[Yes, this was posted previously, but Gourmet Spud stole my thunder so fuck him.]
Up here in the Great White North there has been significant press coverage of the trial of David Frost, the former agent of convict/hockey player Mike Danton. (The entire fucked-up Frost/Danton relationship is covered here.) Frost used to be the coach of a youth hockey team, and is being charged with…actually I have no idea. Something about forcing his players to have sex with girls, and even joining in with the copulating couples. It’s all pretty sexually graphic and involves gratuitous references to menages-a-trois, so I have been reading as many articles as I can. In the dark. With a jar of lotion. With Barry White playing in the background. Well, truth be told, it’s the Hockey Night in Canada theme instead of Barry White. I like to have consistent themes to masturbate by. Anyway, allegations of svengali-like control over his players have been made by several Crown witnesses, including ladies that participated in threesomes with Frost and his players. Frost’s defence counsel have challenged these accusations, claiming that these ladies made it all up. Today in court, a bombshell was dropped by defence counsel — David Frost has a third ball. Or something “third ball-ish”. I kind of stopped reading when the term “sac of blood” was being thrown around:
A key witness against David Frost, who says she was coerced into three-way sex with the former junior hockey coach over a period of six years, cannot recall anything resembling a third testicle.
The reference to a third testicle — or something that looked like it — shocked the courtroom this morning, dropped into cross-examination by defence lawyer Marie Henein. There has been no evidence that Frost actually has such a condition.
“A two-inch-by-two-inch-by-two inch plum-sized sac of blood that appears like a third testicle,” Henein helpfully described it to the 28-year-old Crown witness.
“That’s not a tiny mole. A third testicle would be hard to miss.”
The witness responded: “I never saw a third testicle.”
Ah, the Tri-Testes defence. That old chestnut (or chestnuts?). I assume that oral sex with Mr. Frost would look something like this.
I have no idea where this trial is going, but I looked forward to the defence segueing to the next logical argument - Frost had a trident cock. Trust me - it works every time, folks. I use that excuse every time I get a parking ticket. Well, I actually show up at court holding a trident in one hand and my cock in the other. You wouldn’t believe how quickly they’ll let you go on your merry way.
As you may know, Drew Magary, co-founder of Kissing Suzy Kolber and good friend to this site, released his debut book, entitled Men With Balls, earlier this week. Unsurprisingly, it’s ridiculously, and at times painfully, funny. The only remaining question is, will success go to Drew’s head? If the results of a recent book signing are any indication, the answer is an unequivocal “what do you mean ‘will‘?”
***
(A line-up has formed inside Loose Leaf, a bookstore in Willowdale Shopping Mall. The store manager addresses the crowd)
Bookstore manager: Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention, I would like to take this opportunity to welcome you all to our store. I’d also like to remind you of a very special promotion we have going on this week - with every purchase of a bookmark, you will receive a free copy of Hate Mail From Cheerleaders.
(Crowd applauds mildly)
Bookstore manager: Now, I know you are all very excited to meet our special guest this evening, so let me get right to it. Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, Loose Leaf is proud to welcome the author of Men With Balls…Mr. Drew Magary!
(Crowd applauds enthusiastically. Out from the stock room walks Drew, wearing a Burberry scarf and sunglasses)
Drew: Alright, everybody, let’s sign some shit and get this over with - I’ve got to get to a Hallowe’en party at the house of the guy who played Farva in Super Troopers. Who’s up?
(Drew sits down behind a table stacked high with copies of his book. A young boy and his mother step up. The boy is wearing an oversized baseball cap and has a cast on his arm)
Drew: (to Mom) Well, hello there, pretty lady. Got any things you want me to sign?
Kid With Cast: Mith-ter Magary, can you thign my catht?
Drew: Sure. What’s your name, Tiny Tim?
Kid With Cast: Petey. You’re the betht, Drew! I read your webthite all the time.
Mom: Oh, I can vouch for that. I’ve never read it myself, but little Petey here is always going on about “Tom and Jerry”.
Petey: Wade and Jerry, mom!
Mom: Of course. Sorry, sweetheart.
Drew: (to Mom) Well, stick around after the signing and I’ll share with you some of my ideas for an upcoming “post”. Maybe show you the Curt Schilling technique. (finishes signing cast) Done.
(Mom looks at cast)
Mom: Um, excuse me…
Drew: What is it?
Mