Tag Archives: humour

In Which Rob Attempts To Understand Lyrical Genius (Part Two)

My music-related prayers have finally been answered. I’ve been sacrificing chickens, goats, cows, even the occasional person to no avail for the last couple years but if it even so much as negligibly helped to make this… this pinnacle of musical accomplishment happen, every one of those lives were worth it.

Nicki Minaj and Justin Bieber finally collaborated on a song. Suck it, vegans!

Now, if you know anything about me, you know that I can’t let the high point in the entirety of music’s one-decade history pass me by. So here I am, attempting to better appreciate the genius wordplay of Justin Bieber and Nicki Minaj’s magnum opus, Beauty and a Beat.

Yeah..
Young Money..
Nicki Minaj
Justin…

This is kind of them because, by reminding us of who’s singing, they’re assuring us of the quality eargasms we’re about to experience.

Show you off
Tonight I wanna show you off (aye,aye,aye)
What you got
A billion could’ve never bought (aye,aye,aye)

So, the stage has been set. I’ve just come back from getting plastic surgery, the results of which Justin Bieber is clearly very appreciative of. 

We gonna party like it’s 3012 tonight
I wanna show you all the finer things in life
So just forget about the world, we’re young tonight
I’m coming for ya, I’m coming for ya

We’re partying like it 3012 tonight because the plastic surgery has went so well that it seems impossible that modern technology could possibly have engineered it. The message is inspirational: You should never be happy with the- probably ugly- hand, or face, you’ve been dealt in life. Especially not with so many options available to fix it. UGLY DOES NOT HAVE TO BE PERMANENT, PEOPLE. INNER BEAUTY IS JUST SOMETHING THAT UGLY PEOPLE TALK ABOUT TO MAKE THEMSELVES FEEL BETTER.

Cause all..
I need, is a Beauty and a Beat
Who can make my life complete
It’s all..
Bout you, when the music makes you move
Baby do it like you do
Cause…

Should I really be dancing, Justin? I-I’ve just had surgery, remember, and I’m not feeling very graceful yet… 

Body rock,
Girl, I can feel your body rock (aye,aye,aye)
Take a bow, you on the hottest ticket now (aye,aye,aye)

Okay, you do make a compelling argument. Let’s dance the dance of life!

We gonna party like it’s 3012 tonight
I wanna show you all the finer things in life
So just forget about the world, we’re young tonight
I’m coming for ya, I’m coming for ya

Cause all..
I need, is a Beauty and a Beat
Who can make my life complete
It’s all..
Bout you, when the music makes you move
Baby do it like you do

This. This speaks to the kind of man that Justin Bieber has grown into. Not only does he want a committed gold-digger, he wants one who can dance. He wants a real, layered woman in his life of many talents. He isn’t just looking for anyone. He’s looking for the one.

Uh, Uh
In time, ink lines, b-bitches couldn’t get on my incline

Suddenly, a wild Nicki Minaj appears! At first, this perplexed me until I realized- In this song, I am Nicki Minaj. I feel sort of like a barbie doll. This is all I’ve ever wanted.

World tour, it’s mine, ten little letters, on a big sign
Justin.. Bieber, you know Imma hit ’em with the ether
Buns out, weiner, but I gotta keep an eye out for Selena

I can’t help but wonder if anal sex is the absinthe of this generation. So far I’m two-for-two in  buttsex references when it comes to the music I’m listening to and there’s got to be something to that.

In any case, this song has now ripped me out of the real and into the surreal. I’m in some sort of alternate, kinky, universe where I’m plumbing Justin Bieber’s depths with a hotdog- Naturally, I have to watch out for Selena Gomez, who would probably be none-too-pleased with this development. Would you want to upset a wizard?

Beauty, Beauty and the Beast
Beauty from the east, beautiful confessions of the priest
Beast, beauty from the streets, we don’t get deceased
Every time a beauty on the beats
(Body rock, girl, I wanna feel your body rock)
(Yeah, Yeah, yeah, Let’s go, Let’s go!)

Nicki Minaj, and by extension myself, is a priest. A clever, topical reference to the Catholic Church sex scandals? No! A timely revelation. I now understand the gravity of the pillaging I was doing before. This forbidden Barbie Doll/Canadian Popstar love affair is a passionate, complex one. One song couldn’t possibly put into words all that it is, but this one comes close. And that wouldn’t be possible without a prodigious level of musical competency.

I have never been so moved in my life. Kudos, Nicki Minjas. Kudos, Justin Bieber. Kudos. 

In Which Rob Attempts To Understand Lyrical Genius (Part One)

As a writer, I’m always striving for improvement- Writing is a craft and, like any medium, there are just those who have got it down to an art. A science. I have much that I can learn from these masters of the craft and in this segment, I intend to glean all the sweet, sweet knowledge seeds that I can from a selected piece of work. In this segment, I’ll be examining the timeless love ballad that is “Little Things” by One Direction.

Now, lesser artists might have too low an opinion of themselves to blatantly name a song after their genitalia but the genius of One Direction is such that they can manage to get away with it. Art is edgy, after all.

Your hand fits in mine
Like it’s made just for me
But bear this in mind
It was meant to be

My hand was meant to be made just for his. A clever reference to Twilight- the greatest love story of the twenty first century in it’s own right- perhaps? Already, they’ve told me that I’ve been imprinted upon.

Is there anything more romantic than that? It’s the ultimate arranged marriage, and no form of marriage has quite so low a divorce rate as the ones that are arranged, am I right?

And I’m joining up the dots with the freckles on your cheeks
And it all makes sense to me

So now he’s rearranging my face to better suit his personal tastes. Of course, rearranging one’s face is also a euphemism for spousal abuse. Have I already displeased him enough that he feels that he has to physically correct me? I feel as though he’s ripped me right off my bed and into the pages of Fifty Shades of Grey! Oh my.

I know you’ve never loved
The crinkles by your eyes
When you smile
You’ve never loved
Your stomach or your thighs,
The dimples in your back at the bottom of your spine
But I’ll love them endlessly

….See, by “I’ll endlessly love the dimples on the bottom of your spine”, he means buttsex. That is literally the smoothest way to proposition someone for buttsex I’ve ever heard of. He’s even promised that I’ll be smiling like a lottery winner while he does it, because he’s sensitive to my feelings and he realize that my pleasure is just as important as his.

No wonder he’s a teen heartthrob!

I won’t let these little things slip out of my mouth
But if I do
It’s you
Oh, it’s you they add up to
I’m in love with you
And all these little things

Oh my. Surprise buttsex. Forget candy and flowers, One Direction is opening up an entire Pandora’s Box here about ways to show that one special girl that they care. Because if there’s one thing better than a home prostate exam, it’s an unsolicited one.

Take note: Asking your partner to bite the pillow first will just make them nervous. Jump in, dry as a desert in a heatwave! They’ll thank you for it, eventually.

You can’t go to bed without a cup of tea
And maybe that’s the reason that you talk in your sleep
And all those conversations are the secrets that I keep
Though it makes no sense to me

A person is never more vulnerable than when they’re asleep, and that’s okay.

It’s okay because, like a mortal Edward Cullen, One Direction will watch me while I sleep. They’ll compassionately listen to the things I mumble in my sleep, and not even blab about it to any relatives or back-up musicians. They’re the kind of nice, clean-cut British boys that I could bring home to meet my Mother. Except when they sing about it.

I know you’ve never loved
The sound of your voice on tape
You never want
To know how much you weigh
You still have to squeeze into your jeans
But you’re perfect to me

Like all great romantics, One Direction is more than willing to go home from the bar with a Two when none of the Tens are biting.

You’ll never love yourself half as much as I love you
You’ll never treat yourself right, darling, but I want you to.
If I let you know I’m here for you
Maybe you’ll love yourself like I love you, oh.

If there had been any lingering warning lights going off in the back of my mind, that would serve to alleviate them- They realize that I have cripplingly low self-esteem and might or might not be suicidal, but it’s okay because they’re willing to enter into a codependent relationship with me. How do you manage to just casually look right into the tortured depths of the thirteen-year-old girl inside my soul, One Direction?

With genius like this, they’re sure to continue the majestic tradition of decade-spanning, chart-topping dominance that their peers- Backstreet Boys, NSync, Alvin and the Chipmunks, and The Jonas Brothers- have upheld.

Johnny Learns To Share

Written by Nicolas Sparks

Movie Adaptation by Tim Burton

 

This is Johnny. Johnny is six years old.

Johnny is so, so pretty.

Johnny had trouble sharing his toys with all the other little boys and girls in the dramatically foggy little town of Macabre. 

“JOHNNY! CAN WE COME PLAY?” the other children asked.

“NO!” Johnny roared.

So the other children ran away, and Johnny played alone with his toys. 

Then one day, little Helena moved to town. She was also six years old.

Helena was sweet, and innocent and a friend to all living things. Except Johnny.

“Johnny,” She chirped “may I please play with your toys?”

“NO!” He roared, pounding his chest menacingly.

“Please?” She pressed, batting her eyelashes and smiling up at him.

He relented. They played together, and slowly but surely, he learned to share his toys. 

Then, one day, the news came:

Helena had cancer. Terminal cancer.

Being six years old, she didn’t fully understand the implications and so she continued to play with Johnny every day for the rest of her life, until she dropped dead right in the sandbox they played in every day.

Johnny shed a lot of tears for his fallen playmate but, ultimately, he learned to share and the kid needed to learn somehow, didn’t he?

Then Danny Elfman music played and the credits rolled.

THE END.

Thought-stream of an Angry Person in a Wendy’s Line

The queue is almost full, I think as I advance through the front door the generic fast food establishment, order already fully formed in my mind. I’m a creature of habit, for better or for worse. Two baconators with large order of fries, a large coke and then a chocolate frosty after. I’ve ordered this like clockwork since I was approximately fifteen.

As I settle into the line, attempting to make peace with the indignity of having to wait, I do a casual once-over of the people impeding my baconator journey. I immediately grow to despise every single one of them. Immediately in front of me are three women who, were I part of the Star Wars universe, could only have been Hutts and a scrawny, nervous-looking man (approximately five-foot-seven) who is doubtlessly the spear counterpart of the bikini-clad slave girls who orbited Jabba the Hutt like moons. I immediately mentally nickname the four of them Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Thebe, respectively.

Thebe keeps eyeing me. I attempt to ignore it. I realize he’s attempting to read the lettering on my shirt. This shocks me only because I’d assumed the Hutt Crime Lords didn’t teach their slaves to read.

Immediately ahead of them are a pair of Guidos, seemingly right out of Jersey Shore. One of them speak. French-Canadian Guidos. My searing white-hot hatred of them as human beings is compounded for this reason alone. 

Thebe is still squinting at my shirt. We make eye contact. I wonder if punching him is worth missing out on the baconator, I muse. He stares at me vacantly. I offer him an insincere smile that I hope won’t encourage him to start a conversation. He doesn’t so much as blink. My desire to physically harm him only grows.

Ahead of them is an elderly couple, and their two grandchildren. A boy, approximately eight, and a girl who couldn’t have been older then five. Only minutes have passed, but it feels like hours. The small children begin racing around the Wendy’s, playing tag. I take this as validation of my opinion that all small children should be kept in cages when taken out in public, and the schadenfreude I feel in regards to the fact that both will probably one day be diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and drugged into a pseudo-lobotomised state is borderline palatable. It’s then that it strikes me that I’m a horrible human being. 

The line is moving, slowly but surely. It doesn’t feel like it, as the planets in front of me understandably feel the onset of exhaustion if they move more then a couple steps at a time. I briefly wonder if they’ve brought Thebe along to relay the order to the cashier, and then bring them their sustenance. A smirk twitches at the corner of my mouth, but I don’t laugh. If I laugh, I’m one of them:

Part of the bottom-rung-of-the-evolutionary-ladder-as-we-know-it collection that’s been ostracised to the Wendy’s line by higher life forms simply because I’ve been reduced to being the headcase who bursts into laughter with no outside motivation in the middle of a crowded room.

I attempt to focus on the baconator: The high-calorie light at the end of the increasingly hopeless tunnel. The line continues to inch forward, and my resolve strengthens.

I’m going to get my baconator, I promise myself, and that lucky, deceased cow will be spared the indignity of being eaten by someone woefully less intelligent then itself. 

The line moves again. The geriatrics and the little hellions they’re no doubt counting on to one day change their future soiled diapers move off to find a table. I can feel the flop-sweat on Thebe’s brow, though I can’t see it. It’s almost feeding time. I wonder if they’ll have the decency to carry their own trays, or force him into it. The minutes stretch on. I’m growing no less hungry.

I glance behind the counter, at the workers. The only cashiers there are a tired-looking teenage girl with her last name tattooed in neon blue on her left forearm and an older man who I can only hope is the manager. 

Thebe leans against the wall as Saturn, Uranus and Jupiter make their orders. Evidently he hasn’t finished reading my shirt, yet because he’s still staring at it with those dead fish eyes. I toss up a silent prayer that Jupiter crushes him during sex. Were I granted that simple request, I would exchange a truly awful thanksgiving for it, as I’m a firm believer in karma. My family has a tradition of truly awful thanksgivings. One more won’t be the death of me.

The thought that hunger makes me a tad irritable doesn’t cross my mind until after, when I’ve gotten home and transcribed my thoughts into blog entry form.

“Next?”

I realize I’m next. It’s a testament to my sad existence that this is the best thing to happen to me in the entirety of the day up to that point. I step up to make my order, noting that the manager taking my order bears passing resemblance to a relatively young Emperor Palpatine. It’s not enough to discourage me from ordering food from him. If he had red horns atop his head, a pitchfork and a tail, I would still order food from him.

The food is ordered, the right to shave probable minutes off my life paid for, and I realize that I’m still in for what will be the longest minute of my life.

My Experience Playing Dodgeball With James Harrison: A Hypothetical Story of Uncontrollable Rage

Hard though it might be to believe, there’s a fairly heavy contingent who don’t consider dodgeball to be a real sport- The IOC has been rudely ignoring my letters to absorb it into the Olympics for the past eight years. Now that wrestling has been canned, however, I remain hopeful that I’ll be getting a call any day now.

In any case, that harmful majority is in full force in my own particular town.

“Shut up Wendall,” They mutter dismissively. “You wet your pants until you were twelve and cried when you lost at tag that one time. You’ll never be in the Olympics.”

To that point, I’d just like to offer a gentle reminder that potty training is more difficult for some than others, sometimes my anger just gets the best of me, and Beth Feinstein cheated- She tripped me. I only cried because that was the death of my childlike faith in justice and good karma.

Image

 I bet she was only an orphan because she “tripped” her parents right off a cliff.

Recently though, something happened that simultaneously disgusted me, and filled my heart with soaring joy. One of the teams in my local Dodgeball League hired a professional to get a leg up on the competition.

One the one hand, what ever happened to fair play? On the other- Finally! The legitimacy I’d been craving.

Image

Pictured: The powerful neck-muscles of moral decay.

His name was Jimmy Harrison. Apparently he played some other sport professionally at some point- Soccer or something. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t do much research. I find that it rarely does much to support my opinions. All I know is what registered when I first laid eyes on him:

He was tall, he was dark, and his traps were so massive that I was almost positive he couldn’t turn his head one way or the other. Still, I thought he must be nervous- His first day called up to the big leagues and all. I sauntered over to give him a warm welcome.

“Hey there, Jimmer!” I called out, waving at him.

“James,” He corrected.

That’s the thing about Jimmy- He has such a classic sense of humour. Always busting somebody’s balls.

“You’re a real cut-up, Jimbo.” I laughed, slinging an arm around his shoulders- No easy feet, considering the eight inches of height that he had on me. “I like that. You’ll get along great in this league.”

Jimmy stared at me for a second. It might just have been my imagination, but I thought I could see respect brimming in his eyes. I extended my hand to shake, and he took it. He had a grip like a Russian lumberjack.

“Have a good game, Jim-Jim-Jumbotron!” I offered, smiling broadly. “Don’t take it too personally if I catch you upside the head once or twice. I’m kind of a big deal around here, don’tcha know?”

Apparently taking this as an invitation to begin a round, Jimmy grabbed a ball up off the gym floor. The next thing I knew, the business end of the ball had collided with my right temple. I fell to the floor and, I’m not ashamed to admit, I peed a little bit.

” MY NAME AIN’T JIMBO,” He roared, though I still thought his eyes looked friendly. “BITCH!”

He spiked the ball into my ribcage, volleyball style.

“I’M JAMES MOTHERFUCKING HARRISON!”

He grabbed another ball off the ground, drilling it against the bridge of my nose. I could feel my glasses break, but I didn’t want to interrupt his joke to point it out.

“SAY MY NAME!”

“Jim-Jam!” I offered up brightly.

Another ball crashed into my windpipe, and I let out a cough. Physical comedy is the funniest kind.

Image

 They wouldn’t even have this kind of fun at a CarrotTop show.

“JAMES MOTHERFUCKING HARRISON! SAY IT WITH ME; JAMES. MOTHER. FUCKING. HARRISON!”

“Jimboramadamadingdong!” I coughed out.

The next ball drilled me in the solar plexus.

“James Mother….fucking… Harrison!” I choked.

“Two-time Super Bowl Champion, Four-time All Pro NFL Linebacker James Motherfucking Harrison!” He corrected, picking up another ball. “Bitch!”

“Two-time… Super Bowel Champion, Four-time All… State… ‘Enifle’…. Linebacker James… Motherfucking… H-Harrison.”

I didn’t have the time to wonder what exactly an Enifle was supposed to be- let alone express my congratulations for his superior bowels- before the next ball drilled me in the head. After that, everything just sort of went back.

I’m told, however, that the game was enjoyable. Also, that Jimmy apparently threw like a six-year-old girl and joked around about shooting five different people. He even told my friend Steven that if he ever caught on fire, good ol’ Jimmy recognized that it was probably for good reason and wouldn’t try to put out the fire with his urine!

What a guy.