Interesting Facts?

100 interesting facts about Mr.Bison:

1. I can fit three large marshmallows under my foreskin. I have yet to persuade anyone to eat them.
   
2. I have successfully ignited my own flatulence; the flame was blue.
   
3. I swear more than anyone, with the exception of a few Tourette's sufferers. And they don't fucking count. Fuckers.
   
4. The closest I came to drinking myself to death was with Slivovitz. You should try it.
   
5. I once had a friend "in the trade" arrange for a colleague to be cavity-searched on entering the UK. He still has no idea.
   
6. While practicing karate I floored a man by accidentally front-kicking him in the nadbags. The sensei called him out for being a pussy.
   
7. I have ridden between two UK towns on the hood of a Ford Granada while drunk and holding onto the wiper.
   
8. I was once sucked off by a waitress at a Little Chef after eating the all-day Brunch Breakfast with onion rings.
   
9. I have watched a woman squeeze a peeled banana out of her snatch into a man's pint. He didn't eat it, in spite of the high level of potassium in bananas, which is really good for you, apparently.
   
10. I have a six-foot leather bull-whip which some friends bought me as a leaving gift. I'm still not sure why...
    
11. I once sang and played rhythm guitar on Twisted Sister's Bad Boys Of Rock'n'Roll in front of an audience of about 900 people. I did that guitar bit at the start as well - it was more fun than anything that doesn't involve naked females.
    
12. I scored 760 on the GMAT test.
    
13. I'm fucked if I can think of anything else...
    

You've probably seen those posts on blogs where people list 100 things about themselves. You have to wonder what kind of Class A egotist would list this type of crap and expect other people to read it. I think I lead a fairly interesting life (although I confess that I've never won the 24 hour Le Mans race, flown a jet fighter or fucked a three hundred pound woman in the changing room at Target) but I cannot conceive of being able to write 100 things about me that would hold anyone's attention. I managed twelve, and not even all of those are true (you'll have to guess), although to be fair I had to leave out some good ones in order to protect the innocent so I think I'm even.

That's the trouble with the internet - there's no editor. People who write books are encouraged to have a plot and rework their prose until they have a readable story (unless they are JK Rowling, in which case they are allowed to write 1000 pages of wandering crap and sell it for $35 a time). On the internet bloggers encourage each other to write utterly uninteresting facts and stick them up on a server somewhere. Then they invent spurious cultural terms (Meme) and sociological jargon to justify it. In short, if you're willing to read anything that dull then you're probably not my target audience. Sorry.

And if you believed for a moment that I ever tried to put a marshmallow in my foreskin then you have seriously misjudged me.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Just Shut Up

What is it with some people that they feel it necessary to bore the living tits off you with inane and completely unwanted chatter? You know the type - you're sitting somewhere, maybe a waiting room or on a plane, and you make the mistake of exchanging a "hello" with the person next to you. Suddenly the floodgates open and you get their entire fucking life story. Sometimes it doesn't even take "hello"; simply making eye contact is enough to unleash a torrent of meaningless drivel. And it's never interesting is it? There is a well-established inverse relationship between the desire of a person to talk to you and the excitement quotient of their life. I never get accosted by marines returning from battle with stories of night-time missions behind enemy lines, or doctors who just removed nine feet of someone's intestines. I don't meet porn actresses, day-time soap stars, bounty hunters, diamond dealers or anyone else who might have some funny stories about the work they do. No, I get to meet dumbasses.

Fortunately I've realised that I'm not alone, which is probably a good thing, otherwise I'd be getting worried that it's part of my role in the Universe to entertain each of the most boring people for half an hour before I die. This shit happens to other people too. Mrs.Bison, for instance, had a fascinating one-way conversation with an ugly, overweight woman while waiting for Bison daughter to finish dance class. All it took was "hello" and she received a stream of useless information from this woman, including:

• I have five bathrooms in my house.
  
• My daughter gets straight A's.
  
• I'm Jewish.
  
• I'm cooking fish for dinner tonight.
  
• My other daughter doesn't like fish.
  
• She would rather have McDonalds.
  
• I told her to eat the leftover London broil from last night.
  
• Etc. Etc. Etc. Etc.
  

What could possibly possess someone to share such utterly uninteresting information with a complete stranger, particularly one who is avoiding any form of response, in the possibly vain hope that this won't become a regular imposition every time she goes to dance class? Normal people look for signs of interest - nodding, interjecting comments, sharing your own meaningless and dull stories - but some people (and, let's face it, it's mostly women) seem to be programmed to expel words from the orifice in the middle of their fat face without restraint.

I'd like to market a spray for use in just this kind of situation. It could be called Conversational Immodium (for relief of verbal diarrhea), or maybe Bitch-B-Quiet. You could pull it out of your bag, like Mace, at the first sign of crap conversation; just one quick spray to the face and the lips would tighten up, rendering further speech impossible. I'd sell it in airports and make a fortune! Alternatively I'd suggest making it entirely legal to taser someone for the offence of ridiculous and unwarranted conversational assault. The sight of the erstwhile wittering bore now twitching on the ground with every squeeze of the trigger would be fair compensation I feel.

I am aware that blogs are very much like unwanted conversation in that a) You have no idea whether anyone cares what you are saying, and b) Most of what you find in blogs is meaningless shit. However you can simply choose not to read a blog, which makes it a bit different. On the other hand, I'd have to support tasering for some of the bloggers I've seen out there. First Amendment my arse...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Christmas Letter

It'll soon be that time of year again, when Christmas cards (or holiday greetings cards) start dropping in your mailbox. Some of them will come with a bonus - the annual Christmas letter. Now I don't get many of these. I like to think it's because my friends aren't dicks, but of course it might just be that I don't have many friends. When you start receiving them it's a sure sign that you've grown up and joined the ranks of the dull and sensible, or at least that your friends have, and that they're trying to kid themselves that you have too. They are also laboring under the gross misapprehension that the recipient of their photocopied holiday letter gives a flying fuck about what their overachieving little bastard offspring have been doing during the twelve months since their last missive. The fact that you've been incommunicado during that entire time did not deter them from including you again because, let's face it, who wouldn't want to know all the details of their fabulously exciting life?

These letters tend to fall into two categories. The first (and most common) attempts to portray the sender and their family as successful, happy and well-adjusted, the blatant self-praise not disguised by the occasional use of self-deprecating humor. ("...and we laughed when Gerald was awarded the Nobel price for medicine because he'd always wanted to win in literature, and you'll remember that his brother won that last year..." The second category contain stories of struggle overcome during the year, usually divorce, illness or financial despair, and in spite of the upbeat tone of the writer it's clear that they are only one bad day away from slitting their wrists in a warm bath.

