Slept all day, so I’ve got nothing. Yammered with Tony late last night about his disappointing experience at the Playboy Mansion on Halloween – they just don’t look the same up close. They never do. Interviewing them was apparently also a challenge.

I’ve had it with inaccurate historical dramas. I totally get that they gave the role of Henry to someone like Jonathan Rhys Meyers to attract female viewers, but his performance is simply unbelievable. I mean, Henry VIII was fat and had gout – he wasn’t ripped with chiseled facial features. He was also 42 years old when he married Anne Boleyn. Of course, you can’t shoot hot sex scenes between a fat 40 something and a hot girl in her 20’s - that just wouldn’t fly with television audiences. Or would it, you naughty monkey’s?

That’s why I like CSI. They make no attempt to hide the fact that everything they do on that show is basically impossible in the real world. DNA results in five minutes? No problem! Trace analysis that’s faster than getting a burger at a drive-thu? No problem! Toxicology results in nanoseconds? No problem! And all those wonderful computer programs that they have that can do just about anything but make a physical arrest – astounding!

At least CSI provides a public service. I mean, how intelligent is your average criminal? After all, they watch television too. And if they believe that all of that technology actually exists, well, they might just think twice before committing their next crime. Either that or they’ll become forensic enthusiasts, which would, of course, lead to them to discover that the show is totally full of shit, not to mention providing a crash course on how best not to get caught.

Don’t even get me started on ‘Elizabeth The Golden Age’ or I might put my fist through my monitor.

Rod sent this to me this morning and I think it’s humorous enough to warrant an entry. I do have a few problems with it though. First, I don’t live on beer. Second, I don’t really play video games. Third, and most important, I question the entire validity of the “International Council Of Man Laws” because they claim that no man should ever buy or own an orange car. Well, that’s just ridiculous. As we’re all aware, one of the most masculine cars ever made comes in competition orange…

That’s a 1970 Plymouth Roadrunner, International Man Council. It doesn’t get more ‘masculine’ than that.

That said, here’s Rod’s PSA…

The International Council of Man Laws

1: Under no circumstances may two men share an umbrella.

2: It is OK for a man to cry ONLY under the following circumstances:

(a) When a heroic dog dies to save its master.
(b) The moment Jessica Alba starts unbuttoning her Blouse.
(c) After wrecking your boss’s car.
(d) When she is using her teeth.

3: Any man who brings a camera to a bachelor party may be legally killed and eaten by his buddies.

4: Unless he murdered someone in your family, you must bail a friend out of jail within 12 hours.

5: If you’ve known a guy for more than 24 hours, his sister is off limits forever unless you actually marry her.

6: Moaning about the brand of free beer in a buddy’s fridge is forbidden. However..complain at will if the temperature is unsuitable.

7: No man shall ever be required to buy a birthday present for another man. In fact, even remembering your buddy’s birthday is strictly optional. At that point, you must celebrate at a strip bar of the birthday boy’s choice.

8: On a road trip, the strongest bladder determines pit stops, not the weakest.

9: When stumbling upon other guys watching a sporting event, you may ask the score of the game in progress, but you may never ask who’s playing.

10: You may flatulate in front of a woman only after you have brought her to climax. If you trap her head under the covers for the purpose of flatulent entertainment, she’s officially your girlfriend.

11: It is permissible to drink a fruity alcohol drink only when you’re sunning on a tropical beach … and it’s delivered by a topless model and only when it’s free.

12: Only in situations of moral and/or physical peril are you allowed to kick or punch another guy in the nuts.

13: Unless you’re in prison, never fight naked.

14: Friends don’t let friends wear Speedos… Ever..Issue closed.

15: If a man’s fly is down, that’s his problem, you didn’t see anything.

16: Women who claim they “love to watch sports” must be treated as spies until they demonstrate knowledge of the game and the ability to drink as much as the other sports watchers.

17: A man in the company of a hot, suggestively dressed woman must remain
sober enough to fight.

18: Never hesitate to reach for the last beer or the last slice of pizza, but not both, that’s just greedy.

19: If you compliment a guy on his six-pack, you’d better be talking about his choice of beer.

20: Never join your girlfriend or wife in discussing a friend of yours, except if she’s withholding sex pending your response.

21: Phrases that may NOT be uttered to another man While lifting weights:

a) Yeah, Baby, Push it!
b) C’mon, give me one more! Harder!
c) Another set and we can hit the showers!

22: Never talk to a man in a bathroom unless you are on equal footing: i.e., both urinating, both waiting in line, etc. For all other situations, an almost imperceptible nod is all the conversation you need.

23: Never allow a telephone conversation with a woman to go on longer than you are able to have sex with her. Keep a stopwatch by the phone. Hang up if necessary.

