I saw this product in a drug store and had to buy it. Wouldn't you?
It was expensive, yes. But intriguing.
Abundance Naturally, the makers of Bowel Buddy, is a family business run by father/daughter team of Shannon O’Brien and Bill O’Brien.
Abundance of what? In the case of Bowel Buddy, I can guess.
Seems the company is in Australia, and they make a number of health conscious natural products. They have several product lines, but when I check the Abundance Naturally line, there is nothing else with a name even close Bowel Buddy.
Then I thought, this is a company that I could work with, and who could profit from my creative mind. Here are some other product names I am suggesting for future Abundance all natural products:
PROSTATE PAL: Bombards the prostate with the goodness of the American dwarf palm tree, opens the road and helps remove tolls from the piss highway.
ANAL ALLY: A concoction using pureed oak bark in some concentration, works to retract and level hemorrhoids, and occasionally bloody stools.
MAMMARY MATE: During lactation, this product containing barley and swamp grass can increase the milk load and swell those baby boob taps to the maximum.
COLON COMRADE: Amp up the colon into a roller coaster of poo processing. Flax seeds, milkthistle extract and fermented goat urine prove a powerful engine of evacuation.
So, I was scrolling through the CNN home page again, but this time my browser did not crash and I double checked the headline. It without doubt read:
"Toyota and Tesla team up."
Well, that's utterly insane, as Nikola Tesla died in New York in 1943.
I know that you had a massive recall and your company is desperate. I know green cars are all the rage and that Tesla was an innovator of electricity. I know electric seems to equal green. Maybe it's better than gasoline, but a lot of electricity comes from coal, so is the green alternative really electricity?
Can't we find green in vegetable oil, watermelon rind, urine?
Why should I believe you Toyota?
When the gas peddle of my Camry stuck, and I smashed straight through the killing floor of my local pork abattoir, was Toyota there? Hell no, my insurance adjuster was there. The cops were there. The paramedics were there. The ESPCA were there, and the farm saftey board showed up too. But I saw no representative of Toyota dropping by the accident site, where my car was submerged in pig gore, giving me a belated heads up about the recall.
Have you heard of Trichinosis? I don't know what they call it in Japan, but here, we call it worms split my stomach open and I bleed out and I die.
I wouldn't leave a Toyota to my neighborhood pedaphile in my will.
Toyota, after the horrifying "Carrie" experience your company put me through, I am driving a Chevy. I took your wretched car and dumped it in a river. My only hope is that is will not injure the fish.
Toyota, if I abide by this corporate fantasy, I should also be expecting the following CNN headlines?
Bang and Olufsen team up with Beethoven? Apple teams up with Turing? Nikon teams up with Dagurre? Sony Pictures Classics has teamed with Muybridge? Air France teames up with Wilbur Wright?
I find this truly freaky. I have no idea how I came across the following information. But it is very scary, the stuff of nightmares really. It makes the North American paranoia of serial killing, cult murder and gang violence look a lot more benign.
"Although the Thuggee probably originated sometime in the sixteenth century, they were not uncovered by British authorities until about 1812. Great Britain was beginning to expand its territories in India, and the British administrators were becoming increasingly alarmed by reports of bands of stranglers that were roving the countryside murdering travelers. At first there appeared to be no connection between the bizarre killings, but then the bodies of 50 victims were found hidden in a series of wells in the Ganges area. Such large-scale mass murder could not have been kept secret for so long unless special pains had been taken to dispose of the victims' corpses. Examination of the bodies revealed that the murderers had broken all joints of their victims' limbs to speed up the process of decomposition and to prevent the swelling of the graves that would attract scavenging jackals and other wild animals. Such evidence convinced the authorities that they were dealing with one secret society, the Thuggee.
The murderous craft of the Thuggee was hereditary. Its practitioners were trained from earliest childhood to murder by the quick, quiet method of a strong cloth noose tightened about the neck of their victims. This weapon, the "Rumal," was worn knotted about the waist of each member of the Thuggee.
The Thuggee gloried in silent and efficient acts of murder above any other earthly accomplishment, and they traveled often in the guise of traders, pilgrims, and even as soldiers marching to or from service. On occasion, the more flamboyant would pretend to be a rajah with a large retinue of followers. Each band of Thuggee had a small unit of scouts and inveiglers who would loiter about hotels and market places gaining information regarding travelers and the weight of their coin purses. The inveiglers posed as travelers headed for the same destination as their intended victims. They would worm themselves into the confidences of their prey, pleading the old adage of safety in numbers.
