BANGUS JUNK MAIL

Dear Mr Pecore:
I have only recently come to discover BANGUS ONLINE,  and would just like to say that the columns are certainly shabbily written at best, and often quite offensive. You are squandering a great opportunity to reach out to the world and make a positive statement as I no longer think that the internet is a crazy fad like Prince. Now, I realize that humour is quite subjective so I did ask others to read your column as well and we have all essentially come to the same conclusion. It’s infantile, cynical and jaded. And what has happened to proper punctuation? Now, I know you will make fun of this input, but since you espouse freedom of speech, I am simply exercising mine. I will continue to read, not out of interest, but more out of a sense of dismay and profound disappointment. Now, there is some homemade turkey soup for you at home that you can pick up. You need to eat healthier. Your father bought a new second hand snow blower from the neighbour that won’t start. He’s quite upset, understandably so. You really should call more often.
Love Mom

Hey Kevin
Something’s come up. Can I crash at your place for the next few years? Just till things cool down. I can help your son with his slice and I can vacuum and shovel the driveway and whatever y’all need. I know you have a basement because I can see it from the street. I’m the one parked in your driveway. I have six chicks with me, but they’re light eaters and can sleep in the van. I’m down to about nine hundred bucks but it’s yours if you can help me out.
Your friend,
Tiger

Dear Kevin - I recently watched Stanley Kubrick’s Dr Strangelove and remembered a conversation we had a few years ago about this movie. I hadn’t seen it at the time but told you that if Peter Sellers was in it, I probably wouldn’t like it. Then you hit me in the neck three times and suckered me once in the kidney area. And then you stormed out of the wedding. For the life of me I can’t remember who was getting married. We were in Owen Sound I think. Anyway, I’m not sure if your remember this or not, but I Googled you and found you writing for Bay Today. Your columns are inane but in a mind-numbing way, so I have been reading them and printing them out for the people on the base. I felt obligated to contact you to take back what I said about Dr Stangelove - Peter Sellers is a genius in it.
Lt. Col. James ‘Coconut’ Jones 


Hey jerk face - you were the only guy in this country to stick up for me when that CBC radio thing went viral. That whole interview was a setup. Damn that Jian Ghomeshi. I don’t trust anyone that wears fancy scarves. Anyway, much obliged. My agent, Mississippi Gary, found your contact info on the web. I read some of your stuff. Not my kind of thing. Mark Twain was a true Southern gentleman. You just write real bad. I’m sending you a copy of Bad Santa as a token of my appreciation.
Billy Bob Thorton

Dear Mizter Pekore - my husband is in hiding right now as he has been accused of being a terrorist. He said some things to the wrong people after drinking a jug of chokecherry wine before a funeral. He asked me to touch base with you to see if you know of any good civil liberty lawyers. My husband says that he thinks you’re trustworthy, but a little off kilter. Please reply to this email as soon as possible as my husband is in poor spirits.
Rosa Yanz

BANGUS FOREIGN AFFAIRS CORRESPONDENT REPORTED MISSING

MISSING - BANGUS ONLINE'S FOREIGN AFFAIRS CORRESPONDENT. IF YOU SEE HIM, APPROACH WITH CAUTION - OR NOT - IT'S YOUR CALL. IF YOU HAVE HIM IN A CAGE IN THE BASEMENT, PLEASE BE NICE TO HIM AND RETURN AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. WE HAVE A FED-EX ACCOUNT. E-MAIL FOR SHIPPING DETAILS.CHRIS, IF YOU ARE READING THIS, PLEASE DON'T GO SEE INCEPTION. IT'S QUITE LONG. BUT ELLEN PAGE IS VERY GOOD. DICAPRIO IS OKAY, BUT LIKE I SAID, IT IS QUITE LONG AND CONFUSING, BUT GOD FORBID I TELL YOU WHAT TO SPEND YOUR HARD EARNED MONEY ON.

Iggy Pop and Mystic Fire’s Big Book of Mystic Secrets & Wizard Stuff with Unicorns

“What worries me is the professionalism of everything.” Irvine Welsh

Hey. I wrote this remarkable column the other day. It was brilliant - a real work of literature - 1,200 words of literary gold. I swear this thing had everything: flowing sentences, eight metaphors, romance, references to Sammy Davis Jr., and I think there was something about the Canadian Rockies. It was fabulous, and would have surely won me some type of major award and possibly a mention on CBC’s Morning North with host Marcus Schwabe. (I’m not sure if I spelled his name correctly as I no longer Google things.) The column, well, once published, I’m reasonably sure there may have even been a parade for me, like the recent Shriner shindig, except it would be me sitting on the back of a pickup waving a sword around like a menace. But, I deleted it. Gone. Poof. I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it. So I ripped this one out instead, which is neither brilliant nor does it make any reference to the Canadian Rockies. I still may end up waving a sword around, mind you - just to see what happens...

Words and rhythm. Music and writing. Music is tattooed way deep down into my genetic makeup. Jazz. Blues. Appalachian Mountain. Zydeco. Funk and soul. It’s all way down there in that sub-cellular level where things tend to get pretty weird. The music gene or “Django Gene XX14” makes my crazy DNA ladder rumble around. I need music every day, like caffeine, Judge Judy, and Nexium. I have cds stacked all over my downstairs office. Towers of them. I lose them. I give them away. I write music. Play music. Lend, borrow and steal music. I tend to over-think things and get too hung up in the mundane if I find myself in total silence. Music propels me, like a shove from a bully.

Words and rhythm. Music and writing. Right now it’s Sunday morning somewhere. Through headphones, Iggy Pop is slagging through Lust for Life, which works just fine for me. The song featured prominently in the success of Train Spotting; an adaptation of Irvine Welshs’ ragged and hazardous first novel of the same name. I’ll be going off on Irvine in a future column.

Okay, so Iggy’s still howling about Johnny Yen. Iggy’s a dangerous cat, provoking me to WRITE IN UPPERCASE, TO RUN OUT INTO THE STREET AND PUSH OVER A TRASH CAN OR COMANDEER A LITTLE RASCAL SCOOTER AND DRIVE IT INTO A TREE.
So, here’s the deal for this week’s column- guaranteed to interest a precious few - I’m going to cue up random songs from my computer then just write whatever comes to mind. No edits. No worries. No inner voices. And in the immortal words of Methuselah: If you know the words feel free to sing along!

Spontaneous Writing Experiment #1 -Iggy Pop and the Stooges- Raw Power

Last night there was a bit of a cold snap. Today it’s high noon and my beloved city has fully descended into a bleak state of absolute chaos, having nothing to do with last night’s cold snap. Today is all about blind madness in epidemic proportions. A plague of instant insanity. Out from the opened window I look down on street level. Mr. Knoph is in a blue bathrobe running down the middle of the street, screaming and shaking one bony fist at the darkening sky, while trying to keep his robe closed with his other hand. Across from my 2nd floor apartment, 930 McIntyre is on fire. I listen to glass breaking. Pops and cracks. It’s the largest house on the 200 block. A bloated McMansion owned by an Air Canada pilot with a biting pill habit. His wife, Marlene, is trying to extinguish the inferno with a kinked garden hose. I light a cigarette with the dented Zippo Mrs. Henderson gave to me after her son Henry was imprisoned for arson. She told me Henry’s Zippo would only bring back bad memories. Fire is the great equalizer. And Armageddon. And ponzi schemes. A police cruiser speeds past, almost running down Mr. Knoph, who although is still shaking his fist at the heavens, has since stopped screaming. He has also evidently given up trying to keep his robe closed. A sonic boom rattles my walls. The cruiser rams a 50 Cab broadside. Objects are now dropping from the sky. I crank my neck and look up. I squint. The sky is now full of colour and crazy shapes. Random things raining down: a green desk lamp and bent lightning rods, a white sectional sofa and a few English saddles, a roasted chicken bounces off the Camry parked by the curb - the one with the canoe strapped to the roof with frayed bungee cords, some plastic dolls, a gazebo, globe and four gazelles, and various types of both brass and woodwind instruments. Old Testaments, New Testaments and basketballs. Canadian Tire flyers. I see Mr. Knoph. I sniff. This morning I woke up with a fever. I was out last night at 100 Georges drinking with a stranger who told me about his habit of twisting the truth when it came down to the crunch. I’m thinking that I should probably yell down a warning to Mr. Knoph when he’s crushed by a plummeting John Deere riding lawnmower. I sneeze and sniff and go back to bed. Maybe I’ll feel better after some more sleep.

Baffled Buffoon Beaten Beautifully By Brilliant Banana Balloon Boy

“Albert Einstein was a ladies' man.While he was working on his universal plan, he was making out like Charlie Sheen. He was a genius.” Warren Zevon

I spend the majority of my time inside my brain. It’s my working office. Thinking. Plotting. Scheming. In my brain I keep my shoes on all the time and leave the toilet seat up when I hit the can. There’s room for my green recliner with the ass groove, a small fridge, my Fender Telecaster with Cyber Twin amplifier, my three-legged bookcase that once belonged to Pierre Trudeau’s neighbour, “Marvellous Wayne” Tubsoch, my Boomtown Rats records, and even the tiny herd of those freakishly small miniature ponies. Inside my brain nothing grows, hopefully, so nothing ever needs trimming. Most of the time my brain travels with me wherever I go; there is no need for any kind of wireless technology. My internet is not on a stick. My internet is a complicated mess of neurons and strands of grey matter that’s fairly dependable considering the haphazard wiring. No monthly fees.

There’s a heavy steel door designed to withstand a million megaton nuclear blast. Or just a good old fashioned carpet bombing. Perfectly balanced, the door pivots smoothly with a delicate touch of a single digit. Most of the time it’s kept slightly ajar, just for airflow. Sometimes I’ll close it when people try to sell me heavily discounted natural gas, or some type of quasi-religion literature.

Bangus Book of the Day

Precious memories from a man-child and his deer:

When I was just a young man-child with little concept of the world around me I had a beautiful deer that I raised from a fawn. His name was Tommy Shanks and he loved me and I loved him. We grew up together in a colossal sweatshop on the far side of Trout Lake. We were orphans, see, and we were sold into a forced-labor camp to make leather slippers and maple syrup, but it wasn’t bad as The Fifth Estate would have you believe. At least not for me because I had my best friend, Tommy Shanks, as company. Me and Tommy spent twenty-one years on that labour farm churning out thousands of quality beaded slippers and later, designer handbags. To be honest, I’d be the one doing most of the intricate needle work because Tommy was a deer and struggled sewing with his clumsy hoofs. It was a cool morning in October the last time I saw Tommy Shanks, my friend and confidant. He told me he was tired of the exploitation and was going to make a break for it. He said he was going to try his hand (hoof) at acting. We embraced then he jumped the fence to greet his new life. I sure hope things worked out well for him. I loved that deer.”

Let's talk about Clockwork Orange for a minute - just between friends

I like oranges. I like orange juice, too. Bananas? No. They’re too urban for me. They have this attitude that I don’t care much for. I like oranges. There’s no oranges in this book which is fine with me. Just because someone likes oranges doesn’t mean the topic of oranges would make for an interesting book and it would sell poorly unless it was written by Stephen King or that guy who’s always writing about submarines and espionage.

I remember first reading A Clockwork Orange, first published in 1962 by Anthony Burgess, when I was a kid growing up on the tough streets of the crime-infested industrial town of Kenmore By The Danmore just east of Prince Williams Valley Gorge, BC. Now, I’ve long since lost the book so this whole thing is going down by memory. The protagonist, Alex is a wise-ass psychopathic teenage hooligan (are there any other kind?) He leads a mindless pack of no-goods going from one crime spree to the next, skipping school and everything! There’s some serious debauchery and violence. Alex and his lads beat on bums and commit some pretty
atrocious acts. The language of the book and the Kubric directed movie is Nadstat. Burgess invented it to make the characters seem more psychotic.

According to Burgess, Nadstat is constructed from “old Cockney school boy talk, English, Russian, and bits of Communist subliminal penetration.” Naturally, things get out of hand. Little Alex is sent away for murder. In prison, he is transformed into a model citizen through this controversial Ludivico treatment. He is forcibly restrained and then conditioned to become sick whenever entertaining thoughts or witnessing acts of violence. They make him watch a ‘viddy’ compilation of some ‘nastiness’. But can this state-sponsored psychological rehabilitation program actually work? Can morality and a sense of what is right and wrong be forced down your gullet or guttiwut? Is the ability to choose between good and evil, in fact a human right? Or is it a mere privilege? Oh, and what's up with Mel Gibson? He sound's like a dick.

Here’s how it begins: (this is from memory so I may be off and if I am and you take the effort to notice my mistakes and e-mail them in to Bngus Online,we’ll that’s spooky)

“What’s it going to be then, eh?”
There was me, that is Alex, and my three droogs, that is Pete, Georgie, and Dim, Dim being really Dim, and we sat in the Korova Milkbar making up our rassoodocks what to do with the evening, a flip dark chill winter bastard though dry...

As I have no idea what the hell I did with my copy,I can’t find out word for word how it ends, but suffice it to say, it’s not good. I think it has something to do with recidivism.

Augustana in Julyana

The Dancing Man from Buffalo, For the Love of the Korn God, and the Lost Keys to the Hippie Bus

I recently met a guy from Buffalo. I didn't go out of my way to meet him nor was it a mysterious case of Providence. I just met him. Briefly - while at a Counting Crows concert - one of only two Canadian dates for their Traveling Circus and Medicine show. When you willingly join a temporary community of a few thousand people in a designated space you are bound by the laws of sociability to interact with someone in some form, yet interaction in general is not something I excel at - especially with strangers. I'm just hardwired that way and am now too set in my ways to try and modify this quirk. Small talk for me is excruciating. I can never come up with anything interesting to say. I just babble. I truly become seriously bent when it comes to talking to strangers - especially when it's strictly enforced. But, there it is, and here we are and there go you and I. So, I met this guy from Buffalo. Recently. So did my wife. He was sitting directly in front of us. He turned, introduced himself and just began talking. I think anyone who has ever gone to see a concert has met this same guy. He wears a concert shirt of the band he's seeing. He's hopelessly drunk and has an attractive girlfriend who looks like she's just trying to placate him by feigning her enthusiasm for his favourite band. Once the band hits the stage, he immediately stands and starts to dance. He 'whoops and hollers' in the section where people are perfectly happy to remain seated, unless prompted by the band to do otherwise. He tries to make small talk with everyone around him, who can't hear anything he's going on about, nor particularly care, but he keeps talking anyway. He phones someone on his cell and holds up the phone to subject the person on the other end to a heavily distorted mess of sonic drivel. I've seen this same guy at the following shows in no particular chronological order: Bob Dylan (times fifteen), Tom Petty, Grateful Dead, Joni Mitchell, Crosby Stills Nash, Neil Young (times three), Steve Earle (times three) , Pink Floyd (times three) , Rolling Stones (times three) , KISS (times four) , Iron Maiden (times two), David Bowie, Alice Cooper, Motorhead, Stompin' Tom, Robert Plant, Mark Knopfler, KoKo Taylor, Eric Clapton, Ronnie Wood, Bo Diddley, David Lee Roth, Spearhead, Blue Rodeo, Stevie Ray Vaughn, and even the Hot Club of Cow Town. It's the same guy being a dick and a total distraction. But, like Dr. Thompson once wrote - when you buy the ticket, you must take the ride.

Bangus Book of the Day

The World Out There - Bangus Foreign Affairs by noted Scorpio Thief Chris Rees

Where: USA

What : HIDEOUS MONSTER TERRORIZES HOLLYWOOD

A hideous monster has been sighted terrorizing the resident of Hollywood, California. The movie-making town has suffered repeated nightly attacks by a deranged monster known to hang innocent lingerie from chandeliers and smash champagne bottles several at a time. The creature is described as blond, spotty and not very talented. Lindsay Lohan’s publicist was unavailable for comment.

Where: CANADA

What: NEWFOUNDLAND ECONOMY GRINDS TO A HALT

Another victim of the “great recession” seems to be the economy of Newfoundland. Residents there are so hopeless of a recovery that many have even stopped collecting their unemployment premiums. “Why should I?” said St. John’s resident Percy Rogers. “The government should pay me to collect it.”

Where: ENGLAND

What: MASTER BURGLAR FINALLY CAUGHT

A master burglar who has been robbing residents nightly in London, England has finally been caught. The police say they had been trying in vain to catch the perp until they realized his secret: he was a midget! The 3’5” thief had not left footprints because his arse was so low it touched the ground. Police finally caught him by dusting for finger prints along the baseboards.

Where: AFRICA

What: ZIMBABWE LEADER PROMISES SOFTER APPROACH

Zimbabwe strongman Robert Mugabe has promised a “kinder, gentler” approach to government in future, he said. He told Bangus Online that starting in September 2010, suspected traitors and rebels will no longer be shot or tortured. There was no mention of an alternative punishment although it has been noted that DVD’s of all three seasons of “Veronica's Closet” had recently been flown to the capital city, Harare.

Where: KOREA

What: CIRCUS DOGS ON STRIKE

Dogs in the circus in Pyongyang, North Korea have ended their 2-day old strike. The dogs had been striking for higher pay and better working conditions. Circus leaders there had refused to budge. The dogs finally gave in after being told that if the strike continued they would be given alternative assignments in the restaurant business.

Woman scores fake lake and jet ski at post-G20 flea market

MYSTERIOUS WEATHER PATTERN HOVERS OVER TORONTO’S DOWNTOWN CORE PUZZLING SOME BUT NOT MANY - Meteorologists admit to being stumped and indifferent!

BANGUS / TORONTO, ON—What local meteorologist are terming the “weirdest looking supercell” ever witnessed, has parked itself over downtown Toronto and refuses to budge.

“It’s become a bit of a tourist thing now, which is a Godsend,” says famous Toronto resident, Prince. The cloud formed shortly after June 15th and has remained hunkered down as if attached to the CN Tower and Sky Dome like a colossal advertisement. People are confused. People are frightened.

“It’s a sign of the approaching apocalypse,” is one notion shared by a squeegee kid, while other’s see the large cloud cover as a divine sign. What people do agree on is the eerie resemblance to Canadian Folkette legend, Joni Mitchell. When contacted by Bangus, representatives declined to comment outright but did state that any resemblance between this supercell cloud formation blanketing Toronto and their client is purely coincidental.

NORTH BAY HIRES 80’S METAL SINGER TO TACKLE NUISANCE BEARS

BANGUS ONLINE / NORTH BAY–In a seemingly desperate lastditch effort to deal with the high number of nuisance bears that has held the Nipissing area captive for the past three summers, Bangus Online has learned that North Bay Council has approved the hiring of Tom Keifer—lead singer of 80’s glam Metal Band “Cinderella”. Keifer, originally from Philadelphia PA, who has penned such notable metal anthems as ‘Push, Push, Push’ and ‘Nobody’s Fool’ is known for his loose morals, pasty complexion, love of flowing satin shirts and brash vocal stylings but the city is banking on the notion that through his masterful metal baladeering, Keifer, now living in a shelter in North Hollywood, will be able to lure all bears to an open field where they will be sedated, ridiculed for a short time, poked with large sticks then eventually crated up and relocated to Kirkland Lake or possibly Swisha, Quebec.

A sweaty looking spokesman for the city, who wishes to remain anonymous, claims to have been the one to have come up with the idea after viewing the children’s video ‘Pied Piper’ and then footage from the Moscow Music Peace Festival held August 12th 1989 where Cinderella performed a tight bluesy set sandwiched between Skid Row and Bon Jovi. “I was sitting in my mom’s basement watching some old videos and drinking quite heavily. I mean, I was really liquored-up. Then, after Pied Piper I found the Moscow Music Peace Festival tape under a stack of Whose The Boss? episodes. The mother, uh Mona, was hot. I never knew why Tony didn’t chase her instead of that prude. Mona was the wild one. Oh yeah, okay, so I remember taping the Peace Festival from MTV. Right away I noticed the awesome power Tom Keifer had over the audience and there was at least eight million people there and I figured, hey, maybe he can do something with our bear problem, you know? He had everyone eating from the palm of his hand. It was really something to see. The only other performer, I think, to have the same kind of power was Gino Vanelli or maybe Cory Hart. But this Keifer guy? Unbelievable.”

Keifer originally asked for 2.6 hundred dollars for a three month contract, plus travel and living expenses.
After eleventh-hour negotiations, his agent, Smelly Theo accepted on Mr. Keifer’s behalf but for the reduced negotiated fee of 1.3 hundred dollars plus a voucher for a spaghetti dinner at a local place of worship upon completion of contact.

During a phone call, Bangus asked Smelly Theo, whether Mr Keifer has had any experience with black
bears. He responded by humming a few bars of ‘Gypsy Road’. After further prodding, Mr. Theo did admit that his client has “little to no” experience dealing with bears and can barely bathe himself, but he is confident that this scheme is so crazy it “just might work.” Looking for confirmation, Bangus contacted fellow councilman Donald Kruthers, who wished to remain anonymous to confirm the rock & roll black bear deal.

“Yeah. It was either this Keifer fella or Leonard Cohen,” stated Kruthers. “It is my understanding that Mr.
Cohen wanted three hundred cartons of cigarettes and nine quartz of red wine. So, I guess North Bay is
lucky to have gotten Mr. Keifer at such a savings which of course we can pass on the the taxpayers in some
intangible and ambiguous way that could not hold up under any scrutiny."

Asked if he is familiar with the vocal stylings of Mr. Keifer, Kruthers stated: “I’m more of an BTO guy. TCB? C’mon, man. Now, that’s real rock! And don’t get me going on Davey Jones.”

Smelly Theo assured North Bay that they have made a sound decision in the hiring of his client. He admits to not knowing where North Bay is but states that he knew a treeplanter from Kelowna, BC and figured that it was probably not far from there. Keifer will be packaged up in the large cardboard box that he has been living in since 1997 and will be layered in bubble wrap that Smelly Theo collected from the alley in
Hollywood. He will be sent via Express Post.

“I’ll have him there by nine a.m. Wednesday, August 21st Guaranteed! Then he’ll sing his ass off and take care of them bears for good.”

THE PAINFUL TRUTH ABOUT CLINICAL BOVINE DEPRESSION

BY TONY WELSH  -  BANGUS ONLINE

Colloquially termed by psycho-social veterinarians as ‘SAD’ cow disease, Clinical Bovine Depression is slowly emerging from the dark shadows of the back pastures and rock piles of farms across Canada and the US. Recent studies indicate that Clinical Bovine Depression (CBD) accounts for the skyrocketing number of cows leaving the security of the farm for a life on the cold and unforgiving streets of major urban centers. On a freezing night in Edmonton, Sheila St. Claire bundles up and pulls her toque down tight. From a makeshift table erected in front of a long-since-closed adult cinema, St. Claire, a certified bovine outreach worker dishes out generous portions of steaming, pre-chewed cud-gruel to a distressed looking heifer. Sheila waves at a cow she hasn’t seen in days. “They’re leaving behind a life of despair, confusion and sadness. They’re running from themselves. But they carry their burdens with them and now what’s happening is that the major downtown centers are being overrun with cows afflicted with CBD. This is why it’s so hard to for anyone to get into the shelters on any given night—they’re full of SAD cows. Plus you can’t get many of them in a single shelter. Another complicating factor is that aside from Mary and Joseph of Nazareth, there aren’t many people who want to share their space with any kind of animal, let alone maladjusted, clinically depressed cattle. They’re just too unpredictable and make for poor conversationalists.”

The World Out There from the Tangled Mind of Bangus' Chief Foreign Affairs Correspondent

WHERE: GRANDE RONDE OREGONGrande Ronde Oregon

WHAT: DEATH AND $2.99 PRIME RIB

A 67 year old man died of a heart attack while playing slots at the Spirit Mountain casino. While his body lay right there on the floor of the casino the other customers continued to play the slot machines. 65 year old gambler Tina May said: “I couldn’t come to help him as I was feeling lucky that night.” Spirit Mountain Casino is open 24/7 and offers free sandwiches as well as coffee to visitors. Come join the fun at Oregon’s best Casino!

WHERE: GLENDALE CALIFORNIA

WHAT: MICHAEL JACKSON COMEBACK

Undertakers at Forest Lawn Memorial Park in Glendale, California say they believe Michael Jackson will be making a comeback this year. Judging by the late superstars’ burial about one year ago, experts believe the singer has about three feet to go.

WHERE: BEIJING, CHINA

WHAT: BULL IN CHINA SHOP SPARKS UPROAR

A bull in Fong’s china shop located in Beijing, China sparked an uproar when he suggested that Mao Zedong was a stupid arse. Customers at the shop were shocked and a spirited argument ensued resulting in a tranquilizer dart from police to bring the argumentative bull down. This is the second time Fong’s shop has seen an altercation. Yesterday over 50,000 in damages were racked up by a Greek wedding party.

WHERE: AFGHANISTAN

WHAT: TO GET NEW SEWER SYSTEM

War-torn Afghanistan is expected to get a new sewer system sometime in the next 12 months. The existing system, stretching from downtown Kabul to downtown Kabul is in bad need of repair and local residents had been complaining about the stench.

WHO:WAYNE ROONEY

WHAT: VOTED UGLIEST FOOTBALLER

England soccer star Wayne Rooney was voted the ugliest soccer player of the South Africa world cup. The trophy will go alongside his 2006 trophy for worst drunk and his 2007 award for smelliest armpits. Rooney has yet to clinch the award for wife-beating but says he will get in better shape for the 2010-2011 season.

OPEN YOUR MOUTH! WIDER! STOP RESISTING!

“Do you have crack cocaine in your mouth, sir?”

“Uh, no.”

“Please open your mouth.”

“Okay.”

“Wider.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I can't really open up any wider.”

“Stick your tongue out.”

“Ahhh.”

“Wider.”

“What?”

“I said stop resisting!”

“Huh?”

“Open up your mouth!”

“I am!”

“Wider!! Quit resisting.”

“I'm not.”

“I will ask you one more time: Do you have crack cocaine in your mouth?”

“No.”

“Open your mouth?”

“Okay.”

“Open wider!”

“I can't unless you want me to dislocate my jaw.”

“Stop resisting. Open your mouth.”

“Ahhhhh.”

“Okay, that's fine. Have a nice day sir and please replace that license plate bulb as soon as you can.”

“TOILETS HAVE BROUGHT US NOTHING BUT GRIEF! NORTH BAY IS SLAVE TO THE THRONE.” — RALPH PALMER

BY BRIAN DECKER
Bangus Online Magazine
NORTH BAY— Ralph Emerson Palmer is on a mission. He would like to see all indoor plumbing banned through a municipal bylaw proposal that he presented to council last Wednesday. Scrawled out on a roll of two-ply toilet paper, Mr. Palmer claimed that the “sacred scroll” was a collection of six names that would like to see indoor plumbing banned. Palmer told council that he has ‘irrefutable’ proof that the rampant use of “fancy toilets” has contributed directly to the perceived regression of society into a pack of ‘uncivilized philistines.’ He has demanded that council take quick and deliberate steps.

After being escorted out of the building by security, Mr. Palmer spoke briefly with Bangus, reading from his parchment. “Since the advent of the indoor toilet we’ve become a crazed race of capitalistic profiteers and war mongers. The outhouse was once a place of meeting and community. We met and exchanged philosophies and ideas. We shared copies of The Farmers Almanac and Readers Digest. Now? Indoor toilets seem to be everywhere and people don’t seem to be communicating as much.”

During a subsequent interview, Mr. Palmer spat out a two hour rant of incoherent philosophizing at his tiny apartment on First Avenue. The residence was cramped but well kept. A bird chirped from a small brass cage hanging by the single window. Over coffee, Palmer pined over the simpler times when he was a boy living out in Papineau Township helping run the family farm and reading Sartre in the outhouse.“Today it’s all this Internet and cashless society bunk and people being beat up with sticks. We must scourge North Bay of the root of all this evil—the indoor toilet.”

As an alternative he suggested a communal pit where shuttles would be provided free of charge by the city. We broke bread together. I had the meat loaf and some strong coffee then it happened, as it usually does with me and meat loaf. He smiled as I rubbed my stomach. He pointed towards the bathroom down the hall. The toilet’s lid was firmly wrapped shut with thick layers of heavy gauge duct tape. I could hear him laughing from the kitchen.

“You too have become a slave to indoor plumbing. The outhouse is in the back yard. The outhouse
was once a place of meeting and community.”

Behind a tin machine a crippled looking wooden structure canted precariously like the Tower of Pisa but smaller and with only a well-behaved cluster of tourists from Billings. Carved into the door was a tiny crescent moon. Inside on a string, a jaundiced, heavily thumbed copy of the Farmers Almanac from 1947 hung from the wall. Nebraska had a wet summer. Later, back in the kitchen, Mr. Palmer was optimistic about what has become somewhat as a divine mission. “This is now my divine mission. I have faith in North Bay and council and I think when they realize the dangers in the insidious proliferation of indoor plumbing in our city, they will be forced to act.”

Hey Renaldo, who tooted? Pass me my saxamaphone! I want to play a song for Canada

"Don't play the saxophone. Let it play you. You've got to learn your instrument. Then, you practice, practice, practice. And then, when you finally get up there on the bandstand, forget all that and just wail." - Charlie Parker


Okay. It's Canada's birthday. Happy birthday, big guy! The birth of a Nation and so forth. Politicians love to toast this birthday. It makes for predictable sound bytes on the news and easy photo-ops. Easily produced pieces of Canadiana pap. Hot dogs, poutine and free pony rides, and if you are fortunate enough to be employed, Canada's birthday means a day off with pay for many workers. Now, as a country with a history that only dates back less than 200 years, you could say that we are celebrating the birth of a country that is still in its infancy. If Canada were a homo-erectus, the country would still be wearing diapers and drooling and making very little sense, in linguistic terms anyway. Babbling and such. Not very tolerant of others and somewhat unreasonable. But lets not forget that the Natives were here long before Canada would call itself a proper country. Chippewa. Algonquin. The Hurons. The Plains Indians (and more, I just forget the rest). As far as Europeans however, it was the lovable Vikings who came here first. The French and the Brits did manage to make their way across the Atlantic. It was a Wednesday, shortly after lunch. If the Natives had known they were coming, I'm sure they would have baked a cake. As it turns out, everyone who did come brought guns, axes and the odd virus, ready to take some serious surveying measurements. The rest, as they say is Canadian history. Happy birthday Canada. I was going to bake you a cake but got caught up with FIFA World Cup.

PS - CANFACT #1: A little know fact about Canada is that it was originally referred to as 'Cet Endroit est l'Enfer sur la Terre' or roughly translated: 'That Place is Hell on Earth' by the French who ended up organizing a contest to help name this newly trampled land. Some names that didn't win: Glendale, Ontario Place, Timmy's, Sierra de Trixie and GSTPSTHSTVille.

Okay, let's begin, shall we. Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky. Back in high school during the early eighties, while a gangly teen with poker straight hair and truly volcanic zits I reluctantly learned how to play the saxophone, or as Homer Simpson refers to it - the "saxamaphone". I would have rather learned how to blow that sweet, sweet tuba just because it looks like it could be used to crush someone, but like every high school music class, the tuba was reserved for the smallest kid for whatever reason. I chose the saxamaphone because I had to choose something. The electric guitar was taken, so was the Fender Precision bass, and the holy grail of high school instruments, the drums. Even the triangle was taken. Literally. Someone took it, bent the hell out of it before throwing it off the bridge into the Mattawa River. This was the year before I would walk the hallowed halls of F.J. McElligott in beautiful downtown Mattawa - or 'the places where the rivers meet'. Canada was a few years younger then.

I hated that damned sax. I hated blowing into it. I hated the colour. I hated the taste of a soggy reed, and the hideous, murderous squawks I spat out of it. I hated the contorted faces and painful grimaces I was forced to make. It's hard to look cool when your face is the hue of a baboon's mocking shiny red ass. I hated the way I had to sit to accommodate the thing - up straight in a red plastic chair with the thing dangling between my legs. You can't slouch playing the saxamaphone. It was just a dismal relationship. Now, this was of course, before I discovered beatnik fifties jazz, and how extraordinary the sax can be in the mouth of a seasoned heroin addict. But at the tender age of fourteen? No. I could not relate to the thing. Jimi Hendrix didn't play sax which worked out well for Jimi as it would have been hard to set a sax on fire like he did at Monterey. The sax was brass of course, and man, brass for me, was not cool in the eighties. David Bowie - the Alladin Sane himself, played sax but he never looked cool tooting it in his high-waisted pastel suits. The Lizard King, Jim Morrison was about sex, not sax. Jimmy Page never played sax, nor did Johnny Cash. Bob Dylan blew harp, singing long convoluted songs about Isis and ghosts of electricity howling through the bones of some woman's face. I could go on and on. But that's enough about the saxamaphone, so let's move on to horns in general as the horn is a hot topic these days.

Up until last week, I always thought the word 'vuvuzela' was some type of venereal disease (i.e, "Stay away from Mississippi Gary, he's back from Malaysia with a bad case of the hoo-doo voo-doo vuvuzela"). But no. It's not a disease, although many do see the vuvuzela as a scourge. The vuvuzela has been causing a bit of a controversy at this year's FIFA World Cup. This is the only sport I commit any time to due to the violent undercurrents of the sport. Where else can a coach simply 'disappear' after a losing match, or a blown call by a referee resulting in his exile? Now that's a true sport. The first televised game I watched was between Germany and I don't remember. Football riots are outstanding. Televised hooliganism has drawn a lot of attention to the simple act of kicking a ball around a massive field.

So, after shoving the two schnauzers off the couch, propping up my feet, and getting comfortably slouched deep into my ass-groove, I settled into what I had hoped to be a nice, relaxing, low-scoring match. But listening in all I could hear was this atonal buzz. What the hell? I checked the audio settings on the stereo but couldn't isolate the buzz. I tried another CBC affiliate. Still there. Shit. ESPN. Still there. It sounded like a billion unseen bees just waiting off-camera to swarm in on the massive crowd of spectators. The bees never did come. Too bad. That would have made for great television as well.

THE WORLD OUT THERE - From the Foreign Affairs Mobile Outhouse

WHERE: NORTH AMERICA

WHAT: LARGE PROTEST IN TORONTO

World leaders met in Toronto for the G20 conference amid large protests and a huge police presence. Over 900 people were arrested by police after smashing windows and setting fire to police cars. A huge contingent of anarchist swarmed around the city wreaking havoc. More peaceful protesters displayed their outrage by carrying signs and chanting slogans. Most of the complaints related to Angel Merkel’s appearance in the G20 bikini contest.

WHERE: AFRICA

WHAT: WORLD CUP: "IT’S OFFICIAL TOP TEAMS SUCK!"

FIFA, the international soccer authority released a statement today on the quality of the top teams in the match. The statement reads: “The following teams suck: England, Brazil, Argentina and France.” Canada doesn’t suck as it failed to make the tournament.

 

WHERE: U.K.

WHAT: PUPPY DIES IN TRAGIC MISUNDERSTANDING.

A puppy was killed in the UK after a tragic misunderstanding. A young boy had asked his father what happens when his puppy dies. His father is reported to have replied that the puppy would be buried in a box in the garden and the boy and his friends could then all come by and have some ice cream and sing songs to remember the dog. The police said the puppy died approximately 30 minutes later.

WHERE: JAPAN

WHAT: MAN CONTRACTS HERPES FROM ARTIFICIAL LOVE DOLL

A Japanese man contracted herpes from Japan Love Doll Inc. The company apologized and said the doll had been made too realistic and future models would be adjusted.