The saga continues...

more odd voicemails left on my number.

resolution

I got an electric guitar last week. My first one. A beautiful, absolutely amazing, absolutely perfect black Fender Stratocaster. Like everything else in my life, I feel like I absolutely, have done nothing in my life to deserve it. But like everything else in my life, I will do everything I possibly can to convince myself otherwise. I resolve to respect and honour and cherish everything I am given the opportunity to do, because if I don't, then I definitely do not deserve to be doing it.

Come back, DT!

I've never been one for major holidays. As someone who has spent pretty much his entire life trying to avoid being clumped into a specific type of person, and who doesn't really want to be associated with his entire race (or the stereotype of it), major holidays kind of feel like that to me. That doesn't really make sense. What I really mean is that I really, really like avoiding the norm. I don't want to be easily defined. I'd be a hipster if I did anything more than think like one. I'd be an engineer if I didn't do art. I'd be an artist if I wasn't in engineering school. I'd be a writer or a musician if I actually had the time or drive to focus on honing that (those) craft(s). I guess that kind of makes me a non-committal, endlessly distracted kind of person who's good at a few things but never great at anything. But I really don't want to be that either.

Anyway, that's not really the point.

I avoid major holidays because to me, it's just a day that everyone does the same thing together. If everyone else is doing it, I don't wanna. It's the same reason why I'll automatically disagree or find another side to any widely-held opinion (which, I admit, is mostly when my father tells me I should or shouldn't do something).

Everyone celebrated new year's tonight. I spent it in an elevator, tired and getting home from a trip out west. I knew about a few different happenings, but didn't act on any of them. I avoided facebook and twitter because I know what every single tweetpost is going to be about, for at least the next 18 hours. Instead, I played some music by myself and tried not to think of all my friends having fun somewhere in the company of their other, cooler, closer, more genuine friends.

In reality, I don't avoid holidays because I don't want to be associated with the endless number of people who all celebrate it. I avoid them because I've never been good at making or being friends, and any time a large group of people get together to do something just makes me feel left out. I've always felt like all my friends are better friends with someone else, and holidays do nothing to disprove that. Well, here's to another year.

RIP Dessert Tickets

Signing off,

c

Bacon Pop

The future is now and it is refreshingly meaty.

For the vegetarians out there:
"If you’re sick of bacon, no problem. Jones also makes a “Tofurky and Gravy” soda, which it promises is “100% Vegan.”"

Vote for the wealthy white man!

Green party candidate Rich Whitney surprised to see the hilariously unfortunate typo on Chicago ballots.
Vote Rich Whitey!

http://cot.ag/a8D2iL

Is anybody out there?

HELLO?

Anybody?

Watch this.

That is all.

I always knew his baldness was directly related to his Nazism

Well, they spelled his name wrong, but I'm glad he's dead. Never liked Letterman much anyway.

On a related note: I AM SO BORED IN THE SUMMER THAT ALL I DO NOW IS POST MILDLY AMUSING NEWS STORIES ON THIS BLOG. UGH.

One more, just for the road

I can only imagine what these interactions must have been like.

"Hey, is this where the orgy--"

"FOR THE FIFTH TIME, NO!"

I think it's a brilliant idea, personally, but I would've used a library computer.

Stealing Your Roomates Jumbalaya

It's a noble art really.

Thug Wrangler, if you ever check in here again, it was me.

I now consider my sin confessed.

mmmmmmmmmm... Jumbalaya


For further reference:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AKm3I_B-TdI
I don't know how to embed video

"Add a pinch of salt and some finely-ground negro men and women. You heard me."

If you're going to make a typo, you'd better make it count.

“We're mortified that this has become an issue of any kind and why anyone would be offended, we don't know,” he told The Sydney Morning Herald.

"We don't know" might be slopping on the ignorance a little thick there, Bobby. I think it's within reason's realm that grounding black folk could result in a raised eyebrow or two.

At any rate, I hope aliens 1000 years from now find an original copy of the "Pasta Bible" and are absolutely baffled by our approach to both race and religion.

"Should I just call it 'bacon bacon bacon bacon'?"

I’ve always been a picky eater. I have elaborate lists of things I will and will not eat, preparation methods that are or are not acceptable. When people ask, I sum it up for them: “I’m basically a vegetarian. Except I eat bacon.”

They usually tell me, “That makes no sense. ” They're right. It doesn’t. And I don’t care. My love of bacon defies logic and reason. I shall never forsake bacon. Come on, what's not to like about bacon? It's fatty and smoky and salty and savory. I've had bacon so perfect it melts in your mouth like chocolate and it was transcedant, it was sublime. I tasted God in that bacon.

(Speaking of God and pork, sorry to any Jews in the audience. However, of my closest bacon comrades is Jewish. I'm a vegetarian who eats bacon, he's a Jew who eats bacon, of course we're friends. I once made the two of us bacon, drunk, at 4 am. Fuck, I'm going to make someone a great wife someday.)

Maybe my love of bacon is somehow pyschological. On weekend mornings as a kid I'd awaken to the smell of bacon filling the house, rousing me from my slumber with its siren call. In the kitchen would be a plate heaping with bacon, which we would eat with our hands, the skillet still sizzling with grease. My family takes their bacon pretty seriously. The last time I went home my father proudly whipped a ridged yellow plastic thing out of a drawer. "Look!" he said, brandishing it at me.

"I don't get it," I said flatly. "What is it?"

"It makes bacon," he said. "...In the microwave."

"What?" I asked. I had just woken up. I was probably hungover. This concept was beyond me. "But it's soggy and gross, right?"

"No," he said reverently. "It makes it perfectly."

"I refuse to believe this nonsense," I replied, wondering if my father was getting batty in his old age. Bacon in the microwave is unnatural. Next thing he'd be making toast in the shower.

He took out a fresh package of bacon out of the freezer, one of three or four that were stacked in there. Really nice bacon, wood-smoked, obscenely delicious. I told you we're serious about our bacon. He draped it elaborately over the little plastic wall and I understood -- the fat would run down the ridged sides and collect in little reservoirs underneath. Still, I was skeptical-- until a minute and thirty seconds later he produced a plate of flawless, crispy, melt-in-the-mouth bacon. We ate it with our hands. And then we made more.

NAIL LOG

When the te-kwai-la a-flowin' begins

And we're all drunk, just a-startin' ta' spin,

The hammers emerge

And the objects converge

On a log, which the nails are stuck in.

Pride

This contest is quite a good trick
To get writers back to the d-tick
So filthy, I’ll talk
About boobies and cock
And brag ‘bout the size of my dick


If you travel to Halifax
You will find we do things to the max
the only down side
though I say with great pride;
Such big balls are quite hard on our backs

Some Tuesday Afternoon Limericks!

One week into the contest, we have several submissions, but we'd love to see some more

Here they are thus far, in case you don't want to trudge through the comments.

From "I Cant Give You Anything But Love":

Bernice, your idea is terrific
(Though your meter was unscientific)
DT has of late
Been slow out of the gate
Our posts have been dull, unprolific.

And a contest! My heartbeat, it quickens!
That'll surely cure what we've been with-stricken!
I can't wait to observe
The poetic hors-d'oeuvres
We'll produce--unless you're all chicken.

There once was a chap from Bermuda
Who delighted in Pablo Neruda
He was swimming around
When, still reading, he drowned
And was lunched on by two barracuda.

I'm writing a paper on China
Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah
He plays the banjo
But I'm stuck in the library
Vagina vagina vagina.

There once was a grizzled old panda
Who enjoyed a drink on the veranda
He drove a Mercedes
And cavorted with ladies
Until they sent him straight back to Uganda.

In addition to this, a young turkey
With a yen for breasts little and perky
Liked to wiggle his snood
In a manner quite rude
For a bird, 'twas surpassingly quirky.

From Bernice:

There once was a lass named Mcnerney
who rogered a fella named ernie
it would have gone fine,
but ernie was equine,
and McNerney wound up on the Gurney.

There once was a man named McGrath
whose lovers all trod the same path
they wanted a roll
but he got the wrong hole
yes, mcgrath went straight for the ath.

On how many roads walks a man?
until he develops a plan
for passing the tricky
tests to dip dicky
with another, and not just his hand

From My Mom Thinks I'm Funny:

My dear sir, I implore, just try me;
Your rhymes are just fit to wipe hineys;
I'll take up your task,
And drink from my flask--
After all, today is St. Patty's.

In Hali, the sun is a-blooming,
And you Mo-town kids should be swooning,
'Cause I'm out and about
In a t-shirt no doubt
And ignoring those tests which are looming.

(That last rhyme was rather pathetic,
I shouldn't have writ, but I meant it;
In hopes to regain
My standing, though lame,
A line about boobs: "I love tits.")

I once knew an elderly hobo
Who'd share all his wisdom pro bono,
He'd wander around
And yap on profound
Until screaming aloud, "I'M HAN SOLO!"

From Weasel J. Bag:

There once was a blog named The 'Tick
Whose members learned very quick
that if they need snogging
to yell "I love blogging!"
for young hipsters will fall for their shtick.

there was a young fellow, Bernice
who buggered a young girl, Elyse
with all said and done
he'd ravaged her bum
but at least she was still in one piece.

More reasons why the Internet is the BEST THING EVAR

A Tuesday Morning Limerick

The 'Tick is a blog delightful
with humour and chatter insightful
blessed with content anew
once in a moon blue
I hope this didn't sound spiteful.

I'm hoping to spread the word out
so we can continue to grow our nerd clout
it's time to keep blogging
our brains are all clogging
prescription: get some absurd out.

I know posts like this are so lame
so i've decided to make it a game
if you can't think of nothin'
instead of sittin and cussin,
why don't you try doing the same.

Two Hundred and Ninety posts in
There's gotta be something to win
"Dessert Tickets Jest"
a limerick contest!
first prize: a bottle of gin.

If we can't be the Blog that Keeps Thinkin'
At least be the ones who keep drinkin'
please keep them dirty
ribald, hurdy-gurdy
to save this old ship here from sinkin'

So come back right here to the tick
and send in your finest limerick
Y'all should have something to show
i've set the bar oh-so-low
and it's easy to rhyme about dicks.

Just start a new post like normal
click the link in the top right cornah
just try your best
in our silly contest test
you don't need to rewrite the mourner's.

Thanks to you for reading my rap
at times it was great, others: crap.
all i hope that i did
was appeal to your id
who doesn't love a poetic fap?

Akbar Zeb is a love machine.

Dear Blag,

I saw this link on facebook and thought I'd share it with you, totally without commentary or analysis.

Sincerely,

W. Bag.

"In an unfortunate result of translation, Pakistani diplomat Akbar Zeb will not become the next Pakistani ambassador to Saudi Arabia. Zeb’s credentials seem in order: He is the former ambassador to the United States, India and South Africa. He held the post of High Commissioner Designate of Pakistan to Canada and is the former director general of Pakistan's Foreign Ministry.

But despite Mr. Zeb’s impressive career, the 55-year-old diplomat’s name proved to be the immovable hurdle. When translated into Arabic, Akbar Zeb means “Biggest Dick.” In a region that stresses modesty, particularly in public, this could not stand."