me of the kind of delightful nonsense that a certain Aristophanes would have dreamed up, had he lived long enough to get angry at something he’d read on the internet. (I wonder if Aristophanes is a Mac man or a PC man? Either way, he’s more than welcome to sleep on my couch the next time he’s in town.)

Back to the list. There are some familiar names here, including Jerry Seinfeld (of Bee Movie fame) and Chris Rock; U.S. citizen Dane Cook; silly southerners Jeff Foxworthy and Larry the Cable Expert; Latino heartthrob George Lopez; and Canadians Howard Mandel and Russell Peters. So far, so good — until you realize that two of the grown-men on the list (Jeff Dunham and Terry Fator) are ventriloquists. And not just ventriloquists; they’re extremely wealthy ventriloquists (between the two of them, they raked in $40 million between June 2008 and June 2009).

This really gets my goat. Consider this: like America itself, Dunham and Fator’s acts are built on a solid foundation of racist jokes. Some of Dunham’s most celebrated puppet characters include the Speedy Gonzalez-like José Jalapeño on a Stick, Sweet Daddy D (an elderly, jive talkin’ black pimp), and the Arab-baiting Achmed the Dead Terrorist. As for Fator, he slays audiences across America with a soul-singing minstrel of a puppet named Julius.

It really pisses me off.

You see, years ago, back before anyone had ever heard of Jeff Dunham or Terry Fator, I used to travel around America with a racist puppet act of my own. (Not to toot my own horns, but I was known as the Jim Henson of racist puppet comedy.) My most popular puppets were Black Guy (an African American puppet who longed to make a name for himself in the fragrance industry) and Ching Chong O’Reilly, a crowd-pleasing puppet of mixed ethnicity (Chinese and Irish, naturally) who sang wedding songs in what I can only assume was Hebrew. My act, I assure you, was mostly brilliant. Unfortunately, Lady Luck refused to smile on me, and I never made a red cent. Can you imagine how frustrating it is for me to see these acts I influenced achieve massive success while I sit in my filthy, comfortless room, dying in obscurity?

Ahead of my time, indeed.

All I’m saying is that it’s time for Dunham and Fator to give credit where credit is due. Is that so hard, boys? According to my calculations, each of these pretenders to my throne owes me $5 million. If they fail to deliver the cash to my filthy, comfortless room by Monday at 9 AM, I will have no choice but to burn my horrible puppets and kill myself as quickly as possible. Consider this your last warning, boys.

Congratulations to everyone else on the list, by the way.

Words To Avoid Using in a Professional Looking Suicide Note from Strunk and White's The Elements of Style

2009-04-24T09:31:00.000-07:00

stanky

shopaholic

Foo Fighters

spyware

stress puppy

Bridezilla

crème de la crème

schlong

methinks

sexplanation

Gandolfini-esque

irregardless

cuddlecore

fuggadaboutit

thrice

nucking futs

The Birthday of Me

2009-04-17T07:17:00.000-07:00

Today I am a 30 year old human guy. It’s quite a surprising milestone for me, mostly because The Man Upstairs has spent the past three decades trying to assassinate me with a single-mindedness that is both scary and flattering. Face it, God — you’re a flop at killing me. Better luck next time, ding-dong!

Just joshing, you big Knucklehead!

So, how am I spending this first day of the rest of my life? Let me paint a picture for you: it is a rainy day in London. I am eating some discount garlic bread as an old Greek repairman fixes a leaky pipe over my pantry that is connected to the upstairs toilet. You should hear him swear at the stubborn thing in the language of Plato! Let’s just say I wouldn’t want to be in that toilet pipe’s shoes.

Things are going well.

My foul-mouthed Greek brother probably has a lot of sage advice for me. Just think of all the wonderful things this Noble Savage has learned over the course of his long, fruitful life as a toilet man. I’d even be willing to ask him for guidance if the language barrier weren’t such a massive, massive headache. No. It’s probably best to leave this inscrutable blue-collar Zeus alone and get on with my work. . . .

Now that I’ve safely escaped my 20s in a bulletproof helicopter, I feel it’s my responsibility to do what this Greek man can’t do: pass wisdom down to the younger generation. True, I’ve made a lot of huge-ass mistakes over the past decade (e.g. pretending to like Jeff Buckley, eating that diarrhea-inducing veggie burger in Dublin, etc.), but I’d like to think they are nicely balanced by an equal number of motherfuckingly good decisions (e.g. seeing The Bucket List).

I guess if I have a message for children and tweens, it is this: Jeff Buckley stinks the most. And don’t eat that weird veggie burger unless you want to spend the entirety of your flight back to Canada in the toilet of a budget airliner. On the other hand, The Bucket List is a shimmering jewel of a film that’s readily available on DVD (or as a BitTorrent — but DON’T tell the Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman actors I told you). The choice is yours.

So, let's see: Jeff Buckley, veggie burger, film . . . Jesus Christ — I only did three things in my 20s. And two of them were bad. Shit.

