celebrate celebrations

everything.

including:

Hanukkah

Chanuka

Canada Day

President's Day

Halloween Night

Birthday Day

Half Birthday

April Fool's Day

Fool That You're Pregnant Day

Conception Day

Valentinesless Day

Pi Day

National Pie Day

D-Day

Me-Day

The Day "the Music Died" Day

Fanny Pack Day

National High-Five Day

National Sandwich Day

If Pets Had Thumbs Day

Veteran's Day

Homeless Persons/Veterans Day

Racism Awareness Day

Martin Luther King Day

Black Friday

Grammer Awareness Day

Sarcasm Day

Extra Day, Fuck. Day (Feb 29)

Kwanza

Ginger Appreciation Day

Ginger Degradation Day

Festivus

Alcohol Awareness Month

celebrate like its 1933

naked in a jiffie

Please, help yourself to some Tanqueray. I'm going to go and slip into something a little more comfortable, *wink*

Janet finished reading the note that that Bones the Bulldog had scribed for her, after having watched him struggle with the ballpoint pen for approximately five minutes. As cumbersome as his paws were, they were equally soft, and Janet had held onto them tightly as they walked back from the bar earlier. Janet looked back up at the community college mascot, touched her index finger to puckered her lips, and gave the mascot her best bedroom eyes. As he animatedly skipped back into his bedroom fist-pumping his paws, Janet rose from the couch and fixed herself a stiff drink.

It had been a night of firsts, to say the least.

Earlier in the evening, Janet and the rest of her college cohorts had watched their team win its first football championship ever. It had happened to come against the crosstown rivals, and it had thrown the entire campus into a triumphant rage. At the bar just off campus following the game, she and the rest of her classmates had celebrated the big victory late into the night. Rounds of shots preceded rounds of shots, and extreme jubilation preceded the extraordinary hangovers to be had the following morning. But we haven't gotten to the ensuing morning just yet. As you may have guessed, Janet's night wasn't close to over.

Somewhere around the time she was standing at the bar waiting for her fifth or eight drink, Janet felt something furry rub against her thigh. Turning her neck she saw that it was Bones the Bulldog, his tail wagging uncontrollably as he celebrated the big win with the rest of the student body! Janet caught his tail and gave it a playful tug. The mascot turned and smiled at her with his wide, unmoving, grin of confidence. His big, round, excited eyes stared at her. He looked her up and down once; he waved. She waved back. He turned around, raised his furry arms and pointed his thumbs down towards the name on the back of the jersey he was donning. "Bones". He then pointed to her and cocked his head to the side. Janet said her name and the mascot put his paw behind his ear. Janet shouted her name. It was so very loud inside of the bar! Bones jerked his head towards the exit sign, and extended his right paw. Janet took it gingerly and followed him out the door.

Thirty seconds later, back behind the bar, after several failed attempts at translating what the muffled sounds coming out of the dog meant, Janet found herself recording another first as she rounded second base with her first-ever mascot.

Ten minutes later, Janet and the mascot were skipping back to his apartment.

Fifteen minutes later Janet was standing in his apartment, sipping Tanqueray and OJ with the most bated of breath.

* * *

After three sips, Janet heard her name being called. She set down the glass and sashayed slowly in the direction of Bone's voice. Entering the bedroom, candles glimmered. Shadows danced on the wall as she looked down and saw the mascot costume lying on the ground. Suddenly the closet door opened and a sixty year old man jumped out. Janet shrieked. He was extremely naked with the exception of his leisure footwear he was wearing-- Jiffies!

[Note to reader: Jiffies are comfortable. Nearly as comfortable as walking around without shoes. They're just alot better looking. The Continental (the style the old man in this narrative happened to be wearing) comes in six colors and costs only $7!]

Janet continued to scream as she turned around and sprinted directly into the wall, crumpling to the ground.

Girl was a waste case.

As she struggled to get up, she knocked over the candle that had been sitting on top of the dresser. The candle landed on the polyester mascot costume, instantly igniting it and creating a flaming barrier between her and her senior-citizen suitor. She stumbled to the door, snatched her clutch from the couch and darted out of the door of the apartment.

As Janet slinked back to campus with her tail between her legs, she heard the quaint sound of firetruck sirens crescendoing. She knew that Bone's would live to see another football season.

She just prayed that they wouldn't win another championship.

use protection, fool

Some people choose to live under the false pretense that if you don't use it, you are destined to lose it.

Well, mostly false pretense.

If you consistently neglect to use deodorant, you will likely lose some friends.

If you simply to forget to use it one day due to unforeseen circumstances, maybe you snuggled with the snooze button a little too much or perhaps you played with your belly button for a little too long in the shower, well, that's bound to happen to anyone at some point. You won't lose friends per say, however you may notice friends keeping their distance as long as you walk around with your armpits unprimed. But that's okay once in awhile. Maybe you deserve some alone time to think about what you did.

Typically, you are a dedicated deodorant wearer. You actually tend to tend to your underarms as if each one were a delicate bansai tree. Perpetually pruning, unconditionally conditioning, nourishing them as if they were baby kittens. On this particular morning however, your morning regimen was disrupted. You were running incredibly late, and you only had the time to take care of the necessities. You shower quickly. You get dressed. You brush your teeth. You make sure you have breath mints in your pocket because you didn't really brush your teeth for all that long. You make sure all the lint is out of your belly button. You put the lint in the lint jar in your medicine cabinet. The lint jar is right next to the deodorant stick. But I simply just don't have enough time time to deodorize this morning, you write in the condensation on the mirror, in italics. You race into the kitchen. You grab a pop tart from the cupboard. You don't have time to toast it. That's okay. You've grown to enjoy them at room temperature. You take frozen hamburger patties out of the fridge. You've decided that you're having meats for dinner. You run out the door just in time to catch the bus. But you rushed to catch this motherfucker. And it's hot up in this motherfucker. You feel your armpits beginning to perspire.

Sitting at your day job, your armpit kittens are straight up dripping. You smell putrid. You swear to yourself that you will never let this happen again. You brainstorm how you can remind yourself the following morning. You look for red string to tie around your finger. No red string anywhere. You look down at your shoe laces. Black. Shit.

You see a stack of post-it notes. You take one.

You write down the important reasons why you should take the time to apply deodorant. You flip it over to the sticky side and write how you feel.

You look at the post-it. It stares back at you. You place it in your wallet. You feel it staring at your ass. You take your wallet back out. You remove the post-it note.

You look at it again. It hasn't blinked. You stick breath mints under your arms. They fall out.

You grab the post-it. You crumple it up. It's superfluous at this point. You know you'll never make the same mistake again. But then again, anything can happen during the hazy stupor that is morning. You are about to throw out the crumpled-up reminder. You stop.

You smile slyly to yourself. You lift up your shirt. You put the crumpled post-it note in your belly button.

loss of innocence

And while we're on the subject... you boys each have different fathers.

[pauses]

Oh, I'm sorry.. I'm so sorry that I never told. I'm sorry I've kept this from you all these years. So sorry that I let you live this life, this lie. I wish I told you boys when you were younger.

[pauses, sobs]

Jesus.. my mascara is running. I must look like a hot mess. I just did my face too.

[gets ahold of herself]

Vitalis, he was none of your fathers. You've been living a lie. Vitalis and I worked on the same corner when he was younger. Your father's, they cut corners by not using protection.

If any of your real father's were half the man that he was, she thought to herself.

[loses herself again in a hysterical sob. she sounds like a remorseful hyena]

[boys stare at their mother, still in disbelief; still fixing their hair.

They use Son of Vitalis hair groom. It comes in a tube. Up until now, they had been led to believe that their father was a great man. A man who died trying to perfect his hair groom recipe. A man who died for his family.]

[mother partially regains her composure, looks up at them, smiling. Tears glistening in her eyes.]

But you're in an issue of Playboy!

Each of your fathers would be so damn proud, I can promise each of you that.

Here, here, come over here.

[sniffs, beckons]

Family hug.

cup o' discipline

Pitter patter. Patter pitter. Is the the rain knocking gently on the bay window? No, it’s wifey receiving a pitter pattering of spankings from her Old Man! You see, wifey just had the gall to try and serve her husband Chase & Sanborn coffee! Normally this would be perceived as socially acceptable, nay, socially expected of her. But let the reader be warned, there were multiple blunders performed leading up to this point, eventually leading to Husband playing the butt bongo hard.

Blunder #1- Husband had been out drinking.

Blunder #1 (clarified) - Husband had been out drinking at a local coffee shop. It was there that he was exposed to a blend of fair trade coffee that was like nothing his aged taste buds had ever laid buds on before. These Arabica beans-- handpicked by Columbian virgins wearing nothing more than those brown aprons that are donned by Starbucks employees, were roasted to perfection in a stove heated by the prayers and meditations of Tibetan monks, and then ground by hand and filtered through an antique cafetiere salvaged from the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. The finished product was a coffee experience like nothing else anything on this side of the universe. In other words, when Husband returned home, he was equipped with a newly adopted saliency for premium coffee that was not to be fucked with.

Blunder #2- When Husband came home, slurring his speech (he had brought his trusty flask of whiskey along with him to the coffee shop after all), he demanded that Wifey fix him a drink. He looked tired, and she decided that a fresh cup of coffee would do the trick. Wifey's blunder being that she then went to the kitchen and switched on the magical Keurig coffee making machine, before checking to see if she had any of the pods that America uses to make coffee out of. There were absolutely zero pods left.

Non-blunder #1- Wifey quickly prepared a casserole to help stall.

Blunder #3- As the casserole baked, wifey frantically searched for her old coffee maker, and rummaged about the cupboards for any traces of coffee grinds. Finding not so much as a bean, she quietly slipped out the door and scampered over to her neighbor's house to see if she could "borrow a cup of grinds". After ringing the doorbell a few times, her neighbor Roland answered. Making air quotes with her index and middle fingers, she asked him if she could borrow a cup of his finest grinds. He responded, saying that he would be happy to oblige. He then turned and disappeared into his house. You see, neighbor Roland though he heard "bestow a couple of your famous grinds". Wifey soon heard a jiving record start playing inside, and her neighbor suddenly sauntered back into the doorway where wifey was waiting and started grinding up on her in a fratboylike fashion. Appalled and disgusted, Wifey spun around and returned home. She reckoned Husband was growing impatient.

Wifey returned back to her home smelling like cheap cologne, to a home smelling like burning casserole. Fortunately husband had gotten cocked off irish coffee* and was passed out. (*decaf irish coffee) Fortunately the batteries in the fire detector had not been changed in a coon's age, and asleep husband remained.

Non-blunder #2- After disposing of the casserole wreckage, wifey went to the cupboard to retrieve a Swanson frozen dinner. While in the freezer she found some coffee grounds that she had set aside years back to keep fresh! And just her luck! It was Chase and Sanborn coffee! Point for the domestic Goddess!

Skipping over to the coffee machine Wifey quickly brewed up a pot of coffee. Tying her freshly ironed apron behind her she waltzed into the living room to find her husband peacefully slouched on the cough, drooling. Wifey gently tapped his knee and he stirred awake, his nostrils instantly filling with the rich, complex aroma of coffee. It's like a mother fucking Folgers commercial up in this joint he thought to himself as he gleefully wiped the sleep out of his eyes. He reached for the cup and took a sip.

Non-blunder #2 which actually turned out to be blunder #4- The coffee was several years old, and, to Wifey and Husband's mutual chagrin, it tasted like shit.

Pitter patter. Patter pitter. Maybe next time Wifey should not use coffee that has been in the freezer for several years. Pitter patter. Patter pitter. Maybe next time wifey should just fix husband a martini instead.

of pins and needles

When it comes to drugs and Columbian contraband in general, some choose to abuse rather than recreationally use. Some carefully peruse only to accidentally misuse after a costly interfuse. Some simply refuse to use due to steadfast virtues and religious taboos. It's anyone's provocative prerogative and whether you choose to use or sell, or swear allegiance to the DEA or a drug cartel, in no way does that predetermine whether you are destined for heaven or hell.

What's my take on this issue? I'm teetering on the fence. No, my parent's didn't sell my Lego collection for drug money when I was a child, and no, I've never lost a woman on Spring Break due to drug lord related reasons, and no, the butch police dog who taught my D.A.R.E. class in grade 5 didn't have a profound impact on my drug-related decision making. I've never had to wander down that dark alley because as a child, I stumbled upon a different type of dark alley. A dark alley with strobe lights, glossy hardwood floors, and birthday parties. Where beer specials reveal themselves at midnight. An alley that plays today's best hits and reeks of cigarette smoke. An alley where instead of tying a cloth around my arm prior to getting my fix, I tie my shoes instead. I'm talking about my local bowling alley.