There are generally two options for dealing with Christmas letters. One involves reading them with your spouse and sharing the emotion involved in connecting with far-flung friends at this special time of year. The other involves taking the piss and imagining the truth behind all those stories of unalloyed achievement. (To be fair there is an Option Three, but it only works if the letter is printed on soft, absorbent paper, or you're completely out of Charmin Extra Strong.) Option One is more likely to result in you sending back your own photocopied letter; please bear in mind that if you do this you are at significant risk of being a cunt. There is a fine line to walk here. Should you nevertheless decide to walk the path of cuntyness (cuntiness?) and send a latter back you still have to write the bloody thing. Here at Bison Enterprises we feel your pain and therefore I have included below a generic Christmas letter that you may feel free to modify and send to your friends this holiday season. It works best if you (the writer) are a suburban minivan-driving mother of two, one boy and one girl. If you have a different selection of kids please adjust accordingly; if you are in fact a man please refrain from sending any such letter unless you are in receipt of a note from your doctor confirming that you have no balls and are therefore excused from acting like a guy:

OPTION ONE

Dear (INSERT DULL FRIEND'S NAME)

Well, I can hardly believe it's been a year since I last wrote! (REMEMBER TO USE LOTS OF EXCLAMATION MARKS) Doesn't time fly these days? It's been a busy year at the (INSERT YOUR NAME) household again. Did I tell you that (INSERT HUSBAND) is a Senior Vice-President at NobCorp now? He has a wonderful new office with windows all around, and a brand new Mercedes S500. Of course he kept his Porsche as well - he does love his runs in the country! The new job came with a huge pay rise of course - we simply don't know what to do with the money. Once we paid off the morgage on our second home in California and fully funded the kids' college accounts we simply racked our brains for ages. Then I came up with it. A yacht! What a wonderful idea! We simply love it, and you meet such wonderful people at the yacht club. We've been invited to a place in the Hamptons next Spring by this lovely couple - he's something big in finance and owns an island! I don't think you have a yacht, do you?

Not to be outdone, (INSERT NAME OF SPOILED SON) has had a successful year as well. He's been made captain of the lacrosse team and the tennis club, and his grades are wonderful. The school suggested we have him tested as a possible genius! It just goes to show what a good investment the fees are for the (INSERT NAME OF HIDEOUSLY EXPENSIVE PRIVATE SCHOOL) school - a sacrifice worth making, I think. Next term he's going to be studying three languages and learning the French horn. I always joked with (INSERT HUSBAND) that he gets his musical ability from me!

Meanwhile (INSERT NAME OF IRRITATING DAUGHTER) has been doing wonderfully since she started at her new middle school last year. She's been selected to represent the state at a debating competition in Washington DC next month but she still finds time to write to her congressman about problems in the third world. One of her letters was published in (INSERT CRAPPY MAGAZINE) and I think I see a future in politics or maybe even public relations!

My life has just been a whirl since I was voted chair of the PTA at the school. Did I tell you that I beat seven other candidates? I think they could tell that I had the experience and drive to take the (INSERT CRAPPY SCHOOL NAME) PTA to the next level. I hardly have time for my expressive dance, yoga, pilates or creative writing group anymore. Thank goodness that (INSERT HUSBAND) got me that housekeeper to help me out!

Yours Joyfully (INSERT YOUR NAME)

OPTION TWO

Dear (INSERT DULL FRIEND'S NAME)

Well, I can hardly believe it's been a year since I last wrote. (NO EXCLAMATION MARKS IN THIS ONE) Doesn't time fly these days? It's been a trying year at the (INSERT YOUR NAME) household. Did I tell you that (INSERT HUSBAND) has left me and set up home with his secretary? She's twenty years younger than him, for heaven's sake. Of course I hired a good attorney and we're trying to trace his assets but it turns out that he's been running up gambling debts for years and I'm not sure that he has any money left. I think I might lose the house - I got a visit from a man called "Big Frankie" last week about some loans that (HUSBAND) took out.

Unfortunately, (INSERT NAME OF SON) has had a difficult year as well. His grades have been slipping and what with all the mood swings I'd just put it down to those difficult teenage years. But then the police showed up and it turns out he's been using drugs. It started with glue but now he's onto dope and they say he's been selling it to friends at school. His case comes up in juvenile court next month.

Meanwhile (INSERT NAME OF DAUGHTER) has some great news. She's pregnant. Of course it was a little sooner than we'd hoped, but her boyfriend is very nice really, you can't tell anything about someone just by looking at their tattoos and piercings. The school has been very supportive and they're letting her stay on until she shows, but she's very worried that (INSERT NAME OF DELINQUENT BOYFRIEND) won't be able to see the birth if the state proceeds with the statutory rape charges.

My life has just been a whirl since I was diagnosed with irritable bowel syndrome. It's hard work keeping up with the support group, and I'm responsible for editing their newsletter. It's called "Go Time!" and I think it's really good. My doctor says the stress isn't helping, but I had my first firm stool for a month yesterday so things are looking up!

Yours Stoically (INSERT YOUR NAME)

Just pick one and fill in the blanks. This may be the last year you ever receive a Christmas latter. And don't say I never do anything for you!


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

A Perfect Day

6:00 Wake up. Realize I don't have to get up. Then realize I am in wonderful mansion by the coast. Scratch and reposition testicles; roll over and ignore the world.
7:30 Awake again from surreal but sexually explicit dream to the sound of Bix Beiderbecke, the smell of a full English breakfast and a really good cup of tea, delivered on a tray.
8:00 Get up. After all, this is going to be a busy day - I can't just lie here the whole time. Head downstairs and eat English breakfast on patio overlooking the sea. Weather is perfect. Butler brings me my Blackberry. I place it on a brick and crush it with another brick. Life is good.
8:30 Relaxing shit on luxury Japanese toilet, equipped with full supply of books and magazines. Finger does not go through paper. Life just gets better and better.
8:45 Shower under giant "drench" shower head, dry with fluffy towels and relax in chair while genuine barber shaves me with a straight razor. Just the face.
9:00 Limo arrives with workout buddy and takes us to the gym. We take the scenic route, drink a Red Bull and watch comedy on the in-car DVD.
9:30 Gym time. It's a good workout; achieve new personal best on something owing to presence of many gym beauties providing added inspiration. Shoot the shit with guys at the gym.
11:30 Limo returns us to the mansion, where I receive assisted shower from two beautiful Asian girls. Workout buddy is somewhere else; this is strictly a one-wiener situation you understand.
12:00 Lunch. Magnificent spread of sushi and sashimi, complemented by good bottle of sake.
1:00 Hook up with three friends for 9 holes of golf on picturesque course. No other fuckwits in stupid trousers are around to get in the way. Don't lose too many balls or hit anything at right angles from the tee. Attractive cart wench brings refreshment regularly. Shows us her boobs for a dare. They are good.
3:30 Return for full body massage. NFL game is on the TV in the massage room.
5:30 Butler arrives with 12 year-old Islay malt whisky and escorts me to hot tub on the deck where two perfectly formed, intelligent young women with few morals are waiting.
6:00 That didn't take long did it? Return to house for roast beef dinner with roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding and horseradish sauce.
9:00 Different limo arrives to take me to indoor soccer game. Score amazing goal; team wins close game and retires to the bar to relive best moments.
12:00 Fucking knackered. Limo returns me to mansion and wonderful soft bed. Fall asleep.

