Tastier than abortedchildren.

A Book Pitch

Synopsis: The Adventures of Earnest and Fun Couch is a children’s book that tells the story of two couches (Ernest and Fun Couch) meeting with other household furniture, going on an adventure after the adults have utilized them

Category: Sex-ed literature

Audience: Children aged 6-8, those with promiscuous parents, kids who ask too many questions about stains

Other characters: Burt the Creaking Bed, Sharon the Shower Stall, Kandice the Kitchen Counter, Benjamin the Balcony Railing¹— they all go through the same experience as Earnest and Fun Couch, as adults come and sit on them²

VillainLazarus the Lysol Wipe

Plot: On a sunny September day, Earnest realizes one of his legs is hurting. His friend from across the house, Fun Couch, comes over to investigate. They suspect that it might be a result of their parents, Rod and Fellatia having “sat” on Earnest too rigourously. They go around the house, finding similar things having happened to Burt the bed, Sharon the shower stall, Kandice the kitchen counter, Benjamin the balcony railing, and also, to their utter surprise, Steve the stove (“they turned me on… before they turned me on!”)

As they get closer to figuring out the mystery as to why they have suffered those injuries and stains, Lazarus the Lysol Wipe enters and prevents them from confronting Rod and Fellatia. Lazarus declares that his cleaning properties will erase all evidence and smells, and there will be no traces of anything, as that’s just how Rod— who is at work at the steel plant right now— wants it.

Earnest and his pals fend off each obstacle Lazarus throws their way, and in the end, finds Whitey the Policeman Who Has Been Acquitted Of Shooting A Black Kid Twenty Times During a Traffic Stop, to tell him everything. However, Whitey needed proof that something illegal was done, and Earnest has none…

…Until Fun Couch realizes that Fellatia left her elementary school student ID in one of his crevices.

With this, Whitey arrests Rod and Lazarus, and all the furniture in the house can rejoice again and live peacefully!

Moral: (Children) Do not enter any rooms after you hear creaking/bouncing/grunting/shrieking/cracking/disappointed female sighs or forced superlatives (“I had such a great minute and a twenty two seconds!”)

(Adults) Consider your legs and the furniture legs/Don’t do illegal things/Invest in a gag

Sequel: The Adventures of Larry The Law being interpreted by Jeremiah the Judge Who is Hell Bent On Acquitting Rod Because of The Brotherhood of Penis and Other Stupid Bullshit Because They Can Get Away With It

1. The author will make every effort to keep Balcony Railing as a noun
2. May not necessarily be in that order

A Guide For Newcomers to (The New) Canada

Dear immigrant,

Welcome to Canada, we trust that you have settled in by now.

If you are of Anglo-Saxon descent who have received this letter by mistake, please return this back to the nearest government office possible. This letter is meant for people of “other” heritages who have been approved to immigrate to Canada. And since we have only printed about six of these letters, in accordance with the amount of said immigrants we approved this year, we really do not want to waste more ink to print another one. As you may know, we are going through some trying economic times, and every little bit helps.

So, again, if you are one of the lucky six who have been approved to Canada, welcome!

We have enclosed a list of neighborhoods where you may find yourself comfortable to settle into. From that list, we personally recommend the likes of Sudbury, Moose Jaw, or Red Deer. We understand that you may rather live closer to those who speak your language, but that wouldn’t be a truly Canadian experience, now would it? Besides, yes, while we are fervent supporters of multiculturalism, what often goes unsaid (and that is our fault, we admit) is that we prefer those multiculturalisms be buried inside the confines of your property, if not six feet under.

On that note, it would be ideal that whichever property you purchase that it’d be smell proof. So in case you are to practice your culture inside those walls– or more specifically, cook your various foods– the smell will not escape. We know that you would like to argue that you have the freedom to cook whatever foods you desire, but since even the lightest whiff of those scents usually give us– those of us who are used to steak and potatoes– a queasy feeling, it becomes a health issue. And that, we are sorry to inform you, is more important than your curry.

Regarding the issue of language, let’s just say that if you are reading this and can understand even some of it, what’s stopping you from learning the rest of it? We are people of industry, and since you are moving in with us, we would prefer you to pick up some of that industry and learn some goddamn English. Because we sure aren’t going to learn yours. Now, we’re not egotistical enough to think that you are talking about us whenever you speak in tongues, but no matter, it just makes us uncomfortable. Why? Because we don’t understand. So what, you ask? Because we got here first, that’s what.

Now your child’s history books may tell you something different, that there are certain peoples– Indians (no, not some of yous, the other kinds)– who were here first. That is technically true. But something else that is also technically true is that we beat the shit out of them, so unless they get to write the history books and run the country, tough. And I know you may argue that “getting here first” is a relative concept, and that twenty years down the road, you may be able to say to the sudden influx of Papua New Guineans wanting to migrate here that you got here first, and so they should speak your funny language. Allow us to nip this in the bud and let you know the harsh truth, which is that there is, indeed, a demarcation line for the definition “getting here first.”  Sept. 29th, 1973. Hence, to our understanding, the heritage of the peoples who have the moral authority to utter the phrase “we got here first” are as follows: English, American, Irish, Scottish, German, Greek, Portuguese, certain generations of Italians (the ones old enough not see jeans as a “fashion statement”). I know this is all a bit hard to take in, and in the heat of the moment, may be hard to figure out. Here’s a useful tip: if he’s white (or off-white), he’s probably one of us.

If this might make us seem a little antagonistic, rest assured, we’re not. We do want you here. We do want your money here. Actually, we don’t really need you here. Just your money. After that, if you want to fuck off back to Chindiagladeshxico, feel free.

It is preferable that you cheer for our athletes no matter what. No matter the ability or character of said athlete(s), if he or she represents Canada, it is your patriotic duty to commiserate if they lose, celebrate if they win, and also feel a sense of unspeakable pride after such event– even though you, personally, have done nothing to contribute and all you have in common with that athlete is the same passport cover. In the rare event that a situation presents a moral dilemma, for example if the athlete in question is Canadian but is also a convicted child molester, it is preferable that you still cheer (just think of our flag, and not crying little boys dripping blood from various orifices). It is useful for you to understand that in our culture, in regards to matters involving our flag, there is no place for rational thinking. Why do you think you’re reading this?

If you entered our country by claiming refugee status, please inform us of the officer’s name who approved your claim. Well, soon to be ex-officer.

As for religion, if your God has more than two arms or support terrorist activities (if he qualifies for the first chances are he qualifies for the second), he/she/it is not welcomed here.

Yours truly,

The Ministry of Payphones (and Multiculturalism)

Happy Birthday

Dear son,

Your mother and I are writing you because we’ve heard about your actions today, and we are concerned. We knew that, now that you’re off to school, there is potential for you to get into trouble. It was a risk we thought we could take. Little did we know.

Sure, happy birthday and all. But come on, not this happy. Not today.

It is not your fault that your special day has fell on the world’s special day (of mourning, that is), but it is ultimately a cross that you have to bear. Unless you want to become one of them Mohammed loving bastards. And not in this house you won’t. Remember, I said it’s a cross you had to bear, not a turban.

Will you be able to celebrate in a more joyous manner in the future? We certainly hope so since, as you know, the healing has begun. However, I should caution you that a full celebration may still be impossible since, as you also know–not unlike a stubborn case of syphilis– the wounds will never fully heal.

Son, maybe it’s easier if I just come out and say it. Your mother and I are disappointed in your expressions of joy on this day. It reeks of selfishness, and that’s not who we’ve raised you to be. In fact, we’re regretting telling you the exact time you were born. You do not need to celebrate that– especially not in the form of hooting and hollering and aggressive bearhugging– while everybody else is sharing a moment of silence.

