Christmas Time = A Time for Crackpot Theories and Personal Revelations

When I was younger, I wasn’t allowed to open my gifts until 6:00 a.m. Christmas morning.  For me, this was absolute torture.  I don’t remember sleeping much, but I do remember spinning in bed that night, waking up at 5:00 a.m. and staring at the clock for a full hour.  The minutes would crawl by, and the red digital numbers would burn themselves into my rigidly unblinking eyes.  That last minute between 5:59 and 6:00 seemed like a year to my young mind.

Now, I wake up on Christmas morning whenever I damn well feel like it.  I no longer sleep restlessly the night before and countdown the seconds until I can unwrap my hoard.  The (admittedly lacklustre) gusto with which I spring from my bed is the same as any day, be it December 25^th, June 27^th, or March 3^rd. 

So what happened?  Where has my excitement gone? Here are some theories I have developed:

Theory 1: I no longer have the Christmas spirit, whatever that is. 

It could be claimed that I no longer get in the festive spirit.  I don’t know if I did when I was younger either, though.  I was excited for Christmas, but I think the prospect of getting tonnes of new crap I don’t need was my motivator.  If someone told me I was to receive seventeen new sets of Star Wars Lego one morning, I was pretty jacked about it.  Which leads me to the next theory...

Theory 2: I am less materialistic than I was as a child.

As a kid, I craved stuff.  Now, I am a cantankerous twenty-five year-old who doesn’t care about anything, much less stuff.

Yeah, right.  This theory is bunk, aside from the assertion that I am cantankerous.  I think that now, in my (deep breath in) mid-twenties (deep breath out), I put way more of a priority on stuff than I ever did as a kid.  Especially the essentials, like a comfortable bed, a sizeable lawn gnome collection, and a yo-yo signed by 1975 TV Times Yo-yo Championship winner and notable music producer Simon Harris.

Alright, to be fair, I only own one of those three things.

Theory 3:  I’m old.

I have less energy than I did when I was a child; meaning I sleep more, and I sleep hard.  I probably couldn’t be roused from my slumber if I was told someone was giving away free iced tea and bourbon.  Therefore, on Christmas morning, I sleep just as late as I normally would, because my body would hate me otherwise. 

Conclusion: A bit of Theory 1, with a whole lot of Theory 3.

I hope that I sleep in on Christmas only because I am old, not because I lack the “Christmas Spirit.”  The older I get, however, the harder it is to not view the holiday season as one riddled with binge drinking and tax write-offs – both of which I wholeheartedly endorse.  Bu they do not exactly coincide with the classic “Christmas is a time for giving” (or whatever) mantra.  

I still get excited for Christmas, though.  It’s a day off, who doesn’t?  And you get to hang out with your friends and family and do cool things, like cheat at Monopoly, ski, or throw snowballs at passing vehicles. 

But you’ll have to get me out of bed first. 

I’d Rather be an ATM Machine

    Recently, I saw a truck with a tailgate and a canopy that were coated with bumper stickers. Why people feel the need to treat their vehicles like a community bulletin board still baffles me. I can understand a sticker telling complete strangers how shitty their kid is in comparison to your honour roll student. I mean, if you can't be awesome, at least there is hope for your offspring. Even a few names of bands you are destroying your hearing with is acceptable; people need to know that you are having a hell of a time listening to Black Flag so they can feel shitty about listening to Josh Groban's Christmas album. There are two kinds of bumper stickers I hate, though, and they are: a) The ones with "funny" sayings like "If you don't like my driving STAY OFF THE SIDEWALK" and b) The ones relating to your specific stance on political issues, like "Alberta Separatists Unite!"

    The worst offenders of the latter are Pro-Lifers. I often wonder if they really expect someone following them to change instantly their stance on abortion because of a bumper sticker. I imagine there is a long list of things that people want to think about on the way home from work, and controversial medical procedures is not on it. Dick move, Pro-Lifers.

    Anyway, the truck was covered in the mass-produced and mass-purchased "witty" statements type. The back of the otherwise well kept truck regaled tailgaters with garish personal declarations involving the owner's kids and lack of money. Apparently, I wasn't supposed to laugh, it's paid for. One of the stickers completely confused me, though. It said, "My kids think I'm an ATM machine!"

    I had no idea what this meant. Clearly, his kids didn't think they were an Automated Teller Machine machine, because that's redundant. If that were the case, it would just say that his kids think they are an ATM. That obviously wasn't the answer, so I searched for what ATM could stand for.

    One of the first things I found out was that ATM, on the byways of the information superhighway (yeah, I'm bringing that phrase back, baby!), means "at the moment." So that doesn't work.

    I also found out that it was an abbreviation for the Malaysian armed forces, "Angkatan Tentera Malaysia." I don't think there would be some sort of Malaysian military fighting machine working on bringing down the Canadian government living in Alberta. Unless the Malaysian government was planning on annexing Fort McMurray to make cocaine transport to their biggest market a little easier.

    ATM is also used as a unit of measurement for atmospheric pressure. That just doesn't make sense, unless the owner's kids were brilliant meteorologists and it was some sort of inside joke or an insult. This just makes the owner kind of a dick for posting that on his truck.

    None of these made any sense, so I was forced to conclude that the ATM he was referring to was "ass-to-mouth." This disturbed me to no end, and raised a metric shit-ton of questions. I mean, whose kids think they are an Ass-To-Mouth machine? Was the truck's owner a porn star, and forced the children to watch his work? Are his ass-to-mouth abilities an extreme source of pride in his household? Do his kids go to school and say things like, "My dad is the best ass-to-mouther in the world!" and "My dad could ass-to-mouth your dad!"? Does he have a shirt with the same saying across the front? When asked, does say he works as a Procto-oral Analysist?

    The moral of the story, kids, is that when you're purchasing a bumper sticker, you may want to consider all of the possible interpretations of the statement. Stick with something safe, like "I'd rather be fishing/hunting/dropkicking leprechauns."

How to Name Your Metal Band

  The other night, I had my face melted by some wicked metal bands, one of which was Skeleton Witch. 

  I know, sweet name, right?  I thought so too.  In fact, that is one of the many awesome things about metal – the band names.

 

  Ball-stompingly shredtastic names like Three Inches of Blood, Cannibal Corpse, and the aforementioned Skeleton Witch populate the metal landscape like landmines on my front lawn. 

  A distinctive name is crucial to any metal band’s success and longevity.  In order to be considered worthy of the title of “metal,” a band must have a name that obliterates all of the senses at once (especially smell – the name should smell like sweat, whiskey and blood).  It must grab a person’s brain by the medulla and slap it around like a scrawny mosh pit rookie.  It should strike enough fear in a person to cause heart palpitations and reproductive organ shrinkage.

  Coming up with a name that does all of those things can be difficult for anyone.  Thankfully, I have devised a simple way for upstart metal bands to come up with a name that screams “Heavy Fuckin’ Metal.”

Step 1:  Find a word that is related to death or dead bodies.

Step 2: Find another word that is related to the occult.

Step 3:  Combine.

Step 4: Shred, hit the road, grow your hair (even more), bang sketchy groupies, and die either: a) shooting heroin through your eyeballs, b) by your own pickaxe wielding hand, or c) in an onstage knife fight with the lead singer. 

  Using that formula, I have come up with a some sweet band names.  They are, as follows:

Death Coffin

Decomposing Eye of Newt

Decomposing Eye of Newt Gingrinch (for the politically charged indie metal bands out there)

Funeral Wizard

Bone Voodoo (sounds sexy, right?)

Black Cat Rigor Mortis

Potluck Dinner (alright, maybe not)

Skull Fucking Necromancer

or

The Skull Fucking Necromancers

Bloodless Stake Burnings

Salem Caskets

Bitch Titz (or maybe that would be better in the rap world)

Deathcatcher

Decapitated Pentagram

Sexy Worm Food

... And that’s about all I could come up with.  You’re welcome, kids.

Naomi Campbell = Long List of Unflattering Adjectives

Recently, supermodel Naomi Campbell testified in the ongoing war crimes trial of Charles Taylor, former President of Liberia and architect of countless murders and mutilations. Taylor, one of the many sociopaths that the U.S. felt it was a brilliant idea to support only to later regret it, attended a party where Campbell was also a guest. He became quite enamoured with her and had some representatives present her with a gift. What kind of gift? Fifty bucks to spend at any Wendy's? Nope. A subscription to Fisherman's Monthly? Nope. Rather than get her either of those (awesome) options, he instead opted to give the supermodel a gift that only a batshit-insane African dictator would choose.

He gave her a bag of blood diamonds.

So, there it is. That's how Naomi Campbell ended up in The Hague the other day.

She didn't keep the diamonds, however. That's not what this is about. It's tough to find exactly what she did with the diamonds, however. But that is not the point. The point is, that when asked about her overall (bitchy) demeanour during her questioning, she explained that she "did not want to be there" and that "it was a great inconvenience."

A fucking inconvenience.

Most (good) people, if asked to testify about a man responsible for even just one murder, would jump at the chance to do their part to make someone who is inherently evil answer for his crimes. But not Ms. Campbell. She has shit to do. Namely, she has to look good. Or beat the shit out of her assistants. She is a model – a super one, at that. Don't you realize how important she is?

Silly United Nations.

This is, after all, the same woman who claims to be heavily involved in charities benefitting Africa yet somehow had "never heard" of Liberia prior to meeting Taylor.

She could see her testimony as the smoking gun in a trial that could send a message worldwide to dictators with genocide-oriented plans. She could stand up for those affected by Taylor's actions, condemning him for what he has done while simultaneously sending a message to the citizens of Africa that the upper hemisphere does give a shit. She could take pride in knowing that her testimony will hopefully bring the reign of terror of a tyrant to an end. Instead, she views her testimony as "an inconvenience."

And she told this to the judge, no less.

Amazing. In terms of pure despicability, Naomi Campbell somehow trumps Sarah Palin.

Ms. Campbell's testimony was a defining moment of her life. And she defined herself as immature, senseless, and uncaring. Everything charitable she does from now on will ring hollow, and many will know it.

Even worse, if Taylor goes free (or into the former dictator paradise known as exile), it will be partially due to her testimony, along with every action Taylor takes from freedom onwards.

One can only hope that Campbell recognizes her error, and it weighs on her conscience for the rest of her useless life.

Actress Mia Farrow also testified, which was less interesting. It would have been wonderful to see a sixty-five year old well-respected actor and humanitarian lose her shit, though. Something like, "Do you know who the fuck I am?! I'm Mia motherfuckin' Farrow, bitch! ... I mean your honour. What was the question?"

I Haven't Updated In A While

Got some (possibly) good stuff on the way.  But here is something that popped into my head the other day, and it made me laugh.  It has quickly become something of a personal mantra of mine.

If there were a bacon powered car, I would not drive it, because I would be too busy eating the delicious bacon fuel.