“We are holding Jesus ransom until you clean up the poopie from your Wieners…clean up all the Wienerpoopie if you want to see Jesus unharmed.”

Lea’s ad campaign for Canadian Club. Brilliant.

Congrats on the new job, homeslice!

www.leaherrington.com

I lived with this guy once-Wacko Mike. Wacko liked dark beer, 3 foot bong rips, and physics. His dad was a cop. He was tall, rotund  and had  bright, bright red hair. He  prided himself on his huge, equally-red mutton-chops. His body too was covered in this thick, red carpet. Naked, he was an apparition. When Wacko spoke it sounded like he had emphysema. He was jolly. He was critical. Wacko never wore shoes, instead insisting on walking barefoot, always. We all assumed he was a virgin until several of us walked in on him in the laundry room of a house party-sucking on a girl’s boob. They were both standing, she lifting her shirt up to grant him access.

He was a character from my first years at university-the corduroy era. I lived with him during my last year of university-the get a girlfriend and good grades era. Our common interests during the corduroy era included:bong rips, chuckling, dark beer, hemp necklaces, and getting wasted. During the last year era: living together and not getting along.

He had a free room, I moved in in the fall of my last year. We began to bicker when I got a girlfriend. Suddenly, my dishes weren’t clean enough. My cat’s litterbox: not emptied frequently enough. Me: the new jerk. He asked me to move out. I was upset, and said no.

He brought up trivial things as reasons to move-out. I retorted by pointing out that when he would jerk-it in the shower, I, and my girlfriend could tell, because his effluent would settle in the drain upon a nest of his drain-clogging, red hair. This embarrassed him, and addled his demonization of me.

My cat never pooed on the carpet during her tenure with Wacko Mike and I at the Belvedere Apartment complex, I loved her for that. She never pooed, until Wacko Mike and I started arguing. Then she did it everyday. She even sprayed on his backpack, I loved her for that. This was too much for Wacko, he couldn’t live with a carpet-pooping cat, with him never wearing shoes and all.

Our last argument got pretty heated–shouting almost coming to blows. He moved out. I had defeated the Sasquatch.

 Cancer-sniffing dog being cloned in SKorea: bio firm

A Japanese centre which says it has trained a dog to sniff out human cancer cells is cloning the animal in South Korea, a Seoul bio-technology company and the dog’s owner said Wednesday.  Read full story here

I don’t know. Really? Fucking cancer-sniffing dogs? What does a cancer-sniffing dog mean- a dog that can smell Hawaiian Tropic and Cigarettes?  Won’t this just landslide into newly-enabled dogs able to sniff out any old genetic anomaly? What if these dogs get loose? Gone is the awkward encounter of a dog going crazy sniffing your crotch-it has now alerted its handler that you have a cancered prostate…if the dog then begins to bark, it means you have a cancered prostate, and a genetic propensity for blank-shooting. A dog begins incessantly licking my face=brain tumor. Sigh. More stuff to worry about. This Island of Dr. Moreau manbeast stuff is just getting started, and its already getting on my nerves.

Today, one has to be much safer. You can’t just go dipping your chocolate in someone else’s peanut butter. How much polyunsaturated fat is in your partner’s butter?  How rich is your partner’s chocolate?  We never truly know.