Shower

Well, the journey home from India started badly. The meal we had before leaving to catch the 1:30am flight was very good, and we even kept our rooms so we could shower before starting the long trek (10 hours to Paris, 5 hours in Paris, 9 hours to Chicago, 3 hours in O’Hare and then back to St.Louis on a Friday night). We allowed two hours to check in and, after fighting through a throng of people in front of the terminal who had no discernible reason for being there other than to be a fucking pain in the arse, we checked in. We filled out the departure cards and were about to head to the lounge when we saw the queue for immigration.

First question: why are we going through immigration when we’re leaving? You’ll have to ask the Indian government about that but don’t hold your breath for an answer. If the length of this queue was anything to go by these fuckers couldn’t organize the proverbial in a brewery. It snaked back out of the Disney-style maze and worked its way all across the concourse and, as far as I could tell, out of the door and half way down the road. Clearly standing in it would lead to a missed flight, so we pushed in close to the front by pretending to know these three French girls standing in line. (This was at least partly true – we’d have liked to have got to know them…)

Even from this point the queue dragged on forever. When it reached 15 minutes before departure we grabbed a passing Indian immigration official and pointed out that we were close to missing the flight. “No problem” he said, “you have loads of time.” This comforted us right up until we saw him trying to take a family to the front of the line and being sent back by the bloke on the desk; clearly this clown had no clout, so what good was his confident assertion?

Anyway, we made it onboard just in time and the flight left only a few minutes late. Fuck knows how! Ten hours later I’m in Paris CDG airport. I make my way to terminal 2E through a series of corridors, escalators and a bus ride, pass security (again) and find my way to the (completely fucking un-signposted) Air France business class lounge. It’s early, and there are few people in. You can only eat so many little cakes to pass the time, and the newspapers are in French, so I decide to take a shower.

The showers are excellent here, I have to say, and they come with a little bag of accessories, including razor, toothbrush, tiny deodorant and body-splash. I don’t want to smell like a Patagonian goat-herder’s gusset all the way to St.Louis, so after the shower I decide to use both the deodorant and the body-splash. It’s not exactly a fine scent but I figure it’s better than nothing. I put some on; it smells OK. So I decide to put more on – I stand there and pour the little bottle on my chest. I look down and see alcohol-based body splash running off the end of my dick. This is not good. There’s a short delay and then a powerful burning sensation which I rapidly attempt to assuage by splashing cold water all over my prick and balls.

So as I write this I’m sitting in the Air France lounge waiting for the Chicago flight. And you know what? I may not be the best looking, funniest or trendiest guy on the flight but I’ve got the nicest smelling balls. I guarantee that.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

To Shit In India...

I'm off on another international trip - this time to India. I haven't been there before but, like most Brits, I enjoy Indian food so I'm kind of looking forward to trying the real thing. I say "kind of" because one of the side-effects of Indian food can be what is known in the trade as Delhi-belly, or the rampant shits. I don't have many preconceptions about India - experiences from colleagues vary from the man who went for two weeks and never had even a mildly bad gastric experience to the woman who spent the entire return journey in the bathroom on a 747, praying for death.

One of the problems for any international traveler with a regular digestive tract is that your normal process of taking a morning shit at, say, 6am is thrown off by the time difference so that you'll find yourself unaccountably wanting to curl one down right after lunch in Europe, or in the middle of dinner in China. This is the same time-dysphasia that causes men to get their morning stiffy later in the day, which is OK if you know what's happening but it can be slightly disturbing. You find yourself thinking "I've never reacted this way to stir-fried shrimp before - maybe I'm developing a seafood fetish..."

So, no problem - when you get the tortoise's head you just excuse yourself and take care of the situation, right? Wrong! If you're in China, or (I now understand) India, your last contact with a genuine flushing toilet was probably in the hotel that morning. I was eating dinner in a nice restaurant in an upscale mall in Pudong, China, when I decided to excuse myself for a waz. Unfortunately the restroom was outside the restaurant, a quarter of a mile away (or so it seemed) down a dirty corridor. I had been considering the possibility of a more substantial "transaction" but on entering the facility the first thing that hit me was the smell. I stumbled into a stall and, thankfully, checked for paper. None. Not just no paper, but no evidence that paper was ever intended to be present. Same in the next stall. Oh fucking hell! What diseased fucking lavatory experience was this supposed to be? I just had a waz and left.

Fortunately I had the choice; Indian food can leave you suddenly gripped by the knowledge that "the moment is now!" and you would sooner wipe your arse on your own tie than pass by the toilet. So I decided to do a little advance internet research on Indian toilets. My first find was a joyously instructive little guide on HOW TO USE AN INDIAN TOILET. The short version is as follows:

1. Squat over a hole in the ground. Try and shit, even though your body is just screaming "This Is Wrong!" Remember to remove your trousers first, so you don't shit in your own pocket and then watch your wallet fall down the hole.

2. Take a hosepipe and spray your arsehole to remove clags and clingons. God only knows how you're supposed to accomplish this - have you ever tried using a hosepipe to water a plant? Now imagine watering your own arsehole while squatting over a turd, in a business suit...

3. If there's no hosepipe, just use your left hand and a mug of water to....look, this is just too repulsive for words, alright?

The thing is, there are all these people posting comments about how wonderfully natural this process is, how it saves on toilet paper and how people have done this throughout history in developing countries. You want to know the difference between "developing" and "developed"? Here's one indicator - it's whether you have to shit in a hole and then pick the bits off by hand. And what about the practical realities - you can see in the pictures that not only is there nowhere to hang your trousers but the only way to take them off is to remove your shoes and stand in your socks in the middle of a piss-soaked floor. Tell me how that can possibly be construed as a good idea!

I think of myself as reasonably adventurous - I ate the dog penis soup, for fuck's sake - but you know what? I'm packing a bog roll. And if you think I'm using a squat toilet you can take your hosepipe and stick it - well - you know where...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

For A Reason

Everything happens for a reason, or so they say. It's hard, though, to figure out the reason behind some of the people who live in my street. There's this family with two utterly irritating kids that lives a few doors down. The boy, in particular, is a loathsome little specimen with no respect for people, property or personal space and a habit of coming up and talking to you for no reason at all about pointless crap, as if you give a shit.

He gets this, along with all his other miserable, annoying traits, from his parents, especially the mother. She too attempts to talk at you long past the point where you make it clear that you ceased caring and merely hope she would spontaneously combust. The mother is not even one of those feeble-minded "Oh honey, we don't hit our sister with the stick, do we?" women, with their completely ineffective and pathetic attempts at discipline. No, this one doesn't even pretend - she just stands there while her kid does whatever he wants. So at the bus-stop each morning the other parents dread this little shit showing up. If I had a dollar for every time he nearly jumped in front of the bus or tried to push someone else in front of it I could buy enough ritalin to keep him going for a year.

Along the street on the other side is this teenager with his stupid dog who never picks up its crap. His parents walk the dog as well and you see them with their plastic bag, but, and here's the point, it's just for show. When the dog takes a shit they don't pick it up - they just carry the empty bag to make people think that it's not their dog that's responsible for all the neighborhood turds. Mrs. Bison saw the old bitch out there last night; her dog took a shit by the fire hydrant but she noticed later that, by the fire hydrant, there was this long dog turd that hadn't been picked up. If she sees them do it again she's going to have a go. I just asked her to point them out and I'll have a go right now, dog or no dog - these are the same fuckwits that moan at little kids who ride their bikes past, and put up markers to remind neighbors exactly where their lawn starts. In other words, complete tossers.

So this morning the kids are at the bus stop again, which happens to be by the fire hydrant. I'm at work (of course) but Mrs.Bison is out there and the little shit from up the road is being his usual delightful little self, pulling branches off the tree next door and throwing sticks into the road. He reaches down and picks up what he believes to be a stick but what is actually a long dog turd, now dried on the outside (but not, as he discovered, on the inside). The rest you can imagine.

I'm no believer in fate or karma but every so often I'm prepared to believe that some things do happen for a reason...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Marks & Spencer Pants

Having been in the US for many years now I've adapted to a lot of the American way of life. It has much to offer, but there are a few areas in which I still am not fully assimilated. For one thing, I will never say "fanny" and mean someone's arse (or even ass, come to that). It is, and forever shall be, a word that means pussy (and not in the feline sense). Similarly I could never seriously consider "damn" or "hell" to be rude words. And in one critical area I have yet to make the transition from British to American. That area is pants.

For a start, pants in the UK means underpants. What Americans call pants, Brits call trousers. Plenty of room for confusion there: "What's the dress code? Just show up in some black pants and a shirt..." For the rest of this post I will revert to Britspeak and when I refer to pants you can assume I mean underwear. Now when I moved here I already owned some pants, so it was some time before I was confronted with the joy of underwear shopping. Typically, unless a hole is big enough for one testicle to completely slip through, pants can continue to be worn. There is a school of thought that pants quality matters; mothers worry about what would happen if you were taken to hospital, while guys wonder about getting lucky and then disrobing to reveal the ancient grey underwear that they pulled out of the back of the drawer because everything else was waiting to be washed. Some geniuses use reverse psychology: "I'll never get lucky if I wear my shiny David Hasselhof date pants so I'll wear a crappy old pair and then I'm bound to score!"

[Rule number one, though, states "No Skidmarks" and white pants should therefore be treated with extreme caution.]

So, anyway, the most common question to answer before pant shopping is "boxers or briefs". How about neither? No I don't mean commando - it's just that neither boxers nor briefs really cuts it for me. Boxers leave my junk free to roam and it typically all ends up stuffed down one leg, requiring frequent and obvious repositioning. Briefs are either Speedo-like pouches, which look ridiculous, or Y-front little-boy pants, which are worse.

I ended up finding the perfect pants at Marks & Spencer, a retailer in the UK. M&S are "middle of the road" but have a long-held reputation for good quality underwear. So I started planning ahead and bulk-purchasing these pants a few years ago. I think they call them "trunks" - they're shorts but made of stretchy fabric and there's no Y-shaped piss-hatch. And they're all black. Life was good in the nut-support department for a long time but I just checked the M&S catalogue online and they're gone! What's worse, most of what's left is white, and white underwear is strictly for little boys, pool attendants and low-grade porn stars.

