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THE VIAGRA RAPE SQUAD AND OTHER TANTALIZING TALES

Another compilation of short pieces. This one, however, turns the spotlight on me and my shenanigans, sometimes hilarious and sometimes harrowing.

Should be for sale in early January 2014.

The title piece tells the story of a media hoax I pulled in London, in December of 1988. The upshot of the hoax was that a band of demented femiNazis – known as the Viagra Rape squad – were on a mission to avenge every woman who had ever been raped.

The beautiful, big-titted blonds were kidnapping drunken yobs, feeding them Viagra and sexually satisfying themselves before cuffing the yobs and ass-raping them with a 9″ vibrator. Fantasy turned nightmare.

You’ll have to wait for the book to read the real story but you can read the News of the World’s version here.

Here are a couple other pieces that will be in the compilation:

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Late night Jihad with the Mounties on Parliament Hill (2005)

Went out for a walk after midnight last night. Went down to the Parliament buildings. It was a really windy night with intermittent squalls of cold rain. The Centre Block building (the famous one with The Peace Tower) is surrounded by statues of former Prime Ministers and I was walking from one to another and testing myself on what I knew about them – it’s amazing how little I remember and I know much more than 95% of the population.

The Mounties have a car stationed at the entrance.

The bored cop decided to investigate.

She asked me what I was doing.

I told her.

She asked if I had picture ID.

I told her I did.

She asked if she could see it.

I told her she couldn’t.

She asked, “Why not?

I told her, “Because this is still a free country, isn’t it?”

She said, “I didn’t say it wasn’t”

I replied, “I didn’t say you did,” and asked her if there was a problem.

She asked if I was from Ontario.

Bizarre question but I told her, “I’m from… Canada,” and again asked if there was a problem.

She said she found it suspicious that someone would be wandering around the Parliament Building in the wind and the rain at 1 a.m.

I told her I like the wind and the rain and added, “Where I come from, there’s lots of wind and rain.”

She asked, “Where do you come from?”

“I just told you. I’m from Canada.”

I asked her if there was anything else and she just stared at me.

I smiled and said, “Have a good night officer.”

Then I winked at her and said, “Allah akbar !”

Just couldn’t help myself. Couldn’t resist.

I did, however, resist the temptation to start running as soon as I said it – I’m fairly certain she would have shot me or run me over.

The Hammer and Snake Show

Hammer and I had met in the winter of 93 when he answered an ad I’d put out in the classified section of TerminalCity looking for a roommate who was, “a mental mutant with a taste for social deviance, black humour and alcohol of any flavour.”

Shortly after he moved in we saw a poster for an upcoming c-circuit wrestling extravaganza at Vancouver’s Croatian Cultural Centre. One of the attractions on the undercard of this extravaganza was a match between the Bark and Bite Brothers, who billed themselves as the world midget tag-team wrestling champions.

Their schtick was that they were, “the meanest midgets in the world,” who, I assumed, were in the habit of barking and biting like mad, rabid dogs. The Bark and Bite Brothers were, so they claimed, so mean, that no other midgets would fight them, one on one, or tag-team, so they had to fight each other. Well, to a couple mental mutants with a taste for social deviance, black humour and alcohol of any flavour, them was fightin’ words.

Hammer and I got loaded one afternoon and I called the promoter telling him I wanted to do a story on the meanest midgets in the world for TerminalCity. He gave me the Bark and Bite Brothers phone number and the abuse began. We called the little fuckers up and challenged them to fight us, Hammer and Snake, for their championship belts. “Are you midgets,” Bite asked me as I snarled at him.

“No, but we’ll get shit-faced drunk before we climb in the ring.”

“No. We don’t fight big people, asshole.”

“That’s because you’re fags. You’re just a couple of dirty little midget closet cases who take turns sodomizing each other with your two inch dicks and yelling ‘Take that Bitch! Who’s your daddy?’”

Bite proved that he had a remarkable grasp of the obvious by yelling, “You’re a fuckin’ asshole,” before hanging up. When Hammer and I stopped laughing he picked up the phone and called again.

“Hey, is this Bite? Hey Bite, this is Hammer. Before you hang up I want to apologize for my partner, Snake. You’re right, he is an asshole. And he’s drunk. But hear me out – we’ve got a proposition for you. We do wanna fight you but we’ll fight you one at a time. You can both be in the ring with just one of us. And we’ll both be drunk. It’ll be great! I guarantee we’ll sell the place out.”

Bite, apparently, was listening and thinking about it.

“Yeah, the two of you against one of us. Oh yeah? Well if you really think you’re that bad and can kick our asses, get in the ring little man,” Hammer taunted. “But, because we’re gonna be drunk and because one of us has to fight the two of you, we get a little handicap-equalizer. I get to bring my Hammer. That’s right. You heard me. I’m gonna fly off the top rope and brain you little fuckers with my framing hammer and Snake is gonna climb into the ring and sodomize your little midget bungholes with his twenty foot plumbing snake.”

Hammer and I kept getting drunk and taunting Bark and Bite for the entire month leading up to the extravaganza. Any time we were drunk and bored – day or night, two in the afternoon, or four in the morning – we’d call Bark and Bite and mercilessly taunt them.

It got so bad that I seriously thought the midgets were going to call the cops and apply for a restraining order against us. And who would blame them? If I was a midget and thought two alcoholic, lunatic “big people” were out to do some serious damage to me, I’d call the cops, apply for a restraining order and demand a police presence on the night the wrestling circus rolled into the Croatian Cultural Centre.

There were no cops at the Croatian Cultural Centre on the night of the wrestling extravaganza. And only one of the midgets showed up, claiming that his brother had come down with the flu. Hammer and I were, of course, loaded. As Bark (or Bite) yukked it up, signing autographs and having his picture taken with drunken trailer trash (pot? kettle?) from Surrey, Hammer marched up to the midget’s table screaming, “Listen you fuckin’ midget, you don’t have the balls to fight Hammer and Snake, so we’re takin’ your belts because we are the rightful midget tag-team wrestling champions of the world!”

I was standing about five feet behind Hammer, laughing my ass off as the midget climbed up on his chair, then leapt onto the table yelling, “Fuck you, you asshole! I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”

“I’d like to se you try, you little cocksucker,” Hammer laughed, reaching for the belts on the table and adding, “Get it? Little- cock… sucker Little cock-sucker?” The commotion had attracted the attention of the lumberjacks, hillbillies and cavemen who were part of the traveling circus. One of the knuckle-dragging troglodytes grabbed Hammer and threw him to the floor.

Just as two BIG, burly thugs were about to jump in and stomp Hammer, I jumped in yelling, “Hey! It’s a joke. We’re just fuckin’ around. Let’s cut this shit right now before we all wind up in jail.” The threat of incarceration proved to be a sufficient deterrent, allowing us to escape before we got our asses kicked.

The Hammer and Snake Show rolled across Vancouver for the next couple years. The two of us were pure evil together, constantly feeding of the other’s insanity and upping the ante. When he got to Cowtown we quickly picked up our antics where we’d left off in Vancouver.

Comb? (2006)

I’m at the park. Cheech is squirreling. There’s a little, 3-year-old girl sitting on the next bench with her mother. The girl looks up and sees me. BIG EYES! Kind of puzzled look on her face. She climbs down from the bench and starts walking towards me. I’m smiling. She stops. Looks back at their mother. Mom is smiling. The girl looks back at me. She reaches into her sweater pocket, pulls out a small comb and extends it toward me.

Bumblefuck:
It’s time to take the British out of British Columbia (1999)

Your country is dumb
Your cows are diseased
And your Queen is a lizard…
Now PISS OFF

Wrong. There simply is no other one-word description that sums up the state of England, today. Every day brings another baffling array of incomprehensible absurdities and I am constantly amazed at how much wrong can be crammed in one small country.

I have often argued that the best thing that could have happened to England this century would have been for the Nazis to have won the war because at least they’d have made the English efficient. You can, no doubt, imagine that this assertion is not well received by the citizens of this second-world nation but that does not bother me, for I have never cared what dumb people think. That is, perhaps, a bit harsh, since there are some very intelligent individuals of this once-proud nation. Collectively, however, they are dumb as two sacks of hammers.

Unfortunately for the Brits, they won the war (well, we all know the Yanks won the war but, if you say that here, you risk being stomped by a bunch of insecure, ultra-patriotic yobs suffering from Revisionist History Syndrome). But WWII was the last hurrah for a now-dead Empire and since 1945 Great Britain has become the Humpty Dumpty of nations. It’s as if Churchill turned the keys to the world over to Truman at Potsdam and said, “Right! It’s your problem, now. We’re off to the pub to get drunk for a couple hundred years.” And they have been staggering around like a bunch of blundering stumble-bums ever since.

But a new “King” has taken up residence at 10 Downing and he has resolved to gather all the King’s horses and all the King’s men in one more valiant attempt to put Humpty together again.

Six months after taking the throne, Tony Blair made a dramatic speech to the nation imploring them to sober up and get back to work: “We can never be the biggest, we may never again be the strongest, but we can be, simply the best!” he said emphatically, as millions fell off their bar stools in fits of uproarious laughter.

King Tony has decided to use the passing of the second millennium as a demarcation point for the country. When the clock strikes twelve at Grenwich it is supposed to signal, “a new beginning, a fresh start, the dawning of…” whatever. No one at Westminster seems to understand that pumpkins do not turn into carriages at the stroke of midnight. All the same, I give King Tony an “A” for effort, and wish him the best of luck with his impossible dream.

