Hey, do you like fat guys? Well, you’re going to love me. I have barely been to the gym this month and I have eaten like I have Prader-Willi Syndrome. You can motorboat my stomach! Hooray, summer!

Anyway, I did go to the gym a few times this summer and it was the complete genetic freakshow it has always been. The highlights:

- Some old guy drying his socks and bathing suit by jamming them into the nozzle of a handdryer and repeatedly pressing the dryer’s start button for about five minutes. I just think there is something unseemly about this. I’m a prude, I know, but I don’t want my freshly-washed hands tainted by the stray juice from his delicates.

- I have noticed at least three different guys who have tramp stamp tattoos. Fuck, is that ever unfortunate. That ranks just below “condomless Haitian gang bang” on the Regrettable Life Choice scale. It also cements the fact that I am never going to get tattoos. Don’t get me wrong — I like tattoos. I think they look bad-ass. It’s just that I have zero faith in my judgment and I would bet that my tattoo choice would end up being a dolphin kissing a unicorn in an embrace surrounding my belly-button. It’s best just to stay away from the concept altogether.

- I have been doing an exercise where you carry heavy kettlebells across the room. I don’t know how this constitutes as a workout, but it certainly has prepared me for a future career as a bellhop. Anyway, I walk across the room and when I get to the end of it I turn around and come back. Every time I turn, I TURN THE SAME DIRECTION. I am apparently Zoolander.

- There is a guy at the gym that shaves his face (shaving cream and everything) while wearing a dress shirt. It’s a recipe for fucking chaos and stains. I can’t even look at him. To me he might as well be using a rusty syringe.

Well, I’m done for the week. I’ll be hitting the gym. Big weekend at Wasaga. Time to show off the guns (and the tire that comes with them). Cheers!

Last Sunday I had the pleasure of attending the Canadian National Exhibition, which is also known to Canadians as “the CNE”, “the Ex” or “the biggest fucking waste of time and money the Toronto summer has to offer.” If you don’t know anything about the Ex, it’s basically the Canadian version of a state fair, only with a moderately lower level of obesity and a markedly higher level of apologies from people barfing after going on the Tilt-A-Whirl. Mrs. Butter Chicken is a huge fan of the CNE and wants to go every year. Her baseless enthusiasm makes me seriously reconsider my wedding vows to her. I guess I see her point: why waste a day at home relaxing on the patio and drinking beer when you can spend it trudging around a blazingly-hot concrete fairgrounds for a mere $16 admission fee? It would be insane not to go, right? Well, call me John Forbes Nash, but I am not totally convinced.

The highlights of the day:

- There was a really fat woman in front of us in line at the Dufferin gates. Jesus, she was curiously large. She was holding hands with a normal-looking dude and Mrs. Butter Chicken and I commented to each other that he could really do much better than her. Then Mrs. Butter Chicken started looking at me funny and I quickly deduced that she was thinking that she could do better than me, so I rapidly changed the topic. Still, that woman was really fucking fat. Like a wobbly fridge. The best part was that she was wearing a lot of black. Right, no one’s going to notice those extra hundred pounds because you are wearing an ebony sausage casing. She was like a jiggling night sky.

- When we were in the Arts & Crafts building, I saw a shirtless guy with the words “Honda V-Tec” tattooed across his back in large Gothic lettering. I have no idea what he was doing in the Arts & Crafts building. Presumably he was looking for a guy with a Kia Rio tattoo so that he could kick the shit out of him.

- My wife wanted to go to the Cat Show they were having. You know, like “Best in Show”, only with cats. It was actually fantastic. Dogs like being picked up and manhandled. Cats? Not so much. Every cat was either freaking out in its cage or looked like this when it was picked up by the judge:

I laughed my ass off until my throat started to close due to my cat allergy. On the plus side, in case Allah needs help, I found a ready supply of female virgins to supply to jihad-fighting terrorists in heaven. Mind you, they are all in their mid-forties, mildly portly and faintly scented like Meow Mix, but they are virgins nonetheless.  

- Tiny Tom donuts. I ate two dozen and had to stop myself before I started sweating out powdered sugar. I also may or may not have tried to convince Mrs. Butter Chicken to let me get this as a neck tattoo:

- I was walking down one of the incredibly crowded aisles in a random pavilion when I suddenly felt a sharp stabbing pain in my ankle and Achilles tendon. My leg went completely numb and I nearly fell down on that side. I quickly turned around to see that someone had jammed the metal footrest of a wheelchair into my leg. I was going to yell at them but then realized, how the hell can you yell at someone in a wheelchair, or someone pushing a wheelchair? I hobbled away completely furious yet entirely impotent to do anything about it. The Wheelchair — the ultimate get-out-of-jail-for-free card (unless of course we are talking about the prison of being denied bi-pedal mobility. Then it’s the stay-in-jail-forever card).

- There were multiple booths that just sold lavender-related products. Is it just me, or do you absolutely hate the smell of lavender? It ranks just above “pre-rinse compost bin” and just below “cheap Polish sausage fart” on my desirable smells list (oh, you better believe I have a list!). It’s supposed to be an aphrodisiac, but fuck that shit sideways. I’d have a hard time picking between lavender perfume and pepper spray. The only difference between them is that the beating that follows the former would be by an openly gay, rather than closeted, cop.

- When my wife and I were sitting on the lawn outside the Food Building (and while I was completely stuffing my fat fucking face with the aforementioned mini donuts), I saw a little kid run away from his parents without the parents noticing. I watched the kid stroll away without doing a damn thing. When the parents finally figured out what was going on and started losing their shit, I pointed at their kid, who was probably 50 feet away from them at that point. I am a bit of a hero, if you consider being a completely lazy-ass, donut-eating gawker who can barely muster the energy to point out a lost child a hero. My award will be a fart in an engraved jar.

So, that’s the CNE. I barely lasted four hours before freaking out and dragging my wife home. I hope your Sunday was as good as mine.  

Follow me at http://twitter.com/ButterChickenBC You’re probably already following Gourmet Spud so I’ll just leave that alone.

We have nothing for you today but our hopes, dreams, and wishes for a better future for all our readers. Oh, and a list of titles that you could give to pornos that were based on Shakespearean plays. This was the best we could do on short notice. Have at it, readers.

• As You Lick It
• The Merchant of Penis
• The Two Gentlemen in Vagina
• The Shaving of the Shrew
• A Midsummer Night’s Ream
• Much Ado About Fucking
• The Tem-Pissed On
• Julius Caesar, Then Fucks Her (You have to say it to understand it)
• Hamlet Me Do Anal
• Tits Andronicus
• Romeo and Juliet and Juliet’s Friend
• Richard III-Way
• The Rape of Lucrece (Huh, it didn’t even have to change)

If you come up with something good for “MacBeth” or “Troilus and Cressida”, I will be extremely impressed.

A few months ago I was out for dinner in Montreal with a group of friends, including the esteemed General Tao. Picture “My Dinner With Andre” but with three other people and an exponentially greater number of Batman and pro wrestling references. Classy, huh? Anyway, one of the attendees (we shall call him “Bibbity”) was in the middle of relaying an anecdote or story when he dropped the following sentence on the rest of us:

“It’s like that line in that Jay-Z song — I like a lotta poubada, and…”

Sorry, what?

“I like a lotta poubada.”

Collectively we had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

“You know, poubada.”

That’s not a word.

“It’s in the song.”

What song?

“You know, that one. The poubada one.”

…

“You know, “Can I Get A…”.”

Each of us at the table scrambled for our blackberries to find out what the hell Bibbity was talking about.

Let’s see the video for the song. Go to 1:55 of the video.

I have no idea what she says, but I am pretty sure it’s not “I like a lotta poubada.” Why? Because “poubada” is not a word. Not even remotely. We asked Bibbity about this.

“I don’t know. I thought it was some rap thing. I assumed it could be used universally as some kind of noun, verb or adjective.”

As in “I grabbed her poubada.” Or “Her ass is poubada.” Or “I am going to poubada the shit out of that.”

The actual lyrics?

“Git Up, Git Out and get somethin” Shit!
I like a, lot of P-rada, Alize and Vodka

Remember, folks. The Devil Wears Poubada.

I can understand getting the lyrics to a song wrong. However, hearing a made-up word and just going with that as the lyrics, that’s a new one.

We tried to convince him that “Alize” was made up as well. No dice.

Dear Baggage Handlers,

A quick side-note to start off this letter: I use the term “baggage-handling” to describe touching my own junk when I am sitting in my boxers watching TV. This letter is entirely unrelated to that activity.

I’m sorry to interrupt what is likely an extremely busy afternoon of loading and unloading suitcases, plotting drug and weapons-smuggling schemes and stealing souvenirs from the guileless rubes who don’t lock their bags, but I just want you to know: you guys win. I am not disputing it. Quite frankly, no one is disputing it. You are indeed incredibly strong gentlemen.

You see this guy? The one on the right?

You kicked sand in HIS face at the beach. Then you buried him up to his neck and face-raped him. You are that strong.

This guy?

Pfffft. All he does is stand there. Let’s see that lazy bastard try to put hundreds of those globes on a moving conveyor belt. He’s like a fucking trainee.

This guy?

Gay. Clearly gay. Whether he knows it or not, he’s gay. And significantly weaker than you.

You win, gentlemen. You are more than capable of hurling around luggage like the suitcases were mere tumbleweeds. You are the airport Krakens and our assorted Samsonites are just your average Greek peasants. You? Strong. Me? Significantly weaker. Now that this obvious source of insecurity is out of the way, can you stop throwing around my shit like you were Gator looking for crack money?

This might be news to you, but sometimes people put fragile things in their suitcases. It’s crazy, and they should know better, but it’s true. Sometimes they even put those fragile things in their luggage against their better instinct, such as in circumstances where they bought duty free alcohol in Europe and didn’t appreciate the fact that due to their stopover in the US on the way to Canada, they would be forced to jam that bottle of alcohol into their luggage as they raced to their connecting plane instead of being allowed to keep the bottle as carry-on. Because, you know, I apparently look like Richard Fucking Reid.

The author.

Anyway, the thing is, if you toss bags that have fragile items in them, the fragile items have a tendency to shatter. For example, there was a bottle of port in my luggage. When I opened my suitcase in Toronto, this was no longer case. Instead, there was a bag full of broken glass, extremely damp and stained clothing and a strong odour of port that continues to remind me of my apparent lack of appreciation for your folks’ strength and power. Oh, I also have a summer wardrobe that looks like it was purchased from Sharon Tait’s yard sale. So thanks for that.

“Don’t get down, man. I like the new look, Butter Chicken. The huge dark stains bring out your eyes, like mine when I stare into your soul.”

Again, let me reiterate my earlier point: you are powerful. Strong. Virile. It’s a given. It’s acknowledged. Now stop fucking tossing my suitcase around like you are recreating an Ike and Tina Turner afterparty.

Sincerely,

Butter Chicken

It’s taken a couple of days for my anger to cool down to the level at which I would be able to rationally respond to the complete fucking stupidity that General Tao penned here a few days ago. You know, his complete wrongheaded and baseless assertion that Def Leppard’s “Hysteria” is a better album than “Pyromania”. Great debate? Pfffttttt. I’m not going to waste time trying to argue that everyone is entitled to their own opinion, regardless of whether you are right or wrong. The truth is, I am completely right and General Tao obviously suffered some sort of severe head trauma during his child. I can tell because he never cuts his hair too short — we would see the imprint of the car fender or the table edge or whatever the fuck shorted out his ability to discern the simply musically good from the sonically phenomenal.

It is obvious that Pyromania is better than Hysteria. (And to the guy who thinks “High and Dry” is better? Brother, just pack up the tent and go home. That’s like arguing Tito was the best Jackson.) To keep things short and to the point, here are the five reasons why:

1. THE ALBUM COVER

This is the most bad-ass album cover ever. Who hasn’t dream of shooting something at a skyscraper causing it to blow up? Mohamed Atta, that’s who. He didn’t dream it — he lived it. So it’s settled — Def Leppard caused 9/11. We’ll make a few calls to Homeland Security and get this wrapped up by dinner.

2. THE START OF “ROCK OF AGES”

“Gunter glieben glauchen globen.” I believe that’s German for “Work Will Make You Free.” That seems like a rather inspirational…Oh. So they’re Nazis and Islamic fundamentalist terrorists. I don’t know how those views reconcile with each other, but I know for sure that Def Leppard are the true bad boys of rock, like the Scorpions, Nusret Fateh Ali Khan and RaHoWa rolled into one. You know, like Matchbox 20.

Fact: Kurt Cobain quoted “Rock of Ages” in his suicide note. Neil Young? Please — it was obviously the Lepp that the Mighty KC was immortalizing.

3. THE REST OF “ROCK OF AGES”

They don’t name awkward, flamingly gay, “Journey”-dominated Broadway musicals starring THE Constantine Maroulis after just any song.

4. “FOOLIN’”

Where’s the letter “G”?, you might ask. I’ll tell you where — in the back of his van fucking your woman, drinking a beer and smoking a joint - ALL AT THE SAME TIME!!! He’s going to ejaculate as soon as Phil Collen finishes his guitar solo.

5. THE ENTIRE ALBUM

There’s something unique about “Pyromania”. It has such a powerful and unique aura that is remarkably difficult to describe. It’s different than “Hysteria”, but I can’t exactly articulate why. It’s like the sound of one hand clapping. No, wait — it’s the sound of TWO ARMS DRUMMING.

There’s only one true song called “Photograph” and it certainly wasn’t done by a permed jackass out of Alberta. And there’s only one true Def Leppard masterpiece, and that’s Pyromania.

It was Mitsou yesterday — who’s on tap today?

My high school French teacher used to make us watch French music videos (or listen to French music…my memory is pretty hazy). We collectively did not give a shit and were somewhat put out by our teacher’s blatant laziness, but she was ridiculously hot so we pretty well silently acquiesced to anything she wanted to do. Anyway, the FRENCH MUSIC VIDEO OF THE DAY, which was introduced to me by my teacher (who I once saw working at the Keg Steakhouse at night, instilling in me the idea that I never ever want to be as poor as a young teacher) stays with me to this day because of the following:

- This song is a fucking brain worm. Enjoy singing it to yourself for the next decade, regardless of whether you speak French or not. You are now the guy in the elevator muttering “Et le cha-cha chi!” to yourself. Congratulations

- Yes, the singer is Vanessa Paradis — Johnny Depp’s wife.

- She looks like this now. Good call, Mr. Depp.

- She also looks like she could be Michael Strahan’s white sister. I may have been a bit hasty on the compliments, Johnny.

- She also looks 12. Do you think Johnny Depp saw the video and just waited, waited, waited until she was of legal age? French legal age, of course — I doubt he would wait for the American age of consent, which I understand to be about 25. It’s like the David Beckham/Posh Spice story, only infinitely more pederasty.

- She really could have gone one of two ways. Hot Vanessa Paradis (how she sort of turned out) or Sandra Bernhard’s shorter sister.

- Nice fucking sweatshirt, nerd. Although I’m sure an American Apparel designer is watching this video for the first time, gushing with excitement over his new idea for the fall collection.

Enjoy the video!

What’s this? Another insightful post/scathing critique/witty satire/charming script? No, it’s another fucking video because we are too busy/lazy/horny/lorny (is that a word?) to spend more than five minutes putting something together for you.

Today’s video — Mitsou’s “Les Chinois”.

When I was growing up, MuchMusic, which was Canada’s MTV before we actually got MTV, was federally mandated to play a requisite amount of French programming. Usually this was accomplished through a program called “French Kiss”, which was half an hour of French and French-Canadian music videos that played at some godforesaken hour when absolutely no one was watching TV. Well, no one except for pre-teen and teenage boys who were looking for something to masturbate to. And masturbate to “French Kiss” we did. The main currency in our spank banks? Sequentially numbered piles of Mitsou, the busty Quebecois pop chanteuse. Her most popular song was “Bye Bye Mon Cowboy”, but a lesser known ditty from Mitsou was “Les Chinois” also provided ample suggestive jiggling that was sufficient for our self-abusing purposes. What’s the song about? Beats the fuck out of me. My French is terrible. I assume the song is about the Chinese. If there is any doubt that is the topic of the song, this doubt is quickly dispelled about five seconds into the video by way of Mitsou dressed as a horrendously stereotypical Chinese woman. Even Mickey Rooney described that performance as “kind of over the top.”

What does the rest of the video hold? Not much. What does Mitsou’s ill-fitting bustier hold? A shitload of tits. Enjoy the video!

(Author’s note: This is post number 300 for me. Just so you know, I expect some sort of party. With cake. Chocolate, too, not some other shitty flavour.)

I was on the phone today to a work colleague when the song “Rock You” by Helix inexplicably came into my head. Given that my colleague is a few years younger than me (and given that I have attention-deficit disorder and no understanding of workplace decorum), I interrupted whatever we were supposed to be doing to ask her, “do you know the song “Rock You” by Helix”? She said she wasn’t sure but that she wasn’t very good with song titles. I assured her that if she had ever heard the song “Rock You”, she would definitely know what it was titled. If our audience at FCL doesn’t know this song, they should. For a young boy growing up in Canada, this video was an exciting sexual awakening, like Gowan’s “Strange Animal” but with more rock smashing, angry spelling and hot chicks. I decided to look up the video for “Rock You” on YouTube and send it to my colleague. The video below is the version I found. It has a lot more…tits than I remember (NSFW), and by God, I would remember this.

I did not send this video to my colleague. However, I did notice that this obscure video from a Canadian 1980s metal band has over 400,000 views. I’m guessing that other folks have found out about the titty thing as well.

…you should all fucking suffer like I am suffering.

That is all. Just doin’ the do.