The mass slaughters of large groups of merchants and travelers were usually committed when all were encamped. Working in groups of three, one Thuggee would loop the Rumal around the victim's neck, another would press his head forward, and the third would grab his legs and throw him to the ground. In the rare instance when an intended victim escaped the nooses in the death area, he would run into scouts posted at the edge of the jungle. One hundred percent mortality of their victims was the goal of the Thuggee.
In spite of what first appeared to be indiscriminate murder on a very large scale, the Thuggee had a peculiar code of ethics whose rules forbade the killing of fakirs, musicians, dancers, sweepers, oil vendors, carpenters, blacksmiths, maimed or leprous persons, Ganges water-carriers, and women. Despite the restriction against the murder of females, however, the presence of wives traveling with their husbands often necessitated the strangling of a woman to protect the secrecy of the society.
The strongest rule of the brotherhood was the one prohibiting the shedding of blood. According to Thuggee beliefs, the goddess Kali taught the fathers of thuggery to strangle with a noose and to kill without permitting the flow of blood. All victims of the Thuggee were sacrificed to Kali, and the members of the secret society would have been greatly incensed by an accusation that they killed only for booty.
With the exception of a small number of boys who may have been captured or spared during a raid, a man had to be born into the cult in order to become an initiate. The minimum age for initiation into the society was 10, and the young candidates were allowed to watch their elders at work from hidden points some distance from the site of the attack. At the age of 18, they were permitted to make their first human sacrifices to Kali.
The Thuggee had their female counterparts in a secret sect of Tantrists who held that it was only by a constant indulgence in passion that a human could ever achieve total union with Kali. Only indulgence in the five vices that corrupt the soul of humankind— wine, meat, fish, mystical gesticulations, and sexual indulgence—could drive the poisons out of the human body and purify the soul.
In 1822, William Sleeman, an officer in the Bengal Army who had transferred to civil service, was appointed by Governor General Lord Bentinck to rid India of the society of stranglers. Fluent in four Indian dialects, Sleeman had been the British official who had first confirmed the growing suspicion that the murders were committed throughout central India by the Thuggee. He was well aware that it would be no easy task putting a halt to such large-scale murders, for the members of the secret society were indistinguishable from any other of the many bands of outlaws who infested the country's roads. And what made the job of identifying the Thugs even more difficult was the fact that they were indistinguishable from any of the travelers and merchants who were their victims. As their name implied, they were master deceivers.
Finally, by meticulously marking the scene of each discovered attack site on a map and by maintaining careful records of the dates, Sleeman was able to begin to predict the areas where the next mass murders were likely to take place. When his agents and informants brought him word that known members of the Thuggee had been seen in a certain region, Sleeman sent his personally recruited police officers out disguised as merchants in order to ambush the Thugs who appeared to attack what they believed was a group of harmless travelers.
Between 1830 and 1841, Sleeman's police captured at least 3,700 Thugs, breaking forever the back of the infamous secret society. Of this total, only 50 received a pardon for supplying valuable information that had been utilized in destroying the secret society. The remainder of those apprehended were imprisoned for life and 500 were hanged. Without exception, the Thuggee condemned to be hanged went to their own deaths with the same lack of emotion with which they had murdered their victims. In many instances, their final request from the hangman was that they be permitted to place the noose around their own neck.
Trials of Thuggee brought out many ghastly facts about the deadly skills of some of its members. A band of 20 confessed that they had participated in 5,200 murders. An individual named Buhram, who had been a strangler for 40 years, had the highest lifetime score to his discredit—931. When asked if he experienced any feelings of remorse or guilt, he answered sharply that no man should ever feel compunction in following his trade.
Although isolated cases of a Thug's proficiency with a noose still exist in India and in other parts of the world, the stranglers of the goddess Kali no longer exist as a secret society. The designation of "thug," however, remains as a negative term applied to brutish criminals."
I was scanning the CNN home page tonight and caught a video headline which I thought read,
"Madeleine Albright, I'm pregnant." Just then, my firefox froze and had to be restarted.
In the 30 or so seconds it took to restart, I was reeling in disbelief. Madeleine Albrightpreggo?
Jesus, not you Bill...you are an unfathomable horn dog. But, can't blame you for thinking she'd be well past the point of fertilization.
Bill Richardson? Bill Cohen?
Jesus. Can this really be happening?
Who, what, where, how, why?
David Crosby? Mel Gibson?
Not Henry Kissinger and a turkey baster? No, that can't be.
Firefox is back and I am going straight to CNN...
Oh.
Yes. That explains it.
It says "Madeleine Albright: I'm an immigrant."
OK, silly me, my mistake.
Wait. What? Madeleine Albright is an immigrant?
I switch to Google. Well, plow me under, so she is.
She's a Czech. Born in Prague. Arrived in the USA in 1948 at age 11.
I had no idea. I could almost weep.
Why...because Madeleine Albright is not pregnant at 73?
No, because I am spiritually Czech myself. I was adopted by a Czech family and my son is 1/2 Czech and I did not know we had so much in common.
Oh Madeleine, I am sorry. I wish I had given you more kind thoughts when you were in office. I didn't really think you were ugly. I was really depressed during the Clinton administration and I was so ugly on the inside. Looking out through those eyes, everything else looked ugly too.
But all along, you were a beautiful Czech-American flower.
I often lay sleepless at night, the same image running through my mind like a film clip...the same recurring concern...or nightmare as some might call it.
This is what I see: the painful nocturnal plight of women with breast implants. And the bigger their breasts, the greater my anxiety.
Have you ever heard of a support network for women with enormous fake breasts? Is there a foundation? A charity run? Even a Facebook page?
I see a looming epidemic. Women who stuffed their chests in youth will experience 3 times the health burden as women who kept their breasts au natural.
And if I were to go Larry King deep, I would ask the following question.
Are your spectacularly large breasts worth the pain? Did they get you everything you hoped for? Is there any post surgical angst?
I used to read about these women when I was a teenager. There were a handful of magazines in which they would appear. Their stories were often short, limited to a few lines in the centrefold. They tended to sound the same. "Cheerleader in high school, athletic, loves to ride horses, ballet trained, loves hiking and sunsets."
In their reality, I guess that life seemed better with artificial orbs ranging in size from vollyballs to beach balls. With that, I am sure they thought, I should be able to rule the world. But time catches yp, especially the artificially bodily modified.
Why is there no advocacy group for women with fake breasts. After all, there are millions of women with breast implants; half of them in the LA basin.
I can understand the burden of carrying around mammoth silicone globes, sometimes weighing pounds, stretching your skin taut and straining your back. I admire you for your perseverance.
For years I have been contemplating starting my own charity whose proceeds would help alleviate the suffering of women with fake breasts.
A friend from California recently mailed this advert.
Obviously, someone with the same concerns was also lying awake at night and measuring the cost of human misery. They offered some solution when all I could offer was sympathy.
It's a small step, but an vital one towards the salvation of implanted women everywhere.
I came across Russell Cornith after a Google search combining "Bigfoot" and my home town of "Campbellford." Google linked up Russell and Bigfoot.
Russell, who holds a PHD in cryptozoology from a NorthernUniversity, is researching what he considers to be the true home of Bigfoot. Far from the Pacific Northwest, Russel has focused his research on a region of Central Southern Ontario, just North of the American border. He would not reveal to me what led him to this specific longitude and latitude, but he tells me he has made several satisfying discoveries in Bigfoot research since he arrived in January, 2010.
I asked him if he would be willing to summarize some findings on this blog. Lucky for us, he was more than happy to share:
"My name is RusselCornith . I am a Cryptozoolager and dedicated Bigfoot researcher. I was drawn to the small town called Campbellford in the hopes of transforming decades of folklore into scientific evidence.
Campbellford traces its history back to 1834, when the first homesteaders arrived in the area. Once very wealthy, it is still known today for its many fine Victorian homes. The Bigfoot folklore seems to date orally from about the same time.
The impetus for my journey here is two fold. First, the abundant rumours and undocumented accounts of Bigfoot which stem from the late 1800's. Secondly, that most of the local population are unwilling to talk to me about Bigfoot, not necessarily from disbelief, but I believe, from some communal desire to protect the creatures.
After four months of on site research, I am even more convinced that Bigfoot lives in the geography surrounding Campbellford. I have managed to establish an eyewitness account that stretches back at least 80 years. And I have interviewed subjects whose Bigfoot encounters are as recent as 2009. Many others relate stories passed down through the generations, recounting stories that their Grandfathers told them, and which they swear are faithfullretellings from their own grandfathers generations before.
Here is a selection of interviews with local residents, which takes the science of Bigfoot way, way back. Well before that douche bag hoaxer Roger Patterson filmed his fake Bigfoot in 1967.
Jack Dooher, a life long resident of Campbellford, now in his 70's, was willing to tell me a story that was passed down to him from his grandfather.
As he told it:
"In the late 1800's, logging was the main business around the new town of Campbellford. Logging meant a team of guys would go into the brush, set up camp, chop trees and send the logs back down the river. My Grandad said that this happened in August of 1860.
Just outside of what is now known as Tweed, a camp of Loggers shot an animal while hunting for Elk. It was like nothing they had ever seen before. Much hairier than bear, but long armed. More like themselves than an animal. They bled the creature and hung it on game racks.
One man, Jerry Polty, had to ride the utility wagon out of the camp and meet the supply wagon at the main road. These old lumber paths were rugged, and it took hours to get in and out of camp. He returned to the camp at dusk. All was quiet. The fires were extinguished. He walked into the mess tent and found everyone dead, all 15 men bludgeoned to death and heaped into a bloody pile. The creature the crew had hung on the game racks was gone."
1998. "I was driving home from Havelock after getting a coffee and some cigarettes at the 24hr, it was just after day break and the fog was lifting. I was driving slow just enjoying the morning when I saw something on the side of the road next to a cornfield so I slowed down thinking it was a deer. I still had my head lights on and could see perfectly. But what I saw was not a deer it stood up to its full height which I estimate to be 8ft and looked right at me. It had a bunch of corn in its arms and I mean a hands like a human's hand. It looked like a human being with hair all over it. I stopped my truck and just starred at it as it did me. After a long moment, it started to throw the ears of corn at the truck. A few hit the windshield, then it took off and jumped across the road and into the woods. I called the police but they laughed at me. The Ministry of Natural Resources took my information but never called me back. But I swear on everything I know, what I saw that morning was a Bigfoot."
Wayne Jr. Casey.
1983. Russell Spurgeon has baled hay all his life. In the spring and summer, he moves from farm to farm, baling hay to feed to local dairy cattle for the year. In a good year, where all the climactic conditions are favourable, he can get three cuts from each farm. He doesn't like to talk about the bad years.
Russell is now 85 and lives in a retirement home on the Trent River. He is still very independent and stays in a small unit by himself. He is proud to point out that he walks at least 5 km a day and cooks his own meals. He was very reluctant at first to talk with me, but my persistence paid off. Here's how Russell told it to me.
"Well, I usually arrive before the farmers are even out of bed. I have the tractor and bailer outside the field the day before, all ready to go. I get up at four and drive the truck down to the tractor, give her a look, kick at the tires, and if the dew ain't too thick, I get bailing by 7am. If we have to wait for wet grass, I usually smoke a few pipes and have breakfast with the family. Once the sun burns up the moisture a bit, we get bailing.
Well, this day was early in the season, probably June. It was on the old Hoakes place, which ain't there no more. I bailed that property for about 17 years. Turned into a golf coarse now. And a shame too cause that was some real nice land. Now, it's got the ding dongs all over it who pay to whack their balls around for an afternoon. What an unholy waste of time I find that game of golf.
But, as I said, back on the day, I was getting ready bale the back fields on one of the nicest farms in the county. I'm about to start the tractor and I hear this Ungodly screeching just into the field. I have never heard a sound like that since. It was like some opera lady and a Gorilla were both screaming and those screams got laid over each other. I remember it giving me the chills just to listen. I went a bit into the field and up ahead, I saw something moving in the grass. I grabbed my .38. I always carried a .38 in case I bailed up something that needed to be put down. It happens. Half dead with it's guts all twisted out. So, I had my .38 ready and crept forward and that's when I saw it.
I don't know which was on top or the other way, but two of these big hairy beasts were going at it right there in the grass in front of me. The one was face down in the dirt, and the other had a hold of it's hair, and was humping it something fierce. Right there in front of my eyes, two of these Goddamned creatures they call the Bigfoot, so busy in their devilry and humping that they never even seen me.
I nearly pissed myself on the spot. I cocked that damn .38 alright, cause I figured it they ever heard a rustle, they'd be up and on me. But I didn't need the gun. I crept back and they never noticed me.
Well, I got the hell off that farm, because I don't need to deal with no Bigfoots, or whatever that unholiness was. And I never went back to that place.
Those ding dong's can have their damn golf course. And at least once a day I still get a good giggle out of thinkin what's gonna happen if one of them pink shirted bastards comes across a couple of those humping beasts. That's a story just waitin' to happen, if you ask me."