It's not like I haven't tried to buy American pants but they either appear to be completely shit or stupidly expensive. (I don't need designer pants, OK? I keep my prick and balls in them, for God's sake!) There are boxers and briefs beyond your wildest dreams, and long-legged old-man pants that would make your date piss herself if she saw them. But no Marks & Spencer style black pants. Women have it easy; unless they unaccountably disappear up your arse, what can go wrong? Your pants may be ugly, but you'll never have to worry about losing a bollock out the side of your boxers.

The one good thing I'll say about M&S is that their pants have great longevity, so maybe I can keep going a while on these. I hope so - my happiness, and that of all the people around me, depends on it. Nothing takes the shine off your day like sitting for three hours in a meeting with torsion of the nutsack from improperly adjusted pants, you can count on that...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Countdown

I was driving home tonight and happened to notice a hat on the back shelf of this Toyota Corolla in front of me. The hat was a brown trilby sort of thing with a check pattern that wouldn't qualify as plaid, but which was certainly as obnoxious. It was the sort of hat that simply could not be worn by anyone under sixty unless it was as a joke. Not surprisingly the car sported the kind of scrapes at the corners that betokened a driver whose grasp of objects and space, had it ever been there at all, was withered by age to the point where I half-expected him to back into me at the lights.

Picking on older drivers because they drive like crap isn't exactly hard - you only have to look at the moron who drove through a market at high speed, killing multiple people along the way, or the stupid bitch who recently drove through a school wall and killed a kid, or any one of countless others loose on our streets thanks to the lobbying power of AARP (which continues to ensure that none of them are tested for even basic competence). My point is that I knew almost everything I needed to know about the driver's age just by looking at the hat. Two obvious questions presented themselves:

Firstly, why is it that old people suddenly decide that any color would be great to wear, so long as it's brown. Or beige. Or tan. Or any other of a myriad variations on a theme of "dull as fuck"? We all start out young and grow up wanting to look good, in some form or another. Then we get old, but instead of just freezing their dress sense at whatever point it was at before that, old people mostly appear to find it necessary to adopt the uniform of old farts everywhere - pigeon shit grey hair and brown or grey clothes. You could wear anything you wanted. Why brown? Do your eyes start responding to different wavelengths of light or something?

Secondly, I remember those hats from when I was a little kid. Old people wore them then, even in the UK. But that was thirty years ago! The same people who took the piss out of old gits then must be among the ones dressing like them now. So what happened to them? And how did they decide to adopt a form of dress which wasn't normal for them at any point in their upbringing? I expect that when I get old I'll be wearing jeans and t-shirts. Young people will look at me and know I'm old because I'm not wearing whatever new synthetic fabric is regarded as the dog's bollocks in the future. But you sure as hell won't find me in one of those stupid hats because, get this, they never will have formed part of my dress at any point in my prior life. Ever.

Jasper Carrott did this stand-up piece years ago where he pointed out that the day you become old is the day you walk past Dunn & Co. (a purveyor of older mens' clothing in the UK, if they're still in business) and suddenly pause, thinking "That looks like a nice cardigan!" The amazing thing is not just that he was right, but that decades later the clothes that mark you out as old haven't changed!

If you're going to be old shouldn't you use the time to be slightly outrageous and enjoy it, since you don't have much future to worry about? It wasn't that long ago that I was reading one of those "heartening" stories about some old woman who'd never graduated high schood and who'd gone back in her eighties to finally get her HSE or whatever. All these kids were saying how great it was, blah, blah, blah. I couldn't help thinking "Is that the best you could do?" You have, statistically speaking, bugger all time left to live, and you're lucky if you can still live an active life, so why waste it on school? School is dull as fuck! You only do it so you can make a good living later. Obviously you learn to read, which is handy for books, and all that, but I'm assuming having lived to eighty that she could do enough of the basics to get by! It's not like she was planning for her next career move - couldn't she have found anything more interesting to do?

Mind you, it must be hard to figure out what to do with an indeterminate but probably short amount of time. I sometimes wonder what I'd do if I got the "Big C" diagnosis and was sent home with weeks to live. (Not because I'm a morbid bastard, but it's said that you should live every day like it's your last, so how else do you try and visualize it?) I could live out my days spending quality time with my family, ensuring that they remember me for my wisdom, kindness and strength in the face of adversity. Or I could head off on a week-long drug-and-whore binge in Amsterdam, ensuring that I'm remembered as a twat.

There's no right or wrong answer, I know, but one thing's for sure. When I do finally go I won't be wearing one of those fucking brown hats!


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Today's Pet Hates

I was in the gym this morning and managed to encounter two of my pet hates in the space of five minutes. Don't get me wrong - I'm not suggesting that I only have a few, and that this was therefore a rare event. I probably have thousands. Life could easily be a constant parade of irritation if I paid attention to them all. However I don't have much else to talk about today so here goes...

Sunday is leg day, which means squats. For anyone who isn't in the know, squats is an exercise that involves putting a weight bar on your shoulders and then squatting down until your thighs are parallel to the floor (or all the way down until your arse is close to the floor if you are flexible enough) and then standing up again. Gravity normally ensures that the first part is the easy part; standing up is where the fun usually happens. This should be repeated 2-10 times depending on your training routine, and for 4-6 sets. Weight should be progressively heavier so you're always working hard, and squats are always painful if you do them right - it's about the least pleasant exercise you can do but unfortunately it's also one of the best.

One of the things that pisses me off immensely is when guys get in the squat rack and load up the bar with weight plates. Then they do this pansy little half-squat where they barely bend their knees, repeat it a few times and then ponce around like they're Mr.Big because of all the weights they used. If they went all the way down, even with half the weight, they'd collapse in a heap. This might seem like a stupid thing to notice but I'm not alone; today there were four of us in a row, including one female, fighting the temptation to go over and tell these two guys, who were not beginners and therefore should have known better, that they were utterly wasting their time.

After these weenies had moved on, just when I thought it was safe to go back to exercising, this other guy walks up and he's wearing Crocs. You know - those fucking retarded plastic shoes that always look about five sizes too big, come in multiple ridiculous colors and make the wearer look like an oversize toy plastic golf club. I see kids wearing them all the time and let me tell you that even kids look stupid in them. What's wrong with kids anyway? If I think about all the running, kicking of footballs, fighting, climbing, exploring and other stuff we did as kids it's hard to imagine a less useful footwear than these crap slip-on plastic things. Of course, if your whole life involves being driven about by mommy, fed hamburgers and sat in front of the TV to play video games then no problem...

I suppose some kids have no choice, and for others it may save them having to wrestle with difficult issues like tying laces that might damage their self-esteem. But for adults there is absolutely no excuse. All adults in Crocs look like complete wankers. End of story. Period. Finito. No arguments please. The only time I ever heard anyone come up with a valid reason for buying some was when my brother, the anaesthetist (anasthesiologist to all you Americans), bought some to wear in the operating theater on the grounds that its' easy to clean the blood off them. So, unless your chosen occupation is surgeon, vet, slaughterhouse worker or serial killer it's hard to see what excuse you could possibly have for wearing Crocs.

I heard someone describe Crocs as "totally gay" which is obviously ridiculous; I don't know enough gay people to count as a representative sample of the community at large but I'm willing to bet that gays are not big among the purchasers of Crocs. Gay people are supposed to be more sartorially gifted than the rest of us; the stereotype is that they coordinate clothing, use more skin products, take more trouble over their hair and generally pay more attention to how they look. I actually think this is bollocks too - not everyone who's gay is some fucking "Queer Eye" wannabe. Nevertheless, Crocs would completely undercut any attempt at being taken seriously; not much chance of getting your salad tossed if you show up in those abominations, I'd have thought.

Fortunately it's time to head off on another trip (India this time); if I'd shown up at the gym next weekend and found someone wearing Crocs doing pansy squats I'm not sure even I could maintain my usual calm demeanor...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Bats

What is it with all the sodding wild animals trying to live in my house?

It's Saturday morning and I should be taking it easy, right? I know I have to go and work out at 10:30 - it's chest day, which means lots of bench press and incline press. Last night was soccer, and the satisfaction of having won (and scored a goal) is tempered with the perpetual joint pain that comes from trying to act at least ten years younger than I am. Rolling out of bed causes the emission of a sudden and involuntary "fucking hell!" and the kind of stagger downstairs more ususally associated with drunks and extras in zombie movies.

So anyway, I hear a call from Mrs.Bison who wants to show me something outside in the garden. It's a bat. Not hanging upside-down from a rafter but rolling around on the ground like it's break-dancing. Obviously it's not well and we're thinking "rabies - keep the fuck away from it". You mght remember that I mentioned this little death-sentence-in-waiting when I talked about all the Bastard Animals that try and make a home in my St.Louis house. When rolled up it looks like a child's fist of brown fur with some black trim, but when it stretches it's wings it's a huge leathery bastard with tiny claws that you half expect to flap off to a castle on the hill at any moment. It's actually a fascinating thing for its size, and it squeaks appealingly, but I'm not getting too close. I stick a bucket over it to keep it where we can deal with it.

I could throw a brick on it and dispose of the corpse but I'm an upright citizen and I like bats (and besides, you've got to be careful or the next thing you know some animal organization's going all "Michael Vick" on your ass). I also suspect that this isn't the only one I have. So instead I do what any self-respecting suburbanite would do - I go to the internet and search. Well I'm here to tell you that there's acres of shit out there about bats - their lifecycles, different varieties, feeding preferences, endangered status, mating habits and fuck knows what else. But is there anything that tells you what to do in Missouri if you find a bat? Is there fuck! Eventually I figure out that I need to call Animal Control because they'll come and get it so it can be tested for rabies. That would be easy if I had a number for Animal Control but I can't find one, so I figure I'll call the Humane Society - they probably don't do bats but I bet they'll know who to call.

