Dr. Bartleby Mollygrubs, Insultery etc.

Death of a Sailor-man

2009-10-18T00:59:00.000-07:00

There has been an unfortunate lack of understanding regarding my previous post in which I referred to the Komodo dragons of Indonesia,Varanus komodoensis, as having "the filthiest mouths in the known universe." While those of you schooled in the natural sciences may have picked up on this wordplay, others were left in the cold, so to speak. But let us take this opportunity to turn lemons into lemon-custard pie, my personal favorite dessert, and learn something new.

In 1910, when rumors of a "land crocodile" reached Lieutenant van Steyn van Hensbroek of the Dutch colonial administration, he took it upon himself to verify the creature's existence. The Lieutenant made his way to the island of Komodo aboard the steam ship Venture. Once on the island, it did not take long to locate a specimen, and he soon observed many unusual behaviours.

Hensbroek noted one individual that had partially swallowed an entire goat, the mammal's hind legs still protruding from the great lizard's mouth. The beast, growing impatient with its naturally slow digestive powers, began ramming the goat against a tree in order to force the meal further down its gullet. Hensbroek reports that after this astounding display of gluttony, the lizard waddled toward the sea and mounted a stone outcropping where it sat in the hot sun for many hours, apparently dead. The Lieutenant approached the creature, intending to retrieve its corpse, and was surprised to instead receive a blow to the head by the animal's weighty tail. As he stumbled away, another dragon charged him and bit him on the leg.

He reports of the incident, "I continued my run but became overwhelmed with nausea and dizziness. It reminded me much of my wedding day. My leg began to swell immediately as if I had been bitten by a venomous snake. Several of the dragons chased me until I climbed a small tree, and they quickly lost interest after I expelled my lunch onto one of their heads. (Again, the similarity to the day of my marriage vows.) Still, I waited in the tree for another hour until the nausea wore off and I made my way to the ship."

All seemed well, but Hensbroek eventually died of bacterial induced meningitis. And this is what I mean when I say that Komodos have filthy mouths. In addition to the mild venom in their bite, Komodo saliva contains over fifty different strains of bacteria, including Pasteurella multocida, Escherichia coli, Staphylococcus sp., Providencia sp., Proteus morgani and P. mirabilis. Which means that, while a Komodo's venom might not kill you (unless you are particularly small), the septic pathogens in its saliva could send you to an early grave.

After that, you need a joke about death, do you not?

Three friends die in a freak accident with a Komodo dragon. They meet in heaven. St. Peter asks them each, "When you are in your casket and friends and family are mourning you, what would you like to hear them say about you?" The first man replies,"I would like to hear them say that I was the best damned teacher in the world." The second man says, "I would like to hear that I was a wonderful husband and a brilliant doctor and that I made a difference in my community." The last man replies, "I would like to hear them say ... Look! He's moving!"

You see friends, death is something we all live with. We can not escape it, but we have a difficult time accepting it. My person recommendation is that you learn to relax when it comes to death. In fact, the next time you have to attend a funeral, consider spicing things up a little. Try a few of these suggestions?

- Punch the deceased and tell people that he hit you first.
- Ask someone to take a snapshot of you shaking hands with the deceased.
- Promise the minister a hundred dollars if he does not keep a straight face while praising the deceased.
- Slip a spare cellphone into the deceased's pocket and call it during the service.
- Write "Best before last week" on top of the coffin.
- Use the deceased to practice your ventriloquism.
- Hide behind the casket and say, very slowly, "Bwaiiiins."
- Instead of reading a eulogy, read a quote from Kenny Rogerson:

Last Thursday, there's an ambulance outside my house, loading a body in. So, I go up to the cop at the door and say, 'What's going on?' He says, 'Looks like your wife committed suicide.' I'm thinking, 'Oh great. Right before the weekend.' So I go down to the morgue to identify her body, and I spend half the day there browsing. The morgue guy pulls up the tray, pulls back the sheet, and I said, 'Yeah, that's her.' All of a sudden, he starts laughing. I said, 'What's so funny?' Next thing I know, the lights come on, she pops up -- 'Surprise! Happy Birthday!' I couldn't believe I fell for that two years in a row.

The Dirty-Mouthed Komodo

2009-10-12T22:37:00.000-07:00

The day has been fulfilling, if somewhat protracted. My forced participation in the Sudden Death Parcheesi Tournament led circuitously to my discovery of a new form of insult. Or rather, the discovery of a particular genre of insult of which I had been previously unaware. After the wild boar fight in round three of the tournament, the survivors began discussing the fastest way to take down a Komodo Dragon, which led to a discussion of the variety and severity of insults (this was a natural progression, Komodos having the filthiest mouths in the known universe). Eventually, one contestant described the indefatigable folk at insults.net, who divide their insults into some unusual categories, including "chatup lines". In this case, the insult is crafted as a direct response to a supposedly witty pickup line. If you find that you are often hit upon, and you would like to make a bit of sport from it, this is an excellent option. Here are the examples I most cherished.

Hey babe. I've got a condom with your name on it.
You must be mistaken. My name's not Durex Extra Small.

Girl, you've turned my floppy disk into a hard drive.
Sorry, I don't date men with tiny peripherals.

What would you say to a little fuck?
Leave me alone, little fuck.

You'd probably regret it in the morning if we slept together, so how about we sleep together in the afternoon?
Your approach wasn't bad, but I'd rather see your departure.

I want to be really dirty with you.
You smell as if you already are.

I want to fuck you over and over again.
I want to fuck you over.

If I could see you naked, I'd die happy.
If I could see you naked, I'd die.

Can I be your love slave?
Well I certainly wouldn't pay you.

If you do decide to patronize their site, be sure to investigate the random insult generator, which assures me I am an "anarchistic four-eyed sperm-bank". Sadly, this did not help me win at Parcheesi, but I am grateful to be alive.

Birthday Filth

2009-10-11T13:53:00.000-07:00

Felicitations to Mr. Ty Norton, long may he reign. In anticipation of his impending birthday I grew well and truly schnockered, which resulted in an outpouring of limerick filth, herein disclosed for your benefit. Enjoy!

A young lad named A. Arnold Auger,
Favored copious foam on his lager.
To the barmaid he said,
“Give me plenty of head,”
So she beat his face with a flogger.

I once heard Ty say, over beer,
“To me it is perfectly clear.
The more beer you drink,
The better you think!”
And then he fell flat on his rear.

There was an old farmer named Lear,
Who possessed a fine cow that gave beer.
Budweiser or Schlitz,
Could be tapped from her tits,
And pretzels came out of her rear.

There was a young fellow named Perkin
And Ty caught him jerkin his gherkin
So Ty said to Perkin,
"Stop touchin your gherkin.
Your gherkin's fer ferkin not jerkin!"

A right randy panda named Reeves
Put his face between a whore's knees
When she asked for her money
He said "Listen honey,
A panda eats bushes and leaves."

I once saw Ty in a beanie
Pouring some gin on his weeny
Then just to be couth
He added vermouth
So his wife could enjoy a martini.

A bear on the throne asked a rabbit
"Does shit stick to your fur as a habit?"
"No way," said the hare,
"Or at least its quite rare."
So the bear wiped his ass with the rabbit.

Cowboy Casanova

2009-10-07T20:36:00.000-07:00

You ask for more lyrics, you receive Carrie Underwood's Cowboy Casanova. Ms. Underwood is an American country singer and songwriter from Checotah, Oklahoma who rose to fame as the winner of the fourth season of American Idol. Her debut album, Some Hearts, was certified seven times platinum. Here is a taste of her third album:

Thou wouldst behoove thyself to heed my advice/
Yon gentleman is not unlike an infectious parasite/
He is akin to a pestilence or medicinal depressant/
Thou art habituated to his amorous advances/
He is a merrymaking, cattle herding, male prostitute/
Who leaneth against an industrial-strength gramophone/
He appears as a goblet of chilled liquid/
But is, in reality, a glut of sugar atop an ample serving of misery/

Ah, yes. The fun-loving gigolo-cowboys of old Oklahoma. Would that we could return to the heyday of that state, before the Tulsa Race Riots of '21 and the Dust Bowl of the '30s. It was a time of innocence and love. A time of big hats and sassy pants, when a cowpoke could buy an ale for a penny and lodging for a dime. Of course, he would make up the cost of lodging by doing a little non-cow poking on the side. This lonesome prairie passion was the origin of the old slogan Show you the difference 'tween my gun and my pistol. Consider it earnestly.

A True Believer Visits the Briar

2009-10-06T19:58:00.000-07:00

The incident occurred while I was purchasing a cache of lemon trees from Uli's Unconventional Nursery on Broadmoor. As I surveyed my floriferous crop of citrus divinity, I was approached by a surly looking fellow in knit stockings and rather short shorts. His curly mustachio was comely enough, but in all other respects he had the appeal of a box of burning kittens. Being polite, as well as sober, I refrained from commenting on the man's unusual garb and face. The man, however, was not so graceful.

"I know you," he said, or rather grumbled.

I was quite surprised then and said, "Do you? I am quite surprised then!"

"You're that scrivener what writes about nekid ladies and men's johnsons." He spit on the ground. "It's a disgrace, it is. A grown man and you can't think of nothin' better to do than go on like a five year old boy. Disgraceful, I say. You ought to be ashamed."

What recourse did I have? Not wanting to cause a scene in my favorite nursery, I tried to play it off. "My good man," I said, " I am not a scrivener, I am a doctor and sometime writer. You seem to have mistaken me for Mr. Walloff Domburg, Notary Public. Happens all the time, actually." To be honest, it was just the once. But, as I said, I felt it best to avoid a confrontation.

"No!" he cried. "You're the one!" His left stocking slid down his leg a bit as he quivered with anger. "You're that dirty old man, Bartleby. Not only dirty, but blasphemous! And talentless, to boot. You're a hack!"

Clearly, I was not going to shake this cretin. I decided to be direct. "I am Bartleby, yes. But who, may I ask, are you? And why, exactly, are you so filled with venom?"

"Why? Why, you ask? Better ask why the oil hates the water. Or why the farmer hates the wolf, eh? Eh? He hates it 'cause it's EVIL. Wolves are EVIL, with their rows of big pointy teeth and their wee beady eyes just starin' at ya." His curled mustache twitched up and down as he spoke.

"That sounds perhaps more like a shark than a wolf, though I imagine no shepherd longs to see his flock devoured by sharks. Sir, by any chance, does your train of thought have a caboose?"

"Shut it!" he yelled. "Shutup you! You're a blight on my ass, you are! I will not suffer a witch to live!" As he shouted at me, he began jumping about nervously and shaking his fist in the air.

"Indeed," I said. "It is unclear whether you are threatening me or having a seizure, but you are certainly validating my inherent mistrust of strangers."

At this comment the man lapsed into vociferous incoherent babbling. I still had no clue about his identity, but I turned my back on him and made to leave. He grasped my arm so that I swiveled around to face him again. He said, "Curse your eyes!" and poked me in the chest with his index finger. "You don't deserve to live!"

I could stand it no longer. "Sir, it appears you have the mental capacity of a tree. I should not hold this against you, as I expect your conception involved your mother's mistaken insemination with the postnasal drippings of a sinus-infected Great Dane, but threatening a man's life is no small matter. I suggest you withdraw while you are still able. You are obviously less fearsome than my goldfish, Rupert, who has recently taken ill with the retched Ichthyophthirius."

Of course, this did not go over well. The well-girded man swung his right fist at my head with considerable force, and I was lucky to step out of the way. "Damn fool," I said. "I see you have set aside this special time to humiliate yourself in public. Now begone!" I gave him a light punch to the nose, but he seemed not to notice. He only roared like a bear and charged me full on. I leapt back, much to the protest of my creaking knees, and managed to avoid the raging idiot once again. This time I grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him into a collection of sticker bushes where he and his stockings became firmly lodged. I took the opportunity to make a hasty retreat with my prized lemon trees.

Uli, if you are reading this, I am terribly sorry if my actions caused any harm to your plants, your nursery, or your staff. I will gladly pay for any repair caused by lapse in judgment. However, I have no intention of ceasing my provocative publications, so in future I will be asking for delivery of goods to my estate.

Yours,
Dr. Bartleby Mollygrubs

OC/DC

2009-09-29T22:25:00.000-07:00

Sir,

I am writing to you desperate for help.

The problem, you see, is with my house-mate, I'll call him Mr. Zingholer.

Mr. Zingholer is so completely obsessive compulsive that he threw a fit this morning because I forgot to vacuum the ceiling in the bathroom. He once bought a special hair brush, "to get the carpet looking just right". He will typically wash clothing even if it hasn't been worn, because "it sat around too long." If I'm drinking out of a cup and set it down and leave the room, he's picked it up, dumped it out, and washed it before I can get back to it.

Normally, it's not a bad thing to live with a neat person, in fact it would be quite refreshing if it wasn't paired with wild-eyed, maniacal, cultish obsession.

He also eats a tremendous amount of asparagus because, he says, "I enjoy how it makes my urine smell."

Other than that, it's a pleasure living with him. Also know that I'm not afraid for my safety in the least. He is a sad, weak, little man.

My questions:

Does he need to seek special help for his issues? Can someone as OCD as Mr. Zingholer even be treated? Is his lust for foul smelling urine indicative of some deeper, more dangerous, psychological issues?

Any help would be greatly appreciated,

Anonymous in Olympia

Anon-
From your description, it is certainly possible that Mr. Zingholer suffers from obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), but a thorough examination would be necessary for proper diagnosis. The obsessions and compulsions of OCD stem from extreme anxiety and can manifest in an astounding assortment of symptoms. For instance, many sufferers are not neat at all. Some are downright messy, particularly if their symptoms include hoarding, the acquisition of, and failure to use or discard, such a large number of seemingly useless possessions that it causes massive debilitating clutter.

Perhaps you can observe your house-mate further to determine if he is actually afflicted with OCD, the obsessions of which will generally fall into one of two categories: inappropriate aggressive thoughts--including blasphemous thoughts, if the sufferer is religious--or inappropriate sexual thoughts. Of course, some mixture of the two is not unheard of, and the appropriateness of a thought is subjective, but is considered inappropriate by the sufferer. I have witnessed this myself on more than one occasion. One of my flat-mates in college was known to shout at inappropriate times, "Fuck you, God! Literally! I will fuck you up! Up the ASS! With my DICK!" These outbursts sometimes occurred during lectures or seminars and, although he was an otherwise model student, eventually resulted in his expulsion, poor lad. But I digress. While observing Mr. Zingholer, ask yourself if he suffers from aggressive or sexual obsession.

The compulsions of OCD are typically a means of combating the sufferer's obsessions, or of combating anxiety in general. That is to say, most sufferers are well aware that their actions are irrational, but they feel bound to comply with the "rules" of their compulsion/obsession to mitigate their stress. These rules may be as simple as, "never sleep facing the opening of a pillow cover," or they may be complex rituals that consume a great deal of time. Consider the following paragraph that opens Harold Contay's 1829 paper Meloncholia:

I was compelled at all times of day and night to ensure proper positioning of my member, and I would become greatly distressed should its orientation exceed forty-five degrees in the northward latitudinal. I was generally able to prevent such orientation by a clever use of twine about the thigh, but even then I was afflicted by the occasional unanticipated nocturnal penile tumescence which would slip the bonds. In such an instance I would be further compelled to undo my miniature bonds of twine and burn them at the hearth before preparing a new set of twine, of a different colour, to be used in fastening my member in the upright position until the tumescence had passed, at which time I would again burn the twine and retrieve a new length of the original color.

I know what you are thinking. "What man hasn't tied his penis to his thigh?" I happen to know that many gentlemen refrain from such practice, despite its obvious usefulness in preventing embarrassing situations while visiting the local gymnasium. And now you are thinking, "You still haven't answered any of my questions!" And you are correct. Does Mr. Zingholer need to seek professional assistance? Only if his behaviour is interfering too badly with his life, his work, or his relationships. Can he be helped at all? Yes, there are many fine treatments available, although a great part of the treatment simply involves exerting one's will against the compulsive behaviour. And what of this vegetable-urine complex? This sort of thing may be a byproduct of a cognitive condition like OCD, or it may be an exotic fetish. If you really want to know which it is, why not purchase some "veggi-pron" and leave it lying about the house. Then observe. Alternatively, get him to go shopping with you and see if he spends more time in the produce department than anywhere else in the store. These may be indicators that he has a fetish rather than an OCD related symptom.

As always, I hope I have been of some small help. Please do drop me a line at mollygrubs@gmail.com and I will be happy to address your concerns.

A French Shower

2009-09-28T22:55:00.000-07:00

Kind Dr. Mollygrubs,

Today, my chauffeur drove me to the local feed store to purchase food for my prized racehorse, Spontaneous Wood. While at the store, a young man walked in. This was a sunny day, and understandably, he had sunglasses. However, he did not remove them from his face whilst indoors. In all my years, I had never seen such large sunglasses.& He also wore a large cross necklace, an Ed Hardy shirt, and had a fake tan.& Upon seeing this orange-skinned spectacle, my driver (he joined me in the store to carry the feed back to the car) whispered to me, "What a douche bag." I come to you, Dr. Mollygrubs, to ask for information on this unfortunate social phenomenon, the douche bag. Was there an evolution which led to it and will it be long-lived, or is the douche bag a blip on our cultural radar? Is there a difference between a tool and a douche bag, and which is worse? Possibly the most important question on this topic, do the increasing levels of douche-baggery have no limits?

I would have contacted you using the more traditional method, your web log, however my computer machine could not coerce the link into functioning correctly. Your understanding is appreciated.

Yours,
Geoff

Thank you for your inquiry, Geoff. I will deal with the last point first. It appears that by modifying the look of my web log I inadvertently disabled the comments. My apologies, dear readers. I will correct the matter as quickly as possible. [Edit: I have devised a temporary but unattractive solution for this problem. You may now post comments as you please.]

Now then. I shall provide for you a number of answers and insights, but first let us define our terms. The douche was invented in Egypt circa 3100 BC by a chronically disinterested prince who "misplaced" a game piece from his Senet board. He asked for help from the royal physician who believed the prince was making a pun (the full name of the game in Egyptian was zn.t n.t ḥˁb meaning the "game of passing") and therefor the physician refused to treat the prince, who eventually died of bowel obstruction. This sad prince's invention is a device used to introduce a stream of water into the body for medical or hygienic reasons, and the word may also refer to the stream of water that such a device dispenses. A douche-bag, therefore, is a bag that retains water for use in a douche. As you may know, the human body is composed of 60-70% water, making the term "douche-bag" a particularly appropriate pejorative. By referring to someone with this metaphor, you are saying, in essence, "Your vital bodily fluids are at beast fit to swish around someone's intestines and I certainly wish never to partake of that!" You are implying that the person is arrogant and obnoxious, but also harmless. Interestingly, according to Dr. William Long in his article Terms of Insult, the phrase is primarily assigned to men. I can only attribute this targeted designation to the douche's most common use by women to cleanse the vaginal canal, and to that even-more-common male malady, machismo, which renders a man's ego as vulnerable as a new born babe. To put it plainly, a man is more likely to feel threatened by such an insult, making it more fun to taunt him with it. Try it now and see what I mean.

Was there an evolution which led to it and will it be long-lived, or is the douche bag a blip on our cultural radar? There have always been douche-bags in this world. It may seem that humanity is constantly evolving and improving itself but, in reality, we have changed very little in the last few millennia. Instead of asshats with axes lording it over the sheepish masses, we now have asshats with guns doing the exact same thing. Instead of douches pestering their fellows to worship Mithra (the ancient Indic divinity born of a virgin in a stable on the winter solstice), we now have douches pestering their neighbors to worship some other guy born of a virgin in a stable in the dead of winter. You take my meaning. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Is there a difference between a tool and a douche bag, and which is worse? This question is a veritable Pandora's box of linguistic theory. It suffices to say that language is a fluid thing. The meanings of words are entirely subjective and definitions vary greatly from region to region. Pejorative and slang terms are especially prone to rapid evolution. They are the fruit flies of language. Consider that the term retarded, to refer to a person whose mental capacity is permanently weak, was originally used as a euphemism to avoid the pejorative senses of words like moronic, feebleminded, and half-witted. But it quickly grew to have a negative sense of its own. (It is worth noting that, in its own time, moron was a euphemism for the pejorative word idiot.) This same progression, from neutral to pejorative, is already happening with the words challenged and special, used in the same sense today. Language writer Steven Pinker calls this process "the euphemism treadmill." So, one person's tool is another person's douche-bag.

Do the increasing levels of douche-baggery have no limits?

Rest assured, there is a limit. Douche-baggery growth follows an elegant S curve, trapped between two asymptotes. On the bottom we see that we can never quite reach zero douche-bags, and at the top we see that the number of douche-bags can never quite equal the total population. There will always be douche-bags, but so too will there always be individuals of the non-douche variety.

I hope I have been of some help to you, Geoff, and to all of you. Please feel free to send further inquires to mollygrubs@gmail.com or post in the comments section of any article.

Very Tiny Dogs. Why?

2009-09-25T00:07:00.000-07:00

Dogs were possibly the first animals domesticated by humankind, perhaps as early as 12,000 BC. Despite the romantic tone generally given to stories of canine-human relations, all evidence suggests that the earliest dogs were not bred for hunting nor herding, and certainly not for companionship. They were simply a ready source of protein (and a very efficient source, dogmeat having the same amount of protein as--and less fat than--lean pork). The strongest evidence to support this claim is the hard fact that canine consumption has been common from antiquity in all parts of the world, from the Aztecs to the Romans, and it is still common in some areas today, most notably in South East Asia and parts of Africa, but also in the Americas, where people are likely to deny the practice due to its taboo nature in the West.

Domestication of animals involves, to a large degree, the stupification of the breed in question in order to make the creature easier to work with. Those of you with some knowledge of genetics are already aware of the complexities and dangers involved in modification of a species. For example, alteration of the gene that controls eye pigmentation may adversely and unexpectedly affect other genes, such as those that control bone density. This is why domesticated animals look so different from their wild cousins, and why some breeds are known to suffer specific maladies (e.g. Dachshunds are prone to back trouble and obesity, Retrievers are prone to hip dysplasia, and the Chinese Crested is prone to ugliness). It is not surprising, then, that as humans bred dogs to be more compliant and less crafty, the animals declined in stature as well as brains.

Once domestication of the dog was complete, humans began training and breeding for other purposes such as herding, hunting and companionship. The animal quickly became so ubiquitous that it earned the title "Man's best Friend", a phrase that is not peculiar to English, by the way, but is found in several languages. Different breeds became specialized to different tasks, and humans continued selective breeding for desirable traits such as affectionate demeanor, awkward shaped eyes and ease of transport in a handbag. This has produced a wealth of dog types with astounding variety in both features and personality. Let us examine some of these now.

Dog Haiku:
Today I sniffed
Many dog behinds -- I celebrate
By kissing your face.

A Hat for All Seasons

2009-09-21T22:24:00.000-07:00

I have recently procured, and am very pleased to be wearing, a new hat. If you frequent the pages of Wikipedia you will be informed that, "A hat is a head covering." How true. But this statement leaves something to be desired, I think you will agree. After all, one might imagine almost anything can serve as a head covering. Certainly a sizable soup pot would make a comely hat. A very large flying squirrel would do nicely, I should think. But these items are not typically considered to be hats, despite their extreme comfort and ease of use. Those items which are specifically recognized as hats can be placed into several categories, based upon their purpose. You see, some hats are strictly functional, intended to spare the wearer from the elements or perhaps from falling debris, in the case of a hardhat. Some serve as a form of social demarcation, indicating status or position, as is the case with the ridiculous fish-mouthed hats worn by popes and bishops. That particular head covering, by the way, is known as a mitre, or, in some circles, "the spittoon of God".

Most hats, however, serve purely as fashion accessories. It may be argued, of course, that in this capacity they also serve to position the wearer in the social sphere. An individual sporting a top hat will make a very different impression than one in a baseball cap. For instance, my newly procured hat is so impressive, I won a bet this very afternoon in which I gained admittance to my favorite eatery wearing nothing but that stylish fedora. The gentleman behind the counter proclaimed, when I burst through the door, "My god, Bartleby! You can't come in here dressed like that. You'll put my other customers to shame!" At least, that is how I remember it.

Most are unaware that the fedora style of hat was originally popular as a woman's hat, not a man's. In fact, the word fedora comes from the title of an 1882 play by Victorien Sardou, Fédora. The play was first performed in the U.S. in 1889. Sarah Bernhardt played Princess Fédora, the heroine of the play, and she wore a hat similar to a contemporary fedora. Because women looked so completely smashing in these accessories, many men of the middle class became jealous. "First cigarettes, now sexy hats? What is the world coming to?!" they seemed to say and quickly adopted to fashion as one for mobsters, detectives, and other bad boys. And, although the popularity of the fedora sadly declined after about 1960, they are finally enjoying a much deserved comeback. And, speaking of comebacks...

There was an old woman standing on the street corner, waiting to cross. A great gust of wind blew at her and she reached up instinctively to keep her hat on her head, but in so doing her dress was blown up around her waist, revealing her well-starched panties. Nearby, a dignified southern gentleman witnessed this and said to the woman, "Ma'am, you should be ashamed of yourself! Really. Letting your skirt blow around, being indecent while holding your hat." The old woman replied, "Look, mister. Everything down there is seventy years old, but this hat is brand new!"

Gluttony

2009-09-15T20:42:00.000-07:00

Gluttony holds a cardinality of two on the Catholic list of seven deadly sins, trumped only by Lust, which, incidentally, is number two on the Judaic list of exceptional sins, trumped only by Idolatry. (Idolatry does not appear on the Catholic list. Perhaps the Catholics love their God less than their older Jewish siblings do.) The word gluttony derives from the Latin gluttire meaning to gulp down or swallow. By standard definition it means over-indulgence and over-consumption of food, drink, or intoxicants to the point of waste. However, St. Gregory the Great, St. Thomas Aquinas and other church leaders from the Middle Ages argue that Gluttony also consists of the eating of delicacies and costly foods, seeking after sauces and seasonings, or simply eating too eagerly. Yes, humanity, Thomas Aquinas himself damns you to the seven hells, whence you will apparently be waited on hand and foot by adorable goat monsters. Let us consider some of your mighty excesses.

The turducken, for those not already in the know, is a preposterous dish consisting of a partially de-boned turkey stuffed with a de-boned duck, which itself is stuffed with a small de-boned chicken. It is common to further stuff the chicken with sausage, though some folk prefer seasoned bread. It is commonly thought to have been created by Hebert's Specialty Meats in Maurice, Louisiana, when an unknown local farmer brought in his own birds and asked Hebert's to prepare them in the now-familiar style. However, such layering of animals has been practiced for centuries. The tetrapharmacum, an old dish of the Roman Imperials invented by Caesar Aelius Verus, contained a sow's udder, a wild boar, a pheasant, and a ham in pastry. (This, of course, brings to mind the Scotch egg, which is a shelled hard-boiled egg, wrapped in a sausage meat mixture, coated in breadcrumbs, and deep-fried. Contrary to popular belief, Scotch Eggs were actually invented by the famous London department store, Fortnum & Mason in 1738 and are still available from them today.)

And what of beverage? Attend me well, heathens! I can smell your guilt from here. It is not uncommon these days to hear a well-heeled individual purchasing a Quad Ristretto Iced Venti Whole Milk Three Pump Vanilla Two Pump Cinnamon Dolce Extra Hot with Extra Foam Stirred Latte, as I can personally attest. But do not think the less well-to-do are less gluttonous for their lack of finance. More than once I have witnessed the "high calorie pick-me-up", which you can make yourself by emptying a sleeve of roasted peanuts into a bottle of Coca-Cola. Now you may drink and eat at the same time. There is also a grey area of cuisine in which things are neither solid nor liquid, but somewhere in between. Perhaps you are familiar with that age-old question, "Pardon me, but do you have any propellant-laden cheese-food?"

Alas, my time is short. To expedite matters I shall now ply you with image, not word, that you might better understand today's topic. Observe:

Respect Not Thine Elders

2009-09-03T21:25:00.000-07:00

Dear friends, I come to you today with a heavy heart. I had hoped to escape that basest of insult variety, that most churlish verbal banter, that commonplace sign of contempt known far and wide by two small words whose combination finds me stricken and enervated. I refer, of course, to those insults which do not aim to defame the individual, but rather to dismantle the individual's own mother. How came I to be forced into presentation of such material? In what manner might I redeem myself from it? As to the first, I can only advise you in hopes of sparing you a similar fate: under no circumstances ought you wrestle a full grown and angry pig, leastwise in the creature's own environment of mud and slop. Neither then, quite obviously, ought you wager on your ability to do so. I shall say no more. Now as to the second matter I find the solution quite simple, if unorthodox. Creation of the individual requires both a male and female, or rather, a father and a mother. If I be forced to taunt the one, so must I taunt the other! And now, have at thee:

Your mother is so repulsive she ties a pork-chop around her neck to get the dog to play with her.

Your mother is so dense it takes her two hours to watch 60 Minutes.

Your father is so decrepit he puts his penis in the freezer when he wants to get hard.

Your father is so moronic he stared at a can of frozen orange juice for an hour because the label read "concentrate".

Your mother is so old when I asked for her ID she handed me a rock.

Your mother is so filthy the farmers buy her bathwater for fertilizer.

Your father is so bald when he puts on a turtleneck he looks like a broken condom.

Your father is so fat he sells shade for a living.

Your mother is so mindless she got tangled up in her cell phone.

Your mother is so old she still drives a chariot to work.

Your father is so adulterous he has more clap than an auditorium.

The new sign on the subway reads "Max load: 200 people OR your father".

Be ye satiated, villainous rogue? Eh? BE YE?
Take me not lightly, sir. I shall yet have vengeance!

A Prolate Spheroid of Pigskin

2009-08-31T20:54:00.000-07:00

It may surprise you to learn the sport of football has been around for centuries. So long, in fact, that even Shakespeare makes use of it in his writings. His character, the poor Dromio, tired of being kicked around, asks in A Comedy of Errors, Act II, Scene 1:
    Am I so round with you as you with me,
    That like a football you do spurn me thus?
    You spurn me hence, and he will spurn me hither:
    If I last in this service, you must case me in leather.

Perhaps more surprising, the sport precedes Shakespeare by many centuries. The ancient Romans played several ball games and were known to create an air-filled ball of leather, the follis. These were rowdy sports and played in public, on the streets, often interrupting the business of everyday. The Roman politician Cicero describes the case of a man who was killed whilst having a shave when a ball was kicked into the barber's shop, setting the blade into the client's throat. The barber had no choice but to refund the man his money, after which the patron expired with all speed.

The sport found its way to England in the hands of the Roman occupation and quickly spread through the land, but it did not gain true popularity until sometime later when a certain Danish prince was overthrown by the people. Having relieved the prince of the great burden of his weighty head, the rebels felt obliged to put the pate to good use. The rebel leader is recorded as saying to the crowd, after some celebration and drinking, "Let us have a bit more sport with the old man's attic. I shall take this lot on the right, and you take yours on the left, and we'll have a proper Roman ball game. If you can take this crooked crown to the south market, then shall your company be victorious. But if I can take it to the north market, then ours shall be victorious." And at this point the people exploded in a crash of bodies, each one vying for possession of the head that they might carry their company to victory.

In some parts of Europe, the game is still played in this manner, substituting a ball for a head, of course. Perhaps the best known case is the Shrovetide Football practiced annually in the town of Ashbourne in Derbyshire. There may be hundreds of players--there is no set team size--and the entire town is used as a field. There are precious few rules, the main ones being: Committing murder or manslaughter is prohibited. The ball may not be carried in a motorized vehicle. The ball may not be hidden in a bag, coat or rucksack. Cemeteries, churchyards and the town memorial gardens are strictly out of bounds. Playing after 10 pm is forbidden... Believe me you, I lack the capacity to fabricate such details.