2004. "One night around 11:30-12:00 me and my boyfriend were parked out in a pasture at my boyfriends grandpas land, just making out and talking. My boyfriend looked over my shoulder and saw a very large figure was standing beside the car. He said it looked like it was over 7 feet tall because my boy friend is 6'5 it had long arms and very bulky. It stood there just looking at us and we locked the doors and crouched down in the front seats. It started to make a moan something like "Gnaaa, Gnaaa, Gnaaa."
My boyfriend turned on the lights just to see it rise up there right in front of us. It was a full on hairy beast, very tall and there was a penis stuck right out through the fur, it was light coloured and hard. It was just standing there in the headlights kind of touching it, and making the sounds. "Gnaaaa, Ganaaa, Ganaaaaaaa."
Well, we started the car and got out of there fast."
Julie Vendors.
1996. I had to buy "Toad" a few beers to tease out the following account. (Toad is an alias to protect his real identity.) He's a slim man in his forties, very friendly and forthright with his opinions. He is a carpenter by trade, an herbalist and something of a bar room poet. He sips another Church Key lager and begins.
"Well, I'd been at the old MarmoraHonkyTonk. I was playing pool with my buddy "Rowboat" (Rowboat is an alias to protect his real identity) and beatin him pretty good. We'd been pounding beers all night, so when the lights went up we were pretty boiled. Rowboat was my ride home, but he's picked up some fancy chick from Hastings, and they were getting a ride to her place from her cousin. I would never drink and drive these days, but back then, sometimes we risked it. I had to take my daughters to their lacrosse tournament the next morning, so I had to get home.
I hopped in Rowboats pick up, found a can of sardines in the glove box and choked em down. We used to keep sardines in the truck to cover up the smell of booze. If the cops stop you and they can't smell booze, they can't ask for a breath test.
So, I rolled down the windows, sprtized on a little VO5 and cranked up the Sabbeth. The last thing I remember is turning off the #7 highway, just as Iron Man blasted on the tape player. I remember singing along.
Next thing I know, I wake up on my back porch. My wife must of locked the door and I couldn't find the key. All the flower pots were turned over, becasue we kept the spare key under the white geraneams. I was chilly and covered in dew. I sat up and a raging hangover hit me hard. I could see that I must have crawled through her flower bed, as the plants were crushed and my pants were covered in dirt.
I stood up and got the morning spins. I reached out for the railing and threw up on the smokebush. I could hear a motor running. I lit a smoke and walked off the deck. I turned by the corner of the house and got a look at Roweboat's truck. It was right there idling in my driveway, but the grill was bashed in, the windshield was smashed and there was blood splattered all over the hood. I got closer and looked at something hanging out of the grill. It was bloody hair.
I fell down in the gravel and threw up again. I honestly thought I'd killed someone and didn't remember a thing past the last verse of Iron Man. You know, 'Heavy boots full of lead, fills his victims full of dread."
Well, I crawled up the driver's door and grabbed the handle. It was locked, and I could see the keys in the ignition.
That's when I saw it lying in the back. A huge, hairy, bloody thing all lumped up in the box. And I almost cried. Thank the Lord, I'd hit a frigging bear, not a person. I remember looking at that blue sky and wanting to scream out. I got dizzy and had another barf.
I looked closer at what was there. This was no bear. It's was all curled up but it was tall. Like over six feet. And it had hands and feet and lots of friggin hair. It's looked like some kind of skinny gorilla or something. Then, I walked around the box and got a look at it's face."
I asked him what happened next. He is quiet for a long time, he orders another beer and downs half of it.
"I got rid of it."
Where. I was desperate to know.
He finished his beer and stares at me.
"That's between me and the Lord. I've told you enough now. Thanks for the drinks but I won't ever talk to you again."
With that, Toad got up from the bar. He said he had told me everything he could. And he had to be home by 6 for Sunday dinner. I practically begged him to tell me where he took the body. He told me that he'd be taking that secret to his grave, and walked out. He managed to drink 14 draft beer during the telling of his tale. And as he moved off, so went my chance to find the remains of a creature. But I now know, somewhere in the viscinity of this town, are the reamins of a Bigfoot and I will never rest until I have the evidence I seek. The people of this town seem adament about protecting their secrets, and I am just as determined to unlock them. I will stay here and do my work until I am striken down by illness, or time, or punished for my curiosity by some local vigilante. That possibility, I acknowledge, is very real.
