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.

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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.

DANNY HUSK

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.

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Questions and Queries

In response to the flurry of interest about me possibly starting an advice column, I have no choice but to honour your desires before the flurry becomes a blizzard. From hereon in let this post be known as the Questions and Queries box. Leave your questions in the 'Comments' section and I will check it periodically and choose which questions to deal with and then post the answers later. They can be on any topic from whether to circumcise your dog to what’s the best time to plant Belgian Congo quince or even heavier topics such as “Does making love to a centaur qualify as bestiality?”

For the record, “No.” A centaur is a man where it matters and a horse where it counts. That’s not perverse. That’s just common sense. In ‘The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe,’ the hottest man was the Centaur, Oreius, and the sexiest youth was the faun, Tumnus. Does this mean that I would have sex with a horse or a goat? No. Secretariat is dead. No, seriously. A goat can’t give consent and it’s questionable that a horse can. However a centaur obviously can, at least most of them can. It would be wrong to take advantage of a mentally challenged centaur or a nubile foal but a man like Oreius is a General for heaven’s sake. He knows what he’s doing.

So go ahead and fantasize my questioning friend. If you want to deepen your understanding let me recommend three books by the great writer John Varley called, respectively, ‘Titan’, ‘Wizard’ and ‘Demon’. Inside, you’ll find Human-Centaur love is explored at great length.

Which brings us back to the first question. “ Should I circumcise my dog?” Not unless he asks for it. You wouldn’t circumcise a baby would you? And finally, the best time to plant Belgian Congo quince is never. There’s no such a fruit. There! See how this thing works. It’s easy. Everybody has a question.

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The Seventies

Gabcast! ewe #34 - The Seventies

This song 'The Seventies' was the final track of our fourth album 'Sleepytime Gal'. The album cover was made up to look like an old jazz standards record. The actual sound of the endeavour inside was not jazzy at all, in fact it was rocky and soulful with a Doors feel. I think this confused the buyer and listener. The other problem which we found out too late was that there was already a Buddy Cole, a jazz pianist from the 30's or 40's or even 50's I guess. It's possible to live that long. Anyways, not only was he named Buddy Cole but he also put out a jazz album called 'Sleepytime Gal' years ago that looked exactly like this one. So we sued. Incredibly we won and that's why you've never heard of the other Buddy Cole, just me.

Ewe Can't Touch This

I can say it now with almost absolute certainty that the person behind the latest kidnapping attempt (see previous post) is none other than Francesca Fiori. Here's my proof. One day during my incarceration I noticed a long black hair on the floor. If you recall, my captors were wearing Maude masks but what I neglected to tell you was they were wearing blonde Tina Yothers wigs, so where did this come from. Exactly.

So one day after a particularly grueling session of a game they called 'Total Wit Destruction' where they would blast spoken word poetry at me, I was given a torture time out, a ten minute nap on a towel on the floor. So I'm lying there pretending to masturbate, the guards are watching a Maple Leaves game on TV and I reach over and grab the hair and slipped it into my pocket. Then I pretended to come and they looked over and cheered and then the Leaves scored and they groaned or it might have been the other way around.

Anyways, I had the hair tested and the DNA was an almost perfect match. That's good enough for me because DNA evidence often lies. The hair came from someone in Southeast Asia which means it's from a wig because most wigs are made from Southeast Asian hair because it behaves the best in high humidity. And since I've thought for years that Francescaa was actually bald this proves it. It may not be the smoking gun but it's close.

I don't want to feed her ravenous ego any more by continuing to discuss her antics but I will say this though. This feud will never end until one of us is dead or worse. It's come to that. Her jealousy over my comeback is obviously consuming her. First it was the physical destruction of my broadcasting studio in Sticaragua, then the repeated cyber attacks under the guise of the terrorist group DESU, and finally the kidnapping attempt and I say attempt because it was. She may have managed to borrow my body for a few weeks but she couldn't take my spirit and that's what's most important, after the face.

Now if you don't mind, I would like to post an old monologue from mine from the mid nineties that has never been on television. I'm feeling a little sentimental and a lot lazy.

Gay Shame

So it’s Gay Pride Day. I don’t know about you but I don’t have enough gay pride to last the whole day. I have about a minute in me, so I’ll make this snappy. Why do we celebrate Gay Pride Day? Because we are proud. Proud of what ? That we are gay. And what is gay? . Two people of the same sex doing it. It’s disgusting. I can barely stop thinking about it, I’m such a masochist. It’s like having Food Day or International Woman’s Day. Preposterous.

Instead of Gay Pride Day, I propose Gay Shame day. After all,there’s a lot more of that going around. I’m full of gay shame, but I’m not self loathing. I wouldn’t know self loathing if it came up and made me a martini, but I would take the martini. Gay shame is what you feel for other queers, the ones who aren’t you or your fabulous friends. One of the great truths that the Dalai Lama taught me is “ All fags hate each other.” Or was that Richard Gere? Now dykes are a different story. All I know is they’re always involved in these torrid little triangles yet they never seem to have much sex.