6:00 Wake up. It was just a dream. Bollocks. Roll over and scratch testicles. That part seems real enough. Mansion is gone. Substitute suburban house in midwestern United States. Fuck it - at least it's a weekend.
7:30 Woodpecker starts eating side of house. Jump up and shout "fuck off" while banging on the wall.
8:00 Get up. After all it's pointless trying to go back to sleep after that. Head downstairs and eat breakfast with family. Breakfast consists of banana protein shake and toast with cup of tea. Sea is twelve hours away. Weather is cold and shit. Still, life ain't bad.
8:30 Relaxing shit on normal toilet while reading old Viz annuals. You know, this part doesn't really get any better. Attempt to wipe with Quilted Northern toilet paper. Finger goes through. Fuck it. Fuck Quilted Northern.
9:00 Hang out with family. Don't know where the fuck the time goes, but it does.
10:00 Drive to gym via dry cleaner. Pick up shirts.
10:30 Meet workout buddy at the gym. Lift like a twat; pain in shoulder. Should go to quack but then he'll probably advise "rest and don't lift heavy weights" and I'll just ignore him, so why waste the copay? Girls at gym provide limited inspiration.
12:30 Return home to lunch made by putting whole can of tuna in a sandwich with miracle whip.
2:00 Go shopping for something. Don't find it. Encounter hundreds of arseholes in the stores, car parks and mall. Wish it was legal to thin the herd of anyone who pissed me off.
4:00 Get home. What the fuck happened to the day? Make cup of tea and watch sport on TV.
4:30 Realise that TV is all shit and head to Blockbuster to rent movie.
5:00 Realise that movies are all shit; rent something that promises to not be shit and return home.
6:30 Dinner cooked by Mrs.Bison. This is always good.
8:00 Ritual of getting Bison daughter to go to bed begins.
9:00 Ritual ends. Eventually. We'll miss it when we don't have to do it any more though.
9:30 Watch movie. Realise that it is, indeed, utter shit. Realise that hell is a quiet evening in suburban St.Louis. Then remember quiet evenings in suburban St.Louis with no power. Life not so bad anymore.
11:30 Go to bed. Hope for dream like last night's. Or at least hope not to be woken up by fucking woodpecker again.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Last Meal

I don't know about you, but I can't help wondering every time I read the details of the last meals served to people about to be executed. The US Constitution and its stance on "cruel and unusual punishment" seems to have been interpreted in every possible manner to confer dubious rights on the very lowest scum, so why take the trouble to "reward" said scum with a nice meal before giving them the needle? What a fucking waste!

Here's an example of a last meal served to a prisoner, courtesy of the Dead Man Eating website:

"Hot and spicy chicken breast, two slices of sausage pizza with extra cheese, a slice of German chocolate cake, a pint of French vanilla ice cream and a Dr. Pepper."

The particular scumbag in question had apparently already killed once, before the murder for which he was executed, but was released after serving only 20 years of a 60 year sentence. (Now that's some serious time off for good behavior.) I won't dwell on the obvious benefit to society that would have accrued if he (and many thousands of others like him) had simply been executed the first time, but why the fuck give him a special meal?

I've got a better idea. Below is a sample menu, and the condemned man should be asked to spin the wheel to select his last meal option:

• His own penis and testicles, lightly fried in garlic butter and served on a bed of lettuce.
  
• The stomach contents of the latest cadaver to be received at the county morgue, pureed and served in a bowl with croutons.
  
• Plump garden slugs, marinated in an infusion of bag-lady's underwear and garnished with phlegm.
  
• Cream of foreskin soup.
  
• Cat afterbirth stew served with chopped assorted rodents.
  
• Microwaved colostomy bag with a side-serving of crispy-fried pubes.
  
• Roasted possum heads, basted with seven-inmate-semen sauce.
  

OK, you get the general idea. Now civil rights lawyers might get all whiny about the cruel and unusual punishment thing, but here's the way I see it. If the Constitution forbids "cruel and unusual" punishment, presumably a punishment must be both cruel and unusual to qualify. Something is only unusual if it is "out of the ordinary, rarely occurring or deviating from the customary". If it is established by law as "customary" then it cannot be "unusual" can it? So provided we do it to all murderers it should be fine, right?

I guess I'd better not expect to pass the bar on the strength of the above argument, but it still pisses me off that the last thing (OK, second last thing) we do to the very worst scum in the country is to give them a fabulous meal of their choosing. How about we just execute them and provide a fabulous meal for the victim's family?

I'm getting down off my soapbox now. It's not that I couldn't go on a bit more, but I need time to get the thought of "cream of foreskin soup" out of my head before dinner.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

What A Gift

The business of Thanksgiving is now over; the turkey has been eaten, the belt loosened and football watched. All that remains is to avoid any contact whatsoever with shops over the next 24 hours and everything will be good. Unfortunately tomorrow fires the starting gun on the great present-buying frenzy that is "The Holidays". Christmas would be a great time if it weren't for the fucking gift buying. I can burn a few days of vacation and get a whole week off work, and since a lot of other people do the same I won't have to keep up with e-mail during this time, or face a thousand unread messages when I return. I can stuff myself with turkey (again), cheeses, pickles, ham, chocolates and a thousand other seasonal delights. I can watch National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation again. And again. I can decorate the house and look at the glittering lights on a tinsel-covered tree through the amber glow of a glass of good scotch. All this is part of the joy of Christmas, just as soon as I'm done wandering aimlessly around crappy stores trying to choose presents that aren't completely shit.

I hate buying gifts. I don't think it's just because I'm a miserable bastard, although I'm open to this possibility. It's just that there's so little stuff that people really need, and I can't bear those pointless gifts that you buy even though you know the recipient will never use them. Gag gifts and other crap. Plus, having family in the UK means that anything that I buy here has to be shipped, which costs a shedload of money and rules out anything heavy, breakable or stealable. It also means that I should have posted everything about a week ago. I could buy online but I'm buying in US dollars and now that the exchange rate is such that one UK pound buys a small American town it really doesn't work in my favor.

Maybe my mistake is thinking about gifts for other people in the same way that I think about gifts for me (in as much as I ever think about gifts for me). It's not that I try and buy stuff that I would like; rather that I apply the same criteria of usefulness on behalf of any recipient that I would use myself: Is It Something They Will Use?

In short, unless I can eat it, wear it, drive it, read it, listen to it or shag it I probably don't have a lot of use for it. Unfortunately you can't just buy people stuff to eat if they could do with losing a few pounds. You can't buy someone a car very often (in spite of what the commercials would have you believe). You can't buy clothes very easily even if you know someone's size because the stores all lie about the sizes to flatter fat people, and it's hard to return something to another continent. And you can't buy something for people to shag. (Alright, you can, but this is family I'm talking about here.) That leaves music and books, but I don't know what other people like to read or listen to, never mind whether they already have whatever I might have considered buying them.

I think a talent for gift buying is one of those things you either have or you don't. I don't. I enjoy giving gifts, but not having to buy the bloody things. And all the time I'm reminded that the whole process is part of one great big festival of consumerism where the need to run around buying stuff completely squeezes out the enjoyment of the run-up to Christmas, which is really the best bit. After all, before you even finish Christmas dinner there will be commercials on TV attempting to lure you to the sales. There's no let-up in the ceaseless drive to sell you crap you don't need so that the economy can keep rolling.

Mrs.Bison has asked me what I want for Christmas this year, and do you know what? I haven't got a bastard clue. I think I might ask for scotch - it's the perfect gift. It's never the wrong size or color, and no-one ever says "Thanks but I already have one". On the other hand, my brother bought me the skin of a hoofed mammal that he picked up in South Africa last year. This definitely doesn't fit my "eat, wear, drive..." criteria and yet it's a permanent and welcome addition to my favorite armchair. Maybe I'll just head down to Dead Things 'R' Us and see what I can pick up...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

God's Waiting Room

One of the many things that you have to get used to when you move from the UK to the midwestern United States is that everyone assumes you go to church. The contrast with the country where I grew up could hardly be more stark - here people don't ask whether you go to church, they ask which church you go to. In the UK no-one asks if you go to church because the assumption is that you don't, and the implied accusation that you might be a god-botherer might be taken as an insult. Now you might assume from this that America is a land of righteousness whereas the UK is a pit filled with sodomites; this is clearly not the case. In fact your best chance for a spot of sodomy probably comes from attending church as a boy in the US, particularly if you are of the Catholic persuasion. (And if you play your cards right you could end up as a churchwarden / serial killer like Dennis Rader.)

This is not a site filled with serious discourse (in case you hadn't noticed) so I shall refrain from attempting to explain why it is that everyone here goes to church. It's true, though, that the social side to churchgoing in St.Louis seems to transcend any actual need to believe in God. I know of one woman whose choice of denomination was heavily influenced by the clothes she would be able to wear. Apparently eternal damnation isn't a big decision criterion these days...

When I was a kid attendance at church wasn't optional; I had to go every Sunday because that's what my family did. Never mind that it was a beautiful day outside and my friends were going to play football; no, I was going to dress up like a cunt and sit in a dingy hall filled with ancient furniture and even more ancient women. I did go through a phase of looking forward to church but that was because I had developed a monstrous sexual infatuation with a girl who also attended. The fact that I never achieved any progress towards full genital congress and that she grew up to do missionary work does, in retrospect, make this seem like a rather fucking pointless phase of my life.

This was a rare time where there were other kids of my own age in the church. For the most part churchgoers were retired men and women who seemed to be putting in a few years of preparation before meeting the "man upstairs" in person. And there was a definite dress code. For men it was grey suits and pigeon-shit grey hair. For women it meant sensible shoes, brown tights, skirt jacket and hat. Always a hat. Where did these hats come from? I swear no-one wore them in their younger years, so why did they suddenly develop the urge to acquire dozens of church hats? The women would fuss around after a service making coffee in giant pots. The smell of scalded milk, dust and soap is something I don't think I'll ever forget.

It's tempting to point to the hats and the lack of potential sex partners as reasons why church attendance is so low in the UK but it probably has more to do with the fact that churches now find it unfashionable to actually believe in anything. Witness the terrible trouble that Anglicans have deciding whether homosexuality is:

A. A sin to be condemned. Keep off arses or you'll burn in hell.
B. A sin which we would prefer you didn't commit but you're very welcome here even if you do, provided that you refrain from actual sodomy on the premises.
C. Something which is your own life choice and we support your right even though it falls short of the ideal family.
D. Just as valid as heterosexuality, never mind what the Bible said. In fact we positively encourage it these days you know...
E. Compulsory, because the vicar said so. But don't tell your parents.

Meanwhile in the US churches are thriving on a diet of absolute bloody certainty. Evangelical preachers are everywhere, proclaiming that you shall receive salvation, and you shall sit at the right hand of God for all eternity, just give your credit card details and we'll bill you in large, easy installments. Have you seen these people? Fucking scary doesn't even come close to describing them; they honestly believe the earth was created in seven days and dinosaurs lived on Noah's Ark. They stare out of the TV screen with that wide-eyed zealousness you only find in the truly saved and proceed to talk exclusively out of their arse. They are probably the most dangerous group of people in the US today and they'd ban this site and 99% of the internet in a heartbeat if they could. This in spite of the fact that it turns out they're all either embezzling, cheating on their taxes, screwing around, hiring rent boys, or some combination of the above.

If I had to choose, I much prefer religion British style. Sure the churches were often uncomfortable and the services ate into valuable weekend time. The smell of coffee, hats and mothballs could be nauseating. But if I had to give up part of my Sunday again I'd rather do it in the company of people who tolerate sodomy ("while not performing it myself you know, never my cup of tea") than those who thump the pulpit and condemn homosexuality before proceeding to accost strange men in public toilets. Plus there's always the chance you could corrupt some churchgoing girl in sensible shoes. If I'd had my way that girl from my church would never have become a missionary. Possibly could have made her a lesbian though...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Happily Ever After

Marriage really should have a health warning since it's the most comprehensive means of fucking yourself up known to man. I was reminded of this today when a colleague informed us that his wife was expecting. (I was grateful that he didn't say we are expecting, otherwise I would have been forced to beat him to death with a long stapler, something which I believe is frowned upon at some companies.) Anyway, this revelation prompted many comments and pieces of advice from surrounding workmates, as well as hints on what to expect next. One poor sad wanker was explaining how he would now be forced to buy all manner of expensive and unnecessary baby crap that his pregnant wife would want, based apparently on his own experience. This reminded me yet again how lucky I was to marry a woman with both a sense of humor and a brain (nice arse too); you wouldn't think that this combination would be too hard to find, but it seems that a lot of men say "I Do" without realizing that thay will be saying yes to the following:

• A house full of seasonal accessories, scented candles, pot pourri and endless other assorted crap.
  
• Hordes of harpies decending on the house to play bunco, do scrapbooking or similar utterly pointless shit.
  
• Working all day so you can pay a cleaner to clean the house, day care to look after the kids and Pizza Hut to cook your meals, just so she can spend more time drinking coffee with other lazy suburban women.
  
• Putting up with some complete twat friend she's had since college that you'd happily kick down the stairs.
  
• Living in dread of the credit card bill because she can't pass a shoe shop or mall store without buying something, like it's some form of fucking addiction.
  
• Bullshit relationship psychology from the likes of Oprah ("But she says we should make a list of our dreams and then swap them")
  
• Maintaining the pathetic charade that being married means you're not attracted to other women, as if that's even believable...
  
• Cat litter trays and Glade scented plug-ins.
  
• Scintillating conversation with someone who actually looks forward to watching Gilmore Girls, for fuck's sake.
  
• Throw pillows on the bed.
  
• Packing up all your memorabilia, the stuff that actually had good times associated with it, so you can surround yourself with tasteful, bland ornaments.
  
• Having your gonads cut open. ("Vasectomy is no big deal - my friend Susan said so.")
  
• Driving a minivan. (After all, if you're going to have your balls confiscated, why not advertise the fact to friends and family?)
  

This is why I don't think people should be allowed to marry until they've lived together for a while. At least you get a more realistic view of the person you're going to wake up with for (allegedly) the rest of your natural life. No matter how careful you are though, there's a good chance that the pretty, wild, sexually adventurous, non-conformist girl you were so attracted to is going to grow up into the scrapbooking, drape-coordinating, PTA-organizing, testicle-shriveling lead in a suburban nightmare from which you will never awake.

Welcome to the baby shower, motherfucker!


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Looking For Animal Blowjobs?

It's been a while since I updated you on the status of my statistics, and more precisely the search phrases that are bringing people to this site. Now, the vast majority of people either have me on a favorites list or sign up for the direct feed, so search engine hits don't represent much of my weekly traffic. On the other hand they do bring new people to the site, which is good because not enough of you bastards are telling your friends and family to visit. Yes I know I sometimes write about dodgy subjects (OK, I always write about dodgy subjects) but who knows? Maybe your old aunt Margaret has an undiscovered interest in animal sex.

I wrote about this subject before in a post called Search Me, which is worth checking out first. In any case, here are the current top ten search phrases that have pulled up my site:

animal blowjobs
chest hair
animal sex
vacuum sex
pendulous breasts
animal blow jobs
boob
people and animal sex
bison shop
shaven

I don't know about you, but I think I can see a pattern emerging here. In fact, if you Google animal blowjobs (without quotation marks) I currently come up as result number 3, just behind animalblowjobs.net. My parents would be so proud! (No, I didn't click on it, and no, I have no idea if that's really what it contains.) The only bright spot is that the "bison shop" search might lead people to my store and the purchase of high quality Mr.Bison t-shirts.

Looking further down the list of search phrases it's pretty much more of the same, but here are some of my favorites (all genuine):

J Arthur salon St. Louis (There were several variations on this search, apparently prompted by my pointing out that the name of the salon is a popular euphemism for masturbation).
vacuum cleaner erotic sex (Someone out there is sitting with their dick in a Dyson).
how do you meet girls who like animal sex (Maybe the question should be "why would you want to?" but apparently they're out there somewhere...)
fuck female goat (I love the specificity - this person clearly doesn't want to see pictures of a male goat - he's definitely not queer you know).
because (Bit of an existential one this. I'm guessing that if "because" is your question mrbison.com is probably not your answer).
completely shaven (Now I just know I'm not what this person was looking for).
fat people wal mart (Apparently I'm not the only person to have made this connection).
milf missouri (Always happy to help put someone on the road to some milf action, but I don't think my site was what they were looking for).

There are hundreds more, many of them too disturbing even for me to publish (believe it or not). Here's my problem though: I have this mental image of my "audience" as bright, well-adjusted people but with a warped sense of humor. I didn't imagine them fantasizing about horse sex, goat sex or hamster filching (yes, for real). Unfortunately I don't get hits from people who are searching for humorous writing. Notably absent from my search phrases are words like talented writer, great humor, funny British bloke or "must read this". So I appear to be perfectly positioned to attract an audience of dogfuckers and would-be sheep molesters. It's not that I mind - it's just that I don't think this site is what they are looking for, and absent any pictures of blokes balls-deep in a pig it's unlikely they'll be coming back for a second visit. Especially as I'm constantly taking the piss out of them.

Still, while I may never make it as a "talented writer" it's always possible that I'll end up as the internet search-engine king of animal blowjobs. Just imagine that on your resume!

[By the way, I searched animal blowjobs in Google just to see where I ranked. Later I clicked over to Google Images to search for something entirely unrelated. Safe search was off. Guess what came up? Trust me, you don't ever want to look...]


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Virginity Please

Minor outrage was caused in the UK today by the revelation that the National Health Service (NHS) provided 24 hymen-replacement operations between 2005 and 2006. These operations seem to be solely desired by young Muslim women who are under pressure to appear to be virgins and to bleed on their wedding night, even though they've been living in the West and lost their virginity years before. The outrage is caused not just by the fact that the whole process is a misogynistic fraud, perpetrated in the cause of a religious culture that is barbaric and absurd, but also because the NHS is funded by the taxpayer. It is constantly claiming that it doesn't have enough money to provide valuable operations like joint replacement or eyesight-saving surgery, and it seems to be incapable of preventing the spread of deadly bacteria in its hospitals. Nevertheless it has enough resources to patch up a few ex-virgins so their insecure husbands can delight in piercing a pseudo-hymen on their wedding night.

The fact that the outrage in question is "minor" can be attributed to a British public overwhelmed by the constant stream of stupidity emanating from its government institutions, much of it generated by slavish adherence to the dictats of the European Union, and inured to more such instances of ridiculousness.

If it really matters that much to the newlyweds that the charade of virginity be maintained they obviously won't want to stop at an artificial hymen. No, the bride will need some coaching to unlearn any sexual technique that might give away her non-virgin status. It's no good showing up with an aftermarket hymen and then expertly fellating your husband while manually stimulating his balls, vacuuming the last drop of spunk from his love truncheon, licking your lips and then asking him to "be gentle with me as it's my first time".

No, I recommend you visit the clinic of Dr. Neva Haditov for a full course of virginity training. Services include:

• Learning to react with shock to the sight of a penis, and then exclaim in a realistic voice "It's so big."
  
• Wanking lessons - making sure that any attempt at masturbating the man feels like you're trying to yank it out by the root.
  
• Blow jobs - recoil in horror at the suggestion, and after much persuasion make him regret asking by raking your teeth up and down the shaft.
  
• Cadaver training - lie on the bed like an extra from CSI while he pounds away at your clunge, and stare at him with a deer-in-the-headlights expression.
  
• Pubic wig - a minge mane guaranteed to have him gagging on stray pubes should he attempt to go down on you.
  

However, in spite of the tendency to focus on the virginity of the bride, Dr.Haditov's clinic is an equal opportunities institution and offers similar courses for the groom looking to recapture his virginity for that authentic "first night" feeling. The male client will experience, among other benefits:

• Speed training - work on that tricky start-to-finish time until you can reliably get it under thirty seconds. Some over-achieving students even manage to finish on contact!
  
• Clitoris avoidance - make sure you never, even by accident, make contact with the hot button while you're wandering aimlessly around with your fingers and tongue.
  
• Docking technique - after this course you will be unable to approach the right hole at anything resembling an angle resulting in penetration. You too will be able to thrust around in the dark, muttering "I know it's around here somewhere..."
  
• Breast-slobbering designed to maximise the saliva deposited on the nipples while avoiding any sensation of pleasure.
  

Personally I can't see the attraction of reliving virginity - wouldn't you rather have technique? There's an old saying: "Making love to an experienced woman is like going to the toilet and finding the seat warm; it's nice but you can't help wondering who was there before you". I, however, subscribe to the other view: "Boys marry virgins; men marry women."

Anyway, for an extreme virginity story I prefer this one: A rugby player was getting married, but the week before the wedding he received a severe kick to the groin during a game and had to be taken to hospital. The doctor informed him that he had serious constusions to the testicles and shaft, and that he would need to wear a splint bandaged to his penis to support it while it healed. The man was distraught! What would he do on his wedding night? Well, on the night in question everything went according to plan and he ended up in the honeymoon suite with his new bride. She undressed slowly for him and as she peeled off her underwear, revealing her trimmed pubis, she said "Look at this - untouched by any man before you." The rugby player thought for a second, then pulled down his pants and replied "That's nothing. Look at this - still in the original packaging!"


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Sherry?

It looks like this year we will have a proper Christmas party at the office. Or, to be more precise, at some venue to be determined, where employees and spouses will be invited to come and make merry in a seasonally acceptable manner. This will be the first time in more than fifteen years that any company for which I work will have had a "real" party. Most of that time I've been in the States and I get the impression that these events fell out of favor because of the high risk that someone would either get frisky in the coat closet, drive drunk into a lake or vomit on a senior executive, none of which are really conducive to long term career aspirations.

In fact, the last party I remember was the first year I ever worked, at a small company in the UK. The party was held at a hotel close to the office and the entertainment consisted of drinking, eating, drinking, dancing, drinking, singing, drinking and staggering to the toilet. I had to get dressed up in a tux, which immediately made me feel like a prize dick, precipitating much initial drinking to dull the shame.

I have few memories of the dinner itself; I can picture the room, and some round tables. I can still see the size of the last glass of brandy that my boss poured for me (about three inches deep) and I can recollect walking in a perfectly straight line to the bathroom (although colleagues the next day swore blind that I'd been bent over unsteadily). Nevertheless the evening passed off without incident; I did not vomit, I kept my penis inside my trousers, I failed to insult anyone with the power to end my career, I avoided dancing with anyone's wife and resting my head on their ample breasts while staggering around the room and I left at a somewhat reasonable hour to return, in a taxi, to the house that I shared.

Unfortunately that's where things started to go wrong. The psycho bitch landlady from next door had gifted us a bottle of sherry for the festive season (she was not above fucking with your head by bestowing odd gifts, even as you imagined her standing at the end of your bed with a meat cleaver, ready to dismember yout still-twitching corpse). Now sherry is one of those drinks that sits in the cupboard, lurking, regarded as basically undrinkable until some fateful moment. I remember someone pointing out once that if you ever get a bottle of sherry you should throw it away immediately, while you are sober; otherwise what will happen is that you will arrive home slightly drunk and someone will suddenly think what a great idea it would be to have a glass of that sherry. You will then get sick and undergo a near-death experience.

On this occasion I got home to find one of my housemates still awake. Ths sherry sat ominously on the sideboard. We needed a drink, but only the sherry was available. How bad could it be? We had a small glass, and then a larger one. The next thing I remember is waking up on the sofa with my tongue stuck lopsidedly to the roof of my mouth, a near-empty bottle of sherry next to me and the feeling that I'd just licked a long-haired cat, followed by the bottom of a hamster's cage. I went to bed without further ado, but was rewarded the next morning with the third-worst hangover of my life. (Yes, I do remember the top two, as well as numbers four and five, simply because they distinguished themselves on the basis of frequency/quantity of vomiting, desire to die and length of time before I could face food again.)

The moral of this story is that sherry is the drink of satan, poised in some forgotten cupboard somewhere, just waiting for a moment of drunken weakness to overpower you and force you onto your knees to repeatedly drive the porcelain bus. If you find it, throw it out now, before it's too late. On reflection I'd have been better off staying at the office party and conducting an impromptu "who's got the ugliest balls" competition with the sales team. It could hardly have had worse long term career implications for me than the loss of all those brain cells I sacrificed to the sherry bottle...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

I've Found Your Problem...

An absurd number of blogs seem to be dedicated to women trying to get pregnant, women who are pregnant and women who just gave birth and feel it their duty to infect the world with numerous electronic pictures of their spawn. Pregnancy seems to inspire this obsessive trait in women. I suppose that's natural; without the irrational compulsion to reproduce why would any sane person sign up to have a fully formed head rip through their vagina?

Those people who have difficulty conceiving seem prepared to go to almost any length to exercise their seemingly inalienable right to foist their offspring on the world. (By the way, am I the only person who wants to vomit when I hear a couple say "WE are trying to get pregnant"?) I suppose I can understand, therefore, why people go through infertility treatment and artificial insemination in order to get the deed done. Unfortunately this gives rise to those "heart warming" stories on the local news about the so-and-so quintuplets or sextuplets or whatever, including how well they are growing up and what a busy time it is for mum and dad. It always seems to be the least suitable people who end up saturating the gene pool with their unnatural progeny though, as if nature is saying "fuck with me and this is what you get".

So what about lesbians? They seem to be entitled to show up for their shot on the high-tech turkey baster too, but I think the conversation should go something like this:

DOCTOR Good morning. What seems to be the problem today?

LESBIAN I'd like to get pregnant please.

DOCTOR Well, just get undressed and lie on this table. I'm not as young as I was but I'll see what I can do.

LESBIAN No, you don't understand. My partner and I want to have a baby.

DOCTOR I see. So what do you need from me?

LESBIAN Well, we can't do it by ourselves. We need, erm, medical help.

DOCTOR What seems to be the problem? Your boyfriend a Jaffa?

LESBIAN Jaffa?

DOCTOR Seedless.

LESBIAN No. I mean it's not a boyfriend. I'm a lesbian. My partner is a woman.

DOCTOR Ah! Well I think I can see your problem.

LESBIAN Good!

DOCTOR Yes. It's a fairly standard thing. You see you can't make a hot dog with two buns and no sausage.

LESBIAN What?

DOCTOR You need a penis. And some balls. That's where the seed comes from you see, and...

LESBIAN I know perfectly well where the seed comes from. But I don't want to have sex with a man.

DOCTOR Well I'm afraid there's not much I can do to help. Showing up here asking to get pregnant without shagging a man is a bit like asking to win the lottery without buying a ticket. I mean, meet me half way here. You haven't even tried wanking a guy off into a cup and using that have you? With millions uninsured and premiums rising dramatically for those who have coverage you'd like me to take time out from healing the sick in order that you don't have to wrestle the purple headed bed snake so you can get knocked up? Are you that fucking lazy? Do you expect your meals to be pureed for you and fed to you through a straw? Can you not take on one simple task yourself? Getting fucked isn't that difficult you know.

LESBIAN But my partner...

DOCTOR Take her along! You could have them queueing round the block for a threes-up. You might get a two-fer pregnancy into the bargain!

No it won't happen. But surely nature intended that procreation should be accomplished between two consenting adults who either found each other desirable enough to shag, or who were too drunk to care. Then, and only then, are you qualified to post the entire mind-numbingly uninteresting story of your pregnancy and all the unremarkable feats of your new baby for the world to ignore.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

No Weirdo Zone

At this time of year it's apparently fashionable to reflect on those things for which one is grateful. I could definitely list a few things: health (always a good one, that), a good job, family and pretty girls at the gym (without which it would be a dismal sausage-fest). This year, however, it occurred to me how wonderful it is to live in a house without roommates, and how grateful I am to wake up to people that I actually chose to live with.

Many people's experience of living with weird bastards starts at college (although for some I recognize that it begins at birth). We had one Ugandan bloke who vomited repeatedly in his wastepaper bin as a result of some affliction brought on by a diet that consisted mainly of cheap beer and no food. He then left the bin, half-full of puke and water, in the sink in our shared kitchen over the weekend. His mission in life seemed to be to earn a degree without ever leaving his room; he changed his course of study from Chemistry to some bullshit literature degree which made the feat eminently likely. In my second year I shared a flat above a hardware store with four blokes. One of them pulled a similar stunt, spraying the entire (and only) bathroom with dessicated vomit and then retiring to bed, leaving me to recoil in horror when wandering in for a relaxing morning shit. Retribution was swift, however. He went out of town for a long weekend and we planted cress seed on his carpet in the shape of the word "CUNT", machine-sewed his clothes up and hid rotting giblets around his room. It's amazing how fast cress grows, and how effective the message you can send with it.

On leaving college you might share a house with other supposedly grown-up people while you start working. Strangely, my first group of housemates were pretty normal, but the psychotic old spinster landlord who lived next-door with her deranged and freaky mother more than made up for it. Suffice it to say that on my next visit to that town (should I ever have the misfortune to return) I might consider a recreational detour to urinate on her grave, always assuming she didn't make a pact with satan to live for ever. Next stop was a house I shared with Chicken Man. He worked at a chicken processing plant (where they turned thousands of battery-raised fowl into supermarket chicken delights such as chicken kiev, chicken cordon bleu and the delightfully disgusting pizza-topped chicken (imagine a pizza but with chicken as the base instead of dough). He had rampant psoriasis, which I couldn't quite get out of my head while eating the flaky topping on certain products, and a girlfriend with the IQ of phlegm.

He was a nice enough bloke though. Meanwhile the future Mrs.Bison was renting a room from June, a woman with a voracious sexual appetite who would borrow her clothes without asking, wear them to smoky bars and return with a parade of strange men to fuck. If we'd owned a blacklight it might have been instructive to run it over the clothes she borrowed. On the other hand she did have a nice collection of pornographic videos, and held underwear-and-sex-toy parties for her female friends.

Eventually we managed to move to the same town and rented another room, this time in a maisonette that we shared with The Weasel. He was another harmless bloke, although he looked like one of those quiet serial killers that no-one suspects for years. We did look into his room one day when he left the door open, and the "white" sheet on his bed was literally blackish in the center; I don't believe it had ever been off the bed. When you sat in the living room with him it was clear to all of us that we had nothing to say to each other, quite apparent to him that if he disappeared from the face of the earth we wouldn't notice, or indeed bring ourselves to care, and obvious to us that he knew this, having come to expect a similar reaction from the whole of society.

Even when you do get a place of your own you still have arsehole neighbors to deal with. I used to have to bang on the floor to shut up the low-life in the place below who came home late, and drunk, on weekends and banged around with his TV on loud. After one shouting match through the floor he came round. He said it was to apologise but I have a feeling that the idea of apology hadn't occurred to him until he actually met me. In our first real house we christened the neighbors The Leatherjackets because of their matching his'n'hers black jackets, and the complete absence of any personality or other notable features. Their kid, "Damien" (after The Omen) was destined to be (and by now probably is) a sociopathic dimwit criminal drain on society.

So yes, I'm thankful that I live in my own place, even if does have cedar siding, rendering it a giant fucking woodpecker buffet. But I'm also glad I had the chance to live in the "real" world with all the weirdos and nutjobs. If you've never come back to your shared accommodation to find rugby players with their cocks hanging out singing "Father Anal Sex" with a pint of bitter in one hand you really never learned to appreciate your own house. Plus you'll never come home to find a gift of two-inch tall green cress growing in your carpet. Unless you put it there, of course...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Immigration Bullshit

The other day there was something on the news about one of the border states enacting some new legislation designed to crack down on illegal immigration. You know the kind of thing - radical, revolutionary ideas like ensuring that people are citizens before giving them tons of free stuff. Well, they cut away to a speech from some local hispanic activist who was ranting into a microphone about how this was "ethnic cleansing". I don't think I have ever heard such complete fucking bollocks in my life.

I've been to Mexico and I don't remember there being an open channel for US citizens to wander freely into that country. You just try explaining to the man with the moustache and the gun at the immigration checkpoint that the Mexican president doesn't believe it's necessary for border controls to be enforced, so you haven't filled in their three forms and you're not going to queue in his stupid line. See how far that gets you.

I just don't understand the cheek of those Mexican immigrants who actually believe that we should have an open border for their citizens to come in any time they want, work wherever they want, not pay any taxes and flee back to Mexico any time they commit a crime. (Watch America's Most Wanted and award yourself a beer every time they talk about a suspect who's believed to have returned to Mexico; you won't be able to stand up by the end of the show.) But what really pisses me off is the dumbass Americans who don't want there to be a strict border control, with fence and repatriation of illegal immigrants. If you're going to leave a border open for hundreds of miles, why bother to screen people at airport immigration checkpoints? What's the point? Don't you think all the really dodgy people will just come in the back door?

Perhaps to keep all this simple we should have an extra line at US immigration. In the first line can go the citizens and in the second line all the non-Mexican foreigners. The third line will be for Mexican nationals; there will be no immigration formalities, no asking for visas, or "how long will you be staying". We won't have any background checks and we'll let them all bypass Customs, because we don't care what they're bringing in. We also won't check the passports to see if they actually are Mexican. After all, non-Mexicans are welcome to use the open Southern border too, you know.

The sad thing is that half the people reading this will be saying "Oooh! What a racist!" to themselves. That's bullshit. I know plenty of Mexican people that I really like, and there's no reason that immigrants from Mexico should be treated any differently than immigrants from any other country in the world. I just object to the utter bollocks that gets talked on this subject, and the complete lack of reason in what some people say. What I listed above is purely a logical extension of the viewpoint that it doesn't matter if illegal immigrants come over the border from Mexico. If it's OK that people come in over that border unchecked, and stay as long as they like, then it must be OK for the same people to come in unchecked at airports, mustn't it? How can people be accepted or not on the basis of whether they walked or flew?

And don't give me all that crap about illegals being needed to pick all the crops. If you have a solid border you can still allow people to come in to work on farms during the picking season. You might have to pay them more and treat them better if they're not shit-scared of being arrested, but how can you argue with that? At the moment there's an unholy alliance of apathy between politicians of both parties who would do anything to get elected and are scared of alienating the hispanic vote, whiny liberals who can't see the flaw in open borders and big farming operations who love the cheap labor.

The dick with the microphone would do well to talk to some of our other immigrants (Bosnians, for instance) about what ethnic cleansing is really like. I have a feeling they'd stick his microphone up his arse and kick him all the way to Tijuana.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Needle Me

Yesterday was flu shot day at work so, working on the premise that I'd feel like a dick if I passed up the opportunity for a free shot and later got flu, I duly got in line and got myself injected. The worst part was having to take off my shirt, because there's no way I could roll the sleeve up far enough; then I had to undo my pants to get it back in again, which provides a little too much opportunity for other things to unexpectedly fall out. Wouldn't that be a great way to make a name for myself at the office?

I have to say that the nurse who administered the flu shot this year was the best I've ever seen, or should I say felt. I hardly even noticed the jab. Contrast this with some shots I've had in the past where the nurse modeled her technique on a javelin thrower, complete with run-up. When you apply for a green card there's a list of shots that you have to get, so you can end up like a pin cushion. On top of that there's a mandatory blood test. You don't get to have this done at your local testing clinic, or any other sensible location though. No, the INS insists that you get the test at the INS-designated facility in your area. Fair enough I suppose - cuts down on the risk of fraud.

Turns out that the facility in St.Louis was in a tall building in Clayton so I showed up on the appointed day, with spouse, for a blood test. The fat cow who took my blood clearly did very little else, so you'd have thought that she'd have developed outstanding technique. And it's not like I have those hard-to-find veins either - they're big, blue and sticking up, almost begging for a needle. But this useless woman still managed to give me the most badly executed and painful blood-drawing of my life. It was like a spear-fisherman standing in the lake, attempting to impale a trout with a sharpened stick.

The blood test is basically to check for one thing - HIV. While we sat in reception, waiting for some paperwork, I glanced around at the other people seated there. Then I picked up a card on the reception counter and discovered that this was no ordinary clinic; this was an STD clinic. INS blood tests were clearly just a sideline, presumably because they were set up to do lots of HIV tests. I looked around at the other people again, this time mentally cataloging their potential sexual diseases. That man over there - looks like the clap to me. Or maybe syphilis. I understand there's a lot of that about these days. Eventually we left, not pausing on the way out to use the drinking fountain.

Anyway, today Mrs.Bison has a reaction to the flu vaccine, resulting in her wandering around complaining continually about her painful, swollen arm. I have no such reaction, and am therefore attempting to be at least mildly sympathetic. However it just goes to show that life isn't fair. If it was, I'd be entitled to fifteen minutes in a private room with that STD nurse and a sharpened stick. "Now just relax. You'll feel a slight scratch. Bitch."


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Balls To Ameren

One thing I happened to notice in the DIY store this weekend was generators. Great big deluxe versions that you could (presumably) use to power your whole house, and all for the bargain price of $3,000 and some change. Of course that's before you have it delivered, fitted and whatever else they have to do to generators so that you don't kill your whole family with carbon monoxide. Plus for that kind of money this had better be the model that whitens your teeth and makes your penis larger while you sleep. I never really saw the attraction of generators until last year when my power went out for three days. Once it came back I swore that I wouldn't go through another St.Louis winter with my comfort in the hands of those utter wankers at Ameren. Fuck them all, I'd get a generator.

Well here we are, with the TV weather people gleefully talking about "big sweeping regions of cold air coming down from Canada" again, and I'm no more ready this winter than last, unless you count having more flashlights. These will come in handy if I need to find my testicles again after they have once more sought sanctuary from the bitter cold in my house by fleeing North towards my armpits.

During the miserable heat of summer it's hard to imagine that you were ever cold, and I for one could not get motivated about figuring out what type of generator to buy. Plus there's plenty of time. Now I'm not sure I can rationalise the purchase - what kind of pansy am I that I couldn't tough it out for a few days again? And even if it does get really cold, how many nights in a hotel could I buy with the cost of a generator? The answer, of course is "None, motherfucker - you tried to wait out the cold and all the rooms in a hundred mile radius were taken, either by pussies who wimped out on day one or contractors dragged in by Ameren to help them figure out how to make the tingly stuff go down the wires to your house again".

Of course there's nothing quite like the simple pleasure of realising that the power came back on again and you can now make a cup of tea / watch TV / heat your house to something above freezing. Unless it's the simple pleasure of driving back from yet another crappy meal at some local excuse for a restaurant actually knowing that you will have a warm house with lights on waiting for you. Yep, that sounds like a better plan. I know the DIY superstore has probably got me by the balls and I'll pay over the odds for a generator at this time of year but I still remember not being able to find my balls, it was that cold, so maybe it's not such a high price to pay...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Just A Small Project...

I should have known better. Almost every time I take on a seemingly minor home improvement project it ends up being a hideous nightmare, and today's was no exception. All I wanted to do was replace a few boards on my deck that had rotted at the ends; you'd think that a monkey could do it, and the weather was so good this weekend that it should have been a pleasure to be outside. The process starts, of course, with the visit to Home Depot / Lowes / AN Other home improvement hellhouse. So on Saturday I measured the wood I needed and set off for Home Depot to buy some, along with a decent saw and some nails.

Walking into a home improvement superstore instantly separates the "knows" from the "know nothings", and I am a confirmed, card-carrying, know-nothing fuckwit when it comes to all that DIY stuff. It's OK so long as you're wandering around the appliances section or browsing for plants, but if you find yourself inadvertently taking a wrong turn into the section where they keep all the hard core building materials a special alarm goes off silently in the store, alerting the staff to the presence of a fuckwit. They can then avoid you, hence avoiding the need to explain to you every little step of the apparently simple job you set out to do. Maybe it's the clothes - if you don't show up wearing just the right amount of cement, and a good plaid shirt with work boots you might be easier to spot. On the other hand even if you dress like a contractor the abject lack of experience shows through and you're about as inconspicuous as a man with a flashing sign over his head, "FUCKWIT".

I only wanted wood, for fuck's sake - how hard could that be? Well of course it's not called "wood" is it? It's "lumber". Wood would be for pussies, now wouldn't it? And why is it that you measure the wood you need carefully, determining that it's exactly five and a quarter inches by one and a half inches, and then get to the store and discover that this is labeled as "6 x 2"? That's not even bloody close! Who decided that this was a good enough approximation? I wanted 12 foot planks but they only had five left and each of them had the kind of curvature that could only be appreciated by a boat builder. So I had some 16 foot boards cut to 12 foot length - the offcuts were perfect for the deck steps. I noticed seasoned wood buyers looking all down the length of each board to check for flatness, with the experienced eye of an expert snooker player lining up a long pot. Have you tried doing this? You can't tell fuck all about the wood, so I put my boards on the floor. Floor is flat, so bent boards stick up, don't they? Fortunately I have a truck so I could actually get the wood home, although I half expected it to tip over and fall out as I drove up the hill to my house.

Today was Sunday - time to get on with the project. I have plenty of experience of home projects and the golden rule is "No matter how well you think you planned it out, the very first thing you try and do will all go to cock, and ruin your day". Sure enough, all I had to do was pull out the old nails and remove some boards. Could I get the old nails out? Like fuck I could. The nail heads deformed or pulled off altogether; I had to make elaborate preparations with a chisel around each one just to get good enough purchase with the claw hammer. I just know that there is a tool somewhere in Home Depot that would have done all this for me in about ten seconds, but I never found it because a) I didn't know I needed it, and b) the fuckwit alarm went off and all the staff fled.

Eventually I got the nails out, measured the replacement boards and cut. In spite of the fact that I measured by placing the board exactly where it would go, and cut exactly to the line I marked, the boards always ended up exactly the wrong length. How does this happen? Do the gods of DIY sit up there fucking with me just for the fun of hearing all the joyful expletives that this generates? It certainly doesn't encourage me to take on anything more complicated, like fitting a bathroom.

In the end I got about a third of the work done today, thus committing at least one more weekend to deck misery. My back hurts like a bastard too. When we recently replaced some faucets in our bathroom, Mrs.Bison waited until I was on a business trip and then paid someone else to do it, thus ensuring that we had our bathroom back in less than a month. It also significanty reduced the "fuck, bastard, shit, son-of-a-bitch, motherfucker, bollocks, fucking hell" count at the Bison house, and kept water from running down the stairs. Which is never a bad thing.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Eight Minute Genius

Trendy new teaching methods always seem to offer something for nothing (a bit like weight loss cures or penis enlargement), a way for kids to get smarter without actually having to work hard. They also invariably provide a way for the teacher to be a "buddy" dispensing "fun" and avoiding the need for "discipline". The latest one to surface involves eight minute lessons followed by play, and then a repeat of the lesson, maybe with words missing so the kids can fill in the blanks. It's wonderful! The kids love it because they never have to concentrate for more than eight minutes. The teachers hardly have to do any work (preparing an eight minute lesson that you deliver twice is just a bit easier than an hour of real teaching) and everyone goes home happy.

Unfortunately it's also bollocks. If you want to raise a generation of kids with an attention span of eight minutes that's great, but show me a job in the real world where you get to switch off and play every eight minutes. A heart surgeon would hardly have opened you up before needing to go for a game of Tetris; the automotive production line would keep shutting down as people wandered off, and a two-hour Chinese massage would last all day. You'd never get to the happy ending! This new teaching style is being used at a school in the UK, but it was pioneered in the US, perhaps indicating that while America comes up with the daftest new ideas only Britain is stupid enough to actually try them.

I hear a lot about Generation Y - this new generation of kids that "expect so much more from work and life". If you peel back all the sociological bullshit what it actually comes down to is that they have been raised in an age where everything is taken for granted, and where they have endless "rights" but zero "responsibilities". They expect work to be like home - no discipline, no structure, no problems and everything provided for them. Forget about earning that promotion - why can't I have it today? I want it now! Waaaahhhh! I know not all kids of that age are like this, but I certainly see a fuck of a lot of them around here, with their shiny new cars that mommy and daddy bought, and then replaced when they drove them drunk into a tree. They come into the gym and don't bother putting the weights back after using them (until "reminded") because they never have to pick up their shit at home. Taken as a whole they're more spoiled and more dumb than any generation before them.

And you know what? I don't blame the little fuckers one bit. Who made them that way? Their fucking lazy parents. Want new trainers like the other kids? Sure honey, we'll get them right now. Want a BMW to drive to school? OK honey, would a red one be nice? Your gang beat up a white kid and you got arrested? Why, your civil rights have been violated honey, let's organize a march! Black, white, rich, poor, it doesn't make much difference. These days half of all robbery suspects in the UK are under eighteen - wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that they've been raised to believe (apparently correctly) that there are no consequences for anything they do, would it?

Still, for any parents of kids with an eight-minute attention span, all is not lost. In the future there will still be some jobs where eight minutes of concentration is all that's required. Teaching, apparently, will be one of them.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison