Coffee Queen breaks stereotypes

If the story is true, and I hope it is, a former Colombian model may be the rare Queen in a trade ruled by Kings. Pablo Escobar, Carlos Lehder, Amado Carillo Fuentes, the most famous of the cocaine barons and all men. Ten years ago, the winner of Colombia's prestigious Queen of Coffee beauty pageant, followed by a successful modelling career, Angie Sanclemente seems to have established herself as a player in Columbia's other major trade export. Authorities believe she was the head of a traffiking scheme in which young models were turned into mules. Currently a fugitive from justice, Sanclemente is proof for enterprising, beautiful woman that you can be hot and still rise to the top of a ruthless and brutal criminal enterprise.


To be fair, a true pioneer of female entrepreneurship in the drug trade is Griselda Blanco. This Colombian born sociopath ran a successful and extremely violent business in Florida in the early 80's. Profits were huge, as was the body count.

I know which one I'd rather see seconds before my head was detached from my body.

If the once Queen of Coffee has moved into the drug trade, then she 's a living lesson to other gorgeous young women, that to play with the big boys of cocaine, you don't have to look like one.

IJPOMK

Ann Coulter says "Canada is the least diverse country she has ever seen, that everyone in the audience looks like her." CP

What the hell does she mean?


Shock.

Outrage.

Horror.


A room of 900 people that look like Ann Coulter. What's the Internet abbreviation for I Just Puked On My Keyboard?

This is the most grotesque, gag provoking image ever suggested.

IJPOMK !!!

Creepiest looking woman in America

Ann Coulter. She gives me the creeps. Nothing to do with her political insight. I don't usually get hung up on appearance, but for me it's like looking at a slick rat in the bathtub, or a hairless coyote running off with your Pomeranian. And it made me wonder, which celebrities would I much rather have relations with than Ann Coulter?


MALE: Gary Busey, Gary Coleman, Tom Sizemore, Hugh Hefner, David Gest, Larry Flint, Larry King, Vern Troyer, Kid Rock, Corey Haim.

FEMALE: Courtney Love, Liz Taylor, Jocelyn Wildenstein, Janet Reno, Donatella Versace, Amy Winehouse, Sarah Palin, Marie Osmond, Nancy Pelosi, Martha Stewart.

Flashback to 1993

Here is a journal entry I just discovered in the "pile of crap drawer" For a period back in the old days, I used to journalize my life quite precisely. Obviously, a sign of mental illness. But, here is the entry exactly as I found it. Transcribed from the printout of an APPLE IIC. Yes, I date myself by doing this, and the Bar mentioned is long gone. But it's something I still remember very vividly. So, why not regurgitate it here in Blog form. I lived it, therefore own the intellectual rights to it. So, here it is:


June 28th, 1993.

"Marc and I sat inside the Duke of Connaught, soaking up the vintage, characteristic tarnish of the place. I do not mean that to diminish the character, but rather that the character evolved in the tarnishing--the worn benches where thousands have supped the foam from their last call beer. The darkened oak trim, seasoned by tobacco smoke which never quite evaporates. The light is harsh, from unfrosted bulbs that hang over the pool table and dissipates quickly into the dark corners of the place. A gritty, soiled atmosphere, but one that also emits a feeling that life has been lived in here. To me, a very comfortable feeling.

An old Regular approached us, a barfly of the Old School, reflexes and speech dulled from 30 years of boozing. She stood at the end of our table, saying nothing but teetering as if her pot belly was a counter weight to her swollen face. Her eyes were lost in sagging flesh, her fat face unable to express due to its alcoholic mass.

She finally asked for a smoke, and while Marc fumbled for his pack, she looked us up and down and matter of factly claimed "I need a couple of men on top of me all night long." Then, she singled me out and said, "Can you two pretty young men help me out?" Marc and I exchanged looks of shock. What? What's happening here? This is suddenly a little crazy. I foolishly responded with "Perhaps." This response, she pondered silently while teetering back and forth, trying to fathom her next move. "Perhaps. That's quite a word. Perhaps. I would never think of that." Then, she shuffled around the end of the table and sat on Marc, crushing the sunglasses in his coat pocket. Marc went into shock. She worked hard to pull her thoughts together, her head slithering upward until she could look at me eye to eye, and said "Have you ever seen the Rockies?"

What do I say, or even do, now that she's smothering Marc. She thrusts her elbows on the table and gets her face close to mine. "I inherit two million dollars tomorrow, and I am looking for a man to go to the Rockies with me. They are so fucking beautiful, those mountains."

