Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Hats and Balls

After rigorously going over the submissions for the 'Questions and Queries' column, I have chosen Psychotic Penguin's submission for this first installment because it touches on so many of the issues of today that are ripping our society apart. There is absolutely no truth to the rumour that I took money from said penguin. It was a donation to my charity FindSave which benefits the forgotten spinal bifida children of Patagonia. So without further ado, I will bid adieu and turn it over to ewe.

Dear Buddy,
If a guy gives you a colorful (or, in your case, colourful) rubber ball with his name on it, does that mean he likes you?


Dear Shaina. First let me say that you sound like a very nice person, notwithstanding your moniker Psychotic Penguin. However I muist advise you against the i in your name. Look what it does to must. It makes me want to pronounce your name like hyaena. That said, if it is actually pronounced that way, then my deepest apologies to you and all your people whoever they are. As to your attack on Canadian spelling let me just say that even though the o u combination is such an irritant to spell check. and Americans it’s worth it.

Now to the nub of your question, the rubber ball with someone’s name on it.. Throughout history the signed rubber ball has been associated with romantic love. From the ancient Sumerians to the modern Sumerians, a man giving you a rubber ball which he has signed has always meant he desired marriage. A sgned black rubber ball that is. A signed colourful rubber ball means you probably just met me as that’s the only way I sign autographs anymore. You see an Aunt of mine who was a hoarder recently passed and left me ten thousand colourful rubber balls and ever since I’v e been trying to get rid of them. Now as to how you forgot meeting me, that I cannot explain. Interestingly enough I do like you but not that way so I guess my answer to your question is a qualified ‘yes..’

My niece Fagette just called. She said she missed me and couldn’t wait to visit me in Toronto. I haven’t told her yet that I’ve moved to Hollywood. I’ll cross that bridge when she shows up on my nonexistent doorstep in the T-dot like she did the last time. She. was very excited because she got a C on her project at school. I told her that marks weren't what counted. That a C was nice but it wouldn’t buy happiness. Popularity does that. So I asked her what sort of press she'd received and she told me that it had been overwhelmingly positive which is never a good sign. I once went to a screening of a movie where people hated it so much they stood up at the end just to show their support. It's only when things are great that people feel that it's okay to criticize.

It reminds me of that time in Hatworld when a top hat named Tim and a rasta hat named Rufus were flying around one day smoking a big spliff and debating whether or not a toupe should be considered a hat. Even Socrates would have needed two boys to solve that one. Tim was pro-toupee, but Rufus said if you start letting in toupees where will it end? Bubble wigs? Glasses perched on the head? Weaves? Suddenly, they were surrounded by a V-formation of blue foam cowboy hats. Their brims drooped. They were obviously drunk. "Oh my god, one's got a hat pin, screamed Rufus ". Tim the top hat remained frozen in the air like a frightened Fred Astaire. Then everything became still, like that moment just before you're named Miss Universe.

Then, something moved across the sun, like an eclipse, and it became very cold. They all looked up to see a hat so big you could stage a high school production of Flower Drum Song on it. It was God. The foam cowboy hats scattered and Rufus and Tim fell into each other's brims with relief and when they looked up the big hat was gone. Now, that’s the kind of God that I can handle. Large, stylish, and knows when to leave a party.


Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Fran's Miracle Cancer Prevention

Guess who dropped by for a cup of instant coffee? Sorry. You took too long. It's Fran Wilson and she has a rather interesting story about a visit to her doctor. I'm just going to let the humble homemaker tell it like it is. By the way I'm collating all the 'questions and queries' and will soon have some answers for you. Hang on ewesies while I go through this transtion time. No, not transitioning. I'm not changing sex. 'm moving. Once is enough.


The other day my doctor, asked me if I wanted to try out this new "preventative" cancer technique he'd learned in England. I was all for it as long as there were no machines involved. I don't like machines. Pain, I'm fine with. It's character building but machines make you soft. That's why I got rid of the robot vacuum.
The doctor assured me that the procedure was completely manual, that it consisted of simple digital,which is Latin for finger,manipulation of the pelvic region. He explained that the movement of a doctor's digits against the womanly wall stimulated blood flow to the area which in turn triggered a mysterious process which completely eliminated tumors before they even had a chance to take root. It was all too complicated for me, so I just kept my lip buttoned and assumed the position.
At first I didn't feel much at all, but then I started to have some localized discomfort, you know, down there, so I asked him what that was all about. He explained to me in his best bedside manner that since the pelvic wall expands one digit for each child and since I'd had five, it was necessary to use his whole hand. That made sense, although why he was in up to his elbow, I still don't know. I didn't ask because I don't understand the science.
Then I went somewhere I've never been before and then I went somewhere else. And then it was over. And I must say, I did feel like I was a better person. Now this is the best part. Free. God bless Canadian health care. You don't get that in the States. When I told my sister Barbara in Buffalo about the whole thing, she said it sounded suspicious. She's just jealous because she knows her HMO wouldn't cover it. He scheduled another treatment for me next week, this time to prevent prostate cancer which apparently runs rampant with older women.


Tuesday, May 22, 2007

Tippitoe thru the Two Lips

Since I'm so busy with my move, I've been unable to post as much as I'd like. However, lucky for me, my old friend Weston Esterhazy, tabloid reporter at large and the real Perez Hilton dropped by with a story that will curl your merkin. Let me just let Weston tell the story in his own words.

Weston Esterhazy Reports

Hello, my name is Weston Esterhazy and I’m a tabloid reporter and even though I’m not affiliated with any official media outlets in either television, radio, print or the internet, and don’t have any official journalistic accreditation in either the United States,England, Canada or the Bahamas I do live in Hollywood and I love the business of show and isn’t that what it’s all about.

So onto today’s Celebrity News. I’m walking down Melrose Ave. the other day when who should be coming towards me but Tippi Hedren and her daughter Melanie Griffith. That’s amazing enough but the best part was they were both sporting camel toes. At first I thought it was a trick of the light or a hallucination possibly brought on by the Gingko Biloba in my Jamba Juice but when I looked again, boom, there it was. I was on to a scoop but the only problem was, I didn’t have a camera. I had pure gold and no way to spin it.

Then I noticed Tippi pulling a little camera out of her purse. I started thinking about my dog named Tippi who got lumpy and died. Then I thought, I gotta get that camera. I noticed Melanie was pressing her fish lips against a poster of herself in some movie. “It looks like a good movie.” I say. Melanie looks up and goes, “ It sucks. “ I then noticed the poster was for “Crazy in Alabama.” So, she’s not totally stupid, I thought.

Then Tippi raised the camera to take a picture of her daughter. I knew I had to act. I suggested that I take a picture of the two of them together kissing Melanie on either cheek, and they thought it was a great idea. I could tell they’d been drinking, which is always helpful in my business. The glamorous pair got into position. Then I realized, the way they were posed, you couldn’t see the goods so thinking quickly, I asked Tippi to throw her arm around her daughter. She looked confused. I suddenly realized, it wasn’t Tippi Hedren at all but Janet Leigh.

I knew I had two options. I could either tell the truth and say that I had mistaken Janet Leigh for Tippi Hedren or I could lie and say that I’d mistaken Melanie Griffith for Jamie Lee Curtis. So, I say to Melanie that I’m sorry that I mistook her for Jamie Lee Curtis. And then she goes, “ I am Jamie Lee Curtis you fucking idiot,” really loud, in my face. That’s when I finally recognized her. She’d had her lips done and so it had thrown me.

Then the person whom I think is Janet goes, “ And I’m sure not her fucking mother. So I look at her like, now what, and then I realize with a horrible sinking feeling that it’s not Janet Leigh at all but David Spade. The picture was becoming more worthless by the second.

Suddenly a mud covered Range Rover comes squealing to a halt right in front of us and who should get out but Tippi Hedren herself. She was wearing absolutely no makeup which advertised her aversion to sunscreen and her tan safari jacket which was filthy and covered in cat hair hung loosely on her gaunt frame. Looped loosely around one wrist was a dirty rope which was attached to what looked like some sort of an animal. Then her animal got out of the vehicle. He was a big striped cat, but not a calico, more of an actual tiger really. I was suddenly aware of the camera in my hand and without thinking, I pointed it and clicked. The tiger immediately charged. I threw the camera at the beast but it missed and hit Tippi and she went down like a sack of papery bones. The next thing I remember is waking up under Peabo Brysons hedge wearing nothing but plastic handcuffs, an order to appear in court on the 27th and a cum sock. If you would like to send me money so I can make the court date and find out what charges I’m facing so that I don’t end up like Paris Hilton, then send it to Peabo Bryson, c/o the Hollow and the Tree.


Friday, May 11, 2007

Sweet Jesus, its about Time

Hello ewesies. Its been a long time once again. Im* going to be honest with you this time and tell you the truth even if its a lie. No tall tales of pirates swooping into my home in the dead of night and then swooping back out in the morning a little kindler, a lot gentler and much much poorer. Even though that did happen, it was the one time and he was no pirate, he was an actor and he did it for my birthday and no it wasn’t Geena Davis.

A few weeks ago I received a frantic phone call from the Kids in the Hall manager Seymour Hessenfop who told me that the Kids were in trouble. He said that they were doing a show in L.A. and it wasn’t working and would I fly in and perform one of my famous monologues. I told Mr. Hessenfop to stop his blubbering and send me the Kids private jet. He laughed and so it came to pass that the next day saw me on an Amtrak train speeding towards Destiny at over eighty miles an hour.

Naturally the show was a rousing success. All the material was new, the boys were on and the theatre was packed every night. I debuted a new monologue where I discussed the tantalizing possibility that Jesus Christ might have been gay. Now all of you long term ewesies will no doubt recall an early post where I discussed the very same topic. Although the monologue I performed here in Hollywood differed somewhat, the seeds were planted here and ewe were there first.

I think it bears mentioning that I was the only one of the Kids in the Hall characters to appear in the show. No Hecubus, no Sarcastic Guy, no Chicken Lady, no Gavin and definitely no Francesca Fiori. No one even mentioned her. Bruno Puntz Jones told me he hadn’t spoken to her in years and that when he did she was so drunk he couldn’t understand her although to be fair, I cant understand her when shes sober.

Needless to say, the moment I arrived in Hollywood, the clamor to keep me here grew until I could no longer ignore it. So I have decided to stay. The wounds I suffered here over my failed marriage to Tandy Porter and the devastating custody battle over the two headed twins that followed have healed. So have the ones I endured over the constant thieving of my ideas including the invention of the smoothie, the idea for the hit sitcom Chasin Raisins and the philosophy of Andrew Weil. Now its not about revenge. Its about getting my face out there. No part is too small. Just this week I had an interview for head waiter at Rancho Coco Loco and it went very well. There was a picture of Lindsay Lohan in the front window wearing a Coco Loco hat on one breast and the one that wasnt wearing the hat looked sad. I think I might have lucked out.
*my apostrophe key is acting a little shifty.


Monday, April 16, 2007

Danny's Song

In light of today's tragic events at Virginia Tech I thought I would publish the text of a speech my dear friend Danny Husk gave to a conference of vice principals when he was a v.p. himself at Polly Politech. At times like these when all there are is questions, sometimes it's nice to listen to someone with a moustache who has an answer.


Thank you for your warm reception fellow vice principals. It's an honour and a privilege to be your designated speaker here tonight. I love being a vice-principal. Being a vice-principal for me,is not like almost being a principal. I say if that's how you feel then hit the road, Jack. As for all that hero stuff,well that's just the media. I'm just the same Danny Husk that I've always been. I'm certainly not a hero to my wife otherwise she wouldn't have left me. Is it hot in here. It feels hot. Uh huh. Phew. I remember it like it was yesterday. Not my wife leaving me of course,but rather the day that the boy went berserk at school,although I have to admit,I do confuse them. Certainly the shooting was worse but that's not the way I see it. No offence to the dead. It's definitely hot in here. Can we open up a window, oh they don't open. Okay, I'm going to take my jacket off if you don't mind.

(He takes his jacket off revealing huge sweat stains. Regardless, he continues to sweat freely.)

That's better. Now I can think. So, I'm in my classroom before class working out my lesson plan on the blackboard. I still teach. As a vice principal, I don't have to but I like to stay in the game. I teach shop and anger management. So, as I said, I'm at the blackboard and uh, I hear what sounds like popping noises in the hall. My first thought is that someone is setting off firecrackers and we have a zero tolerance policy to firecrackers, so I stop doodling the picture I was doing of my wife having her head ripped off by an eagle and I go to the door and just before I get to it, I hear a series of loud screams. So, I think, oh it's the Drama class and they're rehearsing their upcoming production of "Pulp Fiction" which I look forward to. Then I think okay, Fine, leave me but for a principal.

(He loosens his tie and sweeps back his sopping wet hair)

It's hotter than a whorehouse in July. Jeez. So, I open the door and standing just down the hall is a student named Michael Lipchick. I recognize him from my anger management class. He has a crazed look on his face and he's holding a big gun which he's firing willy nilly down the hall at fleeing students. My first thought is, well he's certainly going to fail and then he points the gun at me and says "Die, bitch." which I think is an odd way to address a vice principal. So I say, uh, "No, Michael, the bitch is my wife" and he laughs and without thinking,I throw my piece of chalk at him. It hits him between his eyes and he puts his hands up to block it even though it's already hit him and then somehow or other,I grab the gun and proceed to beat the living crap out of him.

I'm glad the authorities arrived as fast as they did and pulled me off him because they said if they'd come any later, I would have killed her. I mean him. I guess the best thing that's come out of all this,is that now I no longer have the urge to kill. Thank you Michael for that small blessing but I still hope you don't wake up. Now if you'll excuse me,I'm going to go change out of these wet togs and then bury myself in a good bottle of Grisham. Good night.