THE FURM

The last time I honked your way I told you that I was going to London, England. I went, I came back and now that I've cleared customs, I'm legally entitled to write some stuff vaguely related to the trip as well as import 1-3 bottles of Pimm's. To all of you who were concerned for my safety concerning the riots that spread due to outrage over Rowan Atkinson crashing his McLaren F1 super car, I thank you for thinking of me amongst your other thoughts like what tomorrow's sandwich will be. Here is the aforementioned stuff, complete with punctuation:

I've been lucky enough to travel all over Europe, North America and whatever continent the Dominican Republic is in, but traveling actually causes me a great deal of stress, mentally and physically. That basically means I get diarrhea. I'm the type of guy who concerns himself with tiny things and humongous things -- in a given day I'll get stressed out about the length of my fingernails, while fascinating myself with thoughts about outer space, the biggest place in the world. I don't know where I was going with this, but be thankful, because any bit of information I hand out could be used against me in a lawsuit or game show. Anyway, I think it might just mean that I don't understand politics. Here, how about this:

I see "The Airport" as a giant challenge. I'm on time for everything because my brain is mostly clock, whereas scientists' are mostly calculators and everyone else's is mostly naked people. If flying was as simple as showing up on time and getting on a plane, it'd be easy pie, no stress, "let's do this again", but it's more like a video game -- there's a bunch of little tests and you can only pass them if you're early enough and have in your possession certain items (passport, shoes not made of bombs).

An airplane is like a bedroom full of people you don't know and instead of beds there are chairs that you have to sit in when told. Even if you are able to get up the only place you can go is the bathroom and the bathroom is as big as one human and one human only.

Then you get to where you're going and no one likes you because you're not from there. I hate tourists because they don't know any of my secret handshakes.

Then you have to go to the airport and airplane again and when you get home you get stressed because you haven't been on the Internet in a week and you're weird about that kind of thing. Chances are, all I missed were some Tweets about food, some Tumbls about Garfield and some Facebook invitations to events whose titles give no indication of what the event is, but I still end up feeling like I did when my family went to Medieval Times without me.

That being said, I had a great time! Every time I got stressed I'd eat beans and things would get funny after that. Laughter is the beans of the soul, and beans are the soul of laughter. I don't mean to slap myself on the cheeks, but that last sentence was very good, and I didn't even think about it, it just came out. Isn't the world weird?

PLATINUM USER SPECIAL CONTENT

People who haven't bought a Platinum Account won't be able to access this content. If you're seeing this and you don't have a Platinum Account, the FBI's Cyber Terrorism Team, the "Big Brown Bears" have been notified and should be at your place of computer in 6-11 days.

I tore this ad out of an in-flight magazine. It's the airline's CEO selling his music. Click on it to make it bigger.

This guy is a few lawsuits and a failed brewery away from being Frank d'Angelo. My favourite is the album "Mostly About You". It's like he had nine good songs about his lovely wife but then wrote a real slammin' track about licorice and just had to put it on. I also like the following cover of him crooning on the wing of an airplane, mid-flight:


As they say in SCUBA diving, "Swimming Rules". BUH BIIIII

RED ROVER RED ROVER WE CALL DIMPUS OVER

On Sunday I'll be flying over Lake Atlantic to Great Britain to celebrate the union of my cousin and his bride. I hear British weddings aren't all that different from North American weddings, except you're only supposed to use a spoon at dinner, and traditionally, the groom isn't allowed to see the bride until their 10th anniversary.

I think I'm finally getting excited for the trip. This always happens. Maybe 28 Christmases and birthdays have conditioned my brain to save excitement until close to game time in order to lessen what doctors call "jumping the fun gun". Or maybe I'm not that excited at all because my ancestors left the same general area long ago to escape streets full of people eating old coal and rats smoking cigars. They crossed the tub and found a pretty cool place where Native Canadians taught them about hip hop and how to make out in a canoe.

I've been to London once before, when I was a fresh-faced University graduate eager to eat fried food on a different continent and then think critically about it using the teachings of Marshall McLuhan. This prevented me from eating the newspaper my fish and chips came wrapped in while my friend who took film studies ate his, but did it in an aesthetically pleasing way using tracking shots and great lighting. Anyway, this all means that I''ve seen all the major sites - London Bridge, Millennium Bridge, Tower Bridge and James Bond's gun shaped bungalow. So I'll be spending the bulk of the week off the beaten path, searching for London's best Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives, and maybe some new clothes for the wedding.

I already purchased tickets for my family to tour the Buckingham Palace State Rooms, which also includes a viewing of Kate's famous wedding dress! I can't wait to see the famous HP stain up close. It's kind of embarrassing for her, but it's hard to eat a cake made of brown sauce and mash potatoes and not get any on yourself. So far this is the only planned activity, so I thought I'd take a few hours of your time and brainstorm the rest of my itinerary:

Soccer is popular in London so maybe I should try and kick someone?

Here's a group of Londoners, similar to the kind I'll be making fun of in my head during my trip. If I were to kick any of them, I'd probably start with the bottom row, because I don't think I can kick higher than that. But since they're all kids, I'd probably just like, fake it, make them cry then say I'm a street performer named "Scrumkins".

Okay, that probably won't work and besides, I prefer spitting to kicking. The British are known for their dry sense of humour, and since I'm a comedian, maybe I can try out some of my material. Here's a new joke I've been working on:

"(find audience member with drink) So I see you got a drink there, what is it? (wait for answer) I'm a gin man myself (if the person's drink is gin say "I'm a gin man too) You know what I like to drink gin with? (look for someone with a hat) DEFINITELY not that hat! (if no one's wearing a hat, use your shoe and just like, make fun of yourself a bit)

Should I slime him?

Maybe I'll just spend most of the time doing some English Surfing. Don't worry, it's a lot simpler than it sounds. It's just falling asleep on the upper level of a double decker bus, and you have to wear sunglasses. I forget who told me about it. Whoa, I wonder if they have Turkish Delight M&Ms over there?

TOON TANG

TODAY IS THE HOTTEST DAY OF ALL TIME

And I'm not even exaggerating like when I said nectarines are better than chocolate bars. Luckily, I'll spend the majority of the day in a modern, air conditioned office enjoying viral videos of Torontonians cooking things on things that aren't stoves and monitoring the news for stories about people complaining.

I could tell you about 50 ways to beat the heat, but you can't beat heat like this. You can't even wound heat like this. If you took this heat out for dinner it'd order the most expensive dish, make you pay then wait to take a dump at your place because it thinks the toilet paper at your place is better than the restaurant's.

To keep things light and airy today, here are the tombstones of three people who died from the heat today. And don't worry, all three were assholes and all three wouldn't shut up about how fans "just move the hot air around".





Imagine Christmas was in the summer? Is that what "Another Earth" is about?

WEATHER AND CAKE

Fashion Watch Trend Hunter Report On Clothes, Autumn 2013 Season

The award for "Silliest Trend in Most Important Job" goes to judges and barristers who wear those wigs. If it's frowned upon to wear a hat at Red Lobster, I think these guys can retire the wig and just rely upon a great haircut combined with product to suit their style and hair type. ← Those are the words of the ignorant!

The number two rule of fashion behind, "if you're ugly it doesn't even matter" is "if it's silly now, it's expensive later". That means that by the time you and I are grandpas and Grand Moffs, the cultural elite will likely be wearing these wigs. The only thing that will stop them will be judges themselves, as they are amongst the elite of humanity.

People forget that! Judges are so smart that once I was behind one at a McDonald's drive-thru and in the short time between the order window and the food window the guy managed to stick his head out the window and say this to me:

"If you're entering a store that sells doors and the door isn't very good, walk out the door, find another door store and make sure their door is good."

On the flipside, I was adopting a kitten two years ago and a judge was in there at the same time as me and she somehow tricked me into getting three guinea pigs instead while she took the fluffiest kitten I'd ever seen.

WADE BOGGS' Accessory of the Hour

Batter Up! Stepping up to the plate, the 6'9" Real Life Zorro combined with Billy the Kid, husband to the world, father to some, BIG DADDY WADE BOGGS. Glad to be back.

First off, I think a dusty old Rawlings mitt and an untied bowtie are the best fashion accessories around, but heck, they got no place in gay Pairee, right? HOHOHO I met a girl from over there who could blow smoke through her nipples. I nicknamed her "Stripes" because the French don't have that word. Did you know that in Your'up they don't throw up in toilets?

There's one accessory that never goes out of style, whether you're getting kinky with the umpire's mother or just heckling the opera -- The Dunce Cap:

I used to strap one of these on my kid Brian every time he looked at me. The only people I want looking at me are pitchers and any woman with a chest over a D Cup. And what's with all this beer with lime in these days? When I played in the big leagues we used to add tobacco and white rum to our beers. Is that a seagull sitting on my Trans Am? Hold on a sec.... killed it. Now I have something to leave on my neighbour's porch as a retaliation for asking me what day garbage day is. Who am I, the mayor?

VEST PROOF BUL,LETS

I was in Lyon last week covering the Tour de France for Toronto-based cycling mag Two Wheels and a Seat when my duffel bag was stolen. All my gold, travel documents and bathing suits were in it, so I was, as they say in France, fuckéd.

I was staying at a beautiful hotel shaped like Napoleon's hat, but once they realized I couldn't pay for the room and dijon mustard shooters I'd ordered the night before, I was told to vacate or be handed over to the local orphanage.

I called my money man, Steve McNews who managed to wire me a few clams to get by on. Unfortunately, because of the bike race, most of the rooms in town were booked, even the conceptual hotel where you live like a beaver.

Now I've stayed in some nice hotels, some decent motels and even some friendly hostels. But after the experience I had that night, I'd recommend staying well away from a MOSTEL. It was all I could afford and was the second worst experience of my life next to learning "The Human Transformer" sex move from an Indian guy who claimed he was Ben Kingsley.

Luckily, I still had my JamCam as I had taped to the back of my neck to see if any girls noticed the new patch on the seat of my jeans, so I got to document my experience:

The lobby. The woman at the top of the stairs said her name was "Forever" and the whole time I was there she was in every room. Her ferrets were pretty cute but they kinda freaked me out when they joined together to form something that looked like a dog with the face of a human baby. It cleaned the whole place and did a great job all things considered. In fact, when I got to my corner in chamber 12, I noticed there wasn't a waste basket, so I knocked on the wall as Forever instructed and 2 minutes later, the amalgamated ferret showed up with a pretty decent one:

At first, I couldn't tell what the wood thing was above my bed, but it all made sense when the snakes passed through.

Here's the dining room. There didn't seem to be any food, but a seven foot tall man whose voice had a ton of reverb showed me the bucket on the shelf that contained generic suckers, all orange.

I sucked down three for dinner and headed to the bathroom to freshen up where I met Wally:

Wally said it was one of the better mostels he'd ever been to. The last one he stayed at didn't even have floors. He said the key is to get as much sleep in the tub as possible before retiring to your corner because scorpions don't like moisture.

On my way back to the chamber I ran into this group of American college students who had been lost in the mostel for 15 days. When I told them to use the stairs, they told me every time they tried they ended up at the bottom of another set. I told them they should put Canadian flags on their backpacks.

I only managed to get six hours of sleep and the continental breakfast was corn served on old office supplies. The next day the authorities found my bag and there was a note in it that read:

Do come again.
Forever

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOoooooooOoOOOoOooOOooOOOOOOOOoOoooOOoOOOoooooooooooooo

OIL EXECS LOVE FINDING "STUFFED CRUST"

This image fits what you're about to read so perfectly that I don't even care if you read the rest.

Most of the world is hot right now, except those dumb places in the arctic and shit where they don't even have TVs so they don't know what's going on and who's banging who etc. The rest of us are having BBQs in swimming pools and breathing heat and farting lava. This weather is great for playing sports and providing an excuse for dumb haircuts, but I think it's more powerful than that. Here's what I mean:

What happens when you get hot? You get nude and thirsty. The popular belief is that either whales, Bono or aliens will create world peace, but I have a simpler, more refreshing idea - COLD DRINKS.

After most people take a glug from a coldy, they make the noise "aaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" because it feels so damn good lubing up your hotter-than-hell throat. We wouldn't need cold drinks or cough lozenges if God had only blessed us with cool throats. Would our singers improve? Maybe that's why he did it. His favourite song is the one about pasta by Pavaroti, one of our best hot throats. Anyway, have you ever heard of someone murdering someone else while enjoying a cold glass of iced tea? If I walked down the street right now with a wagon full of cold piss I'd sell out in 5 minutes, making enough money to buy myself a drink that isn't piss but then would turn into more piss to sell, ice cold.

Instead of Earth Day lets just have Drink Day. The collective "aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh" would be so loud and comforting that dolphins would get nervous.

So yeah, pat me on the back and buy me a Mr. Big for this idea, but don't start praying to me yet. I know how to save the world but I also know how to destroy small parts of it. Yesterday, we left a window open by accident and instead of a cool breeze, the only thing we brought into our house was like, 30 flies. Flies mean two things - buzzing and... flies.

I killed so many damn flies, probably 20 at least. Like, I fucked up a lot flies. All I used was a t-shirt for whipping and a can of air freshener, which makes flies die from smelling good. You know the term "dropping like flies"? I experienced that term yesterday. After I freshened a couple of hard to get butt fuckers, they'd fly around for a bit, probably trying to find a pile of shit to eat before they die, and then they'd just fall out of the sky. I almost felt bad but then I pictured them being larvae and I was like "you're born disgusting then you turn disgusting, shit-eating and annoying. No pity".

This is how I picture my opponents when I play sports or go out looking for tail

BACK IS BLACK

I want to discuss how hot it is outside, but looking back, I've already written extensively on the topic. That's not to say that every hot day is the same, I mean some melt popsicles faster than others, but I don't want you to feel like I have 100 hot day anecdotes filed away in a shoe box mistakenly labelled "Polaroids of boys with silly eyes". The silly eye box actually has my collection of magazine ads with lingerie models who look like Christopher Lloyd, which I keep in case the Internet breaks so I can quench people's thirst for memes and become king of the new world. Are you confused? I hope so. Everything I own is mislabeled in case my worst fear comes true where moving companies take over the world by stealing and moving everyone's stuff to a dog-guarded, cat-encrusted mega warehouse where they'll stage a garage sale that will make them the richest labour force in the modern world, richer than the guys who clean volcanoes . If the unthinkable happens, I'm covered. Good luck categorizing my shit, AMJ Campbell.

Don't worry, I'm not actually going to stop myself from spewing out sentences about myself living in summer. I'm a mature man now. I own two bathing suits. One's for oceans, lakes and chlorine pools and the other is for ponds, rivers and streams. Just joking, they're both for water no matter where it gurgles, except that one is aimed at making blondes melt while the other gets the brunettes weak at the knees. I keep laminated copies of my phone number stashed in each suit's underpant lining just in case I meet a hot slice of Eve down in the depths.

Surprisingly, I haven't heard too many people complain about this latest stretch of heat. You know what would stop people complaining altogether? Palm trees. Palm trees looks like a reggae man's head, produce delicious palm treats (genus - nut, species - coconut) and can be found in Earth's mist acceptable hot ass places. When it's hot outside and I stop to scope out an extra-white birch tree I'm all like "you make me want to hang myself". You see, deciduous trees are just like us - they hate squirrels and they change with the seasons, so when we look at the them it's like we're looking at our frowning selves staring back at us. When you look at a palm tree you see Summer Dude who cringes at sweaters and has never even tasted snow.

Not THE summer dude, but A summer dude

Here's a summer poem written last summer. That means it's "vintage" now and THAT means it's smellier and cheaper but more fashionable than last time.

The Weather this summer

Holy shit it’s been hot
Imagine you were a bear?

Those guys have body beards
And sweat their fair share

Hairy men suffer too
But enough with the gents

Are tits like insulators?
Are vaginas like vents?

Maybe women are like camels
Their humps keep them icy

But hot milk goes sour
Does heat make tits smell not nicey?

Picture a bear with big tits
she’d be in summer hell

Full circle poem huh?
Hot, bear, tits, milk, camels

This one is all wrapped up
So feel the damn heat

And men just remember boys
Chill out your wife’s teats

IT'S A FREE COUNTRY EXCEPT YOU CAN'T EVEN STEAL SHIT

I wrote the following last week, so most of it doesn't even matter anymore. The main character, "the zit" is nothing more than a shell of its former self. Now I have bigger things to worry about like haircuts and beatin' the heat, which doesn't exist in Africa because people are more concerned with lions than sunburns. Only place in the world man, only place.

That being said, I'm not that happy with this story about my latest pimple. I don't think it has enough intrigue and not nearly enough nudity. Judge for yourself lest ye be judged by an intelligent turtle judge whom human criminals love to hate. The location of his house is a secret to protect him and him family (wife's a frog) but most people figure he lives in that mansion in the bayou.

LATEST ZIT (title added after introduction added to separate it from the introduction. If this makes you uncomfortable, simply copy and paste everything under this title and title disclaimer into your favourite word processor or text tool and enjoy)

I got a zit man. It's a big guy. One of those three-headed monstrosities at the usual spot to the right of my nose just above nostril level. When I was a teen I found that whenever I washed my face I seemed to get zits and then I watched this episode of Street Cents and they were like "actually, washing you face can lead to zits" so no wash cloths for me. What most people think is a beard is really 15 years of dirt and other people's hair, so I guess it kind of is a beard.

I'm a lifelong picker. When you got a zit and it gets a big head on it, you have to pick it (or pop it, depends on how you were raised). Despite what doctors tell you, this does get rid of zits. It's a trade-off though. A whitehead is a homing beacon, luring the eyes of your dream babe into the puss zone, and the sooner it's gone the more confident your face will feel. The only problem is that once you pick, the surrounding area turns a deep shade of zitty red. I personally prefer the red to the head, but that's just me.

People get nervous around whiteheads for two reasons -- first, they're a ticking time bomb and seem to say to the world, "I'm about ready to burst, so don't get in my way". Second, they tell everyone around you that you don't know you have a zit as most people eliminate them as quickly as possible. That makes people uncomfortable because they don't know whether to tell you or not. You might as well have a chicken wing on your face.

JUMPING IS FUN WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT IT IN SCIENTIFIC TERMS

Dear Pretzels,

Evolve. You covered yourself in chocolate? Avoid the tricks. We all wear masks to hide our true forms.

Love yourself.

Sincerely,









Thanks to my Honk, my lead researcher for unearthing the above letter for today's edition Cory-spondence. The letter was addressed to a Mr. Uncle Cory, Pretzeldent of Rold Gold Corporation, Mordor, Alabama "Doughville USA". Sender: Unknown.

I like to pick my Cory letters personally, but this week I was too busy rating last week's Sunshine Girls.

I love the human female form so much that I'm not even gay, but I don't really look at Sunshine Girls to get zingy. I prefer to read their profiles, then cross reference their dreams and ambitions against their height, looks and style. I like to think of myself as a talent agency, the Sunshine Girls being my potential clients.

The most common girl is in her early 20's, just over five feet tall, loves the outdoors, dogs, and the Leafs and wants to be an actress/model. Most likely they'll continue to love dogs, the Leafs and the outdoors but most will probably end up being the hottest girl in East Sudbury.

Okay, hold on, I gotta get something off my chest and it's not this great shirt that's just see through enough to prove I have chest hair.

I bought these shoelaces and they keep coming undone. Shoelaces have been around since shoes and shoes have been around almost as long as feet, and in today's world, where flying to outerspace is old news, how in the name of Holy Shit are there still shoelaces that come undone?

If I have to double-knot a shoelace just so it won't come loose, then it seizes to be a shoelace, but rather a peice of reject material that is too ugly to be a Bolo tie and too slippery to be a shoelace. The double knot should only be used as a backup, and is by no means is it a primary knot. High performance athletes use the double knot, knot guys like me whose idea of exercise is wearing a metal watch.

Seriously, do people even test these things? Give me five minutes, a pair of shoes, your brand's laces and a peice of ground and I'll be able to tell you if your laces are fit for sale.

To all the fat cats living off lace money, lighting their their cigars with shoelaces that were lit with money that was lit with a Zippo with a picture of a shoe on it -- I wish nothing but zits for your babies. I wish nothing but interference on your satellite dishes, and nothing but Ringos at your birthday where you demanded your wife get a Beatle perform your favourite Beatles song, which knowing you is probably the widely panned and unreleased "Pinky's Tinky".

FOUL OWL BY THE CREATOR OF DOONESBURY

Marriage doesn't really mean as much as it did back when women needed 24/7 protection from bears and horn dog lumberjacks. I don't feel much pressure to tie the knot because bears are extinct and most lumberjacks are gay.

Plus, who wants to get married? I've seen every episode of Home Improvement and no matter how much marriage advice Tim gained from Wilson, Jill stayed a bitch, Al's wife dies I think and Home Improvement sucks.

I think that was a suitable introduction to this quarter's WIFE NEWS

A 51 year old actor who had minor roles on LOST and The Green Mile, got married to a 16 year old aspiring country singer in Las Vegas. If the guy got a new, younger dick before the wedding it would make this whole thing okay? I wouldn't care if my hypothetical 16 year old son were to marry a 50 year old so long as her vagina wasn't older than 20. Tits don't matter but I doubt a young man would want a pair of old gum drops, you know?

In Indonesia, a group of Muslims have formed an "Obedient Wives Club" where the belief is that wives should cater to their husbands every whim and ensure sexual satisfaction. Around here, we call that "Texas" ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!! I've never even been to Texas. How about, "The first rule of Obedient Wives Club? I don't know, ask my damn wife".

Hugh Hefner's bride-to-be, Crystal Harris, decided she didn't want to marry him after all. He must've kept that old dick of his.