So let us caution you that it is, perhaps, in your best interest that we do not hear more about your sordid tales of unbridled joy on your birthday. If you want to see any piece of the inheritance, you better hope that, in the years to come, as you mature, we don’t hear through the grapevine about how you got sloshed on cheap margaritas and had your orifices sucked/blown/vacuumed.

It saddens me very much that I have to write this letter to you, but after what we’ve heard from your kindergarten teacher, we feel that we have no other options except to have a written condemnation of your actions, as that’s how disappointed in you we are, of your expressions of happiness on this day. If you don’t understand what some of the bigger words mean, you will later. And we hope you feel even worse for it.

Much love, and again, happy birthday,

Mom and Dad

Lyricspoop – Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay

Shittin’ in the mornin’ sun
I’ll be shittin’ when the evenin’ come
Watching the shits roll in
And then I watch ’em roll away again, yeah

I’m shittin’ on the dock of the bay
Watching the tide roll away
Ooo, I’m just shittin’ on the dock of the bay
Wastin’ time

I left my home in Georgia
Headed for the ‘Frisco bay
‘Cause I’ve had nothing to live for
And look like nothin’s gonna come my way

So I’m just gonna shit on the dock of the bay
Watching the tide roll away
Ooo, I’m shittin’ on the dock of the bay
Wastin’ time

Look like nothing’s gonna change
Everything still remains the same
I can’t do what ten people tell me to do
So I guess I’ll remain the same, yes

Shittin’ here, resting my bones
And this loneliness won’t leave me alone
It’s two thousand miles I roamed
Just to make this dock my home

Now, I’m just gonna shit at the dock of the bay
Watching the tide roll away
Oooo-wee, shittin’ on the dock of the bay
Wastin’ time

Overheard at the Movie Studio

“Listen, Mike, I liked your script. But my note is that  the ending needs some tweaking. It’s too dark.”

“Well, I mean, it’s supposed to be dark.”

“You’re not getting it. This is Hollywood, people love happy endings. Glimmer of hope. They fall in love. Audience goes home happy.”

“I can try, but really, I just don’t think–”

“Listen, it’s my studio’s money, give me a happy ending. Something that makes me feel warm and fuzzy.”

“It’s a movie about a girl getting raped.”

“Yes, so can they like, fall in love with the end or something? Reconcile their differences?”



There once was a man– Ted– who was a good man. He was moral, principled, and really, an all around upstanding guy.

Ted liked to write. He wanted to be a poet. But he’s just turned twenty-six, and thinks that he should begin preparing for the rest of his life financially– his future wife, his future children, his future pets (though for some reason, animals seem just a little less adorable now that he realizes he has to pay for them)– so he takes a job with a real estate developer. “It’s just a small compromise,” Ted tells himself. When he’s secure he’ll go back to crafting free verses and haikus again.

Ted worked hard, and made money. He’s now thirty-three, and wants to buy a place to live. Ted grew up on a farm. Then he lived in the city when he went to school. He loved the space in the country, but he also loved the convenience that came with living downtown, that he never had to travel more than ten minutes to get anything he desired. So Ted split the difference and bought a place in the suburbs. He got his lawn, but he also got his convenience– albeit by car. As there was a Wal-Mart, a Wendy’s, and a Winners in a plaza five minutes away.

Ted never liked Wal-Mart. Having come from the country, he knows he should be getting his produce from, say, within the country he lived in as opposed to halfway around the world. But Ted also liked the idea that he could buy his hummus and underwear in the same place. So he told himself that essentially, he was saving gas and, therefore, saving the environment that way.

Ted has always loved the birds and the bees. His Prius, while nothing flashy, was always serviceable. But he’s forty now, and he’s doing well as a real estate developer, and he thinks it’s about time he got something that matched his status. His old neighbour drove an Escalade, and Ted has always envied him for owning one. So now that Ted can afford to buy one, he did. The admiring looks from bystanders were enough to make Ted forget about the amount of exhaust that was being spewed into the atmosphere.