Gay Pride Day has become a big mall where you can buy anything from cock and ball separators to gay phone cards. One of these things I’d actually use. The only people who really take gay pride day seriously anymore are the interpreters for the deaf. Why wouldn’t they? It’s the best gig of the year. I used to spend every gaypride day giving free foot massages to the gay homeless. Now, it’s the one day a year I do cocaine. Something got lost along the way. Yeah, like half my friends. It’s just become an excuse to get wrecked and have sex with strangers. Which is fine if you’re a Christian or something, you need that one day a year, but if you’re a fag,isn’t it just a wee bit redundant. In order for it to be special, we should be sitting at home in bed reading a good book not passed out in some tricks apartment after falling into a k-hole.

Now St. Patricks Day is my idea of a day because it’s so stupid. Honey, I think about being gay all the time. I never think about being Irish. The thing I like best about St. Patricks day is that on that day, everyone is Irish unless of course you’re gay and live in New York City. So, I propose next Gay Pride Day, let’s make everybody Irish gay. So, that means, any straight person of Irish extraction is fair game. That means John F. Kennedy Jr. is in a lot of danger, but Ted Kennedy isn’t.

One day in the not so distant future being gay will be normal, dull even and Gay Pride Day will just be known as Sunday. It will be the hardest on the lesbians I think because they’ll have nowhere to use their walkie talkies. They’ll all be sitting at home wearing headsets and barking orders to their cats. Fags will get by. After fifteen years of AIDS, we’re tougher than cockroaches and about as fond of the light.

It all reminds me of the night that Tennessee Williams and I were sitting on the balcony of his villa in Mykonos staring up at the stars high on dolls and whisky and I said to Tennessee “ Do you think there’s life up there? “ and he said “ Why would there be? There’s no life here. “ Two days later he choked to death on the plastic top of a neo-synephrine bottle. I guess the lesson here is, drug containers kill.

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The Twenty Two Day War

Twenty two days ago I left you with a cryptic blog about going away to an undisclosed location for vague reasons. I alluded to mysterious forces trying to destroy us, the continuing threat of Francesca Fiori and her associate, the elusive Mr. Dr. Robert Young. I even put the blog on an orange alert. What was up you say? Good question. Where have I been for the last twenty two days. Even better one. Why do monarch butterflies all flock to the same valley in Mexico every year? I have no idea. Why you would go somewhere where everyone is beautiful too is beyond me. That's why I roost in Toronto. More moths than butterflies.

So what did happen to me? Did I fall off a roof like Steve Weston and die? Obviously not because I wouldn't be here blogging unless this isn't really me. Did I fall in love and run off with someone? I wish. Maybe I had been trying to dust a 'Best Legs' trophy on a high book shelf at home and had fallen in between the shelf and the wall and had been trapped there for weeks hanging upside down like a curing slab of bacon. It was none of those things. It was far more boring. I was kidnapped and held hostage by a shadowy group where I was tortured for twenty two days. But it all worked out and I'm back, and all is well. Nay! Better than well. Wellbutrin well.

You'll have to excuse me for not getting more upset but it's not the first time I've been kidnapped. I was kidnapped once before by Uday Hussein and ended up having to have sex with him and his father so this was a cake walk by comparison. I don't even know what my kidnappers looked like because they wore Maude masks the entire time. They wanted me to associate the great Bea Arthur with this horrible experience and forever ruin my love of for her. That's how ruthless they were. All I know is there were four of them and at least two of them were women, one of whom spoke with a Latin accent and called herself Alfresca. Naturally I have my suspicions who it was but I can't say until I know more or get drunk and spill my guts. What was their purpose. They told me they were trying to bring about the collapse of civilization by kidnapping it's most amusing members and holding them hostage for twenty two days until they're broken whereupon they return them back to society so witless and dull that their demeanour will act as a soporific on their friends and eventually render everyone around then completely stupefied until we are all so compliant that we can be harvested as food. That's when I thought they might not be who they said they were. I asked them "Why twenty two days?" They said that it was because that was the life span of any given quip and that after that amount of time, it's impact diminished. Then I asked one of the men what this had to do with Ewe and the woman with the accent said "Nothing." and that Ewe was just collateral damage. I didn't believe her because the whole time she was talking she was writing various prices on a tomato with a sharpie.

For three weeks they tortured me. They blasted me with the soundtrack from Dreamgirls, just the men's parts. They forced me to vote for Sanjaya on American Idol over and over again until my fingers bled. The worst was when they made me write a letter to the editor of Entertainment Weekly thanking them for their "absolutely amazing" cover shot of Justin Timberlake that made him look "so real and completely approachable but still super hot." They almost got me there but I held on. That's when i decided to stop breathing. It's a trick I learned from a shaman/trick in Lake Titicaca and anyways it's come in handy a few times over the years when you want someone to leave. You don't actually stop breathing. You just take in enough air to keep from passing out. It drives your captor's crazy because they think you're dead and they don't want that at least not at the beginning. By the second week I was barely conscious. Week three, I don't remember any of it. Apparently I made a video where I talked about how mixed up Britney was and how I wished I could give her a hug and then I hugged the camera and fell into a coma.