I suggest that we are too busy with work, and that she should likely proposition someone else. She sits up and grabs her massive sagging breasts through her shirt, "You think I can?" She jiggles them in her hands, then cackles, just like a chain smoking, alcoholic, hag.

She shakes her breasts at me again and shifts on Marc's knee. Then she focuses on me, which takes an uncomfortably long time. "Let me tell you this. Go to the Rockies. Live your life. Live your life. LIVE your life. I was born a little girl, and you were born a little boy. You have to be careful with what you say."

Next, she climbs off of Marc and stands with her back to us. She wavers there for a moment, then, she turns back. "Go see the Rockies. Live, Live, Live..." Slowly, she turns and ambles back to the bar.

Neither Marc or I can process this. We sit quietly for a few minutes, just sipping our beer."

She must be dead now. Dead for years, I'm sure.

Viva 1993.

Strange things when you wake up to local, late night TV.

I woke up on the couch to some local call in sex show. I shudder at what went into my subconscious before this wonderful exchange.

CALLER:...right at the base.
HOST:Is this a raised pimple?
CALLER:Yes.
HOST:And this is yellow?
CALLER:Ah...yes.
HOST:Is there pain, does it hurt?
CALLER:Only when it's...bumped.
HOST:How does it get bumped?
CALLER:Ah...day to day stuff. Sitting down like...
HOST:Is it wet or dry?
CALLER:Dry.
HOST:Dry?
CALLER:Yea. Dry.
HOST:Okay, it sounds like an infected hair follicle.
CALLER:On my penis?
HOST:You said the base of penis?
CALLER:My penis is hairless.
HOST:I've seen this before. It sounds like an infected follicle.
CALLER:Okay. It's wet. It's wet sometimes.
HOST:Oh.

Selective Czech Words

Czech Words:
YES Ano
PLEASE Prosim
HELP Pomoc
I Ja
HAVE Mit
BROKEN Zlomeny
MY Muj
DREAM Sen
IS Je
THERE Tam
ENOUGH Dost
GASOLINE Benzin
NEAR Blizko
THIS Tento
PARKING LOT Parkoviste
THANK YOU Dekuji

Food Conspiracy

I used to hold Swiss Chalet in high regard. As a kid, a visit to the "Swiss" was my introduction to fine dining, a hemisphere above the mass franchised outlets that littered the main drag of Peterborough. These joints bribed us with toxic toys and hired what we thought were pubescent high school students to handle my pre-ordered and compressed beef product with a respect equivalent to that which they would handle cat litter.

I remember equating the grease on my cheeseburger bun with the pimpled, oily skin of my misshapen, teen aged server. I also remember having daydreams at the time--or was I really--that these people must be bred by the Mother Corporation, engineered Mc-mutants, and made ugly and awkward to avoid any chance of human interaction with customers and also, to stand out as extreme contrasts to the food, which would taste much better compared to the ugliness you just witnessed. But these "employees" didn't last long, which is why they changed so frequently. And, when the quality control agents from the Mother Corp felt they were spent, these servers would be recycled back into the beef supply, ground together and squeezed back into the pipeline of ground beef that runs up from Mexico.

You know, the beef pipeline doesn't get a lot of press, but I do find it amazing, that a cow ground in Mexico can end up in your local fast food outlet directly via the pipeline. Energy companies have a lot to learn from fast food franchises, and how they pump ground beef under and across the North American continent.

But now, let's all have a shower--and maybe a self induced purge--and move on to the chicken. At the Swiss, you were always encouraged to eat your meal at your families own pace, rather than inhale, swarf or choke it down like the pipeline corporations.
Switzerland, a non-violent world model of neutrality, social equality and clearly, the most secure and desired banking system in the world. They gave us Swiss clocks, Swiss knives, Swiss bank accounts and Chalet style rotisserie chicken. And knowing the Swiss, so meek and so progressive, I would not be surprised if they mildly sedated the chickens before they drop the axe. I for one have never tasted the fear of death in their 1/4 chicken white meat dinner.

Swiss Chalet was so unlike the other famous chicken chain--run by that skinny, Southern Cracker who had KKK Grand Wizard written all over him--and who fried their birds beyond recognition. Is that skinny old albino still alive?

Chicken, the great two legged equalizer against the cows and the pigs. High protein, low cardiac risk. And I always imagined that Chalet sauce had Swiss anti-oxidant ingredients and cell cleansing properties. Excellent fries, yet offered in healthy proportion because the golden roasted chicken and white bun used 2 thirds of the plate.

But now, The Swiss is offering "All you can eat fries." I was shocked and physically sick when I saw the commercial. Since when has the Swiss overindulged in anything. No movie tie ins, no ridiculous mascots and no meat pipelines extending from the Mexican border northward. You have never felt the need to Supersize. Never before have you. EVER! Now, you are offering ALL YOU CAN EAT fries! What?

Wait. Someone is ringing the doorbell upstairs. Call me paranoid, but can a big company have the ability to read my post before I even publish it? Now I am scared. The doorbell is ringing again and again. And I have ignored it. It's stopped now. But shit, a shape just passed by the window. Can they know what I wrote about them that fast? And would such a company really kill me for my mere opinion? I told you, I am paranoid. This seems silly. It's probably the Boy Scouts again. Or the Green people. But it's 2am. That won't be the religious callers at this hour. And you know, I really didn't say anything that would...

Wait, I hear footsteps in the kitchen upstairs, and I'm the only one at home. How can there be footsteps in my house? Maybe I will go up stairs and investigate. Or maybe not. Shit, there is someone coming down the basement stairs now, I can hear them. I have no escape route either. Shit. Is this a fast food assassin? I can hear them breathing now...Damn me, I should never have expressed my opinions. Is it the Mother Corp? Wait, I see a shadow now. And, my God, a hand. An old hand. Oh my God...Oh...Oh my God....it's the Colonel.

Wait.....

Please...

Don't hurt me..............................................

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Mice Invaders

We were just a happy family like any other. We'd host parties...X-mas, Easter, Birthday parties, Guy Fawkes Day...Our friends would bring gifts of spirits and food, providing us with more than we needed. The excess Spirits, well, they were consumed within a two week period. The food, sometimes, went to the top shelf of the pantry. In England, the top shelf is where the best stuff goes. Top shelf wine! Top shelf crisps! Top shelf topless models every day in the bottom shelf paper.

Thus, party after party, the generous leftovers of our guests were accumulating on the 3rd shelf of the pantry. The "wine cellar" of snacks is really what shelf 3 became. Several vintages--and flavors-- of Doritos, pretzels, high end potato chips--Miss Vicki was rocking shelf 3--Smartcorn--or Smartpop? And, all anchored in there by big ol bag of Ruffles.

Every time you went into the basement pantry, the 3rd shelf of snacks made you feel good. If you too own a house, you know, the junk food party plunder shelf is almost as good as the extra wine you accumulate after a party. Except that the extra wine is gone in a week. But your wife doesn't know that you drank it, so, sometimes, you fill the bottle with water so it looks proper in the rack, until you can buy refills...

For weeks we walked past the shimmering bags of plunder on the third shelf, until five days ago I noticed that the entire 3rd shelf of glory had collapsed. In shock, I take a closer look and find the plastic bags that contained the junk were limp and empty, and resting on a bed of the finest crumbs you can imagine. I cannot even see the shelf because it is coated in a fine layer ground junk food and black bits. And BTW, what are the black bits? A GOOGLE search tells me immediately.

Black bits are MOUSE SHIT!

Yes, the black bits are mouse shit, and the finely ground, multi-coloured sand grain base is about 10 bags of junk food, eaten out from behind with tiny mouse teeth until the remaining frontal chips crumble and the bags collapses.

What shocked me was that the little offenders could eat the back out of a nacho bag, yet keep this facade structurally sound until they totally ran out of food and had to eat the structure. And, they did this with every bag. That is, eat from the back to maintain the facade, until they hungered so completely the whole thing crumbled.

The 3rd shelf of the pantry was done. A wasteland of crumbs and mouse shit. A place that made my wife cower, that made me question my place as the alpha male in terms of security; of perimeter enforcement. I am a fairly big human man. They must have known I was here. And that these little bastards had breached my domain, and breached my domain with extreme prejudice. Yet, they licked the bait off my traps.

Of course, we have mice. Mice who have eaten 17 kilos of junk food since the winter began. Mice who hidden themselves so superbly, that we did not notice them while we accessed our chick peas and dry pasta, our turmeric and our cous cous.

I have tried for the last three days to catch our little domestic parasites. I coated the traps with peanut butter. And what did they do?

After a few foiled attempts, over the last few nights, where the peanut butter bait and was licked clean off, I have devised a death configuration for mice.

My previous attempts to go by what the Internet suggested failed miserably. Tonight, I saw a mouse looking at me from it's superhighway of mouse access. I actually tried to grab it's tail, but just missed. But the mouse highway is huge. And I understand the mice that use it better each day.

It's about to become a toll highway. The toll for mice. DEATH!

So my little friends, I baited my traps with Blue Menu Peanut Butter from Loblaws. Only the best for you, my special little friends. But, look at my plan for you. I don't know why, but I have a good feeling about this configuration.

If this doesn't work. Glue is my next option.