Blair and his New Labour government are spending billions of pounds trying to kick-start this dead horse and get it up and running in the new millennium. State-funded millennium projects are popping up all over the country in what amounts to a multi-billion pound pep rally for a nation of remedial math students, parking lot stoners and drop-outs.

The millennium effort follows on the heels of the last attempt at national cosmetic surgery, an embarrassing New Labour campaign born out of well-founded insecurity that was dubbed Cool Britannia. Cool Britannia was an ill-fated effort to showcase the UK’s best young artists, musicians, writers and fashion designers. What the New Labour mandarins and their cabal of over-priced Yuppie consultants failed to realize is that nothing stemming from (or even remotely connected to) government can ever be cool. In the 18 months I’ve been here the only cool thing I’ve noticed about Britannia is that the Prime Minister looks exactly like AC/DC guitarist Angus Young.

But government bumbling, alone, does not a dumb nation make. It is only when the citizenry of a nation surpasses its government in intellectual deficiency that it can truly be called dumb. If that has been the quest of the British people for the past 55 years, they have succeeded.

If asked to give a single example that typifies the English penchant for unfathomable resistance, in the face of otherwise overwhelming common sense, it would the fact that they still, on the eve of the second millennium, have not been able to understand the simple concept of one faucet that mixes hot and cold water. It is a rare occasion to stumble upon a sink that does not have separate hot and cold water faucets. In order to wash your hands you are forced to alternately freeze and scald your hands.

I have become so fascinated and frustrated by this idiocy that I go out of my way find an explanation for it. On one occasion, I called a “letting agent” and asked to view a 3000 square foot flat that was renting for 5000 pounds per week (no, I’m not kidding about that figure – that’s $12,500 Canadian dollars). I told the 10 percenter (and in this country, almost everyone is a 10 percenter) that I was the manager of a famous North American rock band, that was going to be recording in London for a couple months.

I told him that it was a Hell of a lot of money to be shelling out but added that I didn’t really care, because the record label was footing the bill. Barely able to contain his drool, the 10 percenter showed me around the horrendously overpriced flat. All was going well for the 10 percenter (or so he thought) until I excused myself to go to the washroom. After a couple minutes, I opened the door and shrieked, “What the fuck is this?”

Visibly distraught, the 10 percenter rushed towards me asking, “What? What’s wrong?”

“What the fuck is this?” I repeated, pointing to the two-tap sink.

“What? What do you mean? The sink?” he was clearly puzzled and sensed his trip to Ibiza slipping away, for reasons he simply could not fathom.

“Yes, the fuckin’ sink!”

“What? What’s wrong with the sink?”

“It’s got two fuckin’ taps!”

“Yes. They’re both there. What’s wrong?” he pleaded.

“What’s wrong? You expect us to pay fifty thousand fuckin;’ dollars a month for a fuckin’ apartment that has a sink with two fuckin’ taps? Are you out of your fuckin’ mind? For 50k a month the fuckin’ sink should have one tap and, for that kind of money, it should suck your fuckin’ cock, too!” The poor, dumb fuck did not have a clue what I was on about. “Why can’t you just run hot and cold water through one fuckin’ tap?”

In the eyes of the 10 percenter, I was clearly insane and he was speechless. “Look,” I screamed, pulling open the shower door. “You don’t have separate hot and cold water shower heads, do you? If you’ve managed to figure that one out, why can’t you stupid cunts make sinks with one fuckin’ tap? Fuck!”

And with that, I stormed out of the flat, barely able to contain the explosion of laughter that threatened to erupt from me throughout my semi-mock tirade.

Several months later, my friend, the Lord Reverend L Ron Moonbeam QC (pro bono) of Cricklewood, arrived in London as a tax refugee. I had, for months, been explaining to the good Lord Reverend what a remarkably idiotic country England was but he refused to believe me. Until he arrived.

Upon his arrival, I took him on an extended pub crawl and we proceeded to get legless drunk. While guiding him around London, I pointed out the monumental stupidity of the place and he was forced to admit hat I was not exaggerating. Eventually we retreated to my flat, to take refuge from madness of it all. Knowing that he was going to be marooned in tax exile for the foreseeable future, the good Lord Reverend became distraught and dismayed. So much so, in fact, that when I returned to the flat with a case of beer (thank Gawd liquor stores are plentiful and always close by), I found my friend sitting on a chair, in the darkness of the kitchen, weeping. Asking what was wrong, the good Lord Reverend explained that when he went into the kitchen to find something to eat, he noticed that my sink had only one tap. Cheering himself that it was sign that there was hope, he opened the tap only to discover that the morons had, indeed, installed a sink with one tap – but they had run two small hot and cold water hoses through it.

I know this may seem insignificant in the big picture but it is symbolic of Britannia’s inability to accept simple concepts that have been embraced by first-world countries for years.

When I point things like this out to Brits, they invariably screw up their faces like some kind of stupid, alcoholic, lobotomized beasts from the Island of Dr. Moreau and start prattling on about everything that is wrong with America. I have often been on the receiving end of anti-American tirades that would make Nikita Khrushchev sit up in his grave and bang his shoe in approval. When I interrupt these childish tantrums and point out that I am from Canada and inform them that Canada is not part of the United States, they are baffled because Canadians are not supposed to be so rude – being rude is supposed to be the exclusive domain of the much-hated (but always envied) Ugly American. I have never been a fan of the failing social experiment that lies south of the 49 th parallel known as the good ol’ you ess of eh but I have spent numerous drunken evenings bonding with Yanks and laughing about what a farcical mess England is.

It’s always easy to spot a North American is London – just look for someone standing on a street corner, with a map book in his hands and a perplexed and aggravated expression on his face. Their consternation usually stems from the fact that the Brits have also failed to understand the logic of putting street signs on their corners. In a city that is often paralyzed with grid-locked traffic, you would think that someone would have figured out that if drivers knew where they were, they wouldn’t be driving around in circles all day. Simple concept – completely lost on this nation of ignoids. When the Brits actually do bother to indicate what a street is named, they usually hide the sign behind a tree, on the side of a poorly lit building, as if to say, “We almost get it – now, how can we fuck it up?”

Space constraints do not allow me to completely inventory the innumerable inane and banal events and attitudes a first-worlder has to endure in the country I have come to refer to as Bumblefuck. Here, however, for the record, are just a few of my favourites:

  • paying anywhere from 30 to 50 cents for a book of matches
  • families that have been on “the dole” for five generations
  • families that have been in the House of Lords for fifty generations
  • suspension of the laws of supply and demand – high vacancy rates with skyrocketing rents (I pay more for my 600 square foot, one bedroom flat than my sister does for her 3000 square foot mansion in West Vancouver
  • women who wear skirts over their pants
  • a proud and long tradition of cross-dressing comedians – put a man in a dress and get him to read the dictionary and Brits will double over with laughter
  • accents that are really speech impediments – why the language is called English is beyond me, since nobody here can speak it
  • and, lastly the inability to have a conversation with anyone for more than 47 seconds without it turning to football (soccer) which, by the way, is a mind-numbingly dull sport that consists of 22 prima donnas running around pretending they have no arms

When a friend in Vancouver recently asked what it was like to live in Merry Olde England, I paused for a moment before replying that it was like living on an island that has been dipped in dumb – actually, dumb squared. And the term Merry Olde England is a con that was surely dreamed up by whatever PR company is on contract to the British Tourism Board. When my friend Hunga Bunga Man first arrived here in Bumblefuck, several summers ago, he landed a job that required him to be in the shop at 7 a.m. He swears that the sun was always shining when he left for work at 6 a.m., yet, when he looked out the window a little after 8 a.m., the city was shrouded by heavy, brooding clouds. His theory is that when the millions of dreary drones hit the streets to make their way to their mundane jobs, they cast a pall of gloom so thick as to obscure the sun over this miserable megalopolis. I have seen plenty of evidence to substantiate Hunga Bunga Man’s theory.

The only time Brits are merry is when they’re legless drunk on bland, warm beer, or blessed out on E. Understandably, both forms of Soma are in abundant supply here, which may explain why anyone with any entrepreneurial spirit is certifiably frustrated when trying to make a buck. It is common practice for Brits to take two-hour lunches, at the pub, where they pound back five or six pints, rendering them absolutely useless. Karl Marx had to have been one seriously paranoid brain-dead commie for him to have seen anything even remotely resembling the capitalist ethos for him to have penned Das Kapital and The Communist Manifesto when he was Engels’ rent-boy-in-residence in London.

It may be that Britain was once a country to admire, respect and even emulate but those days are long gone. Britain is a spent force, an island of myopic, wall-eyed zombies wandering aimlessly, while proudly singing Rule Britannia (which, I suppose, is an understandable habit for people who pride themselves on their sense of irony).

Having been marooned here on Gilligan’s Island for eighteen long months now, I have come to the conclusion that this is not a nation that we want to be associated with. It’s just not good marketing to be linked to a loser, as the people of Berlin, Ontario understood when they changed their name to Kitchener; likewise Leningrad, which has changed its name back to St Petersburg and Ho Chi Mihn City, which will soon revert to the name Saigon.

If the citizens of inferior geo-political jurisdictions like Vietnam, Russia and Ontario can appreciate this principle, surely the highly-intelligent denizens of Canada’s left coast can understand that it is time to take the British out of British Columbia.

 

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