During my time asleep I had this dream where I was in a a room shaped like a triangle lying on a triangular bed and Starbuck the beautiful tomboy space fighter on Battlestar Gallactica was sitting in a traingular chair with her legs crossed like a man and staring at me like she wanted to eat me and my firstborn. Then May Pang the woman John Lennon briefly left Yoko for, came through a round door carrying a case of *Coke Zero. She put the case down and then pulled on out one frosty can and tossed it to Starbuck. She grabbed it and popped it open with a satisfying fizz and then downed it in one go. Then she stood up and I could see that she was wearing a huge strap on penis. She began to walk towards me waggling her rubber appendage and that's all remember until I woke up under a hedge in Forest Hill wearing a bloody diaper. I had lost seventeen pounds and looked fabulous. It was all air. I gained it back by the time I got home. Oh well, that's why there's **Coke Zero.

* This mention of Coke Zero was paid for by Coca Cola Limited and it's subsidiaries and may not be used in or of itself as a stand in for any other cola or beverage of a bubbly brown nature including but not limited to Root Beer, Dr. Pepper, Brio, or Tab.

**This mention of Coke Zero was completely unsolicited.

Gabcast! ewe #33 - Be My Barbarian

This song was alledgedly recorded on March 24th 2007 by me after fifteen days in captivity. At this point I had just fallen into the coma so how I managed to summon the energy to record this cri de couer, I have no idea. What I imagined happened was that at some point in the night I sleptwalked to a studio where my captors had assembled my band Mouth Congress at gunpoint and forced them to accompany me while I raged and stormed in my vegetative state. What other explanation could there be?




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Let's Hear it for Sal

Well ewesies, I'm back. I would apologize for the long absence but since the Oscar debacle where I actually apologized for certain comments, that word is gone from my vocabulary. What I will do is fill you in on where I've been though. I'm no longer in the country, the country being Canada, but once again I am unable to tell you where exactly because of security concerns. We all remember what happened the last time when I went away to that country that rhymes with Sticaragua and the RESU Brigade struck. We were all so concerned with Francesca Fiori and Dr. Robert Young that we forgot that there are many other menaces out there. Let me just say that I am safe and sound in body and in mind. It looks like the Gods have finally turned their face back to me and realized what a cruel waste it is that I am not on television, the movies or on the Most Wanted posters.
I can't say what yet but keep your eye on Court TV. There might be a Star Witness role in my future and if that doesn't work out, I have plans to add a potent drug to my rather prodigous alcohol intake and become a complete mess, flashing my shaved balls in public, spitting on photographers for not taking pictures of me and running into traffic dressed as a Ghurka and yelling things like " Anna Nicole is alive and living in Belgium! " or "The tomato is a fruit and a vegetable! Get used to it! " This new Fame is a brave new world and I intend to figure it out before the Gods turn back to another out of control starlet who hasn't done anything in years. If that sounds bitter, it's because it is. My new manager Uli Jewel says bitterness is the new graciousness and that I should act as bitter in public as i can and I should be back on top in no time. I've told him that I don't actually feel bitter, that in fact I'm quite contented but he says that sounds like an excuse and that I should just 'act it' and eventually I'll feel it. It's sort of like how if you smile when you're sad, you'll eventually feel happy. I've taken to taping my mouth down into a frown but all it does is make me look more fetching and intriguing which draws people to me like moths to a flame which in turn makes me feel happy, counteracting the effect. It's a vicious cycle but I told him I'll do what has to be done even if it kills me which he says would be the best career move of all.
Now I don't want to alarm any of you but there have been some ominous developments on the Francesca Fiori front and so I am going to put the site on an 'Orange Alert' once again until I am certain everything is all right. The moment it is I will be giving the all clear. As well, I ran into Scott Thompson the other day and he told me that he will be performing in New York on the 23rd and 24th of March at a club called Comics and that he would love it if you would all come. I asked him if I could open for him but he said "No, he didn't need me this time but that he was sure that there would be something very exciting in the future." It sounded like a brush off so I told him so whereupon he said that I sounded bitter so I guess it's working. I asked him what he thought of my new bitter stance and he said it looked good on me. Maybe Uli is on to something.

Gabcast! ewe #32 - Let's Hear it For Showbusiness

This song was recorded in the late eighties to celebrate all things lurid, shiny and shallow, in other words showbusiness. Sal and I actually wrote lyrics to this song and even memorized them for the recording. The recording of course was done in our usual slapdash manner, this time aboard a leaky yacht in the Sargasso Sea on a Squidding trip which adds a that special Mouth Congress amateurishness to what is essentially one of our most polished pieces. I hope it's not too professional for ewe.



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