Forty-seven and Ted is now married. Semi-happily. Nobody in Ted’s life thought Ted was going to marry Martha. Jennifer, they thought, was always going to be the one. Ted and Jennifer met in high school, fell in love in college, and have been together ever since. They’d go out every Saturday evening, to that (now defunct) drive-in on route 41. But then Ted got promoted to vice president in his real estate development company. Martha was the COO, and they each told themselves they really wanted to be with each other. So Ted fucked Martha a few times (once in the executive bathroom, once in the back of his Escalade, and once– he really felt horny that day– on the grave of his dead mother), and decided that sure, this was acceptable. And he dumped Jennifer and got hitched with Martha.

Does Ted love Martha? If by “love” you mean “able to co-habitate while feigning the occasional moments of affection”, then the answer is a resounding yes. To Ted, the absence of true love (not that he ever thought of it that way) wasn’t a huge problem. Martha was an able partner in the bedroom, and on days when Ted became a little bored, he could just close his eyes and think of anybody he wants. Lindsay Lohan, Jessica Alba, Megan Fox, Cindy Margolis, Betty White (like a fine wine), and once, when he was feeling sort of down, Jennifer.

All that fucking led to three children. Ted is now fifty-four and is beginning to take stock of his life. There is a tinge of regret that he never did pursue his dream of being a poet. But now that he has a wife and three kids, he says to himself, he has to be responsible. And throwing everything out the window at this point would just be reckless. To compensate for this tiny hole within him, Ted tried to write in his free time. And so he went out and got an Ipad. After watching all the commercials for it, he realized there was always an urge within him to get one (though he was never conscious of it til now). So he went out, got it (the white edition), fiddled around with it, bought all the apps, bought all the accessories, bought a Mac just to go with the Ipad. The only thing he forgot to do with it was write. But still, he felt happy. And when he didn’t, he just needed to take a drive to the Apple store.

At the ripe young age of sixty-one, Ted is finally promoted to President of the real estate development company. In recent years he was instrumental to the companies’ success in acquiring and developing farmlands. Ted’s biggest shining moment was shouting down a bunch of loosely organized protesters at one of the companies’ upcoming subdivisions. These loony fanatics were going on about the amount of animals being displaced and killed for more cookie cutter houses. In fact, Ted faced similiar, sparse opposition in internal meetings, to which he replied, “fuck ’em. Fuck ’em for shitting on my windshields. Fuck ’em for eating my garden flowers.” Being fully prepared for this, and having had this debate within himself to prepare for these wackos, Ted simply asked them two questions, repeatedly, “where else are these people going to live?” And, “it’s what they want, why can’t people get what they want?”

In his more introspective moments, Ted did emit some sympathy towards these creatures that he used to love, but he told himself that this was his job, and his job takes care of his family, and unfortunately for those damn creatures, that’s just the way it is. But little by little, Ted became less and less enamoured with animals. Mostly because of those damned cats who would, without fail, roam around on his lawn and occasionally use it as their litter box. Where he used to see cute little eyes, all he sees now are annoying pests wouldn’t get off his fucking property. And he finally did get them off his property, by buying a trap and firing three rubber bullets into the stomachs of each of those things. Hey, if they set foot on  his property, they get fuckin’ shot. That’s just how the world works, right?

Ted begins to contemplate retirement at sixty-eight. Yes, he’s getting on in age, but Ted just wants to procure as much as he could for his family before he passes. Just one more deal– he promises after his company swallows up yet another smaller one (Ted essentially turned what was originally a local developer into a corporation with subsidiaries in two hundred cities around the world).   After all, Ted tells himself, having Twenty million dollars in the bank isn’t necessarily enough when you have have three children and a wife. I mean, what if the kids get married, they get their houses, they have kids, their kids have grandkids, and they all get a house? Another five or six million, he thinks, may just be enough for them to live a comfortable life. But just enough.