24: The morning after you and a girl who was formerly “just a friend” have carnal, drunken monkey sex, the fact that you’re feeling weird and guilty is no reason for you not to nail each other again before the discussion occurs about what a big mistake it was.

25: It is acceptable for you to drive her car. It is not acceptable for her to drive yours.

26: Thou shall not buy a car in the colors of brown, pink, lime green, orange or sky blue.

27: The girl who replies to the question “What do you want for Christmas?” with “If you loved me, you’d know what I want!” gets an Xbox…End of story.

28: There is no reason for guys to watch Ice Skating or Men’s Gymnastics…Ever.

29: We’ve all heard about people having guts or balls, but do you really know the difference between them? In an effort to keep you informed, the definition of each is listed below:

” GUTS” is arriving home late after a night out with the guys,
being assaulted by your wife with a broom, and having the guts to say, “are
you still cleaning or are you flying somewhere?”

” BALLS” is coming home late after a night out with the guys
smelling of perfume and beer, lipstick on your collar, slapping your wife
on the ass and having the balls to say, “You’re next!”

I hope this clears up any confusion.

There was a time, not so long ago, that I seriously considered moving to a remote part of the world, detaching myself from every form of news media, and growing fruits or vegetables. I would, I told myself, write another book, a fiction that had nothing to do with the political, something steeped in the absurdly fantastical, and live out my days under the sun and stars of a place too distant to be affected by the madness that has gripped the world.

I’ll not lie to you; the idea still doesn’t seem all that bad. In fact, I’ve even done some research as to where I might go were I to actually do it. All of the locations are in the South Pacific, tiny islands of no consequence, far removed from the world at large, the perfect place for sunny sanity to reign and the malaise of concrete super-cities to wash away.

We live in a world of idiocy - a world perpetually at war, perpetually governed by greed, perpetually influenced by religious intolerance that hypocritically promotes the tenets of acceptance, perpetually influenced by small minded individuals that can’t see past the end of their own noses. The world is, in short, a donkey with a carrot dangled in front of it that it will never reach but will always strive to attain.

Call me an elitist. In fact, call me anything you’d like. I’ve had it up to my eyeballs with stupidity. The world is so full of shit that even my hair and eyes are brown. I’m tired of myself, I’m tired of you, I’m tired of a lot of things - now watch me hit this drive.

In the words of one my best friends - “I want to live a very spiritual, solitary, and tranquil life…just with a lot of pussy.”

Our subconscious is a powerful and telling thing. When we dream it usually has to do with something that is troubling us, that we are fixated on, or that is locked in our memory.

Which brings me to the dream that I had last night.

The troubling thing about the dream that I had last night is that it did not fit into any of the previously mentioned categories. For example…

It wasn’t a night terror - though, depending on your taste in music, one could ultimately argue that it was.

It wasn’t a dream based on past memories - and if it was, then, at some point in my life, I was abducted by aliens with extremely bad taste in music.

It wasn’t a dream that focused on anything that I am currently fixated on – unless Sara Jean Underwood happens to be a huge Night Ranger fan.

In my dream last night I traveled to far off lands, saw amazing and beautiful things, swam in the clearest and warmest of waters, stood on the highest of mountains, and walked through lush forests teeming with life. And through it all; the spice filled air of far distant bazaar’s, the lazy main streets of small towns wrapped in spring, was fucking Sister Christian by Night Ranger playing again and again and again and again and again in my head. It was like I was trapped on the chain swings at Playland in 1984 and they wouldn’t let me off.

Obviously, and I will not deny it, this morning I considered taking my own life. The reason? Because for all I know I could find myself in some fantastic paradise in my dreams tomorrow night only have November Rain trapped inside of my head like two ferrets shoved down the pants of some poor sap whose willy has been lathered with honey. And if that happens, God knows where it will end. For all I know, I could spend the rest of my life dreaming of the most beautiful things only to have Against All Odds stuck in my head like an ice pick. And seriously, who wouldn’t want to knock themselves off faced with that possibility?

Yes, it’s time to party. And it’s going to be a bash of epic proportions to boot. But before you book the hottest lounge in town to host the event, there are some things to consider…

First – your legal fees. Chances are that your lawyer made out like a bandit. Because only 5% of divorces actually go to court, the entire process of the division of assets was done by way of negotiation, costing you tens of thousands because you were too floored at the amount that she asked for in the first place, though ultimately got. Given that this is Canada, and that the Family Act of each Province governs that part of the process, nothing is safe. Your corporate assets were fair game, your off shore accounts were fair game, your vintage Camaro that she detested but suddenly fell in love with after the fact was fair game.

So, at the end of the day, you’ve lost, if you’re lucky, only 60% of your entire worth. Never mind the years you busted your ass to make it, that’s all in the past now and it’s best to forget it – at least that’s what your attorney told you, though they did do it during a meeting that was costing you $500 bucks an hour.

You still have to wait a year for the Federal Divorce Act aspect of the disaster to be completed, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t celebrate, right? After all, it’s better than sitting in an empty house crying over photographs of the 1967 Camaro that you spent 12 years of your life restoring to mint condition only to loose to someone that hated the fact that you spent so much time doing it, even though she was only around for the last two years of work. Who knows, maybe she just wanted it so that she could burn it to the ground? But hey, instead of curling up into a ball on the floor, you’re going to throw a party.

After all, you’re free, right? Well, except for the fact that you’ve had to default on the lease of your business vehicle because you can’t afford it, consolidated your debt with your bank into a single monthly payment in hopes of getting back on your feet within the next five to ten years, and having to tell your parents that you can’t afford to pay the rent on the condo that they moved into after they retired. Besides that, everything’s fine. You’re still alive, after all. I mean, you may have lost your job because of the depression that you went into during the whole thing, but there are other jobs out there.

So back to this party…

Rod just sent me this and it had me laughing so hard that I almost fell of my chair. It is entirely inappropriate for young readers, so please exercise some restrain if you’re one of them.

There are few truly brilliant comedians in this world. George Carlin is one of them. Here’s why…

It’s over. Having come to the conclusion that music is a dead end proposition, me and a few other musicians have decided to join the internet-porn revolution, which isn’t actually a revolution given that it’s been the foremost purpose of the internet for years.

As some of you are aware, I have broached this subject in the past, but after watching Knocked Up again last night, have come to the conclusion that a handful of musicians living together in a house attempting to come up with a unique web porn idea sounds a lot more fun than pretty much anything else I can think of.

I, of course, will play the role of the guy from Vancouver.

Sure, we’ll sit by the pool and play guitar and write songs, but we’ll just do it to impress chicks. None of that recording or touring crap.

Earlier today, Pete and I put our thinking caps on and had a bit of a brainstorming session. Of course, we didn’t come up with anything, but that’s to be expected. It’s only a matter of time before we do, and you can bet your bottom dollar that it will somehow involve clowns.

The first paragraphs of books are the most important. Rather than writing an entire book, I am toying with the idea of writing one that is simply filled with opening paragraphs to hundreds of different books. That way, I can then release a book of closing paragraphs to match afterwards, but in a confused order so that readers are forced to go back to the original book to try and match them up.

Now that’s marketing.

Some Examples

It was a dark time in the erotic costume industry. The constant search for cheaper labour had pushed things to the lowest point in over twenty years, leaving many of us flying to suspect countries to hold meetings with shady government officials bent on getting in on our desire to cut costs by cutting themselves in on it.

I don’t remember how long I was lost in that jungle. The snakebite, though non lethal, had plunged me into a euphoric state of disarray, forcing me to crash through the underbrush like a man possessed in an attempt to stay awake. My search for the lost city may have cost me my marriage, my fortune, and even my sanity, but abandoning it was not something that I was prepared to do. I was convinced that they were out there somewhere in the depths of that dark, emerald world - an entire nation of women who used men solely for procreation.

It was a hot day, which is the sort of day you want when you throw a charity car wash.

I found them there, entangled in each other’s nakedness, their tongues probing, their lust as palpable as a gray pall hanging over the ruins of some bombed out city. Stunned beyond belief, I could say nothing, nor could my wife or best friend, their uncomfortable countenances overshadowed only by my expression of failure given my inability to find my digital video camera in a timely fashion.

That’s right. Cha-ching!

I think it’s time I came out and admitted it. I’m one of the brains behind Hungarian Wrestling. In fact, that’s how I met my ex-wife, who is of that descent. I first got the idea when I was in Germany doing press in 2000. I turned on the television in my hotel room and, at 3am, came across Cossack Wrestling, which is the same thing but with hairy, oiled up men in thongs.

Anyway, that was where the idea came from. Since Volume One was released it’s become a cash cow, probably topping the annual revenues of Girls Gone Wild. In fact, to a large extent, my entire ‘rock star with the heart of gold’ thing is just a front. Since I started it, I have worked to keep my involvement in it from my parents, which, being that I’m posting about it now (not to mention the fact that I was disowned about an hour ago) obviously means that the cat is out of the proverbial bag.

Hungarian Wrestling has brought both good and bad into my life. Actually, mostly bad now that I think about it, but good if you consider the dump trucks full of cash that it’s made me.

Let’s face it; people will pay to see hot, naked, Eastern European girls wrestle. And as long as they will, I’ll make damn sure they get to see it.