Archive for March, 2010

Andy Rooney on Milkmen

March 29, 2010

Talvid has been slow lately. Both Tal and David have jobs which makes it hard to deliver the good shit day in, day out the way we used to. That got us thinking: deliver?…good shit?…the way we used to? So we asked 60 Minutes’ own Andy Rooney if he could help out and sound off on something that combined all three of our questions (deliver, good shit, and the way we used to). And brother (the all encompassing brother, not just the black kind), sound off is exactly what that bushy-browed fucker did.

*For effect, read the following with Andy’s voice*

There’s an old saying: “what goes around, comes around”. But when it comes to the age-old profession of Milkman, I’m not quite sure that’s the case any more. You see, back in the day, every morning a man, dressed in white, clean as a whistle, would come a knocking on mom’s door and deliver one, maybe two, maybe three jugs of milk. And I’m not talking about mass produced milk, nooo. I’m talking about fresh from the cow’s teat-jizm. Nowadays, if you want milk you’ve got to head to a grocery store. To hell if I’m gonna let my kids go to a GROCERY store. A place where they have the audacity to have checkout lines and frozen ice cream. I just don’t get it. Now, maybe I’m being old fashioned about it. But tell me something. When was the last time you rode your bike past a dairy farm and didn’t think, “Hey, I’d really like some fresh milk delivered right to my door”? Well every time I knock back a Tylenol Hip & Knee, and hop on the old two wheel jalopy, I head straight for the local dairy farm.

And then there’s whole question of race and segregation. Maybe if the milkman was black, and he made it with mom and then mom get pregnant (with child), well then maybe I’d have a black brother. And then people would razz old dad because, clearly the child was not his. On account of dad being a white, that is. But if mom made it with a black from the grocery store, I tell you this much, no would one would be the wiser.

If I had my druthers, and I do, I’d get my milk from a milkman. (Takes out a jug of milk and drinks it. The look on his face says it has curdled. Badly). Now that’s what I call meeeelk!

Andy sent us this picture of his face right after he chugged a bottle, unbeknownst to him, of goat's semen.

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Talvid reviews Justin Biebers “My World 2.0”

March 24, 2010

Some of the Biebs songs are pretty good. Others you might not like. My recommendation would be to buy it if you enjoy his music generally.
Buy it. Not buy it. Ultimately, you get the call on that one. Next week, Talvid reviews a movie he has not seen.

Butt Cream

March 22, 2010

I’m thuper confused as of late, what with Talvid’s decision to enter the 140-character-or-less world of twittering. I just don’t know where to vent my ridiculously life altering (for you, not me) musings. Facebook? The blog? Twitter? Your mother? Here’s what I’ve discovered: they’re all basically serving the same purpose. The purpose of relieving what it is that ails you. Think of the void in your life that Talvid fills. Nay, not a void, a deficiency. Even better, the void/deficiency is a hemorrhoid. And fucking Talvid’s Blog of Shit, his Twitter account, and his respective facebook profiles are travel sized, everyday sized, and Costco sized containers of Preparation H. Does your Mind’s Brown Eye ache? Rub some Talvid on it and have a good modereffen night.

Welcome to the Future

March 12, 2010

Talvid is on twitter.

Follow now or I’ll make your mother orgasm.

Starfucking 6: Too Soon

March 10, 2010

It has happened again. I’ve killed a man.

But this time, it’s not mega-uber star, ‘Eet Leeadgah. It’s the mildly disgraced, Corey Whittaker Haim. Typically, when I off a celeb, it takes about eight years for the murder to progress; from look—————–8 years—————–kill.

This time it only took a frightening three and half months to done the deedle. You see, if you read this ferkakte blog, you’ll remember that on December 1st, 2009, Corey Velociraptor Haim was suggested as a friend on my ye olde Fatchbook. Course I got better things to do, and cooler people to friend request than this washed-up hasbro. My facebook friend list rocks the likes of Corey Feldman, Ronny James Dio, my third cousin Avi, etc. Here’s my guess as to how it happened. Approximo 4 months ago, facebook shoots Coreynation an email. The email contains a picture of my Dorian Gray like punim. As a joke, my profile says I’m 38. The same age as Coraline. Corky, gets all freaked out, wondering how I’m looking fine as fuck for a boychick of my age. Truthbomb: it’s a mix of genetics, shitake mushroom tea, and jerking off with a half-sleeping hand (the stranger). Time flies by, it’s mid March, and Cordon Bleu finally bites it. Another man, dead from a broken, unfixable heart.

Taking the Piss

March 8, 2010

People round the old ‘ffice call me “Race Horse” for a couple reasons. 1. I never piss, unless my tank is full (causes a powerful stream), and 2. I’m hung like freakin’ Rachel Alexandra (upon further research, I was disappointed to have discovered that Rachel Alexandra is, in fact, a mare, or a female horse for you ‘tards out there.

This got me thinking; why is it that every time I wanna relieve myself in a men’s WC, do I have to be cool sharing my winky with any dude, no matter the dude? It’s total Rachel Alexandra sized horse shit. Women have the benefit of having their own individual stalls to spread their wings and let fly. Yet, for some reason, I’ve gotta prove that my dickenballs don’t embarrass me?

Say I walk into the bathroom with DelRay from accounting. DelRay expects that I’ll be comfortable enough putting my jewellies on display for him, or anyone else who might be present, to judge. Fuck DelRay, I’ll use the stall. On top of that, I’m gonna sit down, pop a squat, and take a leak. It’s my god given right.

If you think I’m being a pussy about it, let me ask the female readers a question. Would it be ok if we allowed you to keep your precious porcelain tinkle receptacles, but stripped down your private stall walls? You think you could handle that? Because there’s no difference between that, and taking an 11×11 photo of your cooter and plastering it to your face for the entire pissoir going public to enjoy.

Marinate on that, urinal jockey.

A Hockey Hypothetical

March 2, 2010

Imagine this:

Talvid loves Canada. Naturally, I got nervous at 19:36 of the 3rd period in the game yesterday when Zach “Gay” Parise knotted things up at deucers a piece. So overtime starts and we’re talking four-on-four full-on shinny action. My heart’s just about jumping out of my chest. I think to myself, “Talvid, you’ll have a a grand mal seize-a-roony if you keep watching.” But I’ve got maple syrup in veins, moose meat in my bones, and beaver in my  [I set ’em up, you knock ’em down] — all of which is to say, I couldn’t very well shut the game off now could I?

That’s when I hit upon a solution. I’d jack it to online pooooorno whilst keeping one ear cocked on the boob tube. That way, I’d be focused on one thing but aware of the other.

So there’z I am, workin’ my normal-sized Jewish gherkin to hardcore streaming — and I do mean ‘streaming’ — vids of milf creampies when some Yank ‘nouncer says, “Iginla digs it out of the corner.” But I’m barely paying attention to the sports on account of my being otherwise engaged man-gluing a Kleenex Klan hood on Talvid Jr’s precious lil’ head.

I’m looking at spread-eagle actionay when I hear, “Crosby shoots . . . he scores!”

For the rest of my life — when Ol’ Grampy Talvid tells his grand chillun about the day Sid the Kid iced the gold; when I’m out with business associates reminiscing about The Summit Series, Gretzky to Lemieux in the ’87 Canada Cup, and Victory in Vancouver — I’ll know that while my countrymen were sitting with their eyes riveted to the screen, I was whacking off to grainy porno.

Hypothetically speaking.