Doggy Love

You can file the following heart-warming story, courtesy of the Associated Press, under "What The Fuck Was He Thinking?"

A 25-year-old woman was arrested for second-degree assault after getting into an argument with her boyfriend over whether his dog should be in the bathroom while the couple were taking a shower together. A police report said the man, 26, wanted his dog to join them in the bathroom, but the woman objected. The woman told her boyfriend that if the dog didn't stay out, she didn't want to be his girlfriend anymore. He replied that maybe his next girlfriend would appreciate the dog more, and called her a name. The police report said the woman punched him in the face several times and the man dislocated his shoulder after the naked couple grappled. He told police his girlfriend threw a picture frame, which broke and cut him. The woman was taken to jail and bail has been set at $50,000.

We all know people who take their pets too seriously, who pamper them, treat them like children and buy them birthday presents. They are certifiable saddo's but can generally be regarded as harmless. However I have to state here and now that this 26 year-old man will be required, as soon as he is identified, to hand in his male membership card and go into man-exile as a confirmed loser of the first degree. Offence number one is that he allowed a naked girl to kick his arse in the shower; that's a pussy move right there. But far more egregious an infraction is that he determined that his bizarre love for his dog was of greater importance than getting his end away.

At this stage I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt and assuming that inviting his dog into the shower was purely a platonic move. Having said that, what on earth was the motivation? Picture yourself naked in the shower with a female who presumably was attractive enough to make you want to get naked in a shower with her. You're all lathered up and ready to get jiggy with it, but something's missing. It's Fido! Let's invite Fido in with us. What the fuck did he think Fido was going to bring to the party? In my limited experience of dogs Fido was likely to do one of two things. He would either get jealous and jump up to join in the humping, something unlikely to endear him to the woman in question, or he would drink the water from the toilet bowl. Unless the 26 year-old loser was planning to shampoo the dog while getting off, and save water (very public spirited) I cannot see what possessed him.

Could it be that he was worried that Fido was lonely? Poor Fido - he's outside the bathroom having to listen to us getting all soapy. Well here's a newsflash Fido: while you are perfectly capable of licking your dick any time you feel like it, I require female assistance in order to make that happen, so to speak. So now that I've got a live one in the shower you can pretty much fucking wait out there. In fact I don't want to hear anything out of you unless the house catches fire, and possibly not even then, in the event that I'm on the "home stretch". You think this happens every day? I'm a red-blooded male; I spend 365 days a year "in-heat" and I don't need you in the picture, jumping up with the lipstick out when I'm finally closing the deal.

This pathetic mis-ordering of priorities is symptomatic of a kind of wanker that is becoming more and more common: obsessive dog lovers. They are lauded on TV for spending $50,000 on joint replacement surgery for their fifteen year-old labrador. Just what is the blue book on a fifteen year-old labrador? Surely this is like dropping a new engine in a beaten up Chevy Nova just because you got laid in it years ago and can't bear to see it crushed. There was another story today, about three fucking dogs in Maryland who had been left an $800,000 inheritance. The deceased prick in question was obviously entitled to leave the money to whatever cause he liked, but I about coughed up my nuts when I read this quote from the executor of his estate:

"He really loved animals. The man's heart was so big, it needed its own ZIP code."

Is that so? His heart was so big that he couldn't think of any cause anywhere (multiple sclerosis research, children's hospital, cleft palate surgery in developing countries, or thousands more) that was more important than ensuring that three dogs had a gold-plated existence. There's the kind of bloke that invites the dog into the shower when his naked girlfriend is there. Is it any wonder that he had no-one else to whom he could leave the money? I bet he got his arse kicked years ago and never got over it. Wanker.


Copyright © 2007 Edward Bison

Doctor, Doctor

The above jokes are examples of those that prisoners in the UK have been banned from sharing by the Head of Operations of the Prison Service, according to an article in the Daily Mail yesterday. Apparently they foster unhealthy attitudes to women among the inmates, which is ironic really since by the time some of these blokes get out they will have become pretty good at impersonating one, possibly even down to having a set of tits tattooed on their back. Anyway, I was particularly amused by the one that says "Why do men die before their wives? Because they want to." It's long pissed me off that we have endless campaigns for more health screening for women, more testing and more services, as well as all those women's health charities looking for money while women already outlive men by an average of five years. Where are all the campaigns for men's health? Where's the outrage that men die much younger than women, and why isn't more money being directed to men's health issues instead of breast cancer?

I have read, however, that married men live longer on average than single men (while married women die younger) so whatever downsides there may be to male married life, early death is apparently not one of them. Why is it that married men should live longer than their free-and-single counterparts? A cynic might point out that it's quality of life, not quantity, that's important, and this is harder to measure. If married men live longer simply because they've been denied access to fried food, alcohol, lazy days in front of the TV and sex with dirty women then one might question the real value of the extra year or two at the end. After all, what difference to a few months make on the back end of your life, when you might be in a diaper and wibbling away to yourself while some disinterested nurse spoonfeeds you cold soup?

I developed a different insight this week though. I had a small growth on the side of my head - it had been there for years and was not so unsightly as to look out of place when compared to the rest of my head. It just looked like a raised mole. Mrs.Bison had noticed that it had started to grow, and she wanted me to get it looked at. Now like any decent man my criteria for going to the doctor are:

• I'll go only when it hurts
  
• So long as it's nothing embarrassing or scary
  
• In which case I'll go only when it really hurts
  

So while I fully intended to get this thing looked at eventually it was way down on my list of priorities, well below, for instance, getting an oil change or buying new knee-wraps for the gym. After all, it was almost certainly nothing, so why waste everyone's time? Mrs.Bison, however, was determined that it should be examined; when I stated that there was no point going to my doctor because it needed a dermatologist to render an opinion she promptly located a dermatologist. When I signally failed to pick up the phone and call said dermatologist she called me to remind me. And finally she offered to make the appointment for me. When they tried to fob her off with a January appointment she insisted that they see me before the end of the year, and so I ended up going in earlier this week.

Of course it turned out to be "80% certain it's nothing" but they cut it off anyway and sent it for biopsy, as they do. I ended up with a hole in my head instead of a lump, and not the impressive scar that I was kind of hoping for.

So maybe that's why married men live longer. A single man would be sitting at home, watching football and drinking beer, with a lump the size of an orange sticking out of the side of his head, while his married counterpart would have been packed off to the quack as soon as it got to a quarter inch in diameter. Instead of "It's probably nothing, but we'll remove it anyway and have it checked" Mr.Single would be getting "Jesus! How long has this gigantic melanoma been eating your brain away? You're going to die next month, you realize that don't you?" So in future I'll be quite happy to get any strange growth checked out, provided that Mrs.Bison makes me. And so long as it's not on my dick or balls - there are limits you know.


Copyright © 2007 Edward Bison

Warning - Death Penalty Rant

So New Jersey has banned the death penalty. Let's all shout hurray for John fucking Corzine, the miserable shitbag behind this limp-wristed decision. He tried to keep his "anti-crime" mask on as he stressed that this was supposed to be about the risk of someone being wrongly executed rather than a moral issue, but let's face the facts: this is about a minority with a certain moral hang-up imposing their will on the majority. Here's what he said:

"It's a day of progress for the state of New Jersey and for the millions of people across our nation and around the globe who reject the death penalty as a moral or practical response to the grievous, even heinous, crime of murder."

We are sometimes reminded, when politicians refuse to accede to the will of the public they supposedly serve, that we live in a representative democracy as opposed to a true democracy, i.e. one in which we elect people to represent us but cannot expect them to act in accord with the opinion of the majority. In a recent poll 78% of New Jersey voters favored keeping the death penalty for the most heinous cases, so Corzine can hardly be said to be representing the people who elected him on this issue.

But what about the problems with the current system? New Jerseyans For Alternatives To The Death Penalty commented that the change in the law would ensure that "justice is swift and certain", presumably in contrast to the old system of endless appeals. Let's look at that assertion shall we? Firstly, what about "justice"? One of the beneficiaries of this change will be a repeat sex offender who murdered a seven year-old girl. He does not deserve to live - death is an appropriate punishment. No cogent argument can be made for extending his miserable worthless life; remorse is of absolutely no meaning after a murderer has been caught, and I simply do not buy into the idea that this type of criminal should be given a chance to "turn their lives around" in prison. Punishment serves a serious purpose - it rids the planet of some scum, and it sends a message to other scum that there are consequences for acting out their sick desires. Saving his life does not constitute "justice". Secondly, why should the death penalty not be as "swift and certain" as life without parole? The main reason that the process is so fucked up today is that criminals who have perpetrated the most disgusting crimes are provided with limitless opportunities for appeal, all at the expense of the public, and all so that the liberal whiners who are so richly represented in the legal profession can sleep easy in their beds.

If the death penalty were meted out quickly, with appeal only in the case of serious legal doubt, then it would not only be "swift" but its deterrent value would be greatly enhanced. One of the saddest ironies of the criminal justice system today is that were I to plan and carry out a murder for the purpose of financial gain I might face the death penalty, whereas if I befriended a pregnant woman, attacked her, ripped out her baby and left her to die, or if I killed my children one by one, or dismembered strangers in my bathtub, I would be able to claim that I must be "insane" and therefore exempt not just from the death penalty but from any prison time. Just send me to a hospital until I get better and then I'll come and live by your family.

It is true that some people on death row have subsequently been found to be "not guilty" but this is true of those receiving life sentences as well. The real problem is one inherent in the jury system - those on trial will be judged not by their peers but by the best jury of available bodies their lawyer can engineer. Defense lawyers are notoriously averse to anyone who appears to be educated or middle class as they tend to be rational and more likely to convict on the facts. It is well known that the best way to avoid jury service in a criminal trial is to wear a suit to the selection. Add to this that vast numbers of the public are stupid. There's no other way to put it - half the population is of below average intelligence, some of them woefully below. There is no critical reasoning test to determine if a jury member is even able to make logical deductions based on simple facts, let alone process all the information thrown at them during a potentially long trial. In some cases people have been convicted simply on the belief of the jury that they were guilty, even though there was insufficient evidence presented to enable a conviction on a standard of "beyond reasonable doubt". Rapists are convicted on the basis of a simple identification by a traumatised victim (yes it has happened) and only later does DNA testing prove that they were not the attacker, begging the question "How could someone be convicted on such flimsy evidence?" Whose fault is that? Don't we have judges to make sure that legal standards are met?

There are enough cases where neither the guilt of the criminal nor the horror of the crime is in doubt that can justify a sentence of death. The failure of the legal profession to find a way to make this system work speaks to their lack of will to truly make the death penalty a part of a functioning justice system - they would rather wring their hands about the problems than solve them.

So why is that? What makes Republicans join Democrats in creating this murderer's charter in New Jersey? Look at their belief systems. For these people the death penalty issue, in spite of all the dressing up which is applied to it, is simply a moral one. On the one hand you have the liberal left looking to fall in line with their buddies at the UN and Amnesty International in condemning the death penalty in any form (see Corzine's comments about "millions around the globe" - just what the fuck do they have to do with New Jersey law?). On the other you have those on the right whose misguided religious beliefs hold that all life is sacred; this apparently extends to scum as well as to bundles of reproductive cells.

So let's all go to bed happy that some of the vilest slime in New Jersey have been spared the "cruel and unusual punishment" of execution. Never mind their victims, who died in fear and pain, alone and without help. We can forget them now and turn our attention to the interests of the murderers instead. Forget justice - that's a dirty word in these enlightened liberal days; let's think rehabilitation and other happy thoughts. And forget the lives that could have been saved by a firmer system of punishment; they are an "inconvenient truth" in this whole sham.


Copyright © Edward Bison 2007

Lubricate Your Financial Arse

One thing from which it is impossible to escape at this time of year is the blizzard of car sales commercials on TV. Everyone is having a year-end event involving red tags, sign and drive, or "our lowest prices of the year" and they want you to come in and take a test drive. There are national ads from the automotive OEMs themselves, urging you to consider the Toyotathon, or the Event Of A Lifetime from the many Chrysler brands. Then there are the cheesy local dealer spots, where some fat wanker in a dodgy suit attempts to persuade you that they, and only they, have the best deals on Fords, or Buicks, or whatever marque they're peddling.

Part of me is ready to go and buy a new car. As of 2008 I will have been driving my GMC truck for nine years, which will be 45% of my total driving lifetime. I never needed a full-size truck; it's a pain in the arse to park, is impractical for almost anything I actually need to do, and hardly conveys executive sophistication. On the other hand, it has 4WD and never gets stuck; I can pick up large crap any time I like, and it hasn't let me down. In fact, although it had a few warranty-covered teething problems it's needed nothing for the last nine years except tires and a battery. It still has the original wiper blades!

I never intended to have a single vehicle for so long. The other 55% of my driving life was provided by a total of eight cars, ranging from a rusty orange Avenger to a dull Ford Taurus. There were various Vauxhall Cavaliers, a Ford Sierra Sapphire, Honda Accord and a BMW 318. In spite of this promiscuous early driving life I now find myself bogged down with this truck and have wasted my best years (in terms of the intersection of wealth and youth) driving something that doesn't so much convey "young, successful and fun" as "fucking old fart". The trouble is that it gets me from A to B and now costs hardly anything. Plus when I try and get up out of the low seat in a regular car I am reminded that soccer and weightlifting fuck up your knees like nothing else.

There are a couple of problems inherent in buying a new vehicle, though. Firstly there's choosing. While you're looking, the automotive world is a succession of possibilities, all with appealing features, but as soon as you buy you are committed to one choice and suddenly all the ones you didn't choose look better and better. Each year new, younger models come out and make your old one look increasingly dated. In this respect buying a car is like choosing a spouse - it would make more sense to rent different ones for each journey if it weren't so impractical (and fucking expensive).

But by far the biggest turn-off in buying a new car is actually buying a new car. Walk into any retail establishment and you are unlikely to view the person behind the counter as your enemy. The sale may be better next week, or they may not have exactly what you want, but there's not really any way for them to personally screw you. At Burger King the worst that's going to happen is that they'll forget to put your fries in the bag (I know someone could gob phlegm on your Whopper, but it doesn't happen often and you wouldn't notice anyway). But a car dealership is the one place that you absolutely know the whole purpose of the exercise is for them to attempt to fuck you as hard in the financial arse as they possibly can.

If you are not well-informed they will try and get you to pay list price, or give you some weak discount. They will undervalue your trade-in to make more money; they will attempt to charge you for useless undercoating and fabric guard, the sleaziest game in town; they will attempt to add on charges at the end of the deal that you never heard of before; they will hard-sell you to buy today and often lie through their teeth in order to get the deal done. Other than going to a Saturn dealer (where by avoiding the haggling you substitute the possibility of getting screwed for the certainty) the only way to deal with the process is lots of research, working the dealer's internet salespeople (to avoid the salespeople on the lot and streamline the process) and making sure you get competitive bids on everything. This means that the whole process is a pain in the arse, but one that is unfortunately necessary to avoid being fucked in the arse.

For anyone considering buying a new car I can heartily recommend going to Edmunds.com first, and, just for the fun of it, checking out the Confessions Of A Car Salesman. Or you could just get lubed up before you go in, to make the inevitable a bit less painful. Your choice...


Copyright © 2007 Edward Bison

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

I have been a very good boy this year. Here is my Christmas list. I hope that you can get all these things on your sleigh, and that Rudolph doesn't get too tired bringing them. I would like:

• A powerful air rifle so that I can kill woodpeckers when they eat my house.
  
• A large python to keep Mrs.Bison company when I travel, and remind her of me.
  
• A bottle of Bruichladdich Infinity #2 single malt scotch. Or two.
  
• A magic lawn that never needs cutting, fertilizing or watering, that is completely mole-repellent and that does not look like shite during the summer.
  
• An Aston Martin V8 Vantage. British racing green, if you can get it.
  
• A taser to deal with French people who try and jump the queue in airports ("Excusez moi, monsieur tete-merde, je crois que je vais fucker vous up avec mon taser. Ha ha!")
  
• A crate of cream soda.
  
• Some socks. You can never have too many socks. Make them all the same so I don't have to dick about matching them after the wash.
  
• New songs on the KTV karaoke machines in China so I don't have to do "Centerfold" or "All The Small Things" again.
  
• A hot tub stocked with three shaven women with moral amnesia, one of which should be Japanese/Chinese/Korean.
  
• A box of assorted Cadbury's chocolate. I really like the Flake, Double Decker and Crunchie. Plus a couple of Curly Wurlies, for old times' sake.
  
• New shin-guards for soccer so I can avoid getting my leg broken like Todd. Did you see that? Both bones. Mind you, he was wearing shin-guards...
  

I know that this is a busy time for you, and that cars are very expensive and hard to get on a sleigh. I don't want any of the elves to put their backs out, so if you can get me the hot tub thing then I'm not too worried about some of the other stuff. You may remember that I had a similar list last year and all I got was the socks. I'm sure this was just an oversight on your part, but just in case you have any funny ideas about pulling the same stunt this year let me tell you that I know where you live, motherfucker, and unless you'd like to wake up with a reindeer head in your bed you'll give my list some serious consideration. Do you understand? Good. Now fuck off and get busy.

The mince pie will be in its usual place, with a carrot for Rudolph.

Lots of love, Edward.

Welcome To St.Louis

So which part of St.Louis is the best? The City, the County or beyond? Firstly I have to apologise to non-St.Louis readers, for whom the most appropriate response might be "Who gives a flying fuck?" or, indeed, "Where is St.Louis?" But the mere fact of this question captures one of the most widespread traits within the St.Louis metropolitan area: the fervent belief that the whole world revolves on an axis that sticks out of the top of the St.Louis arch. When I first moved here I was not surprised that the news didn't cover anything from outside the US; I was, however, amazed to find that nothing outside the St.Louis region ever seemed to happen that was deemed more important, pressing or interesting than some fuck-dull local story about malnourished dogs being rescued from a tralier outside Wentzville.

So the first question might be "Is there life beyond St.Louis?" Occasionally we hear about counties to the North and West of us, but usually in the context of a tornado warning, or a head-on collision on some rural road that claimed the lives of two drunk high school kids and some poor bastard in the wrong place at the wrong time. We also get the weather reports. Lots and lots of weather reports. And sometimes they show a big map which has states outside Missouri on it, so that they can gleefully describe the latest blast of cold air about to "descend on the bi-state area" bringing freezing rain and ice.

So what does downtown St.Louis have to offer? Well, there's the arch, which means that you have to take every fucking visitor down to see it, so they can ride up it and look down at, well, not much really. You can see the new ballpark though, which is another major downtown attraction, especially compelling if you want to pay nine dollars for a beer and watch a bunch of over-paid, roided out whiners play rounders, and then queue for an hour to get out of the car park. You can attend one of the casinos and get an atmosphere that is in every single way completely unlike that in Las Vegas, except for the fact that you lose all your money. And there are clubs where you can dance with other St.Louisans, who will ask you where you went to high school and, quite possibly, give you gonorrhea, which is now one of St.Louis's principal exports.

You could choose to live in one of the many trendy converted warehouses in downtown St.Louis, and in two years time, apparently, there will be a highway that you could use to drive there. Until then you are comprehensively screwed unless you happen to also work downtown and enjoy the complete absence of malls, grocery stores or other such amenities. Still, entertainment is no problem - you can turn on your TV and follow the continuing adventures of the most fucked-up school district this side of Chechnya, or the soap-opera that is St.Louis city government. Enjoy the feeling of watching the extra City tax you pay being used to subsidize the antics of alderwomen pissing in buckets during televised debates, or fire chiefs refusing to promote the firefighters who actually passed the Captain's Exam because too many of them were white.

Yes, there is what is billed as the second largest Mardi Gras parade, in Soulard, but you don't have to live in the City to enjoy that. In fact living close by probably loses its luster after the fortieth person has urinated their recycled Budweiser onto your garden. You will get a good view of any exposed breasts, unless the new ordinance is enforced. Yes it's freezing cold, so don't expect many, but the nipples will be like bullets on any brave enough to emerge.

Maybe if the local TV stations run enough stories about the revitalization of downtown it will come true. There are some wonderful parts of St.Louis that fall within the City but that seems to be entirely by historical accident. Sure, much of West County is pure anodyne suburban mediocrity, nothing fun happens and the whole place revolves around the process of going to the stores and buying more stuff. But what the hell - it's home. Plus, as every single fucking resident of suburban St.Louis will continually assure you, "It's a great place to raise a family!" It's also a great place from which to watch the latest news about the Highway 40 reconstruction project. Trip to the arch, anyone?


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Mystery Meat

Mrs.Bison has many wonderful talents, but using a knife is not one of them. Any time she has to cut up vegetables I hold my breath, half expecting a sudden exclamation of "Oh shit!" followed by the spurt of fresh blood across the kitchen floor. There have been many cuts, slices and near-misses over the years but so far she's escaped anything requiring a trip to the emergency room. It's true that a couple of times she probably should have got stitches, so that the wound would heal more quickly, but she's made of tough stuff, plus she's appallingly stubborn and disinclined to seek medical help. (This year I selected the lowest level of medical coverage that my company's plan offers; I explained it to my spouse by pointing out that "You won't go to the doctor even if your fucking arm is hanging off by a thread - what's the point of buying all that insurance?")

Anyway, about two weeks ago I came home and was greeted within two milliseconds of opening the door by Bison daughter who gleefully informed me that "Mummy's cut her finger off!" It turned out that Mrs.Bison had decided to sharpen a knife before making dinner and, armed with this newly-honed tool, was slicing red peppers. She was just musing that "this knife is really good - I must sharpen all my other knives" when she sliced through the end of her finger. Now Mrs.Bison doesn't really do blood very well, especially when it's hers, so Bison daughter helped patch her up. Of course there was no thought of going to the doctor, even though, by all accounts, the kitchen looked like that scene with the chainsaw from "Hostel" by the time she was done. There was a lot of pain too, so much so that once the blood had eventually dried up, she couldn't remove the dressing without causing agony. Even accidentally knocking the finger made her suddenly scream, which was exceedingly unnerving, especially when it happened in the middle of the sodding night.

So for two weeks the part of the dressing covering the end of the finger stayed in place. Until today, in fact, when she was finally able to remove it, revealing that she had managed to circumcise her little finger. The end was gone. I don't mean the whole end, including the nail - that might have become obvious a little earlier, perhaps when she was putting the dressing on, but the finger is definitely shorter and squared-off at the end now.

I pointed out that she might have gone to the doctor two weeks earlier and had it looked at but she (probably correctly) asked what they could have done. "It's not like they could make it grow back, is it?" So what happened to the fingertip? Well, she was cutting up red pepper, remember? And she went on to finish making what turned out to be a quite acceptable stir-fry pork dish, which apparently contained just a little more protein than had been intended.

I cannot conceive of circumstances which would cause me to murder my excellent wife but if I were ever called upon to dispose of her body you can be sure she wouldn't end up under the patio. For a start it's all clay soil and would take fucking ages to dig. No, based on my recent experience I'd probably stir-fry her. At least I know one knife that would be up to the task...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Christmas Greetings

Have Yourself A Merry Fucking Christmas!



From Mr.Bison

Survival Of The Shittest

You’ve heard of the Darwinian concept known as “survival of the fittest”, right? What it essentially comes down to is that those specimens of a species that are “fittest” for their surroundings or environment (in other words best adapted to thrive) will disproportionately pass on their genetic material to following generations, thus enhancing the species’ viability over time. It’s not about being “fit” per se, but about being adapted to your environment, and it’s not about how long you live but about how many offspring you produce and whether the way you rear them delivers them to the point where they can produce their own. And so on.

This makes a lot of sense for a species in a “wild” environment. Lions that can run fast and that have the ability to stay out of sight will catch more prey and become strong. They are therefore more likely to survive to adulthood, to be able to reproduce, and to protect their cubs. The next generation should therefore be even better adapted to their environment, as they will be to a great extent the offspring of those who were already well adapted, and good genetics will be passed on. This is how populations became stronger over time – those traits that equated with success in surviving also correlated with the ability to reproduce and keep offspring alive.

So let’s look at people. What happened to the humans who couldn’t adapt, or who were born to parents who were poorly adapted? In the past they would have struggled to find food or work. Without money or status they would have been unable to find good shelter; without good nutrition they would have been more vulnerable to illness and disease. And, most importantly of all, they would have been less likely to reach the age of reproduction and less able to attract a good, healthy mate. Their own offspring would have been less likely to survive to adulthood than those of better-placed specimens, and the overall population genetics would have been enhanced over time.

Now fast forward to 2007, and today’s human population. Let’s look at the USA, although this applies equally well to any number of “civilized” Western societies. What happens to those people who are too poorly educated, lazy, violent or stupid to get work and keep it? Do they struggle to reproduce? Like fuck they do. Our wonderful society now makes sure that they have subsidized housing, food stamps, health care and numerous charities looking to pick up after them. This ensures that, unencumbered by work, they are free to do one thing. Reproduce. Have you not noticed all those single mothers with seven kids by seven different fathers, living in public housing? They may not be able to work, or to maintain themselves, but they sure know how to fuck. And every time one of them spawns a new offspring, there is society, ready to help them feed it, educate it and put it through the criminal justice system.

Meanwhile the “adapted” population is working hard to pay for its children. On average they have fewer kids, partly because they have to pay for them, and partly because they probably have other things to do during the week, like work.

Remember that Darwinism isn’t concerned with how fun life is for the members of a population, only with how well they can reproduce. The male praying mantis who gets his head ripped off during sex is part of a successful evolutionary strategy, in spite of the obvious downsides. So the practical upshot of all our “civilization” and “safety nets for the poor” is that not only is our gene pool no longer being enriched by successive generations breeding in success, but it’s being diluted because stupid and lazy people are now being subsidized and essentially paid to keep breeding, diluting the population with hordes of weak genetic specimens. Darwinism isn’t about “fairness” or “charity”, it’s just the reality that populations are enriched through the inbreeding of those with survival traits. Nowadays survival isn’t at risk – government cheese will see to that – so not only are those with poor survival strategies represented in the breeding pool but they are over-represented. We are busily breeding ourselves downhill; the weak are copulating themselves into a majority and eventually the strong won’t be able to cover the welfare costs.

So bear that in mind next time you hear about a bail-out for people who made stupid decisions, like building a home in a flood plain for the third time, or taking a mortgage they couldn’t possibly afford, or spilling McDonalds coffee on their vagina while driving and then suing because it was hot. Our endless reluctance to see them pay the price for their stupidity is just part of a degeneration of our society by rewarding the dumb and the lazy. Take a trip round Wal-Mart this Saturday if you don’t believe me.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Emissions Reduction

It was probably that delightful cafeteria lunch (a chicken pasta bowl with various vegetables, including peas, and chili-garlic sauce) that did it. I usually hit the gym three nights during the week, as well as the weekend, and Thursday is back day, i.e. the day I do back exercises. For the last couple of months I've been getting back into deadlifting, which involves squatting down, bent over, and picking up a big weight bar from the floor, standing up and then putting it down again. Repeatedly. And then with more weight, and so on. It's a great exercise, even if it does sometimes feel like your spine is going to burst out.

Anyway, it was pretty busy in the gym tonight; I'm not sure why - usually it's getting quieter by Thursday. Maybe everyone was getting in some penance in advance of their anticipated Christmas gastronomic excess. So I began loading up the bar and working through my sets. There were people behind me, on the incline benches, and next to me in a squat rack. Also there was that beautiful blonde trainer with the wonderful arse working out some girl who was less of a hopeless case than usual.

I was still working my way up, and got to 385lb. I tightened my weight belt, bent down, got a good grip on the bar and straightened up. Then I lowered the weight to the floor and began to lift again. When it was about 12 inches off the floor, in the middle of no-man's land, my sphincter spontaneously let out a gale-force rasping fart. There was nothing I could do - at that point in the movement your arse can pretty much do what it wants.

There was the sudden clang of about thirty people simultaneously dropping their weights to the floor. In the spinning class everyone turned and looked. The girls in the step class halted their jumping and jerked around, an expression of horror on their faces. The music in the background faded to a halt. People on treadmills paused in shock and promptly flew off backwards. The bloke in the squat rack developed a sudden need to go and get a drink. All around me was complete silence as I finished out my set.

Actually it wasn't that bad. The bloke next to me did suddenly fuck off, but no-one could fart a whole gym to silence could they? However, when I got done with my set I was overcome with a desperate desire to laugh out loud. Maybe it's that part of me which still loves toilet humor, or maybe I was just secretly relieved that I hadn't shit myself. I mean, that chili garlic sauce was obviously powerful stuff, and no-one wants to waddle off with pants full of gravy now, do they? (I have to confess that this thought lurked in the back of my mind as I moved up to the higher weights.) Gym farts usually work better as the "lift one cheek and slide it out, hoping no-one notices and then quickly walking away" variety.

I glanced over at the blonde trainer with the wonderful arse but her inscrutable expression was giving nothing away. Did she hear the giant fart or not? Now I'll never know, if she avoids making eye contact in future, whether it's because she's shy, I'm scary, she's intimidated by my chest hair, she avoids all strange men in the gym because they all attempt to get access to her wonderful arse (and it's sure-to-be equally wonderful next-door neighbor) or just because I publicly registered a 7 on the Richter scale with my nether-trumpet.

Anyway, I'll be back in the gym a lot during Christmas week, on account of there being fuck-all else to do here, and I can only imagine what turkey, stuffing, sprouts and chestnuts are going to do. Plus all the Stilton cheese, of course. I wonder if it's considered polite to light a match between sets?


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Party Time

The holiday party season is in full swing, providing a wonderful opportunity to see the people with whom you work in a "casual out-of-office" setting. There really isn't that much upside to office holiday parties unless you happen to be a single man in a large company, with no career aspirations, in which case they still represent a great chance for opportunistic sexual bad behavior, resulting in reputation damage, recriminations and photocopies of your genitals being passed around the office on Monday. I have to confess that I have never photocopied my genitals, and the knowledge that were I to witness this feat attempted by another, I would slam down the lid on their dick purely for the comic delight of it, will keep me from ever trying it myself. Probably.

So with penis-copying and other such seasonal games off the agenda the office holiday party starts to become an exercise in "defense" rather than "offense". In other words, it's not about scoring career points or getting laid, but about not committing that career-ending public mistake or incurring arse-clenching humiliation. Here are some recommendations, in case you want to make a career with your current employer:

• Don't walk about with mistletoe tied to your belt, silently inviting women to "kiss you under it", or pin it above your arse in a humorous insult to management. Everyone loves the office clown; they just don't promote him.
  
• Don't take full advantage of the free bar - three snakebites with vodka chasers, followed by wine with dinner (red and white), scotch, brandy and some tequila shots tend to result in spontaneous and highly memorable ejection of the meal onto the dance floor.
  
• When kissing hello (or goodbye) to the wives of fellow employees, tongues are generally not recommended. Neither is dropping a hand down for that friendly clasp of the buttock, in order to check "thong or not" and win your bet with Gerry from accounting.
  
• Don't slow dance with old Hilda from reception, no matter how much she cajoles you. When she starts grinding herself on your crotch people will assume that it's mutual and that women of her age are just "your thing".
  
• Avoid all members of senior management, all night. They are generally surrounded by arse-kissers at all times, and they are perfectly well aware of that fact. If you attach yourself to the group in the hope of impressing them with your insights into corporate strategy you will come off like a cunt.
  
• Always wear good underwear. In the event that you do bag off with some twenty-three year-old beauty from credit you don't want word getting round the department that you wear old man's Y-fronts.
  
• No matter what the provocation, resist the temptation to punch out anyone that has been asking for it all year. Unless you really need to, in which case do it where no-one can see, like the toilets, or behind a large plant, and then blame their staggering blood-stained incoherence on "too much seasonal cheer, I guess".
  

Remember that at any party there is a loser - that person who makes such a complete arsehole of themselves that they might as well resign now. The person that you'll all be talking about next year when the party organizers are trying to decide whether to just make a donation to charity instead, and avoid the lawsuits. The first rule of office parties is this:

Look around and locate this individual at the earliest opportunity. If by midnight you still have not found them, chances are it's you. Unless your parties are so dull that everyone behaves. And where's the fun in that?


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Blow Me

Earlier this year my buddy gave me a snowblower as it was taking up too much space in his garage. He bought it when he lived in the Northeast, where they have real snow, and consequently it's a heavy-duty motherfucker, well beyond what is required for his current driveway. Now as gifts from mates go this one is right up there with the donation of a kidney, and I've been eyeing the thing as the weather got colder, just waiting to get out and try it. Well, with the snow this morning I finally got round to filling it up, adjusting all the cables and starting it.

Job number one was determining how to get it out from its resting place in the back corner of my garage, where it was effectively encircled by wood, bicycles, children's toys, tubes of sand and a lawnmower, and past my truck to freedom. In fact I think my mate had less trouble getting it out of his garage, which was supposedly too small for it... Nevertheless I wrestled it out with almost no swearing, supplied it with gasoline and oil (the correct viscosity of which was, by some minor miracle residing on my garage shelf) and checked the instructions one last time to ensure that my next move would not result in destruction of property or the chewing up of any limbs / other appendages.

The next miracle was that it started first time - I'm not sure if it's been used in the last two years and that's usually a recipe for turning any metallic, engine-based domestic appliance into a giant piece of decaying modern sculpture. Did I mention that this thing is a beast? I mean in St.Louis it's a beast; in Minnesota it would probably get sand kicked in its auger by bigger, harder snowblowers, but down here it's clearly the big dog. In fact I think it should have one of those manly names, like the Snowfucker 5000, or Icedeath XP-20, just to indicate that this is the kind of machine with which one does not fuck.

As I wheeled it out onto the driveway I was reminded of that scene in the Bond movie where the skier falls in the giant snowblower and gets shredded (I think Bond says something like "He certainly had a lot of guts") and it occurred to me that, armed with this machine, I could despatch dogs, cats and smaller children without too much trouble. I stepped forward, every inch of the throbbing, shiny, black-and-steel monster shouting "Fuck with me not - I am the Snowmaster!" and then proceeded to engage the pathetic two inches of wet snow on the ground.

Maybe this machine wasn't built for such a miserable precipitation, or maybe I just need to fuck about with the controls a bit more, to improve auger performance, but I have to say that the emission of snow, which I had imagined as mighty blast of white, resembled nothing so much as Frosty The Snowman ejaculating in my yard. Still, when we get some real snow, I'm going to be out there like a shot to unleash the full terror of this wonderful machine. And woe betide the child who slips and falls on my driveway. Isn't that right Q? "Yes 007, but do try and bring it back in one piece this time!"

Adult Fairytale

Once upon a time eighteen year-old Little Red Riding Hood was at home in her mother's cottage on the edge of the big wood. She was bored because it was the school holidays, so she was passing the time by pleasuring herself with a rolling pin. Suddenly her mother burst into her room.

"Where the fuck is my rolling pin. These gingerbread men aren't going to roll themselves out you know."

Reluctantly Little Red Riding Hood handed it over.

"For Christ's sake!" said her mother, taking the greased rolling pin between thumb and forefinger, "you've got to get out of the fucking house."

