Archive for February, 2010
Early this afternoon, Talvid’s most favourite golfer and human being issued a pretty sincere sounding apology about his past trannies (transgressions). After running his statement through our trusted PR-TALKTRANSLATOR2000, we’ve determined Tiger still hasn’t found his way.
What Tiger said: I was unfaithful. I had affairs. I cheated. What I did was unacceptable and I am the only person to blame
Translation: I screwed up pretty huge. Next time, I’m getting a HoPhone with an airtight (mmm, tight) password that Elin’d never guess. Like, 1234.
What Tiger said: I have made you question who I am. … I am embarrassed that I have put you in this position. … For all that I have done, I am so sorry
Translation: I’m sorry for deleting you all from my Motorola Razr phone (my wife threw it in the pool). I have started a facebook group called “Tiger Lost all his Digits”. Please join it and send me your numbers. Tiger wants some aysh again.
What Tiger said: When I do return, I need to make my behavior more respectful of the game.
Translation: Next time I’m tapping some tasty Vegas vadge, I’m not going to expect them to swallow. That’s a privilege, not a right. Unless it explicitly says so in the blowie contract.
What Tiger said: Some people have made up things that have never happened. They said I used performance-enhancing drugs. This is completely false.
Translation: Ok, so Tawny, the Fresno Ho said that sometimes I bust a nut like super fast. Anyone that’s been with me knows that’s not usually true. And rumors about me taking Viagra is BeeEss. It was 48-hour Cialis.
What Tiger said: Elin and I have started the process of discussing the damage done by my behavior. My real apology will not come in words. It will come in my behavior over time
Translation: The woman I’m “married” * Tiger does severe air quotes * to is named Elin. That is a weird foreign name. In her wobbly talk, she says a bunch of shit, but I really have no idea what she is saying. She reminds of the Swedish Chef from that awesome puppet show. I digress. But not as much as I dig bush.
I was once talking with this girl and she was telling me about how awesome it was to go to summer camp. I wouldn’t know. When she, and I’m sure a good number of you readers, were picking your nose and making boondoggle dildos, I was busy working. When I was 9, I spent June to August changing shocks and struts on used Kias. By 11, I was handing out fliers for Tu Bishvat singles mixers. 13, re-selling Mentos overstock to Mac’s Milks and Beckers up and down Bathurst.
So when I asked this girl (who like most girls I meet, was eyeraping the shit out of me), to explain what was so fucking great about summer camp, the best she could do was spew hippy jap crap about “having fun.” She also said that she used to get muscle knots in her arm from giving so many handjobs.
Let’s be honest. Jane and Johnny Used-to-go-to-Camp can talk all they want about the blissful joys of color wars and making friends or whatever, but what they really got out of camp was getting off. Hey, maybe some of you Talvid readers are parents. In which case, here’s some free advice: Those 3, 000 clams you’re shelling out to send your darling doosher to Camp Shmeckelsauce is going towards brace-toothed beejers behind Bunk #9. (Unless your kid is fat and ugly, in which case you’re paying for him to piss his pants and pray he’s not put on the ‘skins’ team.) Basically, you’d be better off buying your little brat an escort. At least they know what they’re doing. Trust me.
We’ve all been there. Someone suggests you go check out the Maleshnikov exhibit at one of the local art galleries. Sure, you can say no, because sitting on your tookas jamming lime n’ jalapeno cheetos into your lime n’ jalapeno cheeto hole will be a far more satisfying experience. But no. You think, fuck it, I should expand my horizons and, in truth, it’s been awhile since I last tried to look smart. So you agree. Let’s face it though, you’re not gonna bone up on your art history. You’re not even going to bother finding out Maleshnikov’s first name. What’s that, you say? It’s not Maleshnikov? Whatever, Modigliani, who gives a slippery salamander shit (that alliteration is far more impressive than any panty waste painting you’ll ever see). But we’re here to appreciate art, so here’s how to do it. For consistency’s sake, here’s a picture that was painted by numbers by hoModigliani.
1. Approach the work cautiously. Pretend it’s a beautiful woman who’s standing alone at a bar. Slowly move forward. Stroke your chin 3 times, arch one eyebrow and curiously wonder aloud, “yes, but….”. Then move along to a hotter painting with bigger jugs. Mona Lisa for instance.
2. To yourself, read the description placard. If you read it in a Norwegian accent, people will think you know your shit. You’re thinking, what’s a Norwegian accent sound like? I’m thinking, stop reading my blog, piss ant.
3. Stand next to the painting of your choice. Shout, “Monsieur, Monsieur!”, until a staff member approaches you. Then ask him which aisle you’ll need to go to pick it up. When he feigns ignorance, demand he fetch you one of those delectable 50 cent hot dogs.
4. Wait for someone else to approach a painting that you feel looks confusing. Chances are, that someone else will be confused by it too. When he pretends to think he understands what he’s looking at, smile, and mutter, “fool”. Not only will this make the person feel dumb, but he’ll also wonder why your dick is out. I forgot to mention that your dick should be out.
Because I have more important things to do, I’m going to put the topic of “What To Do in the Big City” to bed for once and for all. Just because everyone knows that I’ve been to all the world’s hottest hot spots — New York, London, Dubai, Wasaga — doesn’t mean I have the time to individually deal with all the SMS instant messages I get asking for what-to-do rekkies. So to save you — and more importantly, me — the trouble, below is a handy guide for how to fucking rock it hard when you touch down in a new city. Granted, you’re probably fat and fugly compared to me, so take that into consideration if you get rejected by a model-fine princess or booted from a secret bottle service-only disco lounge.
1. When you get in the cab at the airport, tell the cabbie driver where you’d like to go, then smack the glass partition as hard as you can and say, “Do not take me for a fucking ride, Yanqui!” This is code for: don’t rip me off; as well as slang for: take me to wherever gives the best root’n’tooters. Air travel is stressful — you need to release the tension.*
*Ladies, I don’t know much about slip’n’slap parlors, so just ask for a place where the manlap dances are handled with respect and courtesy.
2. Look up the URL for Yelp. Search for ‘places to dance.’ Go to the one with the highest rating. If there’s a line at the door, offer some traveler’s checks to the doorman. Once inside, find the hottest looking person there, go up to them, and say, “Why don’t you and I kick this party up a notch?” Then make a ‘snorting’ gesture. Repeat until you’re ankle deep in boogah shoogah.
3. You remembered to bring a gun, right? Shoot in the air a couple times. Cool people are attracted to danger (E.g. the success of the Rambo movies), so this activity is like a beacon for badasses. And it’s just good fun!
4. Late night all-you-can-eat sushimi! (Also, down MDMA like Tic-Tacs.)
5. At some point you’re bound to crash. If you’re at all like me, which — just look at how you’re dressed — you’re obviously not, this will probably mean finding yourself sitting crouched on a ledge high above the street, simultaneously sobbing uncontrollably while you look down at all the fake plastic people that you have no idea how to connect with as anything other than means to ends and drunk-texting the hot girls you work with but don’t have the balls to say anything more than ‘good morning’ too, all the while daring God to give you one reason, one good reason, why you shouldn’t jump straight down into oblivion’s warm embrace. This, folks, is why you must always carry around Chupa Chups. Those are delicious and will make you want to live!
6. If you’ve followed steps 1-5, you will wake up somewhere strange and probably missing some clothes and bleeding from the anus. Go directly to brunch. Then spend the day looking at paintings and shit. This, losers, is how you have a good time anywhere you go.
It was the summer of 2000. The millennium buzz already worn off; the excitement of having just graduated high school fresh in the air. Because of poor academic planning, I had finished my required courses one half year after my fourth year of high school. That’s 4.5 years of learning if you wudn’t good at math. I digress. A couple of friends and I decided that in the upcoming summer, we’d travel across the Atlantic and backpack around Europe for about 6 weeks. So after 4 or 5 months of working odd jobs like, meat slicer at an upscale deli counter, lot boy responsible for parking cars, shammying them, and hiding from the boss, and two telemarketing jobs- one peddling free lawncare estimates, the other bilking unsuspecting poor people in excess of $700 to pay for a free cruise trip just outside of Fort Lauderdale, I had scraped together just enough cashola to make this trip a realization.
Zoom, Zip, Zap. I’m in Europe with my two buddies. Between the three of us, we’ve had sex a cumulative less than 30 times. Make no mistake, we never sexed each other. Just thought you should know.
Our first stop was in London, Ingulund. The most eventful thing to happen to us there was a chance encounter with a fugly stripper from Australia. (This is foreshadowing. Australia is an important word to remember. Australia. Don’t forget). She spun tales of frog-licking back in her home town of Canberra. It’s the capital of Australia, you know? That’s as good as it got. But everything changed when we crossed that fateful channel. Life as we knew it would never be as we knew it again. We came to Paris as boys. We would leave as garcons.
After spending a rousing evening frolicking on the grounds of the Tower de Eiffel, our stomachs began grumbling for a tender lick of sweet French vanilla ice cream; real authentical shit. We headed west. But this was no ordinary night. Stretched limousines were whizzing by shuttling international celebrities toward some monolithic structure which, that night, would play host to the 2000 Versace Fall line fashion show. The show’s coordinator, and director of model casting, recognizing our exotic Canadian-Judaic look, requested that we sign lucrative contracts with top model agencies like Elite, Ford, and General Motors and hop on stage to strut our god given bone structure. We declined. That night, we were meant to be spectators. In that respect, Lee Harvey Oswald was also a spectator. As we stood by the front doors, powerful A-listers were ushered inside. P-Diddy, Naomi Campbell, uber-star Marlon Wayans, Christina Ricci, Barry the night manager from Hooker Harvey’s, all within arm’s reach. That’s when it happened. Bulbs from the papparazzos’ cameras began flashing in an unbelievable frenzy. “Who could it be”, we all wondered aloud. “Eat, Eat ova, eyoor”, “give un smile pour le cam air uh, Eat, Eat!” But I knew what was up. I knew that monsieur Ledger was a fellow Aussie. Not saying that I’m Australian, just saying that he is, in fact, a fellow who also happens to be Australian. Heath nudges past the leacherous camera creatures and slowly brushes past me. We make eye contact. Time stops. We engage in the kind of mutual eye fucking you make with someone when you realize you’ve finally met your equivalent in beauty. In all honesty, it was like looking into a mirror that made me look 30lbs heavier with severe eye baggage. But I chose not to tell Heath. Instead, I cocked my hips, sealed my lips, then busted out the most guttural “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie. Oy, oy oy”, a down-underer has ever heard. Heath’s necked snapped back, his torso twisted in way that would suggest he’d just seen a person more beautiful than himself and dropping from his mouth like a speckle of pathetic saliva, was the word, “alright?” And he continued on his merry way.
Five weeks later, my two friends and I boarded the plane at Van Gogh airport and returned to Canada. Eight years would pass by when I got the news that Heath Ledger had been discovered dead in his Manhattan apartment from what the coroner called death from an “accidental toxic combination of prescription drugs”. Sometimes, a broken heart never mends itself.