I would go to the bowling alley to get my personal high. Smoke a quick bowl with my Camp Breton Bowlin Bishes as we liked to call it, or just kick it all afternoon rolling fat one after fat one, pulverizing pins. Bowling wasn't always an upper for me. When I first started my score was shamefully low. Discouragingly low. Then I briefly experimented with bumpers. Then I bought my own ball. Then I ditched the bowling alley support bra and faced life with gutters. Once I started to roll my own, I started to get high. Bumper free, I started getting higher than I had ever been. I recall after my first perfect game I couldn't move. I soon developed a tolerance to that full body high, however the one aspect of bowling that never subsided was the munchies. Fortunately I discovered that the stoner dude who worked behind the concession stand had an unhealthy addiction to crack. This proved to work in my favor as I soon learned that I could exchange him drugs for unlimited quantities of nachos, pretzels, and popcorn. He slowly became my dealer for snack, and I, his friend. Never having to focus on my craving I was able to focus on my game pin paving, slowly inching towards my goal of becoming the bowling alley kingpin.

At that stage in my life however, bowling didn't prove to be a lucrative enough endeavor. I fell upon hard times; in order to keep up with my addiction and pay for games I was forced to steal from family members, sell precious heirlooms, and give bowling lessons. Sometimes I would have to whore myself out in the bathroom for a measly quarter so that I could call my parents for a ride home. I finally hit rock bottom when early one Sunday morning I used my tried and true blue ball to break into the bowling alley at 4:30 in the morning to get in a few dimly lit games before church.

What was once a healthy obsession had brought out the worst in me, and I was forced to enroll in a ten frame program sponsored by the PBA (Perturbed Bowlers Anonymous). With my life coach by my side, I stayed clean from all bowling related activities, sans one Silver Strike Bowling incident. And that was only after I saw that someone had replaced me at the top of the leaderboard.

But I've been clean ever since. 299 days. No bowling alleys, no lawn bowling, no skeeball, no bowling arcade games. I have burned all of my bowling jerseys, and donated my bowling shoes to Africa, where there are no bowling alleys. I wear my bowling ball around my neck to serve as a reminder of the adversity I faced, and the uphill battle it has been in an attempt to stay clean.

I will never be able to attend my children's birthday bowling parties, nor will I likely ever have the opportunity again to have a threesome with the handsomest three girls of the Camp Breton Bowling team. But I can't complain. I was able to rise out of the gutter and carry on with my life.

In retrospect, if I could do it all over again, there is no doubt in my mind that I would give bowling another try. Only I would have refused bumpers. Bumpers give you the false confidence that you need to succeed. They sugar coat the sport and motivate the novice in you to continue to play frame after frame after game, shielding you from the harsh reality that is the gutter of life. Had I never played with bumpers I would have gotten discouraged at an early age, said "fuck this", and taken up another past time instead, like Nintendo.

In life there are no bumpers. Face down the gutters. Roll your own fate.

And while I have your attention maybe I can persuade you to meet me in the alley, maybe spare me a match?

what would jesus not wear (lest he get himself crucified)

A Kashmir goat would never betray its wool coat for it to be made into a by product involving a turtleneck, or any other form of men's fashion that makes one's neck appear to be uncircumcized. Contrary to calling a dirty old man a goat and having inspired the goatee, these mammals hold themselves to a higher standard than most farm animals. While the scent of feta may suggest otherwise, the farmyard morals that goats abide by are second to only those of the cock. Doing their best to live above their name, goats really do not want to be seen anywhere near hickey territory, let alone be the scapegoat for such a heinous style.

But sheep. Never hesitating to sacrifice the wool off their back or backmeat under the wool on their back--whether providing the means to knit a masterpiece that has a neckforeskin or stuffing a rubust gyro--sheep do their best to maintain their exemplary Biblical status quo. Counting sheep to fall asleep or counting on sheep to provide the yarn to make a fugly Drummond sweater, a sheep's dependability is truly second to none. That being said, sheep are often referred to as "textile sluts", displaying no degree of pride or dignity when it comes to donating their wool goods for someone else's knitting pleasure.

Wool donors aside, with sweater season swiftly approaching it is important to take a moment and consider the implications that coincide with turtleneck sweater giving--whether you are the knitter or the knittee.

While sweaters serve to provide warmth and holiday cheer in the coldest months of the year, let it be known that the term "sheepish" was coined to describe the feeling one gets when forced to publicly don a particularly embarrassing sweater. Sweaters have the ability to self-deprecate an individual like no other article of clothing, to the same extent assless wool chaps would. The fact that a super model citizen can put on a sweater and suddenly feel like a wolf in sheep's clothing has to say something about the degrading nature of this garment. When you wear a turtleneck sweater you actually want to retreat back inside your turtleshell, cry reptile tears, then poke your head back out, tie a noose, hang yourself. Ironically, the sole benefit that a well-made turtleneck provides is protection from hanging oneself.

Select women can pull off a turtleneck sweater (when worn appropriately). However, men, truth be told, a turtleneck sweater looks best on the ground. And unless you are boys with Bazooka Joe, or have an extra long neck (in which case I strongly recommend neck rings), on the ground is where it should stay.

On a final note, if you EVER find yourself with a cold neck and a herd of sheep, tempted by Satan to shear the sheep, somehow make yarn, knit, knit and purl, knit and purl yarn into a turtleneck sweater, wear turtleneck sweater STOP. Ask yourself: What the Hell Would Jesus Wear?

Hint: he would not wear a turtleneck sweater. Homeboy had standards. Homeboy wore sheep bling instead. It's a shame nothing he did ever caught on.

warning: your reputation is at steak

Coinciding with the drastic advancement of television technology over the last several decades, the TV food technology we enjoy while fixated to the screen has graciously mimicked the same developmental curve. The standard that was was once grainy, 2D, and black and white is now defined as high def, 3D, in addition to coming standard with a magic wand with more buttons than the number of goosebumps on a cold Kardashian ass. What was once enjoyed as a four-course potpourri of your basic food groups, neatly segregated into their own compartments- has since amalgamated into bread-pocket form, capable of preserving unbearable molten hotness for the duration of a half-hour episode. While this may not seem to be a big ordeal when you are in full blown glazey-eyed zombie mode, don't tell the hard-working food scientists at Hot Pocket LLC that. Because it is. And even your grandpa knows it.

Stubbornly refusing to improve over the last 60 years ironically, is the technology of the microwave- the most crucial component in the eating-while-emotionlessly-entertained triad. With the exception of the "Swanson TV Dinner" button being replaced with the "Popcorn" button, microwaves still exist in their primitive form. This has left scientists with a catalystic constant in which generations of studies have been based upon. To microvent for a moment- scientists have identified the human genome, put a man on the moon, and cloned kittens, but heaven forbid you put a fork in the microwave you risk fucking up one of your most trusted household appliances, with nothing but guilty radiation rash to show for it. In addition to a Youtubey, potentially.

Society has grown to expect nothing less than the most up to date food technology when showing up for a TV dinner party. That being said, to offer a Swanson TV dinner to guests would be social suicide- only repentable by sticking your head in the microwave and pressing the "Ass Clown" button. In the day and age of Hot Pockets, Pizza Bites and flavor changing bubble gum, it is more acceptable to provide your guests with a self-contained entre infixed between microwaveable appetizers and dessert, than a faux four-course meal that needs both gasp, a spork and gasp, knife, hence, gasp, an apology.

Swanson may have revolutionized the microwave chef, however they also set the technological table for standards that even grandpa would nowadays demand.

Scratch the TV dinner. Opt for the T.G.I.Friday's Spinach and Artichoke Dip/Hot Pocket/Warm Delight combo instead. Commercial breaks were designed by the FCC for cooking up different courses. Years of scientific sweat and tears have been sacrificed to supply the general public with a fresh fusion of microwaveable flavors. Unless you are watching a movie Marathon on Lifetime, brought to you commercial-free thanks to a sponsorship from Swanson itself, in which an entire meal need be summoned in as few button presses as possible, take advantage of this exciting day and age where the TV dinner has evolved into la TV a la carte. If you are watching a Lifetime marathon, you probably have cats instead of friends. In which case a can of Friskies wet food will do.

If you were a cat friend, cloned or original, you would want the best. That means no dry food. If you were a human friend, the same can be said. That means no Swanson TV dinners.