Pictures I have taken of people who may now be dead from melanoma

Paris

Barcelona

Coney Island













Washington Square, NYC

One Big NJ Mother...who gives me a great idea

I don't think I can offend someone by calling them fat, when they seem thrilled with their own morbid obesety and delight in a media campaign which publicises their current superhuman dimensions. Especially, when they express interest in gaining even more weight.

If I were to describe them as human lardon with limbs, would it be cruel, when they themselves revel in their own extraordinary fatness?

I think, in this specific case, exceptionally tubby is a kind phrase, grotesquely fat is a compliment and impossibly elephantine is a term of endearment.

And I can't help but admire this woman.

She is a gargantuan 42 year old mother named Donna Simpson. She lives on Pleasant Valley Road in Old Bridge Township, New Jersey. USA. And she is just SO happy to be fat. She loves herself and her life and she wants to get fatter.

Who can blame her?

Big Momma Donna has become something of a media sensation of the moment. She stands 5 foot 4 and weighs 640 pounds. I can say it without guilt. Donna is one big fat woman.

According to my research, three years ago, it took 30 medical professionals to deliver her first child. I hope it was a natural birth and not a c-section. And thank God it wasn't in Canada, as the taxpayer would have been footing the bill for a delivery of that proportion.

Donna Simpson, from Old Bridge Township, NJ, also makes extra cash as a model. She appears on SUPERSIZEDMODELS.COM under the alias of "Treasure Bombshell." Here, she poses for fat fetishists all over the world and patrons can even pay for the immense pleasure of watching her eat via webcam.

To me, this sounds like the American dream. Why then, when I read the media coverage Donna has generated, do I feel so dirty and sick? This should not be. Here is a smart, independent and incredibly fat woman living life on her own terms, offering a service for which there is solid demand. Who are we to judge?

Now is this so shameful, so horrific? No. This is a modern woman taking advantage of modern times. If you don't want to look, fine, avert your eyes and go away. But plenty of paying customers want to see this and more, much MUCH more.

I think it's great. I give Donna two thumbs up. Five stars. We could all take a page, I think. And, Donna, you have inspired me to explore the possibilities of something I love as dealry as you love food.

Beer.

Pislner and ale, lager and bitter, foreign and domestic. I love its foamy depth and cool richness. I could drink it day and night if it was socially acceptable to do so. I work a freelance job, so during the gaps in employment, if I were to sit in my computer room and guzzle beer, someone would soon call the interventionists. I would be pitied by people and seem diseased in the eyes of society.

But, if I could turn my passion for suds into a business and profit from something I love doing, then I become a savvy net-repeneur.

Everyone is trying to find money from the internet. The modern American dream is to provide a paid service from home with access to a worldwide customers.

There are so many people who love beer like I do but are unable to drink it for various reasons: domestic responsibilities, alcohol issues, religious beliefs...

For all those people, I would become a live, beer guzzling proxy via web cam; an Avatar of sorts for a beloved habbit they cannot induldge in.

I drink beer, customers pay to dictate the type, the quantity, the speed etc.

I, like Donna, could indulge my greatest passion and get paid for it.

Sounds like the best gig in the wide world to me.

If I could turn back time...

I would do everything in my power to sabatoge at least two of these records from ever showing up on this list of top selling albums worldwide.

Whether it meant travelling through time and killing the mothers of future band members, or sticking a shiv in Whitney backstage at a talent show, I would do it.

Top 10 sellers worldwide:

Thriller 82
Back In Black 80
Dark Side of the Moon 73
The Bodyguard Soundtrack 92
Bat Out of Hell 77
Eagles Greatest Hits 76
Dirty Dancing Soundtrack 87
Millennium 99
Saturday Night Fever 77
Rumors 77

The Meat speaks: PART 2: Guest Blog

Now Playing: The Girl with the Demon Goat Tattoo.

This is the teaser from my last post.

Get it?


So, Wally D, back and blog ready.

I'm here to finish the tale of Wanda, the vag tattoo, her freaky twins, the prison guard and eggs Florentine.

I made a big withdrawal from the crazy bank that night with Wanda. I don't remember where I left you in this tale. I think it was peeling off panties and staring at the demonic goat tattoo surrounding her vagina.

Some guys would be freaked sexless, but hell, it would be worse if I pulled off her panties and found no vagina at all, just a blind mound of flesh.

I did ask though. I said, "Wanda, you've got a beautiful vag down here, but right now it's trapped in a freaky goat's mouth."

She blushed--which I loved--and told me that it's not a goat, it's the devil, as represented in Tarot cards. OK, the devil. Thanks so much, that explains everything. It's not a goat after all. So now I'm about to play tongue tag with satan's moustache.

She went on to explain that she was seriously into Tarot as a teen, and the devil is not always bad. Sure, the cruel, apocalyptic, bugger and serial killer is a sweetheart in the land of Tarot. But Wanda claimed the devil in Tarot can represent the need to overcome repressed psychology, which she had accumulated in her childhood. So the devil is actually a healing figure in her life, a turning point and a recovery.

But recovery from what? Inbreeding? Cannibalism?

I asked her if she was a Satanist. She laughed and said no, she was an Anglican.

That's good news. But I can't get thrown off the task in front of me. I'm a surgeon and my work is important.

I end up going down for the count. Wanda arrived very intensely. I doubled my effort and the encore was incredibly vocal. I know she said she was Anglican, but this was speaking in some serious Pentecostal tongue.

I always take the cue from my partners first, and if they don't ask, I will not enter. I wait to be invited, or I keep working the deep delta.

But with Wanda, I was barely able to slip on a jacket before she forced me into the devil's mouth. I don't want to be graphic here, so I'll be metaphorical. The bulbs burst, the ceiling cracked, the room went black and the soundtrack went way, way up.

I woke up with country air blowing in my face. The light was too bright to fully open my eyes. But in the room itself, the sound of sucking. Now, I know what you are thinking.

It took a moment for my eyes to focus from sleep. Wanda moved beside me and as I turned to reach for her, I discovered that it wasn't Wanda moving beside me. She was sitting against the headboard and her kid was stretched out, sucking her nearest breast. I couldn't see his face, and he shifted again, this time digging in his heels dangerously close to my testoids.

This explains the exceptional size of Wanda's breasts. Milk engorged wonders sustained by excessive breast feeding.

It doesn't take long to find the other twin. He's standing at the foot of the bed and glaring at me with an expression way beyond civil. He's holding some kind of mutilated stuffed animal. Jesus, what a pale and ferret faced little brat. And just staring me in the eyes as his brother goes right on sucking tit beside me.

I didn't flinch. I know, he's just a kid and I'm a big threat to his world. But I stared right back. No five year old is going to put the hex on me, regardless of what I did to his mother.

Wanda sees I'm awake and says hello. I turn to her and she smiles down at me. The other twin stops sucking and looks at me too. Jesus, he doesn't look at all like the other one.

Wanda says "I hope you don't mind?"

What? This kid sucking mommy milk? The other one at the foot of the bed vibing me out?

"It's only Mackenzie now. Forrester stopped breast feeding last year."

I looked back at Forrester. The little rat was still giving me the spooky eyeball. He looks thinner than the other one. Sicker, paler, meaner.

I've gotta piss.

I check beneath the covers. I had the presnece of mind to put my underwear back on. Thank you Wally.

I slid out of bed and found my shirt by the night stand. I walked past Forrester ignoring him, but did look back before I left the room. The little psycho was still staring at me. I swear if he's still doing that when I get back, I'll spank the little creep.

I start down the hallway, but as I walk past the kitchen, I see a dude standing at the sink. This is obviously a serious WTF moment.

He's in some sort of uniform. I can tell he's not a cop but maybe military.

He hears me. He turns and looks me up and down. Water drips from the latex washing gloves he's wearing on his hands.

Oh fuck! Blood is going to fill the gutters. I feel fight or flight stab me in the balls and brun up my spine.

And fuckme, he's big, over six feet and wide too. His head is massive. A head assault is out.

Okay, I'll charge the prick and try to get a crippling blow to his gonads. I move my feet apart to get a good grounding for my charge.

"Hello. I'm Branden."

What? The? Fuck? Did? You? Say?

He pulls off the gloves.

"I'm Branden Sanders. I'm Wanda's ex."

Jesus, help me to understand?

"Sorry to startle you. I come by every Sunday to make the boys breakfast."

Look man, I'm standing here in my underwear. I did carnal gymnastics with your ex-wife last night, and at the moment both boys are in the bedroom I just came from. What do you expect from me Branden? WTF do you expect from me?

"Why don't you have a seat at the table, I'll make you breakfast."

I couldn't process this at all. Finally I said to him:

"Look, I don't know what's going on here, dude."

Brenden smiled at me.
"It's okay. I know you must be confused, but everything's cool. I encourage Wanda to meet new people. You have nothing to worry about by me."

All I could say was, "What's your division?"

"My division?"

"You army?"

He actually giggled.

"No, I'm a prison guard at Warkworth."

That's rich. A local screw is going to make me breakfast.

"Look, I can imagine you are uncomfortable, but don't be. Do you want coffee?"

I love Java, under any circumstance.

"I'd take a cup."

"I have some freshly ground Sumatra. I'll get it brewing."

Okay. He's been pleasant, and admitted he's a screw. Can I trust him enough to sit down? Or, will he strike once I've taken the seat. You know, Warkwarth is minimum security prison. I wonder if he's packing a tazer? He's got the cutlery laid out real nice. I can always grab a fork and go for his eyes.

I sit down quick.

He's working at the stove with his back to me. Should I make a move?

"How long have you known Wanda.?"