Oh well. My 30s are going to be a wild ride, and I am totally screaming because I want to go faster. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m stepping out for a Dionysian night on the town with a certain Mediterranean repairman. Look out, London ladies! With his rough worker’s hands and my 70 w.p.m. typing skills at least one of us is bound to have intercourse before sunrise!

Thoughts of Robert Oppenheimer on Watching the First Nuclear Bomb Test

2009-04-05T04:47:00.000-07:00

I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.

I wonder if history will judge me for my role in all this?

Whoa! During the blast I could see everyone’s bones. I guess we’re all the same under our skin. One day, thanks to me, Americans will finally elect Obama as President.

I am become Starving. What’s for dinner back at the lab? Do you think it’s burgers or pizza? You know, if someone held a gun to my head and asked me which I liked more—burgers or pizza—I honestly don’t know what I’d do.

Ha! Jones is too chubby to fit into his anti-radiation suit. He’s the chubbiest physicist of all!

I wonder if Karen likes me? Aw, who am I kidding—a glamorous lady scientist like that would never go for an old fuddyduddy like me. What does she see in Jones?

Rats! It wasn’t supposed to be a mushroom cloud. I wanted it to be a candy cane.

I am become Embarrassed. Karen totally saw me trip on my shoelace.

I wonder if Abbot and Costello are friends in real life?

Oh God! Jones just let one rip. And I thought my bombs were deadly!

Cholera, Jack the Ripper, the Blitz and Deep Fried Chicken

2009-03-31T05:46:00.000-07:00

According to this BBC story, Tower Hamlets, where I live, is the UK’s third most deprived borough. Thank you! It’s also “at the heart of an obesity epidemic.” (Funny how the estate agent glossed over these details. I guess she figured no one would respond to an ad for a TWO BEDROOM FLAT IN ROLY-POLY GHETTO HELL—unless the prospective tenant was a “chubby chaser” who liked his ladies down-and-out, like yours truly.)

After surviving cholera, Jack the Ripper and the Blitz, the biggest threat facing London’s east end today is . . . delicious greasy food. And no wonder. There are about fifty-thousand fried chicken/kebab shops within a one mile radius of my home. Step outside and you’ll notice the air on my street smells like bacon (I saw a man take a deep breath the other day and gain fifteen pounds). Life expectancy is so low here that 6-year-old kids wear ragged “Old Fart” t-shirts and any 14-year-old worth his salt is in the final stages of dementia.

Seems pretty grim, doesn’t it? Not if you use a little bit of imagination. I like to think of my neighbours as low-income Oompa-Loompas, like from the film Charlie’s Chocolate Services. The only difference is, instead of being funny little orange guys with green hair that sing silly songs as they make sweets, my neighbours are dejected boys that pelt my window with bottles and stones and insult me in a language that sounds nothing like Loompa. I haven’t won their chubby hearts yet, but when I do, I’m going to tell my tormentors all about Roald Dahl. If he can’t set them straight, I don’t know which children’s author can.

Even when they’re not outside my window, my neighbours are always trying to get me. Walking home at night recently, I nearly passed away when I slipped on a pile of barely visible, super greasy french fries scattered under an archway. How did they get there? A large boy (considering me “prize game”) obviously planted them there, hoping I would fall and break my neck so that he could lug me home and turn me into a very special shawarma. That is not how I want to go. Luckily, I survived and learned from my close-call. These days, I wear special shoes whenever I leave the house. To make sure I never die.

I understand why my neighbours feel so angry. This area is so poor that the local dentist operates out of a van. Once a month, a “mobile dental unit” parks at the top of my street (preceded by shouts of “Toothman! Shine yer teef for a shilling!”) It’s humiliating for everyone. I’ve yet to set foot in this so-called “Toothmobile,” but I do have a lot of questions, like: Is the dentist also the driver? Is the dentist really a dentist? Where did you get this vehicle? You don’t think you’re going to get away with this, do you?

So, what’s the answer? Unlike other epidemics, obesity can be cured with carrots and jogging. Poverty’s a little bit trickier, as the carrots and jogging are completely ineffective without some sort of education. I just hope that the British government (or Roald Dahl) finds a way to help Tower Hamlets help itself. Otherwise, the boys at my window are going to die of angina before they get a chance to murder me.

I'm A Better Person Than Josef Fritzl

2009-03-26T04:22:00.000-07:00

I have a shitty habit of comparing myself to great historical figures and measuring my achievements against theirs. It’s a losing game! Who needs to hear that by the time he was 16, Alexander the Great had already conquered a city and named it after himself? When I was sixteen, a bully renamed me after himself and convinced my parents to go along with it. Shameful.

Things look even worse when I size myself up against female pop singer Pink. When she was 16, she’d already sung on the soundtrack for Shaquille O’Neal’s paganistic genie-comedy Kazaam. I didn’t even know what a Kazaam was when I was 16—I wasn’t brought up that way. The worst thing is, even if I dedicated the rest of my life to getting a song on the Kazaam soundtrack, I’d still never catch up to Pink.

The list of people I’m officially inferior to is endless: Joan of Arc, Orson Welles, Donovan, Nelson Mandela, Anna Paquin, the cast of YouTube, etc. My problem is that I don’t put these great lives in context; until 1973, no one lived past the age of 25, so if you wanted to achieve anything in life you had to start as soon as you escaped from your mother’s Guantanamo-like womb. There were also fewer distractions back then. Just think of what we could all achieve without timewasters like the internet, cell phones and condoms. Living in the olden times must have been like being a citizen of Paradise (except for all the polio and race hate).

Maybe the key is to aim a bit lower. Instead of measuring myself against great achievers, I should switch tactics and compare myself to thieves, jerks and gigantic perverts. Once I do that, my inaction suddenly begins to look virtuous. For instance, I can hold my head high knowing that I, unlike a certain Charles Manson, wasn’t pimping young girls in L.A. when I was 24. I consider this a moral victory.

What else haven’t I done? I’ve never worn a big jacket to school and opened fire on my classmates before—surely this reflects well on my noble character and sound judgment. The way I see it, the government owes me some sort of medal (or, failing that, it can simply declare a national feast day in my honour).

As for my dubious work-ethic, I look pretty industrious when you consider that some people live in comas for decades. What do those lazybones do during that time? Nothin’ for nobody! I on the other hand am always chipping away at one project or another, waiting for the perfect moment to strike and become a billionaire.

So, starting today, I’m going to stop driving Michael Balazo crazy. Instead of gazing wistfully up at Heaven, I’m going to start smirking down at Hell. Because no matter what happens, I’m a better person than Josef Fritzl. Or Dane Cook.

Unpopular St. Patrick's Day Traditions

2009-03-17T09:49:00.000-07:00

Bathing Shane McGowan

Getting to third base with the Blarney Stone

Telling a Guantanamo Bay prisoner that "today everyone's Irish"

Injecting your colon with green dye to create the “Leprechaun’s parcel” effect

Cuckolding Frank McCourt

Fuelling your car with Guinness, driving your car and ruining your car

Dressing up like Eugene O’Neill and visiting sick children

Force-feeding Lucky Charms to the homeless

Heckling the Boston Celtics for cooperating with “the Brits”

Playing your mashup of “Danny Boy” and “Suck My Kiss” for your nanny

Tips For Ex-Billionaires

2009-03-12T19:15:00.000-07:00

Between 2008 and 2009, the number of billionaires on earth dropped from an arousing 1,125 to a balls-chilling 793. That’s 332 fallen billionaires. To put that in context, that’s 332 fewer invitations sent out to this year’s “Billionaire’s Gangbang” in St. Louis, Missouri—home of the blues. So, what will these 332 sad men do next? And how will they pass the long hours until they die—screaming and filthy—in the gutters of the world?

I admit I am not, and never have been, a member of the billionaire brotherhood (in truth, I make less money than most bourgeois children with allowances—the price I pay for a little something called “integrity”) but I feel a powerful urge to help these ruined men. There but for fortune, I could have been a deracinated billionaire, and they could have been slam poets. My message to my fancy brothers is this: keep your hands busy and your minds occupied to stave off sin and depression. I know it’s going to be hard to adjust to your new lives as hated, untouchable hundred-millionaires, but you’ve got to try—if not for yourselves, then for your wives, children and buxom teenaged mistresses.

Regarding your hands: get a part time job—preferably at an independently owned hardware store. I always find that selling a hammer or some sort of screwdriver to a gruff workingman raises my spirit and brings me closer to Christ, the carpenter. If employment is scarce, take up a hobby. I myself learn a new musical instrument every time I’m “let go” from one of my “jobs.” These days, thanks to my shaky employment history, I’m a regular one man band. Not to brag, but my musical arsenal featuring the following weapons: an electric bass guitar, bongos, cymbals, a flute, a toy trumpet, a concertina, a banjo, three harmonicas (in the keys of A, C and E) and a train whistle. Trust me: no one can be sad who has a room full of instruments he or she will eventually master. (I think I’ll be ordering a clarinet next week.)

Regarding your minds: devote one hour per day to some sort of mental game (such as a crossword, riddle or, if necessary, word jumble) and at least two hours per evening to reading. What should you read? I myself like two types of books: grammar guides and novels set in exotic locations peopled by mysterious, insatiable beauties who regard clothing as a prison. Both genres have their merits; either way, you will profit.

I hope that the former billionaires find consolation in my words (words are all I can offer at the moment, although I wouldn’t hesitate to embrace any of the 332 disgraced tycoons if they knocked on my humble door). My suggestions are both practical and spiritual, and will save 332 lives. We can’t have former billionaires roaming the streets all night, causing trouble and demanding foie gras from passersby, can we? No, we can’t; we cannot.