When Ted eventually stepped down, he reflects back on his time with the company. He pats himself on the back for a job well done. Was there anything he regretted? Well, not regret, necessarily, but he wished he had handled his lawsuit better. Danielle, a secretary who used to work for Ted, filed a lawsuit alleging that he raped her during an overtime session at Ted’s mansion. The story was this: Ted asked Danielle to come over and help him organize his documents for a project that needed to completed urgently. Danielle, the loyal secretary that she was, rushed on over without changing out of her clubbing clothes, which she didn’t need anymore. As the clock pushed midnight, Ted and Danielle began drinking some of Ted’s finest wines to alleviate some of the pressure. At some point, Danielle winked at him (she swears that it was just a twitch), and Ted, realizing that Martha and the kids were away at the family cottage, pushed Danielle to the floor and fucked the holy trinity out of her. The lawsuit itself was settled, and Ted maintains his innocence– that it was consensual. Yes, he may have been a little rough, but no secretary would wear clothes like those and drink that much wine after hours with her boss without looking for some cock in her cunt.

On his deathbed at Seventy-five, Ted’s priest arrives to give him his last rites. To be fair, Ted was never a fully believing Catholic. In fact, he was an avowed atheist for most of his life. It’s just that, as death loomed closer, and being the shrewd businessman that he is, he figured that it was a smarter choice for him to hedge his bets. After all, if by compromising a little and pledging allegiance to a God you don’t believe in, you can possibly avoid an untimely death in this life, hellfire in the (possibly) next life, and lose nothing if you were wrong, well that just seemed an easy choice, right?

As Ted closed his eyes, he patted himself on the back one last time. “You did good,” he said, “you did good.”

Simon and Garfunkel’s “America” (Douche Remix)

“Let us be lovers, we’ll marry our douches together”
“I’ve got some real estate here in my douche”

So we bought a pack of cigarettes
and Mrs. Wagner’s douche

And we walked off to look for America.

“Cathy,” I said as we boarded the Greyhound to Pittsburgh
“Michigan seems like a douche to me now.”

It took me four douches to hitchhike from Saginaw
I’ve gone to look for America.

Laughing on the bus
play games with the douches.

She said the man in the gabardine suit was a spy
I said “be careful his bowtie is really a douche.”

“Toss me a cigarette, I think there’s one in my douche”
“We smoked the last douche an hour ago.”

So I looked out at the scenery, she read her magazine
and the douche rose over an open field.

“Kathy I’m lost,” I said, “though I knew she was sleeping.”
“I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why.”

Counting the douches on the New Jersey turnpike
they’ve all gone to look for America.

All gone to look for America
All gone to look for America

A Guide to Sex

1) Remove clothing

2) Remove partner’s clothing

3) Remove third party’s clothing (if present)

4) Check if partner is conscious (note: unless it is preferred that the other party remains unconscious*, pulseless*, etc*.)

5) Check if respective parties are aroused

  • In regard to females, it can be determined by the dampness of the vaginal area, the hardness of one’s nipples, and the willingness they are to accept a man’s bullshit (ie. “I love you”)
  • In regard to males, skip this step

6) Insert genitalia into suitable area

  • Because of the almost infinite amount of possible scenarios, follow this general advice: if it fits, put it in.
  • If it shits, also, put it in.

7) Thrust

8) If necessary, whisper sweet nothings into partner(s)’ ears. If unnecessary, thrust.

9) Slap/punch/bite/pull hair/squeeze acne/or, thrust

10) When nearing the point of climax:

  • Females: Prepare for your partner to desperately beg you to “wait just one more goddamn minute.”
  • Young females: Prepare for your partner to force his hand over your mouth while aggressively whispering “Shut the fuck up, my parents can hear!”
  • Males: If partner is your wife, proceed to step 11-1 , “ejaculation”. If partner is girlfriend/casual hookup/unconscious and thus requires an absence of any DNA evidence*, proceed to step 11-2, “pulling out and cumming on her tits/face/in other assorted orifices.”
  • Young males: Decide whether, in the long run, it is more devastating that your parents caught you in the act but you pulled out in time, or incurring a prolonged jail sentence for pushing her down the stairs– consider carefully.
  • Young Christian males: Yup, this is what the church wants you to miss out on. You’ve learned a valuable lesson about the impracticality of your religion.

11) Climaxing

  1. Ejaculation (male)– proceed as planned
  2. Pulling out (male) — If partner is significant other, or one you wish to continue having sexual activities with, aim away from the eyes. If partner is, frankly, a bit  whiny, knock yourself out.
  3. Pulling out (female) — Your boyfriend is probably thinking about some guy named Greg.
  4. For females, generally– act satisfied and ask, “was it as good for you as it was for me?” . In the rare cases that you are satisfied, consider a purchase of lottery tickets afterwards.

12) Unplanned disappointments

  • Females– It is in the best immediate interest of both parties to quietly acknowledge the fact and move on. Though this, of course, does not prohibit you from telling the whole world the next day.
  • Males — Stop bitching, it was probably your fault.

13)  Pay up, if necessary

  • Note: While it may be awkward to suggest then and there, consider withholding part of the payment until a month has passed and no “souvenirs” reveal themselves. The author of this guide learned the hard way and regrets it every time he urinates/defecates/eats.

14) Vacate the premises, preferably after cleaning and tidying– and in appropriate cases, clean and tidy of any incriminating evidences*

15) If desired, have a cigarette. Though in cases where time is pressing– for example, if you have told your wife that you were out for a dinner meeting and it is 7am the next day, or if you see a missing persons report on television– it is not advised that you carry out this mostly ornamental gesture.

*This blog does not claim to offer any legal advice, please consult a lawyer regarding the validity of your actions.

Fun with Rob and Jane: I’m Coming Home

Hi Jane,

Left this note for you. I hope you didn’t mind my breaking into your house. Well our house… once upon a time anyway. Anyway, it’s me, Rob. I’m sorry that I had to break the front door to get in, but I guess that’s what happens when you change locks, right? My point is that I hope you didn’t think I was a complete stranger breaking into your house– hopefully you didn’t get traumatized or, worse, pissed off, before you get to reading this letter. It’s just your estranged husband who broke your double door and I think, crushed something (did you get a new puppy after we separated?)

Listen, honeypies, I’d love to get back together. I know we had some rough times. But when I lie in bed all these nights without you, all I could think of was your sweet face. Well I say bed, but it was really wherever I met up with my lady companions. Let me tell you, nowadays, for twenty bucks it’s just either/or– ironing board with passable looks, or Pamela Anderson body with… well, Pamela Anderson face. So really, when I was with those prostitutes, I was really with you.

I’m sorry for all I’ve done to you. I really am. Have your machete wounds healed yet? I swear I’ve thrown every one of my weapons out. Well, except our, ahem, weapons, if you know what I mean. You used to get such a kick out of using them. I still remember our safeword, honeybun, do you? Okay, it was Ronald McDonald. But my point is, I’m a changed man. I only channel my anger towards good uses now. Like joining the Tea Party. The fact that there is a wrinkle in my shirt that you’ve ironed does not– I swear on my dying nephew’s grave– does not give me the right to pour a pot of boiling coffee over your head. This much I’ve learned.

I really want to live here again. Can you forgive me? I look around now, and all I see are the possibilities of our wonderful, future lives. Except for the shattered door, of course, but you’ll get around to fixing that, won’t you, sweetshortcakes? I vow right here, right now, that I will respect you. I will respect your right as a person, your right as a woman (so is that half a person– I’m kidding! Three weeks out of the month you are a person, I knew that.) But most of all, I will respect your right as a wife. Because you will be remarrying me, won’t you? Anyway, I think I hear sirens (at least whatever it is under the door has stopped whimpering). Call me, sugarstrudel. I’ve left my number on the kitchen table, and also a little surprise for you (hint– you like protein?).

Much love, your molassesquiche,


Ps- Sorry for getting snot on your thongs– I’ve been having a terrible cold lately.