Here it is. If I say ten hours, he swings around viscious and nails me hard. I grip the fork. I am taut and ready for him.

"Highschool."

"Oh, you were classmates?"

"We were chemistry partners."

"That's sweet."

Alright dude. Tazer or not, liberated ex hubby or not, don't you fucking play with me.

Then, the fire alarm goes off. I nearly leap off the chair. Brenden lifts a pan from the stove as smoke curls into the air. He fans it with a tea towel. The creepy little one appears right beside me. He starts shrieking in an attempt to emulate the alarm pitch. I should stick the little bugger with my fork.

"Dad just burned something Mackenzie. Please don't scream."

What? Wait. I thought the creepy one was Forrester?

Brenden opens the kitchen window. Wanda walks in, still in panties and her bra. She's carrying the other one. Oh yea, that's the freaky twin. Look at the way he stares at me.

The alarm stops ringing. Wanda touches my shoulder.

"Hi."

Hi yourself lady. This is melting my mind.

"What's for breakfast Daddy?" asks Mackenzie.

"Eggs Flourentine buddy."

"Does the man get breakfast too Daddy?"

"Yes. He's our guest so he gets served first."

"But the man hurt mommy."

Yea, that's the creepy one.

"No he didn't baby." That's Wanda.

"Yes he did."

I could easily reach him with the fork.

"No baby, we were having adult playtime, that's all."

I look at Brenden. He winks at me.

"Little boys," he says.

Yea. Little boys alright. And prison screws that brunch and ex-wives that screw lead singers of cover bands. This is chaos.

"Who wants to help Daddy crack eggs?"

The troll leaps out of Wanda's arms and joins his brother at the counter. Wanda sits in the chair beside me and takes my hand.

"How did you sleep?"

We didn't sleep, remember?

She looks at the fork in my other hand. I set it on the table.

"I should get my pants."

"Okay." She tries to pat my ass as I leave the table.

I grab my pants, my wallet and necklaces from the night stand and go to the window. Perfect, it opens. I flip the latch and quietly slide it up. Hell no. The screen doesn't come out. I look around and find a nail file on the dresser. I stab a hole big enough for both my index fingers, then rip it wide open. I slip out feet first and was running before I hit the grass. The neighbors hounds started up so I decided against the road and made a marathon sprint for the corn field.

The End.

Wally D. Reuben

Eggs Florentine is Eggs Benedict which substitutes spinach for ham.

There are differing accounts as to the origin of eggs Benedict. In an interview in the "Talk of the Town" column of The New Yorker in 1942, the year before his death,^[1] Lemuel Benedict, a retired Wall Street stock broker, claimed that he had wandered into the Waldorf Hotel in 1894 and, hoping to find a cure for his morning hangover, ordered "buttered toast, poached eggs, crisp bacon and a hooker of hollandaise."

George Costanza: Jenny's new Bitch

Today, I'm in my basement doing 30 minutes on the elliptical machine, basically trying to lose weight the old fashioned way: which is working off calories that I enjoyed consuming.

To make it seem like a more authentic gym experience, we mounted an LCD on the wall to watch basic cable--I split the main line so no digital box, limiting the choices.

So, I'm elipting my ass off, watching my favorite morning show--A+E Cold Case files--and I'm hit with a commercial for Jenny Craig. No surprise, as I've had to suffer through previous years of a Yo Yo Thin/Fat train wreck sideshow named Kirsty Alley.

Then, tiny and plump Barbara Cooper steps in (One Day at a Time) nee Van Halen, who booted the too fat for Jenny Kirsty to the curb.

But now, George Castanza?


You'd think if an actor was lucky enough to play one of the greatest comic characters of modern times, for that many seasons, they would just take their money and go away.

Not Jason...

With this, you are letting an entire generation of dumpy, bald and irritating men down.

I mean, you tried to have an after career, and everything you touched failed, but please give yourself credit. We admire you for that. And you did it chubby. I can understand your equation with failure and chubbiness, but Jason, your instinct to slim down will make it worse for you. Cut your losses and flee the Jenny Craig lifestyle prison. You are risking your free will.

You should pull a Bob Denver. Get a ranch, track your investment interest and smoke a little herb. After all, you earned every penny.

Jenny Graig is not a come back. It's a come down. For all of your fans, you were good lumpy. You will be boring and unfunny slim.

If you do complete the program, you will never recover your soul.

Then, it's Dancing with the Stars and your own reality show.

Jason, Jenny Craig has fed you your tiny balls as a topping on a perfectly portioned breakfast.

Do the right thing. Ditch Jenny Craig, not the pounds.

The Meat speaks: Guest Blog

Brother Chuck,

I'm blogging at ya for the first time. You better not cut anything good or I'll stuff your skinny chicken legs up your ass and leave you like a paraplegic. LMAO...

Well, why not start with some juice? I got the brass polished on Friday night. I went to the bowling alley for a few drinks and got talking up this nurse who works at the prison farm.

I said, I'll bet you've seen some crazy shit on the inside. She said that Warkworth is a minimum security prison, so it's mostly common stuff, like the flu. I asked her is she ever had to extract contraband from a colon, but she told me the worst she's seen was an infected anal cyst.

I could have tossed my carry on, right there at the bar. Stay sexy in my mind, please, stay sexy in my mind.

She wore new jeans and a tight top. Her impressive mammaries stretched the letters on her shirt so convex it was hard to read the logo: H-O-L-L-Y-W-O-O-D D-R-E-A-M.

Sexy.

Her name is Wanda. She got a sitter for her 5 year old twins so I knew this wasn't just a social drink. I can tell a troller from a roller. And she was a troller. Let me hear you purr, Mama bear. I'm in season all year long.

I'll bet the funky fish inside the prison walls have a good grope after she takes their temperature. She's a little chunky and has a gap in her front teeth, but right now, she's a hot mirage in a dry, cold desert. Oh yea, and she's missing her left ear lobe. I didn't ask. I'm not hung up on ears anyway.

So, we closed the bar and she picked up the tab. She's a real piece of class.

It took about 25 minutes to drive her mini-van back to Norham. I stashed a six pack behind the bar and finished those on the drive to her house. Shit bro, you didn't think I was driving, did ya?

She lives in an old school house, with a shit ugly addition built on the front. The sitter met us at the door. She looked about 14 and weird, like Rickets weird. Wanda paid her and she drove her bike off into the darkness.

Wanda checked on her kids, then poured herself a tall glass of Irish cream. I can't drink it. To me, the stuff tastes like Leprechaun cum, so I opened a bottle of rye I found under the sink. I can drink rye if I run out of beer.

I asked Wanda what music she liked. She told me 80's stuff. Her house looked way too IKEA for me. A little too neat and clean. I told her I was in a Meatloaf Cover band. She doesn't know who Meatloaf is. What. Seriously? But, doesn't matter. We're here for a ride on the skin carousel. Any music works with that. Right? But where the hell has she been since 1977?

She downed her next drink and I knew within the hour I'd be tongulating her to the stratosphere.

She refilled her glass then put on some music. WHAM! Hell no. Do not WHAM me right now. Please. Shit, Wanda is making it difficult for me to think of her as a sexual object. I do respect George Micheal as an artist and songwriter, but the thought of him sucking anonymous pipe in a public john makes me want to toss my carry on. And I say sorry to George, but that's just the way it is with me. There's only one penis I'd ever put in my mouth. My own! LMFAO.

So, Wanda checked her kids and then we went to the bedroom. She had to remove some stuffed toys and knitting before we could get our beast on. She slammed back her drink and pulled off her shirt. And I stopped breathing.

Jesus!

I had underestimated the full naked volume of those magombos. An astounding sight, really. But I'm not that hung up on breasts anyway.

All the clothes came off and the skin came together and we kissed. I asked her what she wanted, and she asked me what I wanted. My smile was my answer. I know what this means...

I have found that Women love it when you seem possessed on making them burst, and I have been perfecting this craft since public school. Once I dipped down for a taste of Mrs. Walters in the grade six cloakroom, I've been hooked.

Here's how it goes down. Literally.

The body rub, the occasional pass over the lips without landing, the cursory stimulation, the sexually reassuring comments. Then, the deep dive.

Once you get there, it's all lip thunder and tongue plunder, and very intimate vibrations.

Since I started in the carnal art with Mrs. Walters, my manual technique has revolved around music. In Grade 6, we learned a song by R and R Sherman, called: Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. It comes from the Mary Poppins soundtrack. The lips form the words and the tongue keeps the rhythm. Humming adds some vibrato. I have run this number so many times into the vulva that I declare myself a master of the instrument.

And with Wanda, I played like a virtuoso. She crawled up the walls like I expected.

Here's one thing you might not know. When you're rustling the reeds, it can be hard to stay in pitch because the vagina is changing constantly.

But, I have to stop now. I promised Mom I'd pick up her prescription before the Pharmacy closes.

So Bro, I'll continue this story next time. Believe me, it gets weird!

Want a tease? OK.

Wanda has a giant, demonic goat face tattoo right above the kitty. It's a crazy sight and gives the goat a cleft lip of labia minora.

Wally D. Reuben

OH YEA. POST SCRIPT:

We don't have a mail box anymore. The Postal Nazis installed a central box down by the beach. I know a place someone should shove the crown in crown corporation alright. But nobody here will lift a finger about it. If the government says you have to eat dog food to get a pension, people would eat dog food. What's smaller, the town or the people? I live in fucking Lilliput.

Mouse Apocalypse-Redux

I leapt awake in panic. It was 3:18am. Everything quiet, except the blood flow pounding in my ears. Shit, I don't want to go out the door. I don't want to know what might have happened in the pantry.

I sleep on a leather futon in the basement office when I have a cold or drink too much; I snore horrifically. In this instance, it was the cold. The drinking too much; it rarely happens.
The south office wall borders the pantry. If I walk into the basement and turn right, I will be heading straight for it.

There's a good reason I'm disturbed.

This might demystify the previous post, but the nasty mouse that bit me was actually trapped on a glue board on the floor of the pantry. After the first attempt at a merciful kill, I did what any human being would do...I whacked it on the skull with a hammer. Yes, it's brutal, but you can't release a mouse back into the fields after it's been trapped on a glue pad. Ask 3M, the glue is hyper industrial strength. But after the single, swift and merciful blow--and for a reason I can't understand--I left the corpse there on the floor.
Subconsciously, perhaps a warning to the other mice, evidence of my blood thirst and the consequences of living in my house. My version of severed heads on pikes, perhaps?

The pantry door has been propped open for two weeks to give our cat access to her natural pray. And she did catch one, which she left dead at the bottom of the 1st floor stairs, which I stepped on, which was lucky. Lucky. Because, if my wife had stepped on it, she would be catatonic in an ICU. She's utterly horrified by mice. If I even talk about mice, she gets queasy. If I told her what I did to the mice I capture with glue, she would become physically ill.

Thus far, the rodent body count is four. One by guillotine trap, one by feline, and including the last causality, 2 by industrial death glue.

And I left the pantry door open. On the floor, a dead mouse, half it's corpse stuck to a glue board, with 100 per cent cat access.
I woke up in a panic. It was 3:18. Everything quiet, except the blood flow pounding in my ears. Shit, I don't want to go out the door. I don't want to know what might have happened in the pantry.

I leave the office and walk slowly around the corner, approaching the pantry door, close enough to see inside. Peeping slowly. Very slowly, until...
OH...JESUS WEPT! The glue trap is gone, dead mouse and all. I stumble back, more horrified than being bitten by a mouse--which really did happen. I have a vision that makes my skin turn cold--more terrifying than the turd tornado-suffocation vision.
This vision is of my wife, wakened suddenly by the familiar thump of the cat hopping onto the mattress. She turns, barely awake and reaches out for the familiar, soft fur as the cat nuzzles closer. But her fingers grasp a stiff edge. In the darkness, she feels along this edge until she puts her fingers in something sticky. She pulls back, but the cat recoils. She can't get her fingers free.

In this state of semi-consciousness, reason can seem remote, things are confusing and surreal.

With her free hand, she turns on the lamp and screams at what she sees. Her had is stuck to a glue board, which is stuck to the cat's fur, with the body of dead mouse hanging off of that.
No. NO! I check every inch of the pantry floor. Then the basement, around the litter box, the furnace. Nothing.

I rush up the basement steps. Near the top, I step on it.

I lift my foot to find the glue board stuck there like an insole. From under my heel, I see two tiny dangling legs and a tail.
Jesus wept!

Lucky for me it is not my wife now stuck to this industrial glue board of death.

The bird streamer

I just saw the most incredible thing. I was emptying the guest ashtray on my front porch when I noticed a sparrow flying over the street with about two feet of clear packing tape trailing behind it. It looked like a tiny plane holding a long, clear banner in its beak, and it rippled loudly through the air.

The tape is likely from a poster, taped around a pole reading "lost cat, yard sale "or "piano lessons."

It lands on a house across the street, where it's challenged by another sparrow. The challanger plucks the tape away, then flies to a telephone pole. There, the tape sticks to the pole and both birds lose the tape and whatever plans they had for it.

Mouse Apocalypse...Please

I tried...I really did. To all the pacifists, the tree huggers, the vegans and the generally humane, I did my very best.

I did meditate for patience. And I prayed for this situation to resolve itself humanely. And, I am not a religious man. Actually, I can't even remember what Deity I was praying to.

But, the vision I had gave me guidance and a clear path by which to proceed.

From the overexposed glow, a deep voice bellowed "Son, walk with me for a spell. When we reach the red rock, please turn it over and read to me what is written there." Well, after walking for a time, I noticed a red rock resting on a natural mound just off our path. I bent towards it, but turned to my companion first. "This red rock", I asked. The voice said "Is it red?" I looked again. "Oh yes, it is...um...my..."
"Deity is fine, boy."
"Yes, my...Deity, it is quite red."
Said the Deity; "Please then, turn the rock and read to me what is written there."
I reached for the rock, pulled it from the earth and turned it slowly in my hand. BUT before I could read anything...

WHOOSH CAHSLOOM!

A torrent of mouse shit rose forth from the impression of the stone, blasting me like hail and causing me to cower upon the ground. Terrified, I screamed for guidance from the Deity, but my vision was ruined by a blizzard of tiny pellets. Eventually, over the fury mounding all around me, I heard Deity's deep voice say, "This is a most unnatural infestation. The laws of nature no longer abide here. We shall take our retreat!"

What? Deity? What? Why do you retreat of me?

As I tried to claw my way out, the turds kept flying like volcano ash. I lunged for air, but was soon overwhelmed, immobilized and buried by tens of millions of tiny turds. The last thing I remember is trying to block my nostrils, but eventually giving in, for a time even, respiring the tiny pellets, then suffocating fully awake as the mass filled my lungs.

Since that night, the rodent vandals have been dancing in my walls. In my living room, while trying to relax by HD, I hear a scratching in the wall behind me, a displacement of plaster, falling at intervals eerily like Morse code. The message, "You have so much. We are so small. We can live together in beautiful symbiosis."

I have a basement office and they run the voids between joists like phantoms, trying to drive me mad. It makes me feel a Gothic dread, a gripping Poe madness. I have considered taking a hammer to the ceiling and revealing the culprits clear.

I decided finally that the rodents have tormented me long enough. Rodents shall not rule the house, Man shall rule the house, and the rodent must bow down and suffer.

I won't tell you how it's going to happen, but I will say that all other avenues have failed. So now, the brutal must prevail.

As much as I regret the circumstances deteriorating to this stage of dispatch, I cannot be ruled by mice. Even as I write this, they scratch and scurry on the ceiling above my desk.

Wait. What is this? I hear something strange from the pantry.


I have one. Trapped and staring up at me with those beady, side headed eyes.

I will do now what I think is merciful. I get a nail and my small hammer, and go towards the pantry, hoping to drive the tiny metal point through it's beating heart.

I try to steak it, but the rodent squirms and turns and won't be sacrificed. I try to place the spike again and again, until at last, the mouse somehow stretches up the nail and bites my finger.

I fall back in terror. Jesus Christ, the rodent just bit me. Do you know what that means, to be bitten by a mouse? My absolute worst terror is realized. I have been bitten, and now, my life will be forever changed.

I ran upstairs to apply an entire bottle of Purell to the wound. But, I am bitten. I know it's not enough to stop what is already happening inside my veins. I will slowly devolve into the tiny creature I despise.

To my wife and son, my parents and family, and to my good friends. Please, remember me as I was, not by what I will become.

The Meat

My older brother Wally still lives with my parents. He's slept in the same room for over 40 years. In 1990, he formed a Meatloaf cover band. Wally sings lead vocals. They call themselves "The Meat." All members are original, except for Donny Beatty, the first keyboardist, who was electrocuted in 96 while trying to steal a sattelite dish. "The Meat" still get a gig here and there. Meatloaf has never lost popularity in the country. Wally is a seasonal worker; a sod-cutter by trade. From April to September, he works on a local sod farm. During the winter, he draws unemployment insurance, lifts weights and writes lyrics to unrecorded songs. He is also a lifelong womanizer. In a town of 3600 people, he has slept with at least 200 women. He claims that he still gets laid a few times a month. There can be a lot of desperation in a small town. To my knowledge, he has never contracted an STD. Wally drinks a shocking amount of alcohol, he always has. Though, I wouldn't call him an alcoholic. Every year at his physical, he asks for a liver enzyme count, which always comes back normal. He requests a lab photocopy so he can buy a lottery ticket with the same numbers as his test. In 2006, he was three digits away on the last number for 7 million. Wallys hair is 1984 (the style of his wig is 1984. In truth, he's been bald since 97). His fashion is 1990. His IQ is 131. That's what I find a little sad.

Wally has asked to be a guest blogger on Dingo Farm. My parents don't own a computer and the only public terminals in town are at the library. But, since Wally had an affair with the librarian in 2004, which nearly ended her marriage, he can't enter the town library without causing a riot.

I doubt he even knows what blogging is--do any of us really--BUT, I'm considering it, as his worldview is exceptionally unique. This would mean Wally mailing me his hand written blog and me transcribing it to text. I told him firmly that I would have editorial control. As well, I mailed him a strict set of guidelines about acceptable topics and language I would not tolerate.

So, here's a picture of my older brother, Wally Dulles Reuben. Have a look and keep in mind, his head's a bit twisted, but he's a straight shooter with his heart is in the right place.

Wally D Reuben, Lead Singer, "THE MEAT" publicity photo 2002.

Cattrall employs Avatar

Sometimes, an issue of Chatelaine appears on my kitchen table. It's not mine, but I live with an occasional purchaser.

Because I grew up respecting books and newspapers--and using magazines for strictly visual purposes--I have always been skeptical of these glossy conduits to advertisers and image makers. Like picture books of pop thrills and junk culture, subjugating words into format boxes, font bursts and hypertext.

I remember Chatelaine from my youth; the Dentist's waiting room, the school counseller's office, my Aunt's en-suite bathroom.

As you see, this issue "stars" Kim Cattrall. But that's not Kim on the cover. It looks like a young, unknown model who resembles Cattrall 25 years ago.

What? For the first time, I'm intrigued by a magazine. The monthly celebrity gets bold text but no cover photo? Instead, a young, no name model with pale, flawless skin instead? Notice the mole, carefully placed below the lip as an ode Catrall.

My eyebrows are raised.

Inside the issue, more rebellion. Cattralls own Q+A is supported by a photo of the same young model...mugging for the camera just as Cattrall would.

I stare at the picture. The soft, taught skin...the impossibly lush hair, the fresh cut smile.

Then it hits me. This is not a young model at all. This is an Avatar.

Kim Catrall has purchased an Avatar, which she will use to support the visual side of her brand from now on. Has this been happening in all the magazines? Am I really that far behind the technology of celebrity?

It's seems inevitable. For years, actors have used stand ins for lighting, doubles for stunt work and false names at hotels. For decades, they have been taking the credit for the work of so many anonymous people. This seems like the probable evolution of the human brand, the star becomes Avatar--physically rendered with youth and vigour--to perpetuate an ageless representation across all the visual media.

My mind is bent.

Cure for cold

My cure for a cold:

Eat heat: A scorching curry or heavily spiced pasta dish. Spicy carbs and richness are good right now. It's comfort food but gives your body virus fighting calories. Pepper everything you ingest. Minimum, 1400 calories per serving.

Chicken stock: Vital for cold fighting. Forget chicken soup, go right for the source. Chicken stock is available in cartons from your local grocery store. Throughout the day, drink several mugs of microwave warmed chicken stock. You should drink at least 1 litre of chicken stock per day during your cold.

Drink booze: Who cares what the labels say, and ignore your pharmacists advice. It's not like you are Corey Haim Dr. shopping for your daily cocktail. Stay with the hard stuff. I recommend vodka, but whisky, gin and tequila will work. Start with a full shot glass, grind some pepper on top and knock it back. Wait 10 minutes, then take your cold and flu pills.

NeoCitran: I don't know what's in it, but this stuff is like legal opium. Add a shot of vodka, and the visions promised by the yellow dragon are even greater. Drink several glasses of water before Neo tripping, as it's very dehydrating.

Cold Sweats: If you have cold sweats and feel generally toxic and fatigued after days of suffering, I recommend an enema consisting of equal parts NeoCitran, chicken stock and vodka.

The Colonel Kills

From beyond the grave, prolific killer, Harland David Sanders, American entrepreneur and serial murderer, is still responsible for the slow death of thousands of North Americans every year.

The Dreaded...Revealed

I've said it many times, often after drinking too much.

"If I had your particular problem, I would just call my "Friend" and make the trouble go away. You know, go away, peremente like."

They thought I was joking.

This was in response to dilemmas like:

Cheating husband, cheating wife, bad neighbor, unfair boss, step father, step mother, mother in law, junkie brother, deadbeat dad, father in law, junkie nephew, public school bully, neighborhood drug dealer, every ugly teenager at the local high school, neighborhood pimp, bulligerent co-worker, irritating co-worker, surly waitress at my breakfast local, boss of my company, any asshole in a souped up Japanese car with deafening bass, anyone who doesn't pick up their dog shit, the ex-girlfriend who posted my nude photos on the internet...etc...etc...etc.

Well, tonight, I am ready to put some money where my mouth has been:

After talking to my Dark Knight of Justice, and agreeing upon an acceptable fee, I have licenced his photo to share with you.

When we were kids, we both wanted to become astronauts, and if that failed, firemen, and if that failed, school teachers. And, if that failed, car salesmen. But fortunately for me, my "Friend" found a profession befitting his natural born ruthlessness.

To those who thought I was talking fairy tales, to those who thought my threats were fantasy, who doubted that I could ever bring a hit down on them like nuclear shit drizzle, well, just look at this photo. Stare at it. Study it. And feel the fear like you should.

Tonight, you see the image of the man who--if you ever, ever wrong me--might be the last man you ever see.

Keep testing me and you could even meet him. If I make one simple text, or, even worse for you, a skype....

Yea, I could skype you dead, just like that.

But first, have a look at my little friend:

Easter Buffet: Health Hazzard or Right of Birth?

Draped below the town sign was a vinyl banner advertising the Cheapest Easter Buffet in the county. I thought what the hell, as I took note of the restaurant's name, why don't I treat my entire family this Easter.

My 10 member family dined for $61.75. The adults fared well, but their digestive tracts have hardened from years of grazing by heat lamp. My Uncle ate 14 egg rolls, and other than a flare up of angina, he was fine. My brother Wally did complain of some scrotal discomfort, but that was likely unrelated to the baskets of breaded cheese dippers he consumed.

Sadly, it was the children who suffered for my well intended Easter thrift.

They are smiling in these pictures--the other effects had not yet manifested--but please remember, kids are the most susceptible at a small town econo buffet. My sweet little cousins broke out in hives within an hour of ingesting their chili-potato mini-sticks. Kids, especially in this "Purell" generation, are sitting ducks in the germy universe of discount holiday buffet. They did recover, but Easter for them was shattered by violent diarrhea and the cold sweat of processed food fever.

Parents, please take heed: Bypass the buffet and turn on a stove. Don't let laziness, ignorance and unbearable cheapness outweigh the health of your tender offspring.

Easter Story For Children.

The sun shone low on the meadow as Santino Bunny washed his fur in the brook. His paws broke the surface into twinkling diamonds as he rinsed them in the cool water. Goldenbriar was a Freehold Bunny Warren, gated with security to keep out other furry creatures like weasels and otters; gophers and skunks.

Santino Bunny hung his bag inside the door, and entered the dining room to greet his family, seventeen Bunnies in chairs, and Betty, his wife of seven years who was dicing dinner in the kitchen. He circled the table and kissed each child between the ears, then took his seat at the head of the table. His oldest son, Santino Jr (really the 12th Santino in Bunny family history) said “you’re wet Dad, but I didn’t see any rain today.”
Santino grinned and rubbed the tip of his right ear. “It was a busy day at work so I cleaned up in the brook before dinner. “
“Tell me about work, Dad,” asked Jr.
Before Santino could answer, Betty Bunny said, “We don’t talk about work at home Jr.”
“But Mom,” said Jr, “it will soon be Easter and Dad has all the eggs to finish.”
“When we’re at home as a family, we talk about family things.”
“But one day I’ll be…”
“What’s for dinner, honey,” asked Santino, winking at Jr.
“A spring treat indeed. The new romaine's in and is crisp and delicious.”
“Wonderful,” said Santino, and licked his whiskers.

After a fresh and crunchy green dinner, Betty Bunny was clearing up and Santino was grooming his children’s fur, one after another in front of his chair. Jr. hopped up to his Dad and whispered, “One day I’ll be an Easter Bunny, won’t I Dad?”
Santino nodded and put his paw on his son’s head. Then he stood up and stretched.
“Children, I think I’ll start a warm fire.”
He hopped to the old stone fireplace. Above it were the pictures of Santino’s father, his grandfather and his great grandfather before, the latest generations of Easter Bunny’s. Behind these were holes where previous generations were placed in high regard.

In the world of Lagomorphs, the Noble calling of Easter Bunny is passed down through generations of Leporidae to the oldest male. Although children of the world imagine that there is one true Easter Bunny, there are in fact hundreds of thousands, each working the same territory established by their families for generations. And this too ensures that no child is ever disappointed at Easter by a missed delivery or a bad egg.

But tradition changes, respect decays, and even rabbits defy their own code. For months, there had been rumors in the thickets and woods of Northumberland county, the area under Santino’s control. Invading rabbits from outside the family, in fact, outside the genera entirely, had been manufacturing counterfeit Easter eggs of the lowest quality and were preparing to distribute them too children via bogus Easter Bunnies.

Santino first became aware of this when an illegal shell shop was flooded in Spruce Hollow, allegedly the work of Beavers hired by a rival egg gang. The eggs came from old, sick chickens, only weeks away from being cubed up for canned soup.

Now, recent intelligence from a source deep inside the BSCA (Black Squirrel Counterfeit Agency), confirmed that shell shops had set up in the meadows of Snakeberry Hollow, just beyond the subdivision with easy Easter access to the children who lived there.

When Santino heard this from Malump, his trusted consigliere, he went wild. He tore up grass and thumped his feet. He ran into the corn fields, trying to knock down stalks and tear off ears of corn with his teeth. Finally exhausted, he rolled into a quivering ball and excreted a pile of cecal pellets. Santino turned back, smashing his right paw into the warm mound and screamed, “You will all be smashed to this. Every last one of you. Do you hear me?”

The afternoon breeze was mild for April. After six days of cloud, the sun was just creeping into the Western sky. This is when rabbits most like the cool security of their warren, relaxed and oblivious to threat. And this is when Santino and his thumpers jumped into motion.

It started with the Weasels, known to work with the counterfeiters, so they were trusted true but easily paid off. The shell shops opened their doors and the Weasels drew them outside.

One by one, Santino's gang cleared them out. A swift and violent rain of Bunny justice. Every enemy killed with pure, merciless retribution.

When it was finished, Santino and his thumpers walked away, loaded bags on their shoulders. They marched hard until they reached the county line for Northumberland. And there, just over it, they dumped the contents of their bags. Out tumbled 18 heads of 18 bunnies who should have known better than to step into Santino's turf.

Santino and his thumpers were covered in blood. They marched for home in a military line, their fur bright red against the brown grasses, until they disappeared into the valley.

By the time he reached Goldenbriar, the sun was low on the meadow and Santino washed his fur in the brook. His paws broke the surface into twinkling diamonds as he rubbed them clean. The swirls of bunny blood pulled apart in the current, watered down, until they disappeared completely downstream.