Thursday, June 16, 2011

Words Of Wizdim

"Let no man wear a hat of cheap cloth lest he run down by a carriage and and the undertaker think him a scoundrel."

William Shakespeare


"If you don't get off my dog you will be refused service at the bar."


WB Yeats


"The only thing worse than a stone in your shoe is a slightly larger stone in the same shoe."


Oscar Wilde


"If ya can't find your bloody cummerbund then I would suggest you come back tomorrow when the butler takes out the bins" 


Sir Francis Bacon







Saturday, December 11, 2010

Taco Diem

Man purchases three cut priced tacos from local flea bag working class eatery. Man drops one taco and makes an unsuccessful lunge with the intention of keeping taco from sustaining damage. Man’s reach is inadequate and he overbalances and stumbles. Now, fully without controle of his destiny, he slips on rogue taco and finds himself stumbling into oncoming traffic where he is squashed by truck carrying institutional grade beef carcases destined for the taco mills. Man stands before his maker and is refused entry into his version of Paradise. 

Sunday, September 05, 2010

I'm A Boy & I'm A Man

Let me begin by quoting my childhood hero Alice Cooper. "Lines form on my face and hands/Lines form from the ups and down/I'm in the middle without any plans/I'm a boy and I'm a man/I'm eighteen." All true in my case if you multiply that last word by two.
Now I've never been one to bemoan my age or more accurately, my aging. For some reason I've never wanted to be older than I was, and as yet, I have had no compulsion to be younger. I put this down to laziness, but that's another topic. My worry, as it pertains to my age, is that I have never become a man in the way that my father or grandfather did at half my age. My dad was at sea by the time he was seventeen. I have two video game systems and there are four iPods within my reach at the moment. He was married with a kid when he was twenty one. I wore shorts to dinner last night and have five pairs of skate shoes. He emigrated to Canada with said wife and kid when he was ten years younger than I am now. I have never had a driver's licence. His dad owned a pub and was raising six kids by the time he was thirty. I wear shants and band t-shirts and have a mohawk for christ's sake.
I worry that I have become a parody, of an irony, of a cliche, of something-or-other. There are a few things I am doing to set myself on a more responsible course. Going back to school for example is a good idea, but not totally representative of the elusive mature manliness that I seek. I'm eating better and exercising more than at any other time in my life. I am hoping that the practical upshot of all this will be a slow gradual decrease in mass. Or a rapid immediate one for that matter. So long as I never have to buy another belt, stretch out another t-shit before I put it on, or have nice men in forklifts come to take me away to a land where terrified health professionals draw lots to see who has to wash me. All well and good but not, I fear, comparable to the feats of manhood my forefathers displayed.
On the other hand, perhaps I am being to hard on myself. Today I became my father in a most unexpected way. I remember a time when my mother got a new bank card in the mail, and my old man took it upon himself to explain to me the importance of personal security and his responsibilities in this regard as head of household. He carefully cut up the old card into about forty thousand pieces. He then explained how he would deposit the bits in a random manner in different garbage receptacles throughout the city over a period of several weeks. This, he explained, would prevent miscreants form reassembling the card and doing something sinister that neither me nor mom were ever clear about. This was all done with the utmost seriousness.
A few hours ago I was cleaning out my desk and undertook the disposal of a pile of credit card invoices, cable bills, old pay stubs, old receipts, and sundry sensitive paperwork. After tearing them up with a vigor, I placed them in three different, half filled bags of household garbage. I then went to the kitchen for some of my special, "security garbage". Into the bags containing the sundered papers went stale coffee, black bananas, egg shells, sticky take-out containers, expired yogurt, breakfast plate scrapings, and a goodly amount of my own spit. This organic barrier would befoul my shredded documents and keep identity stealing terrorists from..........doing whatever it is they do with this stuff.
As my girlfriend was laughing at me I thought of my father. If he was alive today (he is) he would put his hand on my shoulder and proclaim. My boy, today you are a man.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Poetry Bro




A Douche Bag's Prayer

Brody sought enlightenment
Beneath the stars of June
Endowed with his entitlement
A spanner and a spoon

Oh Lord! he cried
With eyes shut tight
Give me mine,
And shine a light!
Upon my head,
Bestow me might!
Crowed the silly Loon

fin

Sunday, January 03, 2010

Resolutions in C minor

Editor's note: This blog entry was submitted by the long absent contributor to this blog, Angus Thripshaw. Mr. Thripshaw has been a contributing editor since 2006 and, until now, has turned in his submissions via breaking into my house and making a smell until I let him use the computer. I have had no contact with Angus for many peaceful months and I had assumed that he had finally succumbed to one of his foul "medical concerns". This changed very late last night when a pizza topped with duck eggs, cat doings, and a note was shoved with great force through my letter box. The note is reproduced below to the best of my ability. Thank you and good luck. Yours, GreenFish.


Hello boys and girls! It's your old pal Angus from beyond the grave!!! OOOoooOOOOoooo!! Scary shit eh? Well I'm not dead but rather I am in a state of what some of you would call ruddy good health. I've been back packing across the deep south performing my one man show (actually a one man, two turkey show) to amazed crowds of neck bearded, cleft palleted yokels. After an incident at the dump I found myself trapped under a mountain of rotting fish with nothing to read but Sammy Davis Junior's autobiography, Yes I Can. Well I don't know what Sammy can and can't do, but noshing your way out of a metric ton of putrid piscine entrails was not covered in his shitty book.

As usual, I digress. I am currently hiding in the back seat of a pizza delivery car, writing this missive for your pleasure, waiting for a delivery man whom I can easily subdue. Thinking of strangling a fool puts me in mind of the fool who runs this foolish website for fools. It's the time of year that the fat green wally embarks on some dim plan to become a vegan or a homosexual or whatever in a vain attempt to fit into his old Miami Vice suit. Since most of you are unhappy with your dreary, salaryman drudgery, and are likely obsessed with gormless self improvement, I will share with you the following:

Angus Thripshaw's 10 New Years Resolutions For Dummies And Assholes

  1. No more off-brand gin or unlabeled "gin-like" solvents. There's blindness and then there's blindness with flaming diarrhea and giant spiders.
  2. Start a business that does not involve dressing in a turkey suit or forcing farm animals to fight.
  3. Get a really good haircut from a chubby Asian that involves a good neck scrubbing, a de-lousing, a cup of tea, and a hand job.
  4. Throw out all the old crutches and dress maker's dummies that are cluttering up the apartment. The apartment, of course, being a disused sewage tank behind the mental hospital.
  5. Write a court ordered letter of apology to the Ladies Of The Sacred Heart Choir regarding the incident with the duck egg and the unfortunate bout of public nudity.
  6. Stop wasting money on prostitutes who can't change a tire or weld. "Anything goes" does not always mean what you think it does.
  7. Make a pancake that can cover a body.
  8. Take some time out from work and social events to finally write that threatening letter to Larry King.
  9. Learn to ride and cook a horse.
  10. Stop entertaining the notion that cologne is a lesser evil than halitosis despite its full bodied bouquet and bracing flavour.
That's it my slack bladdered brood. Anything else would be so close to perfection that man would find himself unable to gaze upon me for fear of finding the reflection of his maker. You on the other hand need to pull yourself together before you end up on a reality show.

Friday, September 04, 2009

The False Horoscope In A White Wine Sauce

The Walleye: (January 2 to January 4)--Take stock of your life and find out who wants you dead. Your lucky chair smells faintly of failure. Keep away from apes.

Sheep's Easter: (January 5 to May 16)--Someone you trust is looking for the words to describe how they feel about your white denim suit. A hole dug is a hole earned. Check behind the drapes for your youth.

Parental Lies: (Late May to June 2)--Keep a block of fine spruce and a pen knife near you at all times, for the inevitable day when your internet dating failures finally drive you to whittle yourself a wife.

The Fop's Belt: (June 3 to June 4, 3:27pm)--It is finally time to throw out that old man in your bed. Your lucky number is written of the inner thigh of the gypsy you saw urinating in a public fountain during the cabbage riots of '07.

Dave: (June 4, 3:28pm to September 19 {excluding all of July and August 6})--It is never too late to tell someone you think that they are the sorriest sack of shit you ever laid eyes upon. Time to buy a new dog, the old one is dead. Adding some fiber to your diet will somehow make you even less interesting.

The Bladders: (All of July)--Someone you love is bending deeply at the knees for all the wrong reasons. At some point a comb over becomes less of an ingenious facade, and more a burdensome object of ridicule. Explosions are to be avoided for three weeks.

Simple Salad: (August 6)--Hug a stranger and run away. Take time out of your day to stop and smell the mailman. Picking it won't make it better, but it might get you a day off.

Dented Bean Tin: (September 20 to Elvis 17)--Save a choking man and win a dapper waist coat. You will be followed home from the tanning salon by a man in a rented suit. Your poor sense of direction will lead to a loveless marriage. Your lucky symbol for the week is the one leaf clover.

Chef's Palsy: (Elvis 18 to September 30)--Avoid having children if you still eat over the sink. Your noisy love making is upsetting the waiter. Your lucky towel is on the top shelf.

Vulgar Limp: (Oct 1 to Dec 24)--If you are feeling unloved in the morning, eat two pounds of American cheese and later think back on how much better you felt in the morning before you ate all that shitty cheese.

The Chubby Waitress: (Dec 25)--Your mother is a virgin and your father is a gullible fool. Your personality can be best described as "eggy". Try not to be in the way when the rapture comes.

Soft Eggs: (Dec 26 to Jan 1)--Bitter defeat awaits your attempt to clean your feet. Any hope of improving your breakfast nook is almost as hopeless as it is laughable. Stay funky.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Right up Your Culture

Here at The Endless Ocean Of Gravy we always strive to bring to you the finest in political, spiritual, social, and intellectual musings, perusings, and sundry goings on. In that vein we are proud to present an excerpt from the latest work of an exciting new playwright. Gavin Montserrat (right) has provided us a sneak peek of his latest play Waiting For Bill Paxton, due to premier at the Ronald Reagan Memorial Theater & Refugee Detention Center on Christmas Day, 2009. An except from Act 4 Scene 22 follows, in which Pancho attempts to reveal his indiscretions to Phaedra before their wedding.



WAITING FOR BILL PAXTON

Act IV, Scene XXII

(Interior: A roomy shed illuminated by a bare bulb. Walls of corrugated sheet metal. Soiled mattresses, empty picture frames, and old crutches stacked against rear wall. Two Louis XXIII chairs facing downstage. Pancho, stage left, standing behind chair, wearing a green boiler suit, water skis, neck beard, ten gallon hat, and holding a stuffed goose. Phaedra, stage right, sitting, wearing wedding dress, eye patch, back brace, neck brace, thick glasses, hearing aid, built up shoe, and holding bag of polecats. Exterior noises off stage: Classical music, soldiers marching, gunfire, police siren, braying pack animal, intermittent explosions, clown horns, dogs barking, seagulls, pipe organ, pan flute, wood chipper, tap dancing, yodeling cowboy, alpenhorn, kettle boiling, prolonged farting, and intermittent shouts of Waaaaaaaazuuuuuuuuuuup!!!!!)

Pancho: (stood erect, knees slightly bent, feet wide apart) My dearest Phaedra you must wonder why I have pulled you aside mere moments from our nuptials. Know that I did not act rashly when I pulled you from your father's hand as he presented you to the congregation. He must be mystified at my actions that caused his youngest daughter to be spirited away prematurely while he is shoved into the trout pond where he no doubt wallows still.

(Noises Off: shotgun discharged [both barrels] squawking water fowl, applause)

Phaedra: (shouting, squinting at empty spot on stage)What? Why'd you biff my dad into the pond? He's got croup and a cracked sternum.

Pancho: Damn my poor timing to the seven halls of Lucifer! I could not wait a moment longer to say what I have to say. I could not stand before God and take vows without you knowing the full truth.

(Noises Off: mariachi music, fist fight)

Phaedra: (shouting off stage) Shut the feck up! We'll be out in a sec.

(Noises Off: loud protracted "shooshing" snapping mariachi guitar strings, fist fight)

Pancho: Please my dear. Worry not about the guests or your father. I'm sure they have pulled him out by now. I'm must implore you, please listen to what I have to say.

Phaedra: Well if you are going to tell me why you took my old dad by the collar and cummerbund and heaved him over the railing into the frigid waters below you had better hurry up. Those deviled eggs won't keep for long in this heat.

(Noises Off: donkey slipping in spilled butter, glass breaking, turnip hitting skull, applause)

Pancho: (bending deeper at the knees, arms askew) Oh forget the fool for now. The longer he is out of reach of the Drambuie the better for all.

Phaedra: Well out with it then ya big wally. These smoked oysters are starting to waft.

Pancho: I have been unfaithful.

(Noises Off: extended "Ricolaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa" followed by long sonorous fart, applause)

Phaedra: Is this about the maid?

Pancho: No.

Phaedra: My sister?

Pancho: NO!

Phaedra: My Brother?

Pancho: Um......................No.

Phaedra: That hoor who you paid to do a shit on you?

Pancho: Not as such.

Phaedra: You sneaking out at night and sticking your tackle into holes in the lawn again?

Pancho: You know very well that my people believe that pressing one's gonads into the soft earth will help one commune with nature and assist in the quickening of the soil. It is our way.

Phaedra: You're from New Jersey.

Pancho: Nevertheless.

Phaedra: What have you done this time then?

(Noises Off: two explosions, man falling over pile of plastic buckets, fog horn, cymbals crash)

Pancho: (drowned out by noises off, making dramatic hand gestures)

Phaedra: (shouting, squinting)What?!?!

(Noises Off: brass band, train whistle, screaming)

Pancho: (drowned out by noises off, making dramatic hand gestures, deep knee bends and pelvic thrusts)


curtain lowers

Scene

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

One Man, One Purchase

This is Floyd Purchase writing for you now. When I say, writing for you now, I am of course typing some time in the past (depending on when you read this) and you, as the reader are not being placed under any obligations, or are in any way indebted to me by my act of doing this for you. For the sake of journalistic accuracy let us agree on the following statement of fact. What you are now reading was produced by me (Floyd Purchase) with the intention of you reading it of your own free will with the understanding that it places no encumbrance on you. Enjoy!

At the request of Mr Fish I will, from time to time, take a break from my busy schedule as a mobile librarian to contribute to this space with my ruminations on matters of the heart and technology. These are the areas of my life to which I give over the most thought and energy, with varying degrees of success. Some find the act of intimate congress to be an impenetrable embuggerance, while having no difficulty grinding to level 80 with a Blood Elf on a PVP server. Naturally there are others who need to call the help desk if someone turns their keyboard upside down but still manage to somehow woo the red headed girl in customer service who would clearly be far more stimulated by a man of greater cerebral capacity. She must know that narrow trousers and an easy manner will not long cover up a shameful pig-ignorance of information technology.

It is indeed lonely at the top of the "brain chain" at times. A finely tuned intellect can be intimidating at times, even when I am perfectly willing to correct any mild factual omissions at any time. I am certainly not a fussy man but I would not waste my time with someone who did not appreciate Watchmen at the highest possible level, at least not very often. When one finally meets someone who truly appreciates mad spreadsheet skills, then the gushing fountain of love will be that much sweeter and more everlasting..........I've forgotten what point I was making.

Until next week friends and ladies. This is your very humble and single, Floyd Purchase.

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Angus Thripshaw's Ditch

Just when you thought is was safe to read a piss poor excuse for a blog, here comes your old pal Angus to spice up the bisque. Some of the less discerning of you will no doubt remember me from here. Maybe it's the horse liniment I drank for lunch, but I feel all tingly being back after all this time. To those of you new to the Green idiot's tiny circle of readers, let me introduce myself. I am Angus Thripshaw and I am a contributor to The Endless Ocean Of Gravy. I am the only reason to come here and I am the sweet living shit. So cuddle up children. Angus is back! Where have I been? Well let me fuckin' tell ya.



Angus Thripshaw's Ditch


Presents

in association with the endless ocean of gravy

Thripshaw's Doings


  • I was living with Green Fish for a few months until I was able to get a certain business venture off the ground, or until he could pin me in a best of three challenge. He pulled a fast one on me by putting sleeping pills in my Thompson's Wood Stain and moving away.
  • Left to my own devices I decided to find lodgings and pursue my business venture with a renewed passion. As luck would have it I secured shelter in a drainage ditch on the outskirts of a condemned industrial plaza.
  • I secured financing for my business by strolling "mother naked" into large grocery stores and being paid to go away before the fruit spoiled.
  • With capital secured I opened up a roadside consulting firm specializing in executive entertainment solutions and seminars. I planned to specialize in up market firms with a large female clientele who would be enamored with my determined, workman-like, love making skills, in the prescribed Soviet style. I felt that this, complimented with home made Vodka, would be a market leader in executive solutions.
  • My first day went well, except that I set up my stand to close to the highway, and a wide-load transport trailer clipped my turkey costume and threw me, my stand, and my home made vodka dispenser across the freeway and under the viaduct. I was relatively uninjured until a pack of feral dogs, emboldened by the stench of blood and rotting potato peelings, set about me with a vigor.
  • I spent the next eighteen months convalescing under that viaduct, living on home made vodka and feral dog tar tar, and maintaining my network of clients by shouting obscenities at passing cars.
  • I finally taught myself to walk again after discovering that both my feet were in fact wedged into one shoe.
  • I then wrote for the Toronto Sun for six months until this became just too much of a strain on my dignity. That lead me to reopen negations with Mr Fish (follow him home from work) and secure a staff writing position (he still forgets to lock the door).

So that's all for now kids. I'm going to be on my merry way before the big fool wakes up. Right after I have a wash in the sink and a crap in the tub. Bye now, Fuckers!!!

Community Bulletin Thingy

The West Turmeric Wrangler

Vol. 9 Issue 47

Mrs Althea Trapes would like to thank the gentlemen of Plumbers Local 314 for giving her organ a good pounding out before the children's choir recital last Tuesday. The vandals who dented her wind system and flattened her expression peddle out of recognition have still not been identified. She says she will be buffing the pipes of the fine men of Local 314 for some time to come.

****In a correction from last week's issue (46), Dr Robert Culter, 46, is the Chief administrator for the Lower Fourth Parks Project, and not, as reported by Audrey Wong, a fat sack of pompadoured horse shit.

Harlen Waxman, 32, is looking to rent a room and workspace within the city limits for the purpose of launching an exciting new business venture. He requires a small windowless room with a low bed, two stainless steel sinks, a dentist's chair, weather sealed windows, and heavy mosquito netting. In leu of rent Mr Waxman will finance his accommodations with yard work, small engine repair, honey, and tales of seamanship from his days as a showgirl aboard the QE2.

Dapp Heldersmith, 66, is collecting signatures for a petition to take legal action against the City Council for damaged and lost property in the wake of last month's Retired Sailor's Convention. Mr. Heldersmith is also offering a reward of $50.00 for the return of two garden gnomes, a hammock, and Mrs. Heldersmith, 64.

In local sports, the West Turmeric Sack Bladders (Go Bladders!!!) avoided relegation to the ladies division last Wednesday by winning the 103rd Annual Red Cup And Cape tournament when none of the other teams showed up.

Elvis LeCruz, 31, will be giving the sixth installment of his very popular lecture series, "Why I Am So Fucking Extreme. BOOYA!!!" This week's talk (Bros before Hoes) will cover such topics as, tribal tattoos, Affliction clothing, pre-distressed denim, fist bumping, late '90s BET slang, Bud Lite, tanning, man flip-flops, little beards and the gradual acceptance of using the word "disrespect" as a verb.

****In a correction from last week's issue, Mr Kevin Flatt, 88, is alive and well and not, as reported by Mrs Candi Flatt, 22, dead and buried. The party however, will go ahead as planned.

Found: Two jam stained garden gnomes, under the overpass at Bridge Street