Needless to say, this violent game was not in favour among the upper class, and the sport was considered to be "un-Christian" for its lack of order. In 1314, Nicholas de Farndone, Lord Mayor of the City of London and eternal stick-in-the-mud, issued a decree banning football: Forasmuch as there is great noise in the city caused by hustling over large foot balls in the fields of the public from which many evils might arise which God forbid: we command and forbid on behalf of the king, on pain of imprisonment, such game to be used in the city in the future. It would seem that, like the extravagant forks of yesteryear, football could only lead one down the shadowy road to sin and devil worship. His ban was followed by decrees from Edward III, Henry IV , Henry VI and James III of Scotland. Ironically it was another king, King James I, who wrote a "Book of Sports" in 1618 instructing Christians everywhere to play football each Sunday after worship.

Over the centuries, rules made their way into the game, primarily aimed at mitigating violence, and the game itself split into several varieties. Hence today we have American football, Canadian football, and Rugby football. The history of American and Canadian football can be traced to early versions played in the UK, stemming partly from Americans and Canadians who had been educated in English schools. By the way, American football is sometimes referred to as "gridiron", which sounds particularly manful, but is in actuality a culinary metaphor describing the similarity of yard-lines to the parallel bars of a metal grate used to grill fish, meat, or vegetables. Those sweaty boys do look a bit like shrimp popping on the grill, afterall.

There is one more unusual thing about this sport, and that is, much like golf, everything in it has a semblance of smut and sex. Here are a few phrases you are likely to hear while attending a game of football:

- He’s off to the sidelines for a quick blow.
- He gets penetration in the backfield.
- When you get down in this area, you just gotta start pounding.
- He’s gonna feel that one tomorrow.
- He really beats them off like a pro.
- He found a hole and slid it right in.
- He’s got great hands.

Fork in the Road

2009-08-27T23:51:00.000-07:00

In AD 1075, the Most Serene Republic of Venice, as it was then known, was a somber nation holding an uncertain peace with both the Byzantine and Holy Roman Empires. For this reason, Domenico Selvo, heir to the Doge of Venice, married Teodora Ducas, daughter of Constantine X of Byzantia and sister of the reigning emperor, Michael VII. Although Teodora brought with her the promise of prosperity and mobility, many Venetian nobles felt the eastern princess was fiendishly ostentatious. Her worst crime was the sinful refinement she displayed in making use at meals of a double-pronged fork of gold, instead of using her hands like a proper lady. The local clergy responded to there new dogaressa by writing, "God in his wisdom has provided man with natural forks - his fingers. Therefore it is an insult to Him to substitute artificial metallic forks for them when eating." What these men really wanted to say was, "SHAMELESS HUSSIES GO HOME!" as they were wont to do with any foreign woman, but they knew full well that Selvo would relocate his new bride's eating utensils into their hindquarters if they dared be so impudent. This, friends, is how the fork made its way across Europe: with weeping and gnashing of teeth.

The word fork is derived from the Latin furca, meaning "pitchfork", and it was a matter of some humor to those not yet acquainted with its use. Five hundred years after Teodora, the fork still had not caught on in England, though many parts of Europe used it regularly. Thomas Coryat of Odcombe, in a book titled "Coryat's Curdities Hastily gobbled up in Five Months Travels in France, Savoy, Italy, etc." published in London, 1611, claims to be the first Englishmen to use a fork. He states:

I observed a custome in all those Italian Cities and Townes through which I passed, that is not used in any other country that I saw in my travels, neither do I thinke that any other nation of Christendome doth use it, but only Italy. The Italian, and also most strangers that are commorant in Italy, doe alwaies, at their meales use a little forke when they cut the meate; for while with their knife, which they hold in one hand, they cut the meate out of the dish, they fasten their forke which they hold in their other hande, upon the same dish, so that whatsoever he be that sitteth in the company of any others at meate, should unadvisedly touch the dish of meate with his fingers, from which all at the table doe cut he will give occasion of offence unto the company as having transgressed the lawes of good manners, insomuch for his error he shall be at least browbeaten, if not reprehended in words.

Thomas continued to use a fork after he left Italy and was ridiculed by his countrymen for it. They nicknamed him "fork-bearer" which implied utterly unmanly and affected behaviour. "REAL MEN DON'T USE FORKS!" they cried, waving their medium-rare steaks in the air. And also, "SHAMELESS HUSSIES GO HOME!" In fact, this unholy, unmanly instrument did not gain acceptance in England until the 18th century.

Today there are a preponderance of forks. Beef forks, cheese forks, salad forks, pastry forks, relish forks, and olive forks to name a few. And I would be remiss if I failed to mention the spork, sometimes called a foon, which is only half-a-fork. Incidentally, sporks have been mass-produced since the late 1800s, with the Folgate Silver Plate Company of England manufacturing them between 1875 and 1900 under the guise of ice cream forks.

And now, for levity, a fork related tale I witnessed with my own eyes.

A blind man walked into a restaurant and sat down. The waiter, who is also the owner, walked up to the blind man and handed him a menu.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I am blind and cannot read the menu. Just bring me a dirty fork from a previous customer. I'll smell it and order from there."

A little confused, the owner walks over to the dirty dish pile and picks up a greasy fork. He returns to the blind man's table and hands it to him. The blind man puts the fork to his nose and takes in a deep breath.

"Ah, yes, that's what I'll have - meatloaf and mashed potatoes."

Unbelievable, the owner thinks as he walks towards the kitchen. The cook happens to be the owner's wife. He tells her what just happened. The blind man eats his meal and leaves.

Several days later, the blind man returns and the owner mistakenly brings him a menu again.

"Sir, remember me? I'm the blind man."

"I'm sorry, I didn't recognize you. I'll go get you a dirty fork."

The owner retrieves a dirty fork and brings it to the blind man. After another deep breath, the blind man says, "That smells great. I'll take the macaroni and cheese with broccoli."

Walking away in disbelief, the owner thinks the blind man is having fun at his expence and tells his wife that the next time the blind man comes in he's going to test him. The blind man eats and leaves.

He returns the following week, but this time the owner sees him coming and runs to the kitchen. He tells his wife, "Mary, rub this fork on your panties before I take it to the blind man." Mary complies and hands her husband the fork. As the blind man walks in and sits down, the owner is ready and waiting.

"Good afternoon, sir, this time I remembered you and I already have the fork ready for you."

The blind man put the fork to his nose, took a deep whiff, and said, "Hey, I didn't know Mary worked here ..."

On The Reproductive Habits of Politicians

2009-08-25T21:06:00.000-07:00

This article may contain strong language. Be advised.

While the majority of politicians are male, the habits herein discussed apply equally to the female politician, whose behaviour in other political arenas may differ greatly, but whose copulatory exploits are not remarkably distinct from those of their male counterparts.

Consider first that politics is a process by which groups of people make decisions, and this decision-making process is complicated by an uneven allocation of power and authority amongst group members. Specifically, this disheartening disparity is a result of the politician's true intent. As Ambrose Pierce phrased it, politics are "the conduct of public affairs for private advantage". That advantage is private indeed, for the politician is vying for a chance to reproduce, or, to use the colloquial term, to "fuck". The complex and sometimes circuitous strategies employed in this endeavor range from subtle deception to brute force. Making matters worse, the politician is unique among all creatures in that it is the only animal which does not breed with its own kind. Instead, politicians prefer to fuck all other people, especially the constituency. This is generally attributed to the fact that "lack-of-power" is a strong aphrodisiac to the politician (and other politicians wield enough power to make themselves unappealing as potential mates).

The mating ritual of the politician varies, as I have mentioned, but the primary method is one of deception, not unlike the Boreal owl, Aegolius funereus, found in mountain ranges across North America and Eurasia. This winged wastrel flies about the forest during mating season securing multiple nests, pretending each one is its home in an attempt to attract a different mate to each nest. The owls are careful to keep each nest a good distance from the others to ensure none of their partners suspect the duplicitous nature of their arrangement. So too the politician. During mating season, the politician flies through its territory conversing with individuals or groups of individuals in an attempt to attract these persons into coitus. Each conversation is tailored to the group in question, so conversations with other groups may include conflicting details and reversals of opinion--anything to charm their marks. If the politician is caught in a lie by its prospective lover, the common response is a staunch denial of the facts, no matter the evidence presented against them. Surprisingly, this appears to be an effective strategy, as ofttimes the would-be lover becomes a lover-in-fact and is thoroughly fucked by the politician. This behaviour has generated no small amount of anecdotes and gags.

What's the difference between a politician and a prostitute?
Prostitutes are honest with you.

How can you tell a politician is not lying to you?
He's riding in the back of a hearse.

What's the difference between a dead hooker and a dead president?
Nothing, they're both dead fuckers.

Of course, dishonesty is not foolproof, and in certain eventualities the politician may feel they have no chance at all of copulation. At these times, they are like to do something unexpected and look to each other for help. Politicians are generally thought of as competing against each other for the right to mate with voters, but it is not uncommon for several, or even all of them, to band together. And although in these cases there is no good way to tell if any politician will come out with clear mating rights, there is at least the guarantee that someone will fuck the voters. This is not unlike the violent group sex sometimes perpetrated by dolphins and is clearly an instinct resulting from centuries of political evolution. There seems to be little thought involved. As Plato phrased it, “Those who are too smart to engage in politics are punished by being governed by those who are dumber.” Hence, politicians really are dumb fuckers.

A kind thank you to Mr. Coffman for inspiration, though I'm not certain this is what you had in mind. Bit of a rush job really.

Special Edition: The Secret Life of Christ

2009-08-22T08:45:00.000-07:00

I imagine a great number of you will be surprised to learn that I am a studied Christologist, though I am not in the habit of advertising my religious practices as even the Christian among you will be doubly nonplussed to learn the nature and extent of these beliefs. Therefore, I kindly remind you of the lesson commended us by the Pericope Adulterae, in which the Avatar of God instructs his disciples to cast the first stone if and only if they are without sin.

It is a well known fact, to those who know it well, that the New Testament recounts only select portions of the life of Jesus of Nazareth. In particular, it tells of his life up to the point of Bar Mitzvah, then leaves off altogether for a span of eighteen years, whence it details his travels around Galilee and Jerusalem, his arrest, crucifixion and resurrection. It completely ignores his travels west to England, accompanied by the wealthy Joseph of Arimathea, and shamelessly proclaims his ascension to heaven, though in reality he traveled east across India, China, and Japan. Here is what occurred, in actuality.

Jesus, being an exceptionally headstrong child, often found himself arguing with his elders and calling them out in public forums. His townsfolk were at first amused, but quickly found him obnoxious and began plotting against him. Fortunately, his great uncle on his mother's side, Joseph of Arimathea, was privy to these schemings. Joseph was a merchant of fine metals and was planning to leave for Britannia, the northern reach of the Roman Empire which had long been known as a source of tin. Joseph knew he must save the child-god, and as this trip coincided with Jesus's thirteenth birthday, the precocious child was whisked away following his initiation into adulthood and he began his long life of wandering.

Joseph and Jesus crossed what we would today call France, and chartered passage across the channel to England where Joseph secured a great deal of tin and other goods which he planned to escort back across the water. The fates, it would seem, had other plans. The ship was taken by pirates almost as soon as it set sail in those choppy waters. Joseph was cast in the sea, but rescued by another ship. Jesus, however, was taken captive and made to work the oars, swab the deck, and sing Roman shanties. He spent the following four years learning the ways of piracy: seamanship, brawling, carousing, improvised weaponry, etc. Although he was quickly accepted into the pirate brotherhood, he was oft harangued for refusing to kill and rape, and his demure behaviour earned him the nickname "little pants". However, the captain, a man named Nicomedes, recognized a brilliant spark in the boy and Jesus's evenings were spent secretly teaching his captain the art of reading and writing. Nicomedes, being exceedingly grateful for this rare tutelage, granted Jesus his freedom and a ship of his own to do with as he pleased. Jesus sailed the Mediterranean as a pirate for another six years, reforming the other pirates by example and great displays of mercy when releasing captives instead of killing them. He soon became known as The Gentle Pirate, but due to a confusion with an earlier and terrible Gentle Pirate, whose name was ironic, not literal, he decided to abandon piracy altogether and return to the Roman mainland from whence he came. He returned to his family trade as a handyman for several more years before launching his career as a prophet (the Greek word tekton, from which derives the word technology, is often translated incorrectly as carpenter, but in fact means much more).

Excepting perhaps the truly heathen among you, the story from this point will be well known. Jesus craved intellectual stimulation and found the life of a handyman less than satisfying. He left home and began the work he was born to do, wandering the countryside and teaching folks how to behave like civilized human beings, once again garnering fame and awkward glances. During an encounter at a temple in Jerusalem, he lost his temper and, calling on his pirate training, quickly fashioned a whip from material he found lying about. He caused a great scene and was immediately arrested, convicted, and put to death. Now at this point in the story tradition states that his body was secreted away in the burial chamber of his great uncle Joseph, and after three days he rose from the dead. Having risen, he revealed himself to his inner circle of followers, then quickly ascended to heaven like Elijah before him. This is absolute and total bunk.

In fact, Jesus and his companions hatched a devious and elaborate plan to save him from death, knowing that he must continue his work elsewhere. They paid a centurion to corroborate the story of Jesus's death, and he was taken down from the cross (still alive), wrapped in shrouds, and taken to the tomb where he switched places with his twin brother Didymos. Didymos stayed behind to keep up appearances while Jesus recuperated and prepared for his journey east.

Jesus traveled through much of the East, teaching and learning from other masters like himself, and eventually made his way to the island nation of Japan. At that time, known as the Yayoi period, Buddhism and Taoism had not yet been introduced to Japan, and Shinto had not yet been codified into an institution, although it was the prevailing faith. Jesus wandered Japan spreading his gospel until he came to the Kosokotai shrine and met the priest Takeogokoro. The two had many mystifying conversations on the nature of divinity and the source of life. Jesus showed Takeogokoro how to walk on water and Takeogokoro showed Jesus how to conceal himself at will and how to leap high into the trees. It was during his training with Takeogokoro that Jesus had his Messianic Revelation, in which he knew he would study the ninja arts, among other arts of war, and return again to his homeland in the distant future to deliver the faithful from bondage, by force if necessary. After his Revelation, he trained intensively for another twenty years until he mastered every form and trick, at which time he had drawn the attention of the court and met with the emperor and relayed his story to him. The emperor was pleased with Jesus and gifted him a sword of of unearthly power, to which Jesus is rumored to have said, "That's right bitches. Who's got the little pants now?"

Jesus, being the immortal Avatar of God, but wishing to keep his presence a secret, faked his death once again (his burial mound can still be seen in the town of Shingo in the Aomori prefecture where tourists can buy Jesus memorabilia and souvenirs). However, he had fallen in love with Japan and the elegance of the sadō tea ceremony, and did not leave the islands, but instead honed his skills as a handyman and technologist. As time passed, he become more and more adept at building and creating mechanical objects and this is partially why Japan is so successful today in the technological arena. Eventually, he began to mechanize his own body, making himself even stronger and more formidable for the impending battle of the end times. As the saviour of mankind, he is always at the forefront of technological innovation. And, although he has not chosen to reveal himself in many years, even to the most dedicated Christologists, we have faith that he lies in wait somewhere in Japan, with designs on the world's oppressive governments and corporations. Upon his return (The Second Coming), it is said that Jesus will blast holes in the heads of the unrighteous via hyper-amplified titanium-sapphire laser cannons mounted in the palms of his hands (The Last Judgment). I await that time eagerly, my lord.

This post was inspired by a suggestion from Chase Money. You may claim the usual prize by being the first to identify the common mathematical term hidden in this post.

A Baby in the Hand is Worth Two in the Bush

2009-08-19T17:46:00.000-07:00

I believe it is God's wish that babies not exist, and this is why we quickly grow to adulthood. Nature is clearly telling mankind that babies are unforgivable abominations, but still humanity can not stop making them. When informed by friends or family that, "We're having a new baby," I always ask, "And what is wrong with the old one?" As this point of view has frequently gotten me into trouble, especially while I made my living as a doctor and was wont to tell worrisome mothers that the simple and permanent cure for any childhood illness was a bottle of cyanide, I have decided not to write about this topic today. I do not wish to offend any readers who might also be parents. But before moving on to the main text, please consider the following tale I overheard at the market this very morning:

A woman boards a bus with her baby. The bus driver says: "That's the ugliest baby I've ever seen. Ugh!" The woman moves to the rear of the bus and sits down, fuming. She says to a man next to her: "The driver just insulted me!" The man replies: "You go right up there and tell him off – go ahead, I'll hold your monkey for you."

Yes, I just recounted to you a joke about a baby. Which I overheard in the market. I am painfully aware that some may be discomfited by the gag, but one must keep all things in proper perspective. For example, consider the following whimsy before passing judgment on the previous:

What's green, blue, red, and tastes funny?
A zombie baby eating a clown.

What does a dingo call a baby in a stroller?
Meals on wheels.

Did you know that it takes FIVE babies to make just one bottle of baby oil?

As you can see, there is no dearth of inappropriate humor concerning infants, and calling a child ugly is really not so bad afterall. On the opposite side of the spectrum are jokes which fall even flatter. I discovered the following whilst perusing the net:

What’s red and crawls up your leg?
A baby that has, adorably, spilled cranberry juice all over herself.

How do you make a baby float?
Always have your baby wear a Coast Guard-approved life vest.

What’s the difference between a bowling ball and a baby?
A baby needs constant supervision.

I have now completely forgotten the original intent of this post. My post has been hijacked by evil baby memes. Curse you babies. Curse you!

St. Nicholas's Gift

2009-08-15T15:05:00.000-07:00

Recently, while sharing drinks with a friend in a public house, I recounted my golf-related limerick in which "the gentlemen all became damper" and, at the poem's end, my friend spilled his drink on the ground, leapt upon the table, and declared in a loud voice, "You are remiss, sir! It is the well-known distinction of the female sex that the pudendum should moisten whence aroused, and that the same can not be said of the male, excluding, of course, that final apex of sexual congress!" I replied with shocked silence, and we were quickly escorted from the premise, our belongings being hurled after us into the street, and the pub's large oaken door slamming shut with a resounding boom. "Well," I said, "let us consider the matter closed for now, lest we find ourselves in even greater trouble." And so, we picked up our things and made our way from the city. But now I must respond to my friend's unfortunate lack of knowledge on the subject and disclose to you all, dear readers, the apparently unknown mechanism of the human male reproductive apparatus by which a gentleman might find his trousers in a state of madescence. In so doing, I shall also be keeping theme with the previous post--that being somewhat occult and uncomfortable medical knowledge. I encourage you, once again, to take heart and press on, despite the potentially distressing nature of this topic.

The man depicted here is one William Cowper, accomplished anatomist of the late 17th century. He is best known for his discovery of a minuscule gland at the root of the penis, below the prostate, and also for his poorly executed plagiarism of medical plates from his nemesis, the Dutch physician Govert Bidloo. Cowper discovered that the gland which now bears his name is composed of a pea-sized ball, emanating from which is a small duct which is "attached to the main line". This last bit of information sent the medical community into fits. You see, the anatomy and mechanism of human reproduction was thought to be already understood in full. A man's seed was borne from the testes through the vasa deferentia up to the urethra. What more was there? All of Europe quaked in fear of Cowper's newfangled accessory gland, which threatened their very way of life. Cowper himself knew he must discover the function of this new gland, and he must be quick about it. He locked himself in his room with nothing but a dry cloth, an aloe vera plant, and the only remaining copy of Raimondi's "Sixteen Pleasures". The world held its breath for three months, but they would not be disappointed.

When Cowper emerged, disheveled and exhausted, his book destroyed, his plant reduced to mere nubbins, and blind in his left eye, he had the answer he'd been seeking. "Fear ye not, sexually repressed citizens!" he said. "It is the purpose of this fleshy device only to moisten the tract through which our seed doth flow, so that it might transport itself with greater ease and efficiency." And he added, "The serum from this gland (which I have dubbed Cowper's Fluid) will oft make itself known, at such a time as one grows excited, by leaking out some small amount, but it's presence does not necessitate the presence of those other more sacred reproductive fluids whose modes and methods we already have knowledge of." The medical community stood in awe. They praised, congratulated, and thanked him and asked him to bathe immediately.

We have learned much since Cowper's initial discovery, and not every gentleman experiences the phenomena to the same degree. For some, the greatest arousal might produce no significant dampening of the yankable yardarm, while others may find a pearl atop their sordid scepter at the merest hint of eroticism. In certain cases, an individual might find their faucet leaking on a regular basis for no immediately apparent reason. This may indicate an infection of the prostate which can irritate the Cowper's gland, causing an overflow. The fluid itself appears to serve less as a lubricant then as a Protector of Semen. It not only goes before the tide to make the way clear, but reacts chemically to neutralize acidic residues left behind from other activities. Of course, this is why coitus interruptus is such a poor regulatory device for conception: the emission of this fluid occurs whether or not the gentleman succumbs to climax, and may carry with it some previously expelled spermatozoa, rendering the method less than foolproof.

And now you know why and how an innocent golfer may become wet at the site of a buxom lass galloping down the green. If you are interested in that sort of thing. Please raise your hands if you have questions.

Now, to continue the tradition, I offer a challenge. There is a certain painting showing me at the barber's. I have placed an image of this painting in another location. Find it, identify for me the name of the artist and the name of the work, and you shall receive the usual prize of choosing a topic for my next post, or, if you prefer, of receiving privately some piece of writing that you may use as you see fit.

Nature and Cause of the Flatus

2009-08-12T19:59:00.000-07:00

A cautionary but reassuring note to the reader: this subject, chosen by the mysterious B.M. (I now believe the meaning behind the moniker is less than savory), while generally understood to be offensive, may be approached in such a way as to render it harmless. I wish to remind you that I am, after all, a medical doctor and possess all the faculties and sensibilities therein. I mean to say that I will treat this affair in a delicate and professional manner befitting a gentleman of my standing. The reader may think of this as an educational opportunity--and one ought not dismiss an occasion to learn, especially if it be in one of the higher arts, such as medicine, philosophy, or law. But let us exit the preamble and move straight to the point.

The Latin word flatus means "wind", or "blowing", from the verb "flare", meaning "to blow", and during the reign of that language it was equally as likely to indicate one's breath as it was to indicate the airy expulsions of the nethermost regions of the abdomen. Coincidental adjunct: it is proof of History's sense of humor that the Latin word "flare" should be identical in spelling to the contemporary English word "flare", an incendiary device which might be utilized by intoxicated scholars in the creation of "the flatus lightning". I have served more than one patient who, having imbibed an amount of alcohol exceeding that which is humanly prudent, attempted the ignition of their own flatus and caused themselves bodily harm and, in some cases, loss of hair. I treated individuals who have borne witness to such acts and not come away unmarred. I have even heard tales of an especially hirsute gentleman against whom nature and the fates conspired. As the legend has it, the man, who suffered from that cruel disease known today as Hypertrichosis, had just returned from gorging himself at a day-long Summer feast. He was exceedingly warm and, being a bachelor, removed his clothing and reclined in his favorite chair, seated near the hearth. Apparently, some spark remained in the hearth from the previous nights fire, and when this hairy naked ape let loose, he was instantly set ablaze, poor sod.

Leaving etymology and myth, we find that the flatus in humans has three main causes. First and most common, gases are produced during the chemical breakdown of foods. Some foods produce greater quantities than others. Second, an individual may swallow air. This trapped air may be released as a fit of hiccoughs, or may work its way down to the intestines. And finally, gases are often produced by microscopic organisms residing in the digestive tract. These may be simple bacteria or yeasts, or in some cases the more unusual microbes called methanogens. Commonly found in ruminants, but less so in humans, these creatures produce methane as a by-product of respiration, a process known as methanogenesis.

As to the nature and composition of the flatus, you may be surprised to discover that its primary ingredients are all completely odorless, those being Nitrogen, Hydrogen, Carbon Dioxide, Oxygen, and Methane. Yes, sirs and ladies, Methane is an odorless gas, contrary to popular misconception. That rank and foul stench which you may have experienced or produced, that evil effluvium, that poison perfume, is caused by a separate component, or host of components, featuring sulfuric molecules which are produced by the breakdown of proteins. For this reason, vegetarians are likely to produce gas more frequently, but with less odor, while those who consume meat and dairy will produce gas less frequently, but with greater pungency. Shinta Cho's great treatise on the subject, "The Gas We Pass", explains this concept to accompanying paintings of zoo keepers covering their noses and wrinkling their brows. It has also been suggested that a similar process may affect the flavor of a gentleman's onanic expulsions, but I have been unable to find scientific research in this area.

And that concludes our lesson for today. But you should remember, dear readers: Laugh and the world laughs with you; fart and they'll stop laughing.

Return to Castle Facenstein

2009-08-11T17:10:00.000-07:00

You possess a face that only a mother might love--and even then only due to the heavy soul-crushing guilt she felt at having spawned such a hideously malformed thing. Your nose, or rather your snout, erupts imperiously from your face like Krakatoa, whose cataclysmic explosion was heard 'round the world. Your hair, seemingly applied by Jackson Pollock, is sadly too short to cover the shame that is your bulbous forehead, which appears to be in the third trimester of pregnancy. It is a face of futility, a mauled mug, a cruel countenance, a vile visage. When seeking the aid of medical professionals, you are often directed to the burn ward before you have opened your stupefying maw to ask assistance in whatever matter carried your hulking frame there. Once you succeed in speaking to someone, the flapping of your lugubrious lips is too distracting for the recipient of your words to comprehend them, let alone respond to them or act upon them. This affect is hastened by your pulpy blemished skin and the stubs of flesh you call ears, which must have been gnawed upon by angry dogs when you were younger. Your scabby eyebrows are, needless to say, unpleasant to look upon. I advise you to invest in a high quality veil, mask, or other implement to obfuscate your appearance.

Lovingly Yours,

Dr. Mollygrubs

P.S.
Bosses Day is June 16th

The Old Stick & Ball

2009-08-09T16:36:00.000-07:00

The mysterious B.M. has solved my first 2 puzzles. Good work! For the first count, you have asked payment be remitted to you in the form of poetic waxing on golf, that old Scottish stick-and-ball. I trust the following limerick will prove sufficient:

There once was a young lady golfer,
who'd win all her games by some tamper.
She'd ride down the course
quite nude on a horse,
and the gentlemen all became damper!

Golf, for those that do not know, is the filthiest, most sexually depraved of all sports. Where other sports form a ritualistic imitation of the act of fighting, golf is blatantly erotic in each of its many aspects. Even the name of the sport is suggestive, for the word "golf" derives from a Scottish alteration of the Dutch word "kolf", a slag term meaning "erection" or "engorged member". The structure of the game itself is intended to mimic the secret love rituals practiced by Mary I, Queen of Scots, who was never satisfied until she had lain with nine or eighteen men. This is evidenced by the thinly veiled innuendo that make up the Rules of Golf. For instance, "The player may always substitute balls between the play of two holes," tells us more, perhaps, than we wish to know about Mary's amorous undertakings. Mary herself is now long forgotten by most who practice the sport, but the lewd nature of it's players has not wavered. Consider these other Rules of Golf:

A player must not accept assistance in making a stroke

A ball may only be replaced by another during play of a hole if it is destroyed, lost, or unplayable

Exceptable size, shape, and performance of equipment is defined by the Rules of Amateur Status

If a ball is in a water hazard, the player may play the ball as it lies or, under penalty of one stroke, play a ball from where it was originally hit; or, under penalty of one stroke, drop a ball at any point, as far back as the player chooses, on a line that keeps the last point at which the ball entered the hazard between the player, and the hole. If a ball is in a lateral water hazard, in addition to the options for a ball in a water hazard, the player may under penalty of one stroke, drop a ball within two club lengths of the point of entry into the hazard; or, under penalty of one stroke, drop a ball on the opposite side of the hazard no closer to the hole.

Disgusting, that last bit. Honestly, B.M. Now, I still owe you a piece of writing. Do try to be civil next time, won't you?

The Man Himself

2009-08-06T20:18:00.000-07:00

This afternoon, as I sat perusing the fantastically well-executed daguerreotypes in my copy of "75 Exciting Vegetables", it occurred to me that, while my audience at home will be more than familiar with my image, my audience abroad will not know the look of your humble servant, Dr. Mollygrubs. Never fear, friends! Being acquainted, as I am, with the latest technologies and mechanical gadgetry, I have been able to produce for you an image of myself in astounding life-like realism. Behold!

Now then, you need only fix this image in your mind whenever you read of the matter at hand. By doing so, you ensure yourself a quality experience. But you needn't take my word for it. Let us put this claim to the test. Please find enclosed one lyric translation of Dr. Dre's infamous song, "Fuck Wit Dre Day".

Yes, Mr. Coward? Where are you?
Lacking proper martial skills, you rely upon your blunderbuss.
You are sexually excited by stray dogs.
Even your friends and neighbors despise you.
The time is right for an endoscopic examination of your large colon, performed by a medical doctor.
You were once my friend, but I now wish to plant my fist firmly in your jaw.
Although you once took advantage of me, I shall now take advantage of you, small prostitute.
Do not think I have forgotten (intimations of homicide).
Don your finest cap and spectacles, and beware, lest I shoot you.
Also, remain calm and allow me to partake of your marijuana cigarette,
because your friends have lost all love for you.

[interlude]

I awaken to the sound of howling canines.
You have a talent for making jokes about your penis,
but you may be displeased by the following joke about your mother:
I have been informed that she is a lesbian from San Francisco.
However, let us disregard your mother for the time being and discuss ourselves.
You boast loudly, but produce few results--I shall force you to perform fellatio on me.

On that note, I should reveal to you that when I go about my business, I am often confused with a certain famous person of historical significance. To the first respondent who correctly identifies this individual from times past, I shall grant one paragraph of written material on the topic of your choosing, and, if you so desire, I shall display it prominently in the post following closest to your achievement. Good luck!

By Way of Introduction

2009-08-05T21:53:00.000-07:00

A dear friend of mine recently prevailed upon my kindness, as well as my skill with pen and paper, to craft for him a certain insult. The intent of this insult was that it should carry such force that it would be like a physical blow to the victim against whom it was hurled. Furthermore, the insult needs specify, in great detail, the unattractive nature of some part of the victim; namely, the face. Having produced about a paragraph of such insulting material, I was soon informed by my friend that it's effectiveness in verbal combat was more than satisfactory and, in addition, that I should consider creating such weapons on a regular basis, perhaps even on demand. In this manner comes your humble Dr. Mollygrubs, to offer up his unique talents to the public. And, by way of introduction, I will share with you that harmful text of which I spoke:

Your face offends all reason. God himself dares not cast his sorrowful eyes upon your pustulent visage. Children shy from your gaze and flowers wilt when you bend to inhale their sweet fragrance with lopsided nostrils. The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its misshapen contents. It is the horror of all horrors. So heinous is your countenance, that the undead zombies of legend would not feast on your flesh if you were the last living creature on Earth. The veins pulsing in your scaly, sweat laden forehead bring to mind the earthworms I dug from the moist black soil of my dead mother's garden as a child. In short, sir, your face defines a new level of ugly that words could never hope to describe. You are a hideous thing, and cursed.

The clever among you will surely note a line stolen from one of Mr. Lovecraft's stories, if slightly modified. No? You do not see it? Well then! Clearly I must offer a reward to the first respondent to correctly identify the pilfered line. Your prize shall be one hand-crafted paragraph on a topic of your choosing, insulting or otherwise (I am also well versed in the arts of love). Should you desire, I will include it with the post that next follows your discovery. Good hunting!