Have you ever tried getting one of those fuckers on the phone? First you get a recorded response with a giant list of options ("If you want to adopt a dog, press 3"), none of which in any way relates to wild animals. I press one and get another set of choices, none of which is relevant; I hesitate a second and the system kicks me back to the start of the first menu and an irritating voice starts reading them all out to me again. So at this point I pull out the PAPER phone book, find Animal Control and before long they send a helpful, knowledgable guy out to get the bat. He examines our rapidly growing pile of bat shit and the space between the deck and the house with his flashlight, and informs us that we have a proper little colony going here. Mrs.Bison looks up at the bats and recoils in horror. (By this time Mr.Bison is at the gym...)

So now my weekend is now going to consist of hosing down batshit, bleaching their home (after they've all "gone out" for the evening) so they aren't attracted back by the smell, and hanging netting to stop them getting back in. I also get to fill in the gap with expanding foam. Since I don't want rabies I expect I'll be doing all this in a full set of protective clothes, gloves and a hat, which, in addition to making me sweat like an arse in this 100 degree heat, will also ensure that the neighbors are absolutely confirmed in their assessment that the British people next door are weird.

Mrs.Bison, by the way, doesn't do bats. Or other furry wild animals. So this one's all mine...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Fork In The Road

For many people the day they meet their future spouse is forever framed in soft-focus, with imaginary music playing and flowers scattered along the path of their life. In my case there was none of this, but I do clearly remember exposing my knob as I stuck my arse out of a car window.
Now that's the way to a real woman's heart...

I'd left a job and returned to my parents' house in possibly the most boring seaside town in the world (average age 68; principle import - coffins; most popular activity - waiting to die) prior to starting a new job. When I arrived home in my fabulous car (orange with black vinyl roof, added rust and held together with packing tape) I found an invite to a party that very night from my old school friend, Fergie. He it was who used to cycle to video stores and rent low-grade porn on his dad's video card so we could watch it at lunch time on school days. In other words, a real mate. Fergie worked in a hospital so I made the mental connection "hospital = nurses = fun party" and decided to get there early to stake my claim.

Well, there were few people there when I arrived but there were a couple of girls (not nurses, but at least somewhat medical) who looked bored. I wandered over with my coca-cola in hand (not my fault - I had sworn off drink for a few weeks having just endured what at the time was the worst hangover/terminal vomiting experience of my life, not to be bettered until I discovered Slivovitz, but that's another story). As is traditional in these circumstances there was one pretty one and one "not-so-pretty" and, as is also traditional, the less pretty one made it abundantly clear early on that she was up for it, practically "frothing at the gash", as they say, while the other was much cooler, not taking the bait.

Herein lay the dilemma and decision that shaped my subsequent life: should I take the soft option or play the longer odds in the hope of a more attractive payout? Better men than me have decided to settle at basecamp rather than risking everything in the hard climb for the summit, but I was young(er) and stupid(er) so I grabbed my ice-axe and made my assault on the frost maiden. At about this point the girls decided to move on to another party, about thirty miles away; they invited us all along. Did that mean "Come with us - there's a chance we'd like to shag one/all of you" or did it mean "We're just being polite you sad fucks - please don't follow us"?

It was a dull town, as I said, so we all abandoned Fergie's party (including Fergie, by the way), and set off. It was on this journey that for some reason which later escaped me it seemed important that I present my buttocks to Fergie out of the window of our car (with target girl inside) as we passed him at about 100mph. Clearly this was the killer move; what girl could resist such devil-may-care charm? Well, this one apparently because as soon as we arrived she went off with some other bloke. I ran into her later on the dance floor as she drank spirits from a bottle, thereby confirming my initial hypothesis that here was a girl who might appreciate high-speed buttock exposure. Turns out the other bloke was not really much competition, being gay, so at that point I mustered all the sophistication that a man drinking coke can hope to summon, and dug in for the climb.

The rest, as they say, is history (eventually, after much living in sin). It hardly counts as an exciting or romantic "how I met your mother" story. Fuck-dull, in fact. But at least I can say I got my wife the old-fashioned way: free range. In these days of internet relationships, match-making and speed-dating the traditional approach has a lot to recommend it. Plus it's best you find out early - if she's offended by your arse sticking out of the car window there's no future for you. And if you can't handle her hard drinking and partying, best stay at basecamp, OK? It's warm and dry, and I can send Fergie round with some porn if that'll help...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Animal Sex

One thing about being on vacation is that you tend not to keep up with the news. As a result I've missed all sorts of important world events. For instance in Tacoma, Washington, it was reported that a man has been accused of having sex with a goat and will be arraigned on an animal cruelty charge. Apparently a witness saw 63-year-old Arthur Lawton having sex with a goat on May 8th in a barn at Eatonville's Pioneer Farm Museum where he worked. He claims to have been trying to milk the goat. (I assume he had his pants down at the time, which might make his defense somewhat problematic, unless he's invented a new milking technique).

What caught my attention is that this bloke is the second person charged in the county since they made bestiality a crime (in response to the recent death by perforated colon of a man who had sex with a horse). The first man was accused of having sex with the family pit bull, but was acquitted in May. Given that there are people out there who want to have sex with animals (I'm sorry, but they clearly exist), just what would make you look at a pit bull and think "Hmmm. Think I'll take a shot at that"? I mean, it's a pit bull. Wouldn't you be at all concerned that it might rip off your dick and balls?

But that looks positively healthy when compared with the notion of encouraging a horse to fuck you in the arse. Just what diseased fucking planet would you have to come from for that to seem like a good way to spend an evening. "It's only CSI re-runs again tonight. I'm bored of Gil Grissom. Guess I'll go get a horse to fuck me in the shitter." And his buddy was videotaping the whole thing! That would make for a great send-off at the funeral wouldn't it? "Let's share in Chuck's final moments. Oooh! That had to hurt. Goodbye Chuck. We'll miss you."

Before the demise of our unfortunate horse-buggered friend, bestiality wasn't illegal in Washington. Only thirty-three states ban sex with animals, although you stand to be accused of animal cruelty if you attempt to shag smaller animals. It seems that in the horse case it was hard to prove that the horse was in any way harmed, which might not be the case if "Chuck's" sexual partner had been, say, a chicken. No, seriously, there are people out there who want to screw chickens.

Apparently incidence of animal sex is much lower in cities than the countryside, although that may have more to do with opportunity than anything else - either less opportunity to meet girls or more opportunity to meet attractive goats, I don't know which. All things considered it makes me want to go back to my vacation. It does remind me, though, of the old joke about the bloke who goes to the doctor because he's started having sex with a sheep. The doctor asks "Is it a male sheep or a female?" The bloke replies "Female of course. What do you think I am - queer or something?" Apparently not in Tacoma...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Heart Monitor

One of the things Mrs.Bison got me for my birthday was a heart monitor wrist watch that I could use to help control my heart rate while cardio exercising. (Bear in mind that I hate cardio exercise, except when it involves kicking a ball.) I have some friends who've used these and they're supposed to be a good way to build endurance - the idea is that you moderate your level of exertion (such as by changing from running to walking) to keep your heart rate in a range that is defined by age, fitness and training objective. My plan was to try running on the beach during our vacation - no-one would recognize me and shame would be minimized if I collapsed in a bleating heap after two hundred yards.

I started by setting the thing to a max heart rate of 140, so that it would beep every time my heart rate went higher, and off I set along the beach. First thing I noticed was how fucking difficult it is to run on sand. If you're too close to the water you sink into the wet sand; if you're too far up the beach you sink in the dry sand. There was this tiny strip of hard sand that could carry my not inconsiderable weight and I spent most of my time trying not to veer off it. Second thing I noticed was the watch beeping. Fucking hell! I'm over 140 already! Better slow down. OK, better walk. Eventually I figured out that by resetting the max to 144 and adopting a spastic shuffling run that was barely more than a walk I could keep the thing from beeping. Much.

I ran up the beach and then ran back. I didn't get out of breath because the heart rate monitor stopped me overdoing it, so I suppose it was doing its job. I'm sure I looked like a twat though.

It's hard to know how to dress for running. Obviously anything lycra is out of the question, as are baggy satin shorts and a headband. If you dress like a serious runner and then run like a fat bastard you just look stupider than necessary. However if you don't dress like a runner (let's say you wear anonymous shorts and a t-shirt) it's not clear that you're exercising at all. People look at you as if wondering why you're running - are you leaving the scene of a crime? Did you just rob someone? They seem to be getting a good look in case they're asked for a description later. Maybe for America's Most Wanted. "Yes I saw him! He was bright purple. He looked like he was about to vomit, and there was a strange beeping noise coming from him."

Once I stopped running my heart rate went down, but not to normal. If I moved around it would be back up over 100. If I stood up, or sneezed, or farted it would be up again. Eventually I took off the monitor - if I was going to die I at least wanted it to be a surprise.

The day after running I got out of bed and my hips and back felt like I'd recently been engaged in a sex-marathon with a recalcitrant wildebeest. After that I didn't run again - I went back to the gym I'd found in Newport, and the relative joy of heavy weights. No fucking sand to worry about either.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Clam Chowder

By the time we arrived at Portland Airport we'd already spent about six hours on planes. The short leg of the journey (St.Louis-Dallas) was accomplished on a Boeing 757, which was probably good, as we had more than our regular complement of fat bastards on board and I'm not sure anything smaller would have got off the runway. The flight attendant came down the aisle with an armload of seatbelt extenders, doling them out to passengers like they were blankets. I had two across the aisle from me and they couldn't fit into the seat without lifting the armrest and enveloping the poor bastard next to them. They were wedged in solidly.

The long flight from Dallas to Portland took another four hours but surprisingly I still felt OK at the end of it. Picking up the rental car from Avis went amazingly smoothly - they actually proposed to charge me exactly what I had reserved it for on the internet, which was a pleasant surprise. It was a Saturn Aura XE and I can definitely recommend it. What I can't recommend are the Oregon drivers - I thought people drove badly in St.Louis but these fuckers were pathetic. Lane discipline might just as well have been quantum mechanics for all the comprehension they showed. As a consequence the three hour drive to the holiday beach house turned my mood from jolly holiday dad to psychotic bastard.

When we arrived we had a decision to make: go shopping now, so we had food in the morning (which meant more driving), or wait until tomorrow, which meant waking up with nothing to eat. Sensible bastard prevailed and we made the voyage to Safeway. It's hard to buy food for a week - it's not like you're going to use a whole tub of margarine in a week, or a huge jar of peanut butter, or a box of 120 teabags. (Maybe that's how you get to be one of those fat blokes on the plane). Plus, you're not going to actually cook anything - it's a holiday, for fuck's sake. Heating a pizza is about as adventurous as we got. The one thing we forgot was sunscreen, an oversight which would come back to haunt me.

We ate out for lunch the next day - there was this place down the road which was supposed to be famous for their clam chowder. Now I like clam chowder so this was going to be good, right? I also ordered a clam fritter sandwich. The thing with "normal" clam chowder is that I don't think they actually put any clams in it. Have you eaten clams? They have the texture of condoms. Clam chowder with these clams was like creamy condom soup, and a clam fritter was just spicy pressed condoms in a bun. Let's just say that we didn't go back...

So after a day on the breezy beach and a refreshing condom lunch it was eventually time to return to the house for a dinner of whatever reheatable crap we had bought the day before. On showering off the sand that permeated every crevice I discovered all the places that had got burned during the day. That's one good thing about St.Louis - when it's 100 degrees you damn well know it's fucking hot and you take precautions accordingly. Next day it was back to Safeway for some Factor 45...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

A Great Place...

I've been on vacation in Oregon for the last week, which explains the lack of insightful and humorous new posts during that time. We rented a small beach house and spent six days on the beach doing pointless but relaxing beach stuff like looking in rock pools, lying on the sand, building fires and occasionally attempting to venture into a sea that was so cold my testicles took refuge at the base of my spine.

More on the vacation in other posts (since I have fuck all else to write about), but like all good vacations (and, in fact, bad ones) it came to an end, and last night we returned to St.Louis. The first thing that struck me on getting home was the heat. It has apparently been about 100 degrees here for the last week, and we turned off our air conditioning before we left. This was only partly motivated by a desire to save money, and mostly by the fear that my jurassic air conditioner would burst into flames in my absence and burn down my house. By far the happiest moment of yesterday was the point where I turned it on and cold air started coming out. Bleeding miracle!

Now I don't want to make Oregon out to be the Garden of Eden but it does seem to have a lot going for it. The temperature is pleasant at the coast so you can go out and enjoy the summer. If you're bored of the beach there are magnificent hills and mountains behind you. Majestic fir trees are mixed with deciduous forest. Behind that is rolling rough desert landscape, beautiful lakes and rivers, and lovely winding roads over which you can actually drive your car (as opposed to using it as a "stop-start" device between traffic signals).

When people talk about St.Louis (assuming they are trying to be positive) they always talk about it being a "Great Place To Raise a Family". It never occurred to me that the reason they say it is that there is fuck all else you can point to as a real advantage of living here. In the summer it is too hot to go outside so you live in your (hopefully) air conditioned house. Your garden dies in the heat. In the winter it's too cold and there's the added fun of freezing rain, falling trees and days without power, shivering in your kitchen. Your garden dies in the cold. In spring there are tornados. Deer eat everything in your garden. If you want to drive anywhere there's nowhere worth going that's less than four or five hours away. Forget about scenery - it's all flat and full of corn. Want to see the sea? It's a minimum twelve hour drive, over fuck-dull interstates with nothing to sustain you but gas station food.

Is it a great place to raise a family? I guess that depends if you're living in the safe suburbs with outstanding school districts or the crime-ridden, drug-infested city, or parts of North and South County. Maybe they just mean it's great compared to other parts of Missouri, which is undoubtedly true. Houses are cheaper here than on the coast, but then again salaries are lower so it's swings and roundabouts really. But to me raising a family means doing things outdoors like hiking, swimming, cycling and all that stuff. You should be able to chuck them out in the morning and not see them until lunch time. From what I've seen the kids here don't venture outside unless it's to some organized sports event. I'm sure they're very good at video games though.

Maybe I'm cynical today - the end of vacations and a return to work can do that for you. Or maybe it's the knowledge that we have at least another five days of 100 degree heat ahead of us, and that hundreds of thousands of people will wake up tomorrow on the coast of Oregon with little idea how lucky they are to be there. I don't half bloody well wish I was one of them...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Tell It Like It Is

I was reading the Daily Mail (UK newspaper) today and they had this revolutionary observation from the head of the British Medical Association. He stated that "The obese are being treated as if they have a medical problem when often they simply eat too much and exercise too little." Fuck me! I think he's cracked it! People are fat because they eat too much!

How come this concept is regarded as news? Isn't it a bit like saying "People drown because they can't breathe underwater" or "People masturbate because it's enjoyable"? The main thrust of this bloke's argument seems to be that we're letting all these fat fuckers off the hook by allowing them to indulge in the fantasy that thay're "ill" and "need treatment". This means they can plough through supersize meals and watch TV while they wait for someone to develop a magic pill for them and (since it's the UK, with socialized medicine) pay for it, along with all the other problems associated with their self-inflicted condition.

This isn't about being fat though - it's about weasel words that allow people to avoid taking responsibility for their actions. (By the way, I always hated the word "responsibility" - it was something my Dad said when he was telling me I had to do something that was really no fucking fun at all.) You're not a fat bastard who eats too much - you have a "Hyper-Appetite Problem". You completely fail to discipline your child, so that they become a disruptive, evil little fucker? It's no-one's fault - they just have ADHD. Let's get them on some pills and everything will be fine Mrs.Dozybitch.

We get this same shit over here with illegal immigration. Illegal immigrants account for a disproportionate share of crime, consume benefits without paying taxes and break the law simply by being here. But there's a depressing trend to water down the issue with politically correct bullshit-speak. They're not illegal immigrants (criminals), they're "undocumented migrants", like some sort of hapless victim who mislaid their papers and is now being ruthlessly persecuted.

Does this stuff matter? Of course it does! If you can't call a spade a fucking shovel you're never going to address the real issue because no-one will be able to talk about what it is. If the health service is being weighed down by type 2 diabetes and other conditions associated with obesity then you'd better tell it like it is: "stop eating so much you fat wankers - you're costing us all a fortune!" If kids are increasingly acting like little shits how about some simple approach like "discipline the little bastards, or we'll lock them up". Government agencies don't even track crime by illegal immigrants because it would be "controversial". You can't solve a problem if you won't even talk about it.

Anyway, in the spirit of talking about the risks of obesity, the Daily Mail also had a story about a 300lb woman who got stuck in a deck-chair on a beach in England. They had to send rescue workers in to save her because the tide was coming in. I don't know about you, but when I can't get out of a chair because I'm too fat I might just consider that it's time for a lifestyle change. When you become a news story in the same category as a stranded whale it may be time to stop supersizing. Don't give me all this shit about it being "glandular". You don't see 300lb people in hunger-stricken regions of Africa, do you? Did they all have their glands removed in some ritualistic ceremony? I can see it now: "We're doing the foreskin - may as well knock off a few glands while we're at it!"

Anyway, if you don't believe me you can check it out at BEACHED WHALE.

And step away from the lard!


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Phone My SUV

I was following my regular commute into work this morning (at least the one that's regular when I'm not eating animal organs in strange parts of the world) and I happened to notice a greater than usual proportion of dicks on the road. We're in the middle or roadwork season so much of the route is lined with orange barrels and tattooed men bending over with spectacular rear vertical smiles. I watched as the driver in front (naturally endowed with vagina) started rearranging her hair and veered off between the barrels, fortunately not killing any workers.

I see this regularly - women on the way to work or dropping off kids, either on the phone, applying make-up or doing their hair, usually while drinking coffee and attempting to drive. What is it with their lives that makes it impossible for them to just drive? Don't give me any of that crap about "working women" and "multi-tasking". I live with a working woman who multi-tasks and when she gets in the car she listens to the fucking CD like any normal human being and generally attempts to not kill anyone on the way to wherever she's going.

It's like a fucking disease - they can't get more than twenty yards from home without having to pick up the phone and talk to someone. Perhaps it wouldn't be such a concern if they were all in a Toyota Yaris - if they ran into you they'd disappear under the bumper and you'd just have to pry them out with a stick when you got home. But they're not in a Yaris - they're in a fucking Yukon XL. Or a Ford Expedition. Or a Hummer H2. At a minimum it's some full-size family minivan with up-down, stow-snd-go, stick-it-up-your-arse seats and a camera for reversing so you don't bloody well have to learn to drive. There are these (always) tiny suburban women with a phone in one hand and a Frappuccino in the other, piloting some great fuck-off wheeled behemoth on an entirely random path through traffic.

Why do they get these vehicles? Is it some colossal insecurity, brought on by deep-seated penis envy and a desire to adopt a huge phallic symbol as daily transportation? I think I can hear someone saying "they need the space to ferry kids around". Bollocks! When I was a kid every fucking car was expected to take five people, even the Mini. No-one "needs" a gigantic vehicle just because they have to take Johnny to soccer and Susie to softball practice twice a fucking week, OK? By all means buy one but accept that it's because you want a big one and don't pretend it's "essential". I bought a big truck because I thought it would be fun to drive a sodding great American pick-up once in my life. I can tell myself I need it to collect mulch once a year but it would be bullshit, alright?

Anyway, in case you think I'm being unfair to women who buy big SUVs because they wish they had a penis, I keep seeing this bloke around here driving a full-size Hummer. The original military style one, not the plastic H2/H3 things. Thing is, it's open-top so you can see him and, based on casual observation and a long history of snap judgments, I'd say his willy is indeed small. No I can't actually see his willy. I mean he looks like a cast-iron guaranteed prick. It's not like you can "off-road" in St.Louis, unless you want to drive in cornfields.

It's possible I'm misjudging him and he's a great human being. In fact I can see one serious reason to own a military Hummer here - it's to protect you from all the stupid women in giant SUVs bouncing from Starbucks to the YMCA with their phone up their ear. I'm going on vacation - if I can make it to the airport without being T-boned by some vacuous bint in a Suburban I'll be a happy man.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison