Breaking news

Breaking news: Tragedy struck earlier today, in striking fashion during a break from picketing by three striking Fashion Industry Strokers, down in the Strap region of the fashion district on Distract Street, as a microwave in the break room was turned off just as Simon, a corn kernel, was finally ready to pop.

Simon's lack of popping was particularly tragic due to several important facts:

- He was the last kernel left to pop in the whole bag, meaning his exploding would have led to the first burn-free and yet completely popped bag of microwave popcorn, a feat that surely would have led to 'Jonathan' the bags popper, and planned consumer, to unleash powerful words of astonishment, that I am lead to believe would have gone - 'wow, sweet'.

- Jonathon dearly needed a 'wow, sweet'. His life was very savory (ha ha. Wait that’s the opposite of sweet right? Or is it sour? It doesn’t matter; let’s stick with ha ha!) at the moment, and it was just jokes as lame as that, that were holding him from true umami. Ha ha. Umami.

- That's one of the flavor profiles right? 

- Is profile the right word? 

- How come the savory vs sweet question was reduced to mere parentheses when these questions get to exist as their own points?

- What the hell is a ‘fashion industry stroker’?

- And are they hiring?

- Also Simon had been a hero!

- He had been ready to pop way earlier but had seen some prepubescent corn kernels struggling, and made the selfless decision to make sure they popped safely before he would go. 

- Not that they said thank you.

- Having popped and all.

- I wonder what it feels like to ‘pop’?

- I bet it would feel swell!

- When I was in Japan I found a snack that was a full bag of half popped popcorn, and MAN it was good.

- Yum.

- PLUS texturally pleasurable.

- See, I know textures, someone hire me down on Distract Street Please; if those lazy bums want to strike then I’ll HAPPILY take their jobs!

- Unless the job is all stroking models bums.

- Those bums can be striking, making it a struggle to stand rudeness in traffic, I mean pick a lane dick!

Once again, tragedy on Distract Street as Simon, a corn kernel, failed to pop.

Simon was survived by no one.

And he was attempted to be eaten anyway.

Then half his face got stuck between two of Jonathan’s teeth requiring him to be flossed out.

A floss advocate was heard exclaiming ‘wow, sweet’.

So I guess this was a happy story in the end.

Hang on!

Doug always wanted to placate an angry coat hanger.

It had been a life long dream.

Ever since he was a child.

Unfortunately for him all the coat hangers he knew were calm, relaxed and extraordinarily swift to forgive both big and small slights against them. 

Over several decades of meeting as many coat hangers as possible, from the classic metal wire, to the fancy felts and fine woods, and never once finding one that had been angry, he decided it was time to take things into his own hands.

And MAKE a coat hanger angry. 

He spent months studying them, trying to spot their weaknesses, their flaws, their soft underbellies, and when he finally was sure he'd isolated their most tender vulnerabilities, he implemented an all out insult attack, with relentless strikes blowing out as viciously as he could spray them, yelling all sorts of vile, devastating and masterly crafted charges at the coat hangers, such as:

- 'Nice shape, ha ha, they didn't have any square bodies available?'

- 'I bet if you had a dick it'd be thin, cause ALL of you is thin!' 

- What did you go as at Halloween last year, Captain Hook!' 

- 'You're still in the closet, that's SO 1983'. 

- 'You're everyone's least favorite method of abortion!' 

- 'I didn't even PAY for you! You came free with my returned dry cleaning. I mean sure you were probably factored into the cost, but if I'd said that I didn't want you I wouldn't get the value of you off my bill, so sure, I'll take ya!' - And most vicious of all 

- 'The odd item in my wardrobe doesn't even look better on you than me!' 

Yet the replies came in just as relentlessly, but calm, cheerful and even full of praise, replies such as: 

- 'Ha ha good one'

- 'zing, you got me'

- 'I sure did!'

- 'And I rock a keyboard tie!' 

- 'Free is the fastest way to freedom!' 

- 'It's all good bro, I'm pro-choice' and most gleeful of all

- 'Aww, don't be like that, I know a guy holding a baby pink tuxedo that you'd look swell in!' 

It was painfully infuriating. 

And I'm sad to say that eventually he gave up, and just said out loud 'coat hangers are perfect, unflappable, and unable to control, and really, given that, and adding on my life long dream, well this means THEY control ME!'

Said out-loud to the cop that spotted him when he was using a coat hanger named Johnny to jimmy open a strangers car that is. 

The cop let him off too. 

You see, he knew ALL about disagreeable, manipulative and controlling coat hangers.

'1992 Super bowl motherfucker' he muttered as he ripped up the incident report and walked away 'my fucking ass a coat hanger can be used as television aerial, that screen was occasionally unfocused, UNFOCUSED for fucks sake!!!!'  

Finally time for some genius

I heard someone on the train today say 'If I was the richest person alive then sure, I'd have bought TWO bmx bikes for my grandmother for Christmas, but I'm only about the forty second richest person alive, so the old lady only gets one alright? I don't even know why you think she would want two anyway, she barely even uses the wheelchair we got her last year, she's always complaining that it's too hard to get into ever since that last botched spinal relocation, plus there are no good jumps anywhere near that home we locked her in, so that's it, one bmx bike only'. 

Now I know what your thinking - 'did she say 'IF' she were the richest person alive? Um, if she wanted to be the richest person alive she just would be, it's pretty easy, no one just dreams of it and doesn't achieve it'.

And I know, right? 

(Please hold for a moment) Oh ok, I'm being handed a note saying that some of you wouldn't find it easy to be the richest person alive, and may even find this slightly hard, to even medium hard, to achieve, so I guess I'll let you know how to achieve that really easily, finally some time for some genius:

Open a petting zoo with a 'you touched it you bought it' policy. 

Boom.

Being the richest person alive guaranteed within weeks. 

There are literally zero obstacles in this plan. ZERO. Except for possibly the following:

- Some person will probably then come along and write a book called 'so you bought a baby goat, you weren't planning on it, but you've done it'. 

- And they'll start selling them outside of petting zoos. 

- And they'll discover sales are at their most outside of petting zoos, with a 'you touched it you bought it' policy. 

- Which will probably only be yours, because not many people actually read my genius suggestions. 

- And in some counties books sell for MORE than baby goats, so if you want to remain the richest person alive you may have to move your petting zoo to a different county.

- Which may be easier than you thought, if you'd forgotten to specify that the 'if you touch it you bought it' rule only applies to the animals, and you've ended up accidentally selling your fences too. 

- But it may be harder also if you've forgotten to specify that the 'if you touch it you bought it' rule only applies to the animals, because you may have inadvertently sold all your staff, whom would be valuable in a moving situation.

- Or as scape goats, if you've happened to have forgotten to specify that the 'if you touch it you bought it' rule only applies to the animals, and you've accidentally sold off a few strangers' kids.

- Then again, if you've sold your fences you'll probably have numerous escaped goats, and now you're looking for scape goats? Um, your going to need big pieces of paper to make sure the language on those flyers is substantial enough to be clear.

- And so you're probably going to need to hire a 'what's the difference between a scape goat and an escaped goat' expert. A specify that the 'if you touch it you bought it' rule only applies to the animals' specifier. And a 'did you bring that kid, cause if you didn't, they are NOT for sale, at least from us, you can talk to its parents directly though if you'd like' specialist. And that's three salaries that will come out of your most money of anyone alive!

- Where as the baby goat wholesaler that you get your baby goats from, only has one salary to pay, to his 'no no no, down, I know we're a baby goat wholesaler, but ain't no baby goats having sex here, it turns out the best baby goats strangely enough come from ADULT goats. So weird. So hoofs off each other got it!' Wrangler. And you'll be buying LOTS of baby goats, so this guy could well challenge you for the richest person alive.

- Someone else will come along along and write a book called 'bought a baby goat?' Which is a simpler title than the last one, so will steal that market, and will cost less ink to produce, and then THEY'LL become the richest person alive. 

- You'd have to buy some poor old lady you don't even know TWO bmx bikes, and when you decide to take one for a spin before you hand it over you'll discover NO good jumps near her home.

- You'll have to work at a petting zoo, and they sometimes smell bad. 

- No one will ever go to a petting zoo that only has baby goats, regardless

of your 'if you touch it you bought it' policy. 

- So you'll probably end up with just a bunch of baby goats to take care of, which will be horrible! 

- Basically buying baby goats would be bloody stupid stupid. 

So there you have it. It's EASY to be the richest person alive, with ZERO obstacles. In the mean time, if you run into the forty second richest person alive on the train this week, can you tell her off for me, she talks WAY too loud, and I need to relax, I've got a spinal relocation operation soon, and I've heard botched ones suck. 

Santa - The real truthful gritty origin story - The Conclusion

When you think of Greenland today, and let's face it most of us are likely to do at least dozens of times today, because we're at this blog and Greenland is a hot topic of conversation, but even when you think of Greenland on days other than today, yesterday for example, or even two Thursdays from the next full moon that follows a week of barren wheat yields, or any other typical day, most of us will think of Greenland maybe eight to twelve times, thirteen if we have a flu, and when have such thoughts, Greenland conjures up a stream of beautiful feelings and mind pictures, of rolling hills, snow capped mountains, over the hill postal workers accidentally delivering their pet goldfish to realtor offices, lovely meals capped off with knife fights in alleys, snow haired rock stars plugging walruses into guitar amps and shredding a whisker solo, lone alley cats learning to use can openers and sneakily trying to keep the knowledge to themselves, people missing hitting pedestrians with their cars by mere whiskers and apologizing by shouting the near hit barrels of bacon grease rescued from hoarding underground wrestling leagues, and sipping Peña-Coladas by a hot spring spurting ten thousand year old sulfur out of cracks in glaciers which show off signs of disaster for the future of man kind, but even worse can leave smelly stains on our best glacier swimming trunks.

But Greenland wasn't always the land of wonder, beauty, laughter, intrigue, adventure, and inspiration that we all adore now, in fact as recently as the late 1800s it barely had 85% of these things, and as a result some of her citizens were not happy.

To be honest the country was awful, none of the alley cats knew how to use can openers, so they were always asking humans to do it for them, the hills hadn't discovered the wheel yet so we're motionless and decades from learning to roll, the Peña-Coladas at the local glacier hot spring were often mixed light on the Colada, most bacon fat wrestling leagues were above ground, and therefore hard to focus on without wondering if the sun would ever come out, and few rock stars could play a walrus whisker to me save their lives, and most were into electronic polar bear genital manipulation, which while sounded better than most modern music, sounded mostly like a large animal having its genitals manipulated. Yep the citizens hated life.

One such citizen was a man named Nick, or Santa to his school chums, most of whom were now dead, but for some reason chose to have their gravestones marked with 'don't forget to call Nick "Santa" ha ha, remember that picture of his mother's vagina, man it was gritty!'

It was hard to begrudge them, if you can't share a joke post death then why bother dying, that's why the worst people you ever meet seem to live forever. I mean when was the last time you met a really old person who was quick to crack a joke? I sure haven't for a while, and I've looked. I spend most Sunday's touring old folk homes and hospices, and I'll walk around slapping old folk awake with a fly swatter, or stepping on their oxygen tubes till they cough to consciousness, then I'll go 'quick, crack a joke' and hardly any of them do. Some of them will instead soil themselves and call a nurse to get out of it. Imagine being so reluctant to say something funny that you instead shit your bed! And I know what you're thinking 'old folk shitting their bed, what could be funnier than that?' And you're right, sure I'll laugh my ass off, but often they'll try and chuckle along with me and pretend it doesn't bother them, and it's just not funny unless they're horrified, disgusted at themselves, and clearly well past having lost the will to live.

So yeah, it was hard to begrudge these dead old guys who actually had a sense of humor. But one guy who could begrudge almost anyone, was Santa.

And it was hard to begrudge Santa for that. He had not had a happy past fifty years or so. Due to a number mess up in the front of his house he was regularly getting hit in the face with bricks. The scientist who was his next door neighbor had invented cheese, after a weird obsession with trying to get cows to go home earlier had led to him experimenting with making cows lighter by removing their milk, and then taunting them with products he made from it hoping it would make them run home to cry behind their sofas, and he was now living a life swimming in sharp-tasting cheese money, throwing thrilling soirees, with all the cheese you could eat, which attracted the most beautiful girls in all of Greenland, none of which would look at Santa twice, unless they came by asking 'can I borrow one of your mothers toys, I'm way too cheese bloated to have actual sex, oh not like I would with you anyway, you chubby freak, I'm mean with your neighbor, Dr Sciencewhattsy, wow, he had science in his surname, no wonder he turned out the be a scientist, my name is Sarah Bestblowjobimaginable, I wonder what I’ll do if I ever decide to get a job'? And then they'd use his toilet, leaving cheese turds so pungent they burned holes in the porcelain, and left smells so bad that the bricks thrown at him would disintegrate within days of smacking him in the face.

Oh plus Santa was unhappy because he had just remembered he had found a watch that could stop time, and he could have had the most amazing life imaginable, even by the most fertile of imaginative minds, but the day he found it he'd put it down to watch TV, and forget it was there.

Now that he remembered that he had it he needed to come up with a plan. He sat down to a delicious feast of Grit Dumplings, with a side of Gritty Scarpariello and a desert of Profiteroles La Grit, all with a frosty of mug of Grit Juice, and some things became clear to him - eating and drinking nothing but grit was fucking awesome, living in an gritty house made of grit was sweet, and bathing and sleeping in grit was the dream, following his mother's footsteps had been a great success, even if almost all of the rest of the country had switched to 'currency' for pay, and bathed in water and ate pizza, he wasn’t tempted to join them, because he was happy, and comfortable. And that was exactly what had been holding him back. He needed to delve towards discomfort if he was to achieve his life goals.

So he headed for the worst place he had ever heard of, a little place called  ‘slightly further south from where he was and still in Greenland. This was the worst place he'd ever heard of as he’d heard their fermented grit was sometimes out of season, and also because knowing about other places outside of Greenland had yet to be invented, and that what something Santa knew for sure, after many long conversations with foreign tourists that he'd run into at the local amusement park. So south is where he headed.

Unfortunately the bird he decided to follow south turned out to be retarded. And he ended up at the North Pole. Here he ran into a small society, where years of inbreeding and bestiality had lead to magic animals and elf like humans. It was really gross and freaky. Santa knew he was home.

From there the following took place:

- Santa told all the freaks he'd kidnap them and put them in a circus if they didn't become his slaves and make shit for him.
- He hooked up with the most 'normal' one, a little lady named Mrs, and he married her, and then blew a big sigh of relief when he discovered on their wedding night that her vagina was not gritty, nor a reindeer hoof.
- He put into action his decree that ‘One day when I grow up I'm going to spoil all the seemingly happy well off shitty assholes until they ALL disappear!'
- Likewise for his other decree ‘Coal for anyone with a unique spirit, that's my plan!’

- Using his watch that could stop time made it possible for him to play out his plan to every house in the world.

- He hoped that his third decree ‘I’ll never clean my ear without eating the wax again’! was forgotten, and not mentioned in his biography.

- When people started saying stuff like ‘yeah right, as if Santa could hit every house on earth in one night, instead of telling them about the watch, he’d snap-chat all their friends with a picture of his mothers vagina.
- The world embraced and became to adore Santa, and his methods, and not a single flaw in his system has ever been even noticed, let-alone discovered.

- A bunch of show off lying ass songwriters re-told his story, changing the facts for lame shit, and they torture people with them each year.

- The lazy rectum committee re-named their product ‘street vendor hotdogs’ and they actually took off.

-Greenland changed their name to Graceland for one day, and Elvis was so pissed off he shit himself to death.

- Coal eventually got a dirty name, after someone rubbed coal all over it, so Santa decided to just start giving the interesting people nothing at all, no one seemed to notice.

- People began to honor Santa’s history by eating grit pies on Christmas, although they call them ‘fruit cake’.

- And everyone lived happily ever after.

Santa - The real truthful gritty origin story - Pt 2

'With a tart burst, this delicacy demands its arrival to your taste buds be heard around the mouth, but it is no one trick pony*. No sirree, the soiree has only just begun, as moments after its grand entrance, a bitter tug of flavor tightens the inner cheeks, only to be followed by a grand stench of umami dreaming rancidity that roller coasters its presence like a butterfly caught in a tornado, until the upper tonsils serenade the sinuses with melodies of acidic robustness only to depart, with swiftness clearly not on the agenda, and with a discharge of crusty after burned relentless batteryesq aroma...

*unless the lazy rectum you are eating came from an actual pony^

^which most do, that's one lazy assed animal'

Is how the lazy rectum committee began to market their product in the early to mid 1800s. Although even with this poetic gift of taste arrousal it still failed to grab any sense of a regular station on the inner city transit network of regular eats for most Grasslandic households. Mostly because it was not actually tasty, but partly because it was also unimaginably disgusting. 

Still it sold enough to warrant a factory, and any asshole who worked there was paid enough product to feed just one person, and these selfish (or heroic) assholes rarely shared their bounty with family. Santa's father, a born lazy asshole, was no exception. But the truth was, as night after night young Santa sat down to some grit salad, or a delicious fondue de' grittay, he never once looked over to his father's plate of lazy rectum and coveted even a taste. 

Therefore when his father demanded he eat some one night, fed up with his son's dreams of a better life, better world, and better prime time television options, it was most certainly a punishment.

At this point in history, with grit being a beloved new entry to the cannon of modern convenience, those who worked within the industry and therefore had access to the product were considered most certainly upperclass, and they absolutely never fraternized with lazy assholes or their lazy rectum, so the two products had never been consumed by one person on the same day ever before. And as the chewed up lazy rectum meat entered young Santa's stomach and met the juices and fragments of grit already there, something truly remarkable happened, something magical, very magical....

He got a sore tummy. 

It was the first time this had ever happened to anyone ever, as the word 'tummy' had only been coined a few days earlier, and people before then had called them 'gut sores', and experiencing a brand new medical condition freaked Santa the fuck out.

He bolted from the house, ran to the local unstable nuclear power science emporium, broke into the spider testing area, flung the spiders aside, and made a fortress of solitude out of the rubble, where he built an iron suit, sold it for ten bucks, and used it to pay to have his parents killed, swore revenge, then remembered that would mean revenge on himself, said 'meh' to that, studied martial arts anyway, learned the ways of the force, and grabbed a shield painted with the beautiful colors of the nations flag, and declared himself Captain Grassland! It was a busy evening.

Then he went home, turned on the TV, discovered that in the last hour the nation had been re-named Greenland, threw out his shield, took a nap in his dead parents bed, felt weird about it, then found a watch in his mothers 'toy' bucket, and found a note on it saying:

'Can be used to stop time one day a year, and ONLY one day a year, don't even TRY it on other days, it'll be a total waste of finger pressing, which could be way better utilized to press on a bruise, which is weirdly fun, you know, I mean it hurts but you can't stop right? It's strange, because normally we try to AVOID pain right? Well I do. One time I fell off my skateboard and scrapped my right knee AND left elbow, I was in pain on BOTH sides, it SUCKED. So you know what I did? I stopped riding my skateboard anywhere but inside bouncy castles, sure occasionally I have to beat a couple of kids with my board so they nick off to the hospital and get their wheelchairs so I can have it to myself, but I don't hurt MYSELF anymore. So that's proof I'm pain adverse. And yet get me a bruise and I'll press it, ha ha, I'll press it till the cows come home. And I don't even own cows, so I have to call up my friends with cows and ask them if they're still out, and they always reply "if my cows were home would I be answering the fucking phone or having a gleeful time with my cows? I'd be playing with my cows wouldn't I, it'd be fucking gleeful. But I'm not having that glee, I'm talking to you asshole, and yet you want to remind me of the glee I'm missing because my cows aren't yet home?" And then I'll go back to the bruise. And then an hour or so later call my friend back and ask "how about now, any sign of those cows?" And they'll reply "did I or did I not fucking explain to you what I would do if the phone rang and my cows were also already home?" And this pattern will continue for a few hours until I have to stop pressing my bruise because for some reason there'll be a stranger throwing bricks at my house and they'll be yelling "do I seem gleeful motherfucker?" Ha ha. Bruises. Anyway, this watch. December 25th each year, click stop, do whatever the fuck you want, travel the world if you want, take as long as you want, then hit start again and the rest of the world will have experienced literally no time at all. Have fun. And keep it somewhere no one would ever dare look. Somewhere gross normally works'.

Did you notice? The words 'Nick off' were in there. This was the same thing young Nick would say whenever he'd finished pooping and climb off the toilet, he knew this was a sign. Also because the note was written on the same metal and in the same style as traffic signs, and the words were the same size and shape, so it was also literally a sign. His mother sure did have a big toy bucket. And all the toys were made from grit, so that also explained her vagina situation. 

Nick looked at the watch, looked at the toys, and then something hit his brain like a brick!

It was a stranger throwing a brick through the window while yelling 'Do I look like I'm having glee motherfucker!!!'

Nick ran to the window and yelled out 'hey man, has someone been asking about your cows?'

'Yeah' came the reply.

'I think you want next door, old man Dr Sciencetypeguy is always asking people if their cows are home. Oh and inventing things and patenting them. I really think those patents may be the wave of the future!' 

'Thanks man, and I agree, oh you mind throwing that brick back, I need to throw it next door' 

'No problem man' Santa yelled, as he threw the brick back, accidentally smashing his own car's window, and then yelling at himself 'I'm never getting a mode of fucking transportation with windows again, fucking fragile pieces of shit'.

Then he went and watched a game-show, and snap chatted with a few friends, ate some grit florentine, jerked off once or twice, tried to learn a new scale on his guitar, got wasted on fermented grit juice, and then suddenly seventy years had passed, when he suddenly bolted upright and yelled 'oh fuck, I forgot all about all my goals, my dreams, my future, oh and even that time stopping watch thing!'

And it would turn out that remembering all that would have a surprise magical effect, very magical, and we'll explore that tomorrow, when...

Santa - The real truthful gritty origin story 

Concludes....

Santa Clause - The Real Truthful Gritty Origin Story

The year was 1829, and the place was far north Greenland, which at the time was called Grassland, even though it had no grass, because the color green wasn't invented yet, and the founders had really wanted to name the place ‘g-something-land’.

I mean sure, there were prototypes out there for the color Green already, but nothing had been perfected yet, let alone patented, and there were several different master inventors working on their own varieties. Most notably, out of many, Cameron Bunford and Charles Ireland.

We all know this story of course, and this isn't the origin story of the color Green, but as we all know Charles got beaten to the patent, and then got swindled by a country near the UK who took a huge shipment of fresh new green and paid only by naming their nation after him, a nice, yet financially moronic decision for Ireland.

Had he known just how much money there would be in Green he never would have made the deal, but people couldn’t see into the future as yet.

Cameron, on the other hand, made a similar deal with a nation then known as Grassland. But when but he failed to come up with any real product, having spent all his capital on the patent and suing Ireland who seemed to be selling Green illegally, and then he went into huge debt after being counter-sued by Ireland the nation, after it turned out he’d sued the wrong Ireland.

Grassland then sued Bunford and were awarded Green in the settlement. They the renamed their country Greenland, to use as a marketing tool to sell the color Green which they began to export in earnest, mostly to rich countries around the world, and Green began to go for such a pretty penny that they didn't even keep any for themselves.

It was in this land, several years before all this took place, that a small baby boy to be named Nick, was born in a gritty hospital, in a gritty hospital bed, on a gritty weathered day, in a gritty part of town, and out of a vagina so gritty that there was never a doubt he'd be an only child.

His mother was a gritty woman who worked in the local grit factory, which was a new and coveted commodity in those days. His father was a revenge fucker, who only slept with Nick’s mother because the owner of the grit factory had outbid him on the newly invented pretty penny, which had already proven to be a massive blow to Father Clause.

As a result Nick grew up in a bitter household, with his parents forced to marry by the country's then romantic 'you stuffed it you bought it' law, in a gritty house, made from grit, and with nothing but grit to eat, as in those days people were only ever paid in the in the company they worked for's product. It was even worse for those who worked at the murder factory. Where a good month of working your bones to the nub breaking the factories murder record, was rewarded with the lovely pay of having yourself and all your family murdered. But at least that was a company that always seemed to have jobs going. Still, young Nick didn't think about his friends who's parents worked there, because they were shitty friends who always seemed to just stop returning his calls and texts out of the blue with no explanation. He hated those kids. 'Spoiled little shits' he'd think.

'One day when I grow up I'm going to spoil all the seemingly happy well off shitty assholes until they ALL disappear!' He'd yell at no one in particular, as he'd sit at dinner eating a warm bowl of grit and washing it down with an ice-cold can of diet grit.
'What, are you going to get a job at the spoil store?' His dad would reply laughing, 'they'd never hire you, you're too fair, they only hire people dedicated to unbalance, and karmaprovedwronganites, you stupid shit'
'At least I dream of having a job Dad, I'll never end up a lazy bum!' He'd yell back. But he always felt really empathetic right after, as his dad dug into his own dinner, a bowl of lazy rectum, the least clean type of rectum.

I mean seriously the pay structure back then was awful. That's probably why people always coveted patents now that I think about it.

As childhood rolled on, Nick developed school chums, and the chums developed a Nickname for Nick at school, it was the first one ever, and the term nickname was named after Nick. Nick on the other hand was nicknamed ‘Santa’, which was Grasslandish for 'came from a gritty vagina', and they'd begun to call him this after his father had accidentally snap-chatted a picture of his wife's hooch to a bunch of his sons friends.

This was yet another blow to his already fragile self-esteem, and as a result Santa began not to dream of working at the spoil factory. Those guys’ families all seemed too smug for him, too pompous and too highfalutin. And this last one was something he particularly disliked, as neither falutin nor height had been invented yet, and he found that too arrogant, too pretentious, and too grandiloquent. 

No the people he looked up to were the badasses. The misfits. The provocateurs. The Rebels. The Nirvanas. The Stone Temple Pilots. The Creedence Clear Water Rivals. The My Chemical Romances. The kids that rejected cool so much that they became way more cool than even the cool kids could dream of. And this was Grassland remember, so being cool was all anyone had. These were kids so cool that one-day band’s would name themselves after them. (And yet Grassland is almost forgotten in terms of the story of Rock n Roll, for shame).

But they did also influence Santa. Nope Santa did not seek the regular normal life most craved. He wanted to be his own man. Like the kids he looked up to. And by being so he wanted to inspire the people of the world to be better and cooler and more badass than they’d ever been before. And the kids who lived that way all seemed to come from families who worked at a very specific place…

The Coal Factory.

'Coal for anyone with a unique spirit, that's my plan!' he'd suddenly burst out with, after getting lost in daydreams.

But one day, his dad would overhear him, call him a tool, and punish him by making poor Santa finish his dad's dinner.

And it would turn out that lazy rectum and grit mixed together in a stomach would have a surprise magical effect, a very surprise magical effect. Well not so much a surprise, at least not in the long run, more very reliably routine, but at first in was a HUGE surprise, and we’ll explore that more tomorrow, when

Santa - The Real Truthful Gritty Origin Story

Continues....

Fast attack

Do want a speed boat that only works on lakes???

I'm not kidding here, it will NOT work on oceans, in rivers, near billabongs, or in big puddles, it will not work AT ALL. 

Let's say that another way. You'll look like a dick if you try and use it somewhere other than a lake, and not the good kind of dick, but like a dick that makes people yell shit at you, shit like 'you look like a dick', or 'nice speed boat, looks like it doesn't work you dick', or 'nice boat dick', or even 'hey dick, you look like a dick'.

Let's put that another way, remember the first time you got caught staring at two birds fighting over a French fry, and everyone thought 'man, that dick thinks HE/SHE should be the one that gets to eat/ fight over that French fry, what a dick', and then to prove you weren't a dick, you ignored  the French fry and instead fought a an old man for use of his cane, yelling 'I'd look WAY cooler than you with this cane' as you struggled to wrestle him to the ground, and remember how you lost that fight, and as he was belting you in the face with his cane and saying 'smarten up dumbass' and someone walked past and said 'look at that dumb ass, what a dick!'? Remember? Well if you try and use this speed boat in a river, you'll look like even more of a dick than you did then. 

Let's put that another way - think of a green shoe. Any sort of green shoe. Could be a men's shoe, could be a lady shoe, could be a casual shoe, should be dress up shoe. It doesn't matter, just as long as it's a specific shoe. Got one in your mind? Now, remember that time that you thought of a specific green shoe just because someone told you to? Woah, man you looked like a dick! But not as much as a dick as you'd look if you tried to use this speed boat near a billabong. Wow, what a dick you'd look like.

Let's say this in a another way. Remember when you were looking at that person who was a dick, and you were like 'wow that guys a dick' and then you realized that you were actually looking in the mirror? And you were like 'wow. I am a dick'. Remember that? Well you get in this speed boat in a really big puddle, and you'll look like an even bigger dick than that time that even you thought you looked like a dick. And you're not someone who usually calls someone a dick unless they REALLY look like a dick. So man, you would look like a dick in this speed boat in a puddle. 

So do you STILL want this speed boat? Yes? Well I'm not giving it to you. Because a speed boat like doesn't exist. ALL speed boats work on oceans, in rivers, near billabongs, or in big puddles. So if you want one then why not invent one then, I can't do everything for you! You dick. 

YEP, this whole speed boat offer was a LIE, and it turns out therefore that it was not you, but me, who was the dick was this whole time! I'M the dick, and you're just a really nice person. Awww. Now don't you feel good about yourself. Yay.

Please note: throughout this blog the word 'dick' was intended to be used as a substitute in every case for 'literal penis'. If you read it any other way you're a total vagina.

Please note 2: throughout these notes the word 'vagina' was intended to be used as a substitute for 'awesome human', man I just can't stop making you feel great about yourselves! 

Please note 3: go me for making you feel awesome. 

No, NO, KNOW!!!

Look we all know a couple of things in life, and that's all. Just a couple of things, things we know for SURE.

And I'm not saying 'sure' in a -'go to the beach with you? Sure!' - way, when let's face it, by 'sure' you mean 'only if it's by the shore, I'm not going to no fucking lake beach motherfucker, oh also only if the weather is nice, sometimes it's windy and I get sand in my face, that's not very pleasant'. No I mean 'sure' like 'do something enjoyable with you which I personally have no exclusions or special need requirements? Sure!' way. And I'm talking when this unnamed person who is asking the questions you're responding 'sure', among other things, to is someone that the following could be an answer about them you'd say - 'do I think they're swell? Sure'! 

And those things we know are as follows:

- If you wanted to drink the entire ocean you'd want at LEAST a week.

- Buyer beware.... Of that cannon! Holy fuck, who brought a cannon into this juice kiosk? 

- There are many ways to skin a cat.

- Love, love is all you need (assuming they love you back, which they don't).

- Cynicism is swell. 

- The beaches are hard to swim at when the swell is too big.

- Fuck, why am I referencing the beach a lot today? I don't even like the beach.

- I wonder if it's because I got a lot of sun today?

- Maybe.

- I don't know.

- Who the fuck knows how my brain works.

- Lists are fun.

- If you really studied the fibers of your home carpet it'd probably end up looking really, really gross.

- Probably the same thing with the inside of a wetsuit.

- I bet if they DO love you back, at least one of you occasionally wears a wetsuit! Gross!

- Man you people make me sick.

- Jealousy is also swell. 

And that's it! That's all we know for sure. It's not a lot. It's a depressingly small amount of things that we know.

Well I say NO, we should all know more things to be able to say 'no, I don't need to know more about that, I already know enough, and no I won't go to the beach with you, and I think you know why I said no'.

THAT'S the sort of world I want to live in. And I'm going to make is so. So here is, something you may not already know, but should know: 

There is ALSO a lot of ways to RESKIN a cat! 

You know after it's been skinned. Which should be called deskinned shouldn't it. It started out with skin. You're not doubling its skin. You're removing skin. I mean if you 'scan' a document you're not removing the scan from it. Fucking language assholes, we're putting skin on a cat, so we're skinning a cat, why do the animal cruelty people get the cool word! (You know what, just for that grammar and word police, I'm not going to use flawless grammar and the like in today's blog, suck on that!) 

So here is, ways to RE-skin a cat:

1.  Buy some new skin at Cat Skin R Us, some cat skin glue at Skin Glue U Asked, and some cat skin glue applicators at Application Z Kt (kitty) Glue, and simply follow instructions.

2. Go to KFC, grab several huge buckets of original recipe chicken, take it to a party where every guest is a heavy subscriber to the carb free lifestyle, come by in the morning and collect all the skin they peeled off the chicken. Eat it (it IS the best bit) then repeat step 1.

3. Spend way too long at the beach, until your skin is all burned and peels off. Collect said skin. Put it in a small tub. Give it to a girl, saying 'this is the latest skin fad from Europe'. Watch her rub it into her skin. If her skin looks great the next few days then take out a patent on your new invention. If her skin looks awful then tell her what the product really was and laugh a lot. Then repeat number 1. 

4. Buy a life sized cat toy. Empty it out. Put your skinned cat inside. When it chews it's way out of this toy shell, then repeat step 1. 

5. Do nothing for an hour. Then repeat step 1.

6. Grow a new cat on the back of a rat, like they did with that ear that time. As it grows take bets on both when the rats back cat will turn on its

host rat and also whether the rat or the cat will win the fight. Use your vast winnings to repeat step 1.

So there you have it, six easy ways to reskin a cat. And now you know one more thing to add to your list of things you know. Now please don't make the rest of us look ignorant, you best be off to finish drinking the ocean, you've only got four more days! 

The Validity Of Worry

I'm worried, worried that I will never in my life figure out just the right amount of stanleaping to aspire for. 

Now I know what you're thinking ... There is no WRONG amount of stanleaping. How could there be? Stanleaping is good in both small and large quanties, so how could any amount be wrong? 

And you make valid points, but consider these three equally as valid points:

1. Carlotta is an awesome name for a car the mob use for transferring bodies, because they could say it out loud in public and no one would bat an eyelid - typical conversation. 

'Come with us!' 

'Why? No? Why? Where are you taking me?' 

'Let's m just say you'll soon be deep inside Carlotta'.

'Well that sounds swell, let's go'. 

2. Sewing bats to your eyes would be an awesome way to make a cheap costume for a costume party - typical conversation:

'What are you dressed as?'

'What? Who said that? Is someone talking to me? I'm in a lot of pain, I can't see anything, and these bats have chewed deep enough into my skull to now be nibbling on brain, please please help me!' 

'Ha ha, wow, committing to the costume, love it, you could be in for the running for best costume, well if it actually was a costume, we did specifically write on the invite that sewing an animal to your eyes would not count this year, you know after the "Panda Eyes" lady last year, it really was in poor taste, especially since they weren't organic Pandas, and we were trying to raise funds for a health food movement'

'No no, I didn't read that part of the invite, I probably got too enthusiastic as soon as I had the idea, it's Blind As Bat, you know, I'm blind now, because  I have bats sewed to my eyes, it's like art imitating life' 

'Oh oh, I thought it was Wouldn't Bat An Eyelid, demonstrated by showing exactly WHY you wouldn't bat an eyelid, in a life lesson demonstrated by art situation. Oh in that case your costume sucks, it's blind AS a bat, not blind DUE to a bat, you freaking idiot' 

3. Sewing is a dying art form, which is sad, typical conversation:

'Oh my god, we're officially trapped on this desert island, we're almost certainly going to die, unless...'

'Unless what???'

'Quickly, sew us up a boat'

'What? Do I look like I know how to sew? I'm not a fag!'

'Woah, woah, woah, bad word man. Oh shit. I don't think I can even be friends with you if you're going to use that word'

'I didn't mean it man, it just came out, I don't like that word either, I'm sorry, it's a scary situation, and my emotions were on high, I won't say it again, I swear'

'Don't give me this heightened emotions shit, that's not an excuse, heightened emotions might pull that word from your mouth, but they don't put that word in your heart for it to be available. I'm going to go die alone on the other side of the island, hope your death goes well'

'It is NOT in my heart, you shit face, you know what, my death will be awesome, because I'll just be fantasizing about you being deep in Carlotta!' 

'What? Seriously, what? Now that's just WEIRD!' 

'No no no, it's not a sexual thing, ha ha, nah I just heard that's what the mob call the car they ship bodies around in, ha ha, I'm going to be thinking about your bloodied corpse, not you getting laid!'

'Ha ha, that's hilarious, cause I thought you were going to be thinking about like my penis in a girl named Carlotta, ha ha, that's funny'

'Wait, can YOU sew us up a boat?' 

'Of course not? What do you take me for, some sort of queer?' 

See, all also very valid points, and yet these examples are full of unforgivable levels of bad language, death, and bad costumes.

So perhaps valid is not what we're seeking today. Hmmm, lots to ponder. Thankfully when questions arise there is an easy solution, stanleap the fuck out of them! 

Ha ha, I just realized that you might think stanleaping is when you leap on a wise giant named Stan and demand answers. Ha ha, that'd be weird. Nah man, it's just when you imagine a starving foe with his dick in a girl with bats sewed to her eyes, so it's not weird at all. 

But maybe there will be balloons!

Ronald, a well to do, high end of town, epic penthouse apartment owner, with a trendy haircut, designer clothes, and currently holding glass of expensive champagne, suddenly said 'you know what, I'm no longer throwing shindigs, from now on I'm only throwing shinburys, maybe fill the holes in all those shins, you know what I mean?' 

The last six of his guests, still there from what seemed to now be his last shindig, currently rolling around on the floor, drenched in blood, collecting up chunks of shin, were screaming 'we told you, we TOLD YOU! It's just a word, you weren't supposed to literally dig into all of our shins you psychopath!' 

But there was no deterring him, he went on to throw the best damn shinbury the town had ever seen! 

Some people left with more shin than they'd had even at the START of the shindig season! 

Where did this extra shin came from?

Well no body dared to ask.

No, the townsfolk were now too busy screaming in terror at what he meant when he said next he'd be throwing a 'regular party'. For this was positively petrifying prospect. An UNIMAGINABLY horrible possibility. An unquestionably AWFUL pronouncement. 

There was no WAY he could misinterpret 'regular party'.

And who could turn down a party in a sweet pad like this? 

Party season sure was stretching on an exhaustingly long time this year.

They're stinging to come

I think that if I was suddenly attacked by a swarm of human sized bees dressed as wasps at least fourteen thoughts would immediately go through my mind:

1. Maybe I should start wearing more yellow. Wait, do I currently wear any yellow? I don't think I do. So I can't wear MORE. Wow. That's interesting.

2. Why do I have a receipt from KFC in my pocket, I haven't eaten KFC in ages. 

3. I bet 'seven' would be an a fun word to yell in a hospital, perhaps even in a good hospital! 

4. I don't think people boast enough about their epic ability to do things in moderation 

5. Avoiding jail is all about creating confusion in your trial right, that's why If I was a thief I'd only ever steal things made of steel, that way at the trial there would bound to be some confusion! 

6. I'll tell you one thing about pens, not one of them has DEMANDED I stab someone with them, it's a polite request at best. 

7. A bowl of nuts and a nut of bowls are very different, VERY different, the 2nd one is just stupid, I mean you can't have multiple bowls. 

8. Have you ever noticed that the stirrer you get with coffee may seem like it's trying to destroy segregation and facilitate harmony by mixing everything together, then bam it stabs you in the eye! 

9. Turns out at the party is 'where's the party at' 

10. If I ever had a kid I'd name it 'I told you so' - it would GUARANTEE that really annoying people would say his name a lot. 

11. One day I'm going to spend an entire year wearing nothing but a white suit so I can prove once and for all a lot can be achieved in 'one day'.

12. Either that or wear jeans, whatever's easier 

13. Wait maybe yellow jeans! 

14. I could wear them to KFC, for some reason I currently feel like some. 

The point is I wouldn't pay them any attention, I mean seriously, wasp outfits? That's hardly even different from bees. If you're going to dress up have some fucking imagination you losers. 

Wet with curiosity - a poem

Kelly found a coffee mug, at the local park, deep into the notorious south-east wing, of the dark and constantly moist shrubs.

She also found a soiled adult diaper covered in seaman. 

But that's gross, so we're not going to talk about that.

The fact that she kept the mug is gross enough. 

I mean who keeps a shrub mug? 

That's disgusting. 

It's the one she uses at work too, which means that in reality the whole work uses it, because people in offices are assholes when it comes to other people's property.

I once came to work and found my 'word of the day' calendar already flicked to the new day! 

Flicking that was the highlight my entire day when I had that job. 

And by highlight I mean the only two seconds I didn't think about going to the bathroom and drinking all the drain cleaner. 

Of which there was a LOT, because people in offices are gross when it comes to office bathrooms. 

Fucking assholes. 

So hey look Kelly...

Maybe stay out of those shrubs. 

EVERYONE knows the reputation they have. 

And you have to poke around?

And grab a shrub mug? 

And now I'M thinking about a horrible memory. 

The word of that day was 'baroque', and now I STILL don't know what it means, because I accidentally flipped it not realizing as yet that some other asshole had already done it.

And now I've just realized I said 'flicked' earlier when I meant 'flipped'.

Your damn poking around has ruined my afternoon Kelly.

And to think that I was nice enough not to tell everyone what you did with that adult diaper! 

Sexy Ears

'More sets, I said bigger, more lavish and more elaborate SETS'! 

Stan Johnson, the Greek God of Television, Film and Advertisement, had recently returned to earth for the first time in forty-three years, and was sitting down to watch a montage put together to show how the industry had so proudly ran with the advice he'd given as he departed from his previous visit. 

'Can't you fucking assholes listen?' He screamed, right as the montage was reaching footage from the 80s 'I'm not a prude or anything, I just like well made sets' he added, whimpering. 

He now began to cry, as he jerked off to topless ladies in scenes from The Night Of The Living Dead. It was turning out to be one of his top five strangest earth visits ever.