Little Red Riding Hood stared moodily at the floor.

"Why don't you wait until I've finished these gingerbread men and then take some to your grandmother?"

"Aw, Mum!" said Little Red Riding Hood petulantly, "that's miles away. Can I take the car?"

"No you fucking can't!" said her mother "gas is over three dollars and you know I can't afford it since your father ran off with that cleaner we hired, that Cinderella bitch. You can walk. There's a perfectly good path through the wood and it will do you good. It'll keep your mind off dirty thoughts and self-pleasure too, you filthy girl."

So Little Red Riding Hood got dressed up in her best clothes and took a basket of gingerbread, fresh from the oven. As she walked out of the cottage her mother shouted "And I don't want to catch you wanking off the wooden boy from next door again. Do you understand?"

Little Red Riding Hood casually flipped off her mother and started down the path to her grandmother's cottage in the middle of the big wood. As she walked, the trees seemed to close in around her. The cheerful chirp of birds died down slowly and the sun began to shine less brightly. "Fucking weather" she thought to herself, "if it starts to rain I'm going home, and granny can stuff her bastard gingerbread right up her wrinkly arse."

However, unbeknownst to Little Red Riding Hood, a large wolf was watching her progress down the path. He licked his lips as he peeked out at her from behind a tree. "Fucking tits on that!" he muttered to himself "What I wouldn't give to bang the arse off her!" And he reached down to give his hairy wolf-cock a squeeze. As Little Red Riding Hood walked on, the wolf followed carefully behind, hiding in the trees. He couldn't afford to be seen, not since that nasty business with the little pig girl. God, the fuss that had caused in the village!

Eventually Little Red Riding Hood stopped and sat down. The wolf sidled out from the trees and strolled casually up. "Hello little girl. What a fine day it is! And where would you be going on such a beautiful day?"

"I'm taking this gingerbread to my grandmother's cottage in the middle of the wood." replied Little Red Riding Hood, not failing to notice the impressive vulpine dick hanging between the wolf's back legs.

"That's a wonderful thing. So kind. I do like to see young people taking an interest in looking after their elders" he fawned, gazing unsubtlely at Little Red Riding Hood's pert nipples, clearly visible through her shirt. He felt himself begin to harden. "Well, I'd better be getting on" he added quickly, turning back towards the trees before the "lipstick" began to show. "Maybe see you around" he called back over his shoulder.

Eventually Little Red Riding Hood resumed her walk and, not thirty minutes later, arrived at her grandmother's cottage. She knocked on the door. "Come in" came a shrill voice from inside, and she opened the door and walked in.

"It's so dark in here grandmother" said Little Red Riding Hood.
"I know" came the reply "but I've had the electric cut off again, and I haven't been able to get to the bank, what with my piles and all."

Little Red Riding Hood approached the bed. "My, what a big nose you have grandmother!" she exclaimed. "All the better to smell you with" her grandmother replied "and you smell pretty damn good to me."

"And what big eyes you have!" said Little Red Riding Hood. "All the better to see those tits of yours" came the reply. "Oh shit" thought Little Red Riding Hood, "granny's off her meds again." She stepped closer to the bed. "And what big teeth you have!" she cried. "All the better to eat you with!" called her grandmother. And she jumped out of the bed, revealing herself to be the wolf dressed in her grandmother's nightdress.

"Fucking hell!" said Little Red Riding Hood "what did you do with granny?"
"She's at the bingo" said the wolf "it's pension day - the bitch won't be back for hours."
"Really?" said Little Red Riding Hood, licking her lips "I think you said something about eating me. Well let's see what you can do." And she lay back on the bed and slipped off her panties, inviting the wolf to bury his snout in her moist snatch. Well, the wolf was up to the task and very soon he had Little Red Riding Hood at the point of no return. She screamed out at the top of her voice, gripping the wolf by his ears as she came. Then, as she lay back on the pillow, contemplating his massive erect hairy wolf-pole, the door to the cottage burst open and a woodcutter leapt in with a large axe and decapitated the wolf with a single stroke.

"What the fuck!" she exclaimed, jumping up and smoothing down her dress "what did you do that for?"
"I heard your screams" he replied "and came to help."
"Are you shitting me? Do I look like I need help?"
"Well I'm sorry" said the woodcutter "but it's only a wolf - what's the big deal?"
"What's the big deal?" said Little Red Riding Hood, picking up the wolf's severed head from the floor "Do you see this tongue? All the better to lick me with. Now fuck off and play with your chopper somewhere else. Dumb motherfucker."

And Little Red Riding Hood picked up her basket of gingerbread and stomped out of the cottage.



Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Snack Anyone?

It must be Christmas because I'm getting invites to parties. Some of them are work-related; the other night I got a last-minute invite to a party in Clayton. It was short notice but that was fine - it's great to do stuff without having to plan everything two fucking months in advance, which seems to be a requirement for acceptable suburban living. Anyway, I told myself that the belated invite was more a reflection of a desire on the part of the organizers to inject some extra personality than a desperate realization that more bodies were needed, necessitating a dip into the lower echelons of potential party guests.

The event happened to be on Thursday night, which distinguished itself by being the night we got some freezing rain. Not a lot of freezing rain, it has to be said, but apparently it doesn't take much to turn the whole of the greater St.Louis area into a giant fucking parking lot. I left work and went to pull into the three lane parking structure otherwise known as Highway 40; I immediately thought better of this plan on being presented with a sea of brake lights and zero discernible vehicle movement, and decided on a more creative route instead.

No matter how clever I thought I was being, I still ended up taking at least twice as long to reach my destination, in spite of the complete absence of any slippery road surface, accidents, lane closures or other obstacles (barring a high concentration of rush-hour dickheads). Nevertheless my time in my vehicle was not wasted. Sure, I may have been so bored that I even tuned into NPR for a moment, but I got to observe my fellow traffic jam sufferers and in doing so it occurred to me to ask an important sociological question:

If there were no traffic delays, where would people go to pick their noses?

I know you've seen it too - you glance in your rearview mirror at the car pulled up to your bumper, and can't help but notice that the driver has their finger embedded in their nostril, often up to the second knuckle. You look away but, like with a road accident, you can't help looking again. Sure enough the finger is still up there, the picker oblivious to observation by other drivers. They think they're invisible, so they dig around, pushing their nose in all directions as they attempt to capture that elusive crusty bit. If you're smart you look away now, and avoid all use of the mirror for the remainder of your journey. If, however, you wait too long, compelled to watch by a mixture of disbelief and horror, you risk witnessing the withdrawal of the nasal contents and the fascination with which the owner observes them, before commencing the rolling process.

I know people pick their noses, but it's probably one of the last taboos; men would sooner admit to enjoying the act of masturbation than being a nosepicker. For women I'm less sure (answers on a postcard - would you rather be known as a gusset-typist or a nosepicker?) but it's clearly still a social no-no. Having said that, it's clear that people would sooner risk being caught picking their nose in public than masturbating, at least judging by observations in traffic jams. (Unless all those people steering with one hand are not in fact adjusting the radio with the other.)

It could, however, be worse. I was in the departure lounge at Heathrow last Christmas, returning with the family from a visit to the UK, when I noticed a large, fat man in a white shirt, tie and business suit, exploring his nose. He was sitting behind my wife so I could hardly miss him. This, by the way, was the first class lounge, so he was obviously a senior level nosepicker. He dug around, at one point I swear reaching the third knuckle, and then withdrew his finger. He stared at whatever was on the end of it for a second and then stuck it in his mouth. Fucking hell! Once I got over the urge to vomit I had to be restrained by my spouse from going over to him to point out the extensive range of alternative refreshments available in the lounge:

"Do you realize, Mr Fat Wanker, that this executive lounge provides a full range of alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages for your enjoyment? Are you also aware of the delightful range of assorted small sandwiches (with crusts removed) available for your delectation? Would it interest you to know that British Airways provides a wide variety of bicuits, chocolates, potato chips, nuts, fruit and other snacks to enable you to pass the time before your flight in comfort, while meeting all your nutritinal needs and desires? Could I therefore ask just what fucked-up, diseased impulse would cause you to consume the contents of your nose, in a public place, in preference to availing yourself of our many complimentary amenities? You fucking twat!"

Tomorrow we're bringing food into work for a Christmas party on our floor. I'm taking sausage rolls, a delicacy seemingly unfamiliar to my US friends. I worried for a moment that they might not be fully appreciated, but then I reconsidered. If I learned anything from my nasal observations it's that people will, if permitted, eat just about fucking anything.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Mortgage Crisis Made Simple

Once upon a time there were some banks and mortgage lenders who were so happy with the giant bonuses they paid themselves that they decided to lend ever-increasing amounts of money to people who really couldn't afford to pay it back. This was made possible through the complex financial concept known as "low rates now, high rates later", and much income was booked. More bonuses were paid and financial CEOs bought small islands with their payouts.

Meanwhile feckless people were borrowing money on terms they couldn't hope to afford, but that was OK because they were "entitled to their piece of the American dream" and anyway, why would you bother to read the small print or exercise any financial resposibility? When something goes wrong everything is someone else's fault these days, so go right ahead and sign up. Houses that used to be bought for "living in" were now purchased by a new breed of amateur speculator to "flip" or "for investment".

Now, there was this law called "supply and demand" which states that when demand for something exceeds supply then prices go up. And, as we shall see, vice versa. So with all these newly financed buyers in the market, house prices did indeed go up. People made money "flipping" houses, so this only encouraged them, and others, to borrow more money on wonderfully low initial rates. Nature abhors a vacuum, so in an extension to the supply/demand law, and in complete accord with normal market activity, builders built more homes to keep up with all the demand. And people bought the homes. Because they could.

But then bad things started to happen. For a start, the low initial rates ran out, and people who couldn't afford the real rates couldn't pay for their loans. Oh dear. Now houses started to get repossessed. Suddenly there was more supply of houses on the market, and at the same time those clever lenders woke up to the fact that lending money to people who cannot pay it back is a "stupid" thing to do. So they slowed down, and demand for housing fell. More people got into trouble with their repayments, but now they couldn't sell their homes because there were more and more of them on the market and less people looking to buy one. House prices started to fall. Oops. The financal geniuses at the lending companies suddenly had to recognize that billions of dollars which they had "earned" was really not there anymore. Some CEOs had to resign, but that was OK because in the mad world of corporate accountability they get paid a fortune if they succeed (because it is so important to reward good people) and paid a fortune if they fail (because it's not their fault really, and that's what the compensation committee agreed, and you have to offer those contracts to get the best people, blah, blah, blah). And they took their payouts and bought more islands, and jets.

Oh dear. The US economy was in danger of recession! How could people buy all the stuff (from China) that needed to be sold in order to keep the economy moving if they couldn't take out "home equity loans" anymore? For years the increases in house prices had allowed people to borrow against the "value" of their home so that they could buy new kitchens, bathrooms and flat screen TVs. But the value wasn't real was it? Remember that the house prices increased because of supply and demand. If the lenders had never put all those unqualified borrowers in the market then house prices would never have increased so much and there would have been much less "equity" to borrow against. If people stopped buying things then the US economy would collapse!

Popular sentiment dictated that something should be done to "save" all the people who had bought houses they couldn't afford, which would also conveniently "save" the lenders from all their losses. So it was proposed that the "low initial rates" be extended for five more years, thus resulting in what is known as "putting off the problem". House prices had gone up because the market was distorted by all those buyers who had no business buying; but the government doesn't want to see reality set in. Reality is bad for election hopes isn't it? And no-one believes in old-fashioned ideas like "accountability" these days. If someone loses their house it can't be their fault - someone else must have "forced" them to borrow the money, or stolen their common sense or something. "They should be made to pay, not me!"

So let's all collude in propping up the distorted housing market, bailing out the morons at the lending companies who were too greedy to lend only to those who could pay it back, and the idiots who borrowed what they couldn't afford. We'll be seen to be "doing something" about all those "personal tragedy" stories on the evening news. Never mind that the housing market should be allowed to correct itself (resulting in lower prices) so that normal people might be able to afford a house without having to take out a stupid low-initial-rate loan. Why reward the responsible when we can protect the stupid.

In an efficient market stuff sells for what it is worth. In a rigged housing market people pay too much. That is bad for the economy too; after all, if you're up to your neck in mortage payments, because the house you bought cost $100k more than it should have, you won't be buying your share of Chinese imports either. But that fact has been lost in the rush to help out all the dumb people. Darwinism is hereby repealed - it's now survival of the stupidest. Watch closely and see your tax dollars at work.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Merry Fucking Christmas

Just like it's not a good idea to go shopping for food when you're hungry, it's probably not a good idea for me to write on the subject of Christmas shopping when I've just returned from the mall, on a Saturday afternoon. Fuck me! What a complete and utter bastard waste of time and money. And how did so many fat, over-made-up, terminally stupid people come to be gathered in one place?

Yes, I'm fed up with Christmas. I actually used to like Christmas - the building excitement, Christmas carols, repeats of much-loved Christmas TV, special food, the Christmas tree, time off work, occasional snow and all that stuff. But all of that is now lost in the colossal spend-fest and retail orgy that Christmas has become. It's not as though this is a new observation but it really hit me as I saw hundreds of fuck-dumb people swarming to buy shit they didn't need with money they probably didn't have, and a kind of hysteria overcoming everyone as they rushed to buy whatever "hot" gift the retailers are pushing on us this year. It's now only about the spending.

George Bernard Shaw had a few words to say on the subject of Christmas:

"Like all intelligent people, I greatly dislike Christmas. It revolts me to see a whole nation refrain from music for weeks together in order that every man may rifle his neighbour's pockets under cover of a ghastly general pretence of festivity. It is really an atrocious institution, this Christmas. We must be gluttonous because it is Christmas. We must be drunken because it is Christmas. We must be insincerely generous; we must buy things that nobody wants, and give them to people we don't like; we must go to absurd entertainments that make even our little children satirical; we must writhe under venal officiousness from legions of freebooters, all because it is Christmas - that is, because the mass of the population, including the all-powerful middle-class tradesman, depends on a week of licence and brigandage, waste and intemperance, to clear off its outstanding liabilities at the end of the year."

Bear in mind that he wrote this in 1893, when the Macys sale hadn't even been contemplated, but he pretty much nailed it didn't he? Basically Christmas is now just about buying stuff. Buy gifts for people. Buy decorations. Buy wrapping paper. Buy food. Then go to the sales and buy more stuff because it's such a good deal.

Now, I can hear the chorus from the religious brigade, saying that yes, we've lost the true meaning of Christmas. Bollocks! I don't see any of you metaphorically kneeling at the manger in wonder, comtemplating the simple majesty of the Christ-child. No you're too busy jostling at the mall like every other fucker, so don't give me all that "spiritually superior" bullshit.

And all you smug non-believers can fuck off too. Yes I'm well aware that the early church co-opted the traditional winter solstice festival for Christmas but I don't see any of you celebrating the seasonal change in close harmony with nature. If "The Holidays" are nothing more than a wonderful excuse for a winter party, I can think of better ways to mark the year-end than spending your wad at Bed Bath And Beyond.

Christmas has become one huge excuse for the retail establishment, on which we are constantly reminded that the entire US economy depends, to take money out of our pockets. Don't think for a moment that it's anything else. You want to put a smile on your little child's face by buying that toy they've been wanting? Who do you think spent millions advertising that toy so that children everywhere would pester their parents to get it? You are a pawn in the retail game whether you like it or not.

Yes I'm a miserable bastard today, but in my defence you should have seen the idiots in the mall...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Dick Of The Week

Here's a heartwarming story about one of those certified dickheads that you get to encounter from time to time. I was visiting a customer and while I was there I noticed a 50" plasma TV in its box. Turns out that this was the big prize in their United Way charity raffle, and by not-particularly-amazing coincidence the bloke who'd won it showed up to collect it while I was there. Well, it seems that buying raffle tickets was already stretching the limit of this guy's cranial capability. Imagine a 50" TV in a box. Yes it's flat screen, but it's still a big bastard, what with all the cardboard and styrofoam. This twat spent 30 minues trying to figure out how he was going to get it home with his Ford Escort. They offered to deliver it to his house tomorrow, but no, he really had to have it tonight, for no good reason. I think he was worried that they might change their minds.

Eventually he decided that he would put it on the roof and put a couple of bungee cords round it to hold it in place. Just a couple of problems:

• He couldn't lift it.
  
• If he had pushed it onto the roof it would just have slipped off the other side and smashed on the ground in the car park.
  
• There was nowhere to secure the bungee cords.
  
• There were no bungee cords.
  
• He had a twenty minute journey home on the highway.
  
• It was snowing.
  

Apart from that he was in good shape. Had it been up to me I would have watched him try and get it on the roof. In fact I believe I could have sold tickets. People would have paid to watch an arse in a Ford Escort driving down a snowpacked highway with a 50" plasma TV in a box flying off the back in the wind. It would have been the funniest thing on YouTube today. My colleague suggested we should just offer him $300 to take it off his hands - he would probably have accepted. Unfortunately he made this suggestion later, after the dick in question had departed, and when the wisdom of his suggestion was, although undoubted, also completely useless.

Instead a helpful executive from the company offered to drive the TV to this bloke's house, even though it was out of his way and the journey there and back would make him late for an appointment. So they set out, but before they even get out of the car park the dick stops and says he needs to get gas. OK, there's a gas station just down the road. "No, I like to go to Wal-Mart. I always go to Wal-Mart for gas." So now they have to negotiate a busy highway intersection at rush hour so this dick can go to his favorite gas retailer. This adds fifteen minutes to the journey. By this stage, even had I been inclined to offer similar assistance (highly unlikely), I would have opened the back of my car and suggested to the dick in question that he could take the TV home himself, and that should he have any difficulty determining where to put it to facilitate the journey, might I suggest up his own rectum, box and all?

Eventually they got the TV to this bloke's apartment, where it was apparently going to occupy an entire wall. It was impossible for him to sit more than three feet from the screen in his living room. We had visions of the twat frying slowly in front of the giant screen, rotisserie style.

The rest of the evening passed off dick-free. However I'm never going to look at a Ford Escort again without visualizing a 50" TV in a box wobbling on its roof. And they let dicks like him vote...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

On The Hopper

I've lived in America a long time now, and have been pretty well assimilated. I'm surrounded by Americans and therefore do not make generalizations about them all being fat bastards in sandals, white socks and hawaiian shirts wandering around the world complaining about everything not being the way it is in Iowa. Years ago, though, I worked in the UK for a US company and we were visited from time to time by people from head office who clearly labored under the belief that any of their locations outside the States was staffed by borderline retards who needed all the benefit of their guidance just so we didn't spend the day eating the soap from the company washroom and masturbating in public.

This, it is fair to say, could get a bit old, especially as some of the visitors were themselves none too bright, and could be somewhat corpulent too. One time a couple of them came over to visit - an overweight caucasian and an American-born Chinese (ABC). They weren't bad blokes, but when the conversation got onto Indian food the fat one obviously had no concept of what we meant by "hot". He kept going on about how he ate Mexican food all the time and could handle spicy stuff. I was trying to explain that Indian spice is different but he was having none of it. My boss suggested I take them to an Indian restaurant since they had nothing going on that night, and since there were only about a thousand in that city it was not hard to arrange.

So we rolled up at the Mogul Lounge later that evening and were soon seated with menus. Obviously we started with papadums and pickles but the rest of the menu could have been in Hebrew for all the sense it made to them, so they asked me to order. Now I was much younger then, not the sophisticated debonair gentleman I can pretend to be these days, and I have to confess that I gave into temptation and ordered chicken vindaloo for each of them. It was a bastard thing to do, I admit, since I could have ordered a selection of dishes and just had one vindaloo to showcase the heat of a good curry, but I was determined that the fat one should acknowledge the thermal superiority of an English Indian meal.

The food came and we started eating. Fat man started to sweat. "This is kinda hot!" The ABC guy noticed it too but he kept eating. Fat man plodded on but made more comments, like "Wow. This is really very hot". About half way through he excused himself "I gotta go to the restroom". A bit later he came back but instead of sitting down again he said "I'm just going to walk outside for a bit". I was beginning to develop a tiny conscience at this point, and when we finished our meals and fat man came back in I offered to get some ice cream to help cool him off, but he declined. I began to wonder if perhaps he had shit himself. Transportation back to their hotel was by taxi and the taxi driver was determined to help this American in distress. He advised him to put the toilet roll in the fridge when he got back.

The next day I came into work, and an hour or so later the visitors came in. The ABC guy was wearing the smile of one who has been tested and found to be worthy, but fat man had undergone a transormation. He had become thin man. He appeared to have shed about a quarter of his bodyweight and adopted a coloring that would not have looked out of place on the slab in a morgue. Someone asked him how the evening had been. With real feeling he replied "Man that curry was hot. I spent all night on the hopper."

I'm a better person now than I was then, honest. Still, in my defence, unless you've had a genuine vindaloo from a hardcore English Indian restaurant you really have no business boasting about your capacity to handle spicy food. And nothing ever quite matched the Kenilworth Tandoori for the capacity of its vindaloo to make me actually shit raw napalm the next day.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison