As Canadians recover from post-traumatic stress disorder ... I mean, as Canadians rest after a raucous election campaign (raucous by Canadian standards) and as I try to figure out how to re-entice my international readership that almost completely gave up on me after I wrote bloggie after bloggie on the election (except for some very patient Americans – some of whom disagree quite strongly with my political convictions and were very understanding on some sticky points of contention, for which I am grateful and I promise to accord you the same respect when your election campaign kicks into high gear – and one very loyal reader from Romania) everyone is sick to death of it. Myself included. And who could blame anyone, especially Canadians, when the Net is full of sites dedicated tosuch important things as navel lint (There. I promised fluff in yesterday's bloggie and I have delivered)?
After a couple of weeks of thinking of nothing more than the shape of my country (it's funny-shaped and has an odd, vaguely gonadic-phallic shape punched out of the north-eastern part), as well as after a vodka-soaked Pride weekend, I have writer's block. This is particularly detrimental to my happiness as the blog is not the only thing on which I concentrate my alleged writing abilities. To counteract it, I stared at the computer for a while. Shockingly, this did nothing to help. Then, I thought maybe of getting Noudnic to walk across the keyboard and telling everyone he had posted a bloggie all by himself (wouldn't that have been hilarious?!). A post written by a cat! `^kowrohiéÉQWEFO;GUQboug; Brilliance! But I have less time than I used to to disguise the fact that I usually have absolutely nothing of note to say, disguised with pretty words and long, Proust-like sentences full of commas and subordinate clauses.
My attempts to convince occasional commenter, Rakl, and perpetual lurker, The Fabulous Miss Kate, to guest blog today failed. Apparently their work is more important than I. I can't really say the same because, as much fun as it is to live off one's savings, my employ these days is made up of temporary contracts and odd jobs for which I am massively overqualified . . . and I prefer it that way. You see, your stress level decreases to a minimum when you cease fretting over how much money you have and why you're trapped doing something you hate doing with a bunch of people you wouldn't normally associate with (Ceux parmi vous avec qui j'ai déjà travaillé et qui lisent ceci, vous savez que ce n'est pas vous que j'indique dans la phrase précédente). But we each have our own approach to adulthood and, as usual, I digress from my very important point, writer's block.
As Hollywood has shown us, all you need to do is give people something they can laugh at and feel nauseous to at the same time and you have a bona fide hit! This explains such blockbusters as the recent remake of Dawn of the Dead, as in: "Hahahahaha! That chick totally got sliced in half with a chainsaw and like her guts went everywhere! I mean, it's gross and all but I'm laughing ‘coz it's so unexpected to see people die horrible deaths, especially in a zombie movie! Y'know? That's why it's funny n'stuff."
Now, I can't write gross stuff. My knowledge of human anatomy isn't good enough and this is lucky for you or this blog would most likely be splashed with innards. The best I can do is to discuss food I find gross. It's probably a bit of a letdown after navel lint and people being sawed in half, but you can place the blame for the mediocre quality of this bloggie squarely on the shoulders of Rakl and The Fabulous Miss Kate.
Are you ready? This is going to be fantastic. Boiled spinach. It's like eating mushed-up brains with green food colouring. Right? So are you collapsed in gut-roiling hilarity yet? Are you? No? Ok. Eating lychee nuts reminds of Science class in Grade 8 when I had to dissect a cow's eyeball. They're all round and squooshy and cloudy liquid shoots out of them when you pierce their skin. Have you vomited through your nose while shaking with hysterical laughter yet? No? Wow. Tough crowd.
OK. The Fabulous Miss Kate cannot eat tomatoes and there is a gross reason for it. Once when she was a wee lass she ate an entire truckload of tomatoes. Her teensy, half-formed belly was understandably displeased with this invasion and she retired to her bed with an upset tummy. Now, The Fabulous Miss Kate claims to be a very heavy sleeper and I cannot comment on this; the only one I know who can confirm this is her long-time companion Subversive Banker Dude and he doesn't even read this so we may never know the truth. In any case, she is such a heavy sleeper that she apparently did not awake as she vomited the truckload. When she woke up, everything, the bed, her pyjamas, the pillows, her face, her hair, were covered with a red, sticky, tomato-y-smelling film. Plus, she could have choked on her vomit and died. Isn't that a riot?
Well, I have a better ending. One of the surviving zombie tomatoes, driven to madness by excessive political commentary and covered somehow with belly lint, took a chainsaw and chopped her in half. Now it's funny!
This bloggie is terrible. I should stick to half-baked political critiques. Vote Quimby!
Hilarious, Evil Zombie Tomatoes
June 30, 2004
posted by GreyGuy on 30.6.04 | Permalink |
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