Top Humor Book of 2012

buy stocking stuffer book

Presenting Mr Bison’s Journal, destined to become the top humor book of 2012. A laugh out loud funny read.

Here is what one reader had to say

Now, I beg to find someone who hasn’t at least got within a millimetre of experiencing or thinking about something that is in this tome of copious, wry, and blatantly ranting observation of anything and everything. Little Red Riding Hood shows the ultimate stripped back ( quite literally) version of what the story is actually about – she is a dirty little cow, enough said. This isn’t a book of parodies though, delve into the chasm ( phnaar phnaar) of work related, home related and airborne related tit bits ( ooooeerrrr) and be prepared to emit more than a laugh as your bladder contracts involuntarily and you end up with a wet shoe from guffaws and chuckles. Buy buy buy.

Don’t delay get your copy today on Amazon. Available both in paperback and Kindle

Carbless Hell

I’ve been repeating a process I followed several years ago which involves losing weight by cutting out carbs. Not all carbs, you understand, just potatoes, rice, pasta and bread. I also minimize other carbs, such as desserts, but I don’t cut them out, even though I’d lose weight faster, because once you take the carbs out of life you pretty much extinguish the joy.

So the process is slow, but I lost about 10lbs without having to go hungry. However, I would be happy never to see another boiled egg, tin of fish or salad again. When I’m feeding myself I can stay on track by the simple expedient of not buying any good food. That way all I have to choose from in the evening is salads, and I can just about make myself take a “man-salad” to work too. (Man-salad consists of some lettuce covered with stuff that you would actually like to eat, such as cheese, nuts, tuna and dressing in sufficient quantity to minimize the effect of the lettuce while allowing you to tick the “I had a salad for lunch” box.)

Back in Chicago though I am in Mrs Bison’s realm, and while she likes my diet and will buy me all the proteiny stuff I need, she also buys treats. Like ice cream, pastries, imported Lion Bars, Aero chocolate, good bread, samosas and cake. Even the bag of nuts she bought me had good stuff in, like chocolate bits. And I eat all this because, well, because of the joy thing I mentioned above. This weekend was not a good one for restraint, but I sat at the table next to a gigantic fat bitch in Red Robin last week and managed to eat a salad. Her fries might have been bottomless, but she clearly wasn’t, so I have a way to go before I need to worry…

By the way, did I mention that I have a book out?

Now Buy The Book!

Mr bisons Journal

Your Ideal Toilet Companion

So what’s going on with you today? Anything happening that’s going to impact your existence? Forget the US election – that’s weeks away, and you’re probably screwed no matter who wins. Overseas news? Do me a favor. Syria could disappear up its own arse and if you’re brutally honest you wouldn’t even notice. But the release of Mr. Bison’s Journal in paperback? That’s the kind of thing that could really make a difference!

You see, the reality is that no matter what happens in the world, short of full scale nuclear war, the likelihood is that your tomorrow will be much like your today. And your mission is to make your tomorrow a bit better than today, every day, until you die. I can’t offer you money or sex (actually, sex might be an option, but I’m going to need to see a photo) but what I can offer you is a book to make your time on the toilet, or your train journey, or airport delay just that bit less boring than usual.

This book could do that for you. Just imagine less monotonous bowel movements – this could be your future! Don’t delay – toilet reading gratification could be a few clicks away.

It’s available through Amazon as a Kindle download in the US  HERE, (for the UK go HERE), but for those of you who prefer the turn of a real page and a good old-fashioned book, the paperback version is HERE in the US and HERE in the UK. Buy it now, and I can promise you I’ll be glad you did.

Great News!

We are approaching the beginning of a new chapter in the literary world. No, I don’t mean the launch of the latest 25lb yawn fest from JK Rowling, and nor do I mean the record-setting sales numbers from Fifty Shades of Mommies Fingering Themselves Off. No, it’s way better than that – it’s almost time to welcome Mr. Bison’s Journal – The Book. In spite of a complete lack of popular demand, but inspired by the novel concept that “if I thought it was funny then lots of other people will too” I am pleased to announce, just in time for the Christmas shopping season, the upcoming availability of the ultimate family stocking-stuffer. Well, maybe not “family”, unless your family’s like mine. More of an R-rated opus, really, but very funny all the same.

Page after page of insightful, profane prose, exactly as you’ve come to love and expect. Christmas will be upon you before you know it, and let’s face it, you haven’t got a clue what to get anyone. Avoid the risk of Christmas morning embarrassment – there’s not the slightest chance someone else will get your loved one the same gift. Not celebrating Christmas? This works just as well no matter what your belief system – it’s guaranteed to shock and appall indiscriminately. Buy one immediately. I can’t promise you won’t regret it, but I can assure you I won’t. Start counting down the days…

Fuck Me, It’s Dwayne Dibley!

fuck me dwayne dibley

Dwayne Dibley or J.Alexander. Can you tell them apart?

Mrs Bison spent about four hours yesterday taking Bison Daughter shopping, on account of the fact that she’s grown out of everything. In the good old days we’d buy clothes in advance – whatever was on sale at the end of the season we’d buy it in a larger size for next season, and that way we’d stay ahead of the game. (To be fair, when I say “we”, I obviously don’t mean me.) However that doesn’t work now because the girl has discovered “fashion”. That means a shirt with no logo from Target is “unfashionable” but the same shirt with “Hollister” plastered all over it is “way cool”. Never mind that they’re all made in China and would fall apart if she didn’t grow out of them so quickly, the branded stuff is much better.

There’s a balance here – I’m not going to force my kid to be the only one with no logo gear, but I’m also not giving in to this “everyone else has it so I have to” bullshit. A few branded items amongst the other stuff go a long way.

The marketing of branded clothing to kids is an irritating way to suck more money out of our pockets but at least the clothes still look like clothes. The other night I had the misfortune to experience re-runs of America’s Next Top Model on TV. Have you ever seen such a load of complete bollocks in your life?

The whole fashion industry seems to be populated by freaks, degenerates and weirdos, the kind of bizarre, self-obsessed nonces that you’d cross the street to avoid in real life. Just look at what goes up and down catwalks in the major fashion shows – no-one in their right mind would ever conceive of actually wearing any of that crap, and anyone who’d pay what it sells for clearly has more money than sense, by a phenomenally wide margin.

I don’t want to sound like an expert on America’s Next Top Model, but it falls into the standard reality-show format, where a cast of wannabes are put through a series of tests and gradually eliminated by a panel of judges. One of the judges is a “bloke” (I use the term in its broadest possible sense) by the name of Miss J.Alexander. What struck me when I saw him on the show was that he was dressed in the kind of gear that would make anyone look like a complete pillock. The whole fashion industry is an “Emperor’s New Clothes” experience; if some “high fashion” name started prancing around in a bin bag and wellies suddenly everyone else would want to. Who could believe that flared jeans came back, for fuck’s sake?

But as soon as I saw J.Alexander, the famous fashion figure and catwalk coach, the first thing I thought was “It’s Dwayne Dibley!” Yes, the ultimate fashion-failure character from Red Dwarf. He was the spitting image! I know everyone from the UK will know who he is, but here’s a link to Dwayne Dibley for those who don’t. And if you haven’t watched Red Dwarf before I can only suggest that you’ve clearly been wasting your life to date.

At the top of the page are four pictures – two are fashion failure Dwayne Dibley and two are fashion guru J.Alexander. Can you tell them apart?

So forgive me if I’m somewhat reluctant to ponce about in whatever the fashion industry tells me is now “in”. Remember, just because it’s fashionable doesn’t mean you don’t look like a twat.

This is the time of year when many people get to experience the joy or private hell of their partner’s relatives. I always get to laugh at other people and their nightmare in-laws, as they quietly prepare for another coma-inducing holiday dinner or buttock-clenchingly annoying family get-together. Partly this is because I got lucky with high-quality in-laws, but in any case, they’re thousands of miles away, so how hard can it be for me?

You can learn a lot about your future spouse by watching their interaction with their family. If they allow themselves to be treated like shit then you’d better run a mile, because once you’re together you’ll be expected to put up with endless shit as well. In the end, though, no-one chooses their relatives, so if she’s burdened with a deadbeat sister with pigshit-thick children, a dull, flatulent father and an insane whiny mother, it’s not her fault (although you should watch the genes – that DNA is coming out in your kids someday).

What you really can learn a lot from, however, is her choice in friends. They aren’t relatives, so there’s zero excuse for continuing to hang around with irritating wankers once they are revealed as such. Sure, if you meet after college there may be some leftovers who seemed like fun at the time but never moved on. People showing up in the early hours, however, stoned and looking for a ride home, is nowhere near as hilarious when you’re getting up early for work. Especially when they’re the kind of “friends” you only see when they need something, and never hear from otherwise. If you are of the quite reasonable opinion that they should “fuck off and never come back” it really helps if your better half sees it the same way.

Unfortunately the male of the species is programmed to overlook such important considerations; the “good judgment” portion of the frontal cortex is rendered inoperative by the presence of what is known in the medical profession as “some nice boobs”. It doesn’t matter if she’s hanging around enjoying the company of the kind of left-wing, limp-wristed, weasel-brained losers that you’d feel more at home scraping off the bottom of your shoe, suddenly it doesn’t matter because she’s got a really nice rack. So you try and ignore them, and with the benefit of “shag-hopefulness” you can manage it for a while.

Trouble is unlikely to come in the form of her female friends, however. In my experience they want her to be happy, so if you do a good job of that they’ll love you, or at least tolerate you a bit. Your nemesis will be the “close male friend”. He’s been her friend for a long time and they have lots of in-jokes, deep personal discussions and together time. He may have wanted to shag her when they met but he was too ugly, and now he’s entered the “friend zone”, where he’s not seen as a threat by her, but is utterly neutered in terms of his personal pursuit of her girly parts. Frustrated by this his only recourse is to block any new male suitor who comes along, clinging to her like a parasite, with no other mission than to leave you cock-blocked.

We’ve all met this weaselly little arse-bag. He comes in many forms, but is always an ugly and failed suitor who was too gutless to make a play himself, but who’s now attached himself like a parasite to prevent you boxing off with her. I remember a girl at University. Well, when I say “remember”, I don’t actually remember her name, or anything like that. I just remember that she had huge breasts, especially in proportion to her height. I’m not a “massive tits” man as a rule, but I won’t turn them down either. I even managed to get my drunken mate Darren to effectively decoy her girlfriend while I moved in, which was some feat since he was normally shit-faced and covered in puke by that stage of the evening. Well, it turned out she had one of these male friends, who I met later. He wore crappy plaid shirts, had coke-bottle glasses and no shoulders. He had all the personality of a dead halibut, and for some reason she thought he was great. I could see from a mile away that he was using his “I’m no threat” act to get close to her boobs, but it was not in me to pander to his weaselly ways. The bloke was a cunt, pure and simple.

The moral of the story is that it doesn’t matter whether you can get past the weasel or not; sooner or later she’s going to surround herself with similar losers and dickheads. Better to face up to the fact that you’re fundamentally incompatible now. Well, when I say “now”, I mean “in the morning”. And as you let yourself quietly out of her flat, if you happen to meet the weasel, do everyone a favor and kick his arse. Mankind will thank you.

You know what I miss? Being a smoker. Not that I ever was one in the past, you understand, but there’s no getting away from the fact that it looks cool. Anyone who denies that you can look cool with a cigarette packet, lighter, and just the right hand movements, is completely full of it. Just go back to any old movie where the heroes (and villains) punctuated the action by lighting up, inhaling deeply and then calmly exhaling the smoke. Tapping the cigarette on the case, flicking open the Zippo lighter, cupping the hands to shield it in the wind – all cool. I missed out on all that, partly because I didn’t break enough rules when I was at school, but mostly because by the time I was a teenager everyone knew that smoking gave you horrible rampant cancer death disease. Sure, looking cool is good, but on balance I’d take not having to talk out of a hole in my neck, or carry around an oxygen tank, or lie in a pine box while they shovel earth on me. Which is a shame, because the one thing that makes smoking even more attractive these days is how much it pisses off all the self-righteous bastards who want to make all our choices into their choices.

But hope is at hand. Or at least I assume it is. You see, with the current fashion for focusing massive portions of our health research dollars figuring out ways to make unhealthy activities healthy, it can only be a matter of time before a major drug company comes out with a drug that prevents you getting cancer when you smoke.

On what do I base this fond hope? How about the hundreds of millions of dollars being spent to find the world’s first obesity pill? That magic pill that will allow you to eat like a gigantic pig without becoming morbidly obese. Sure, you could just eat less and not be a four hundred pound lardy fat waste of oxygen, but why do that when big pharma can hand you a magic pill, all paid for conveniently by our ever-more-expensive health insurance premiums. (It has to be covered, or else we’d be discriminating against the fecklessly, grossly overweight, you do understand, don’t you?)

So in what universe is it more worthwhile to develop pills that let fat people eat without dying of obesity but not acceptable to develop pills that allow smokers to smoke without getting cancer? I mean, if everyone could eat whatever the fuck they wanted, and just shit it out the next day without getting fat, just how much of the earth’s surface do you think would have to be given over to growing all the food they’d want to shovel into their ugly faces? If you think the third world gets a raw deal now, just wait until America can eat what it wants with impunity. No, getting fat is the only (limited) brake on uncontrolled eating, and frankly I’d favor executing the grossly obese, not spending millions to allow them to practice their disgusting excesses without consequence.

And I may be on shaky political correctness ground here, but how very different is AIDS research? I keep hearing that we’re getting closer to having a fucknormously expensive new inoculation so people can avoid getting AIDS. Hundreds upon hundreds of millions of dollars will have been spent, much of it diverted from our taxes, so that people can go about their daily routine without risk of contracting AIDS. And just what routine would that be which puts one at such a risk? Well, basically fucking people up the arse and sharing drug needles, as far as I can tell. Let’s be honest, how much of a problem would AIDS ever have become without those activities? But just like getting fat by overeating, it’s not like everyone doesn’t know how to avoid getting AIDS. Yes, there are lots of people innocently infected, but they wouldn’t be getting the preventative shot in any case, even were it available. So what will happen the minute a free shot against AIDS becomes available? Unlimited, promiscuous arse sex, that’s what.

So why would my drug to allow smoking be any more of a waste than a drug which seems to be in development with the principal attraction of allowing gays to fuck strangers in bath-houses without risk? I already know how to not get fat – I don’t eat too much, and I already know how not to get AIDS – I don’t fuck strangers or share needles. Sure I could get it from someone else via a blood transfusion, or assault, or through deceit, but that’s why we have drugs for TREATMENT.

So here and now I’d like to make a case for a wholesale diversion of drug research spending towards the noble goal of cancer-free smoking. After all, it’s not just about saving lives; it would be cool too. Remember how cool the hero looked in the 50’s movies? Well how would you have felt if, instead of lighting up a Camel, he was stuffing a cake in his face and fucking another man in the bunghole instead? No, Mr Bond, I expect you to die…

Copyright © 2012 Edward Bison

Sorry I’m Not Dead Yet

I would like to apologize on behalf of men everywhere for not dying sooner. You see, according to USA Today, men are at fault again for having the temerity to live longer than they should.

Let me explain. Yesterday I saw the headline in USA Today: WOMEN LAG IN LIFE-SPAN GAINS. The article went on to point out that over the twenty years from 1989 to 2009 men’s life expectancy increased by 4.6 years on average, while women’s went up only by 2.7 years. Open and shut case, surely – yet again our male-dominated society discriminates against women by depriving them of extra life.

Well, not really. You see, even after this increase in male life expectancy, men were reported in this same article to die on average at 76.2 years, versus 81.3 for women. In other words, men die on average FIVE YEARS earlier than women. Back in 1989 it was SEVEN YEARS.

The USA Today article went on to point out the areas where women were at a disadvantage to men, and where presumably we needed to make more investments to “redress the balance”. Women, for instance “aren’t as encouraged by their doctors to get medication to ward off heart disease”. So the conclusion of this article could be summed up as follows:

Men now die on average five years earlier than women rather than seven years earlier, so we need to work harder on women’s health so that men can die seven years earlier again.

I despair of our society if this is the standard of journalism today. My only question is whether this ridiculous article is the result of an inbuilt liberal bias that anything that appears to benefit men more than women must inherently be unfair, and must therefore be criticized, or whether journalists are so poorly educated and incapable of simple critical reasoning and questioning that they don’t know how to draw pertinent conclusions from basic data.

If the situation were reversed you can bet the headline would have been something like “POOR PROGRESS IN WOMEN’S HEALTH”, with the article lambasting the health industry for not making more progress to equalize life expectancy between the sexes. If you’re male these days you really are damned either way.

Still, had the (unsurprisingly female) writer of this pathetic piece wanted to dig a little deeper, beyond the knee-jerk “unfair to women” thesis, she might have asked some more interesting questions:

Why do men die so much earlier than women? Are men destined to die earlier, or have we just become accustomed to this norm, so that we no longer question it? Is the difference connected to the difference in typical lifestyle? Did fifty years of hard manual labor, or serving in military combat, or the high stress of management, underlie men’s earlier demise?

You might hypothesize that there had to be a reason that men died so much earlier, and that it could very well be related to what they did. Men used to do most of the hard manual work. They fought and died in wars. They dealt with most of the heart attack inducing work stress. They wore themselves out and died sooner. But times are changing – for a start there is much less manual work, and women make up a far greater proportion of the workforce. As women do more of what men used to do you might expect that they would start to have a similar life expectancy. Of course these women are not the majority, so the seven year life expectancy gap hasn’t been erased overnight.

Another pertinent point is that you can only measure life expectancy after people die. So people who died in 2009 were (on average) born in the 1930s. They grew up in the war years, and worked during the 1950s, 60s and 70s. During this period the shifts in employment patterns above hadn’t really taken hold. We still built cars by hand, and fat businessmen smoked in the workplace. If there really is an influence of work on death you won’t see the real impact on the relative life expectancies until the generation of men and women who worked during these more enlightened times start to die off in numbers.

So had USA Today wanted to peel even the first layer of this data and ask some questions they might have titled their article “CHANGING WORK NARROWS GENDER LIFE GAP”.

But don’t hold your breath waiting for that article. I don’t blame USA Today – their audience has the attention span of a mayfly, has been brought up on a diet of simplicity and pre-digested facts, and doesn’t want to be bothered with inconvenient uncertainty. Much better to serve them a simple fact-conclusion combination with no side of debate. It’s just worrying that this is the level of thinking which is drip-fed to a population which we then expect to go out and vote, based on painting-by-numbers conclusions, hand-fed to them by a liberal press.

In the meantime I intend to go out and have a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs. I might die sooner, but that will be good for the statistics. USA Today will, I am sure, applaud my selfless efforts on behalf of women everywhere.

Copyright © 2012 Edward Bison

Now Bend Over…

porstate-exam-fart

Mrs Bison will I’m sure be disappointed with my last post. Not because she won’t agree with it, but because she much prefers stories which contain hilarious references to bizarre sexual acts and bodily functions to those which she describes as “rants” about political subjects. Politics bores her, but she does love a good fart story. I have tried to point out that I can only write about funny stuff at the rate at which it actually happens to me, whereas stupid shit is around me every day, and sometimes it’s just important to write something, so you don’t completely lose the faculty.

Nevertheless, Mrs Bison was delighted when I got a prostate exam this week.

It was only a routine check-up, of the type that physicians insist on giving you periodically in order that they will agree to occasionally phone through an Ambien prescription for jetlag on international trips. I’m not sure what value there is in these check-ups. They measure height and weight, but since my doctor is short man with an impressively porky appearance (greatly increased, by the way, since my last check-up) it does beg the question what difference knowing this would make. Sure, I’m still waiting for the blood test results, the main purpose of which seems to be to find a way to get 75% of the adult population on statins, but since I don’t believe in statins there’s probably not much riding on that test either. The bar for a medical check-up seems pretty low – a pulse, blood pressure somewhat below “imminent death” levels, and no hernia (“cough please – and again”) – seems to be all that’s required. Oh, and the aforementioned prostate exam.

I won’t go into the details. If you’re a man over 40 you probably know very well what’s involved, and if you’re a man under 40 I don’t want to spoil the surprise. If you’re a woman you don’t know the experience, but frankly I’d just have to put up with you telling me how much worse pelvic exams are, and I can do without that. It’s not that I’m in any way demeaning the unpleasantness of that whole procedure but here for me is the salient difference: a woman’s vagina was expressly designed for someone to shove their fingers in. You can get a baby’s head out, for God’s sake. And that’s not a trick anyone’s arsehole is designed to pull off, much as it might seem like it after a grand slam skillet breakfast, coffee and a full stack of pancakes.

No, fingers in a vagina is “as nature intended”. Fingers up your arse is “whoa, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”. Somehow I’d got it into my mind, based on previous experiences, that this was a quick “up we go, poke it a bit, out again and hand you the tissues” event. Maybe I just told myself that, as a way to deal with the trauma. Suffice it to say that this time the doctor was inclined to spend a bit more time in there. At one point I wondered if he was looking for his car keys. He wasn’t so much examining the prostate as kneading it like a stress ball. Maybe it kept slipping out of his hand or something, because I certainly got my money’s worth out of that part of the examination.

Then, even after the fingers come out, the process isn’t over. Now you have to stand with your pants around your ankles and wipe your arse with a fistfull of Kleenex, to get all the jelly out. My God he used a lot of jelly. And you always wonder just how bad the carnage is going to be. After all, he’s up past the sphincter, where all manner of brown things might be dwelling. You have to hope you emptied the bomb bay earlier because the last thing you want to see is him pulling his hand out, covered in last night’s chicken biryani. It must happen, right? Some poor bastard turns forty, doesn’t know what’s coming, gets bent over and next thing you know it’s like a Brazilian Scat party in the doctor’s office. I’m just saying…

When I got home Mrs Bison, always the sensitive one, wanted to know if I “felt anything” when he was poking around. You know – it’s supposed to be the male G spot, right. I once saw a nature program, on the BBC I think, where semen was harvested from an unconscious gorilla using a vibrator up it’s arse. Of course I had never heard of prostate exams back then and my only thought was how small the gorilla’s weenie was, and how pissed he must be, to be this great big jungle king with a tiny, tiny penis, and meanwhile the tapir’s running around, just an ugly hairy pig thing, but with a huge pink dick that could reach the floor and beyond. And you know Mrs Gorilla’s like “why don’t you try eating some of those nut things he eats because it seems to be working for him”.

Anyway, I’m pleased (no, delighted) to say that no movement occurred. No George Kostanza moment for me. In fact I’m pretty sure that whole prostate G spot thing is all a load of bollocks. I don’t care if you’d been up there for thirty minutes working that think like a speedball, you still wouldn’t have been harvesting anything from me, I assure you. Last exam I had, a few years back, was a female nurse, and she didn’t get a rise out of me either. There’s a really attractive female physician at the practice and I guess she’d be the “acid test” but I’m fairly certain I’d require a reach-around even then.

No, the best part about the whole medical was being able to eat again after the twelve hour fasting period for the blood test. It was a blessed relief, especially as I had a whole bowl of tapir nuts waiting for me when I got home…

Copyright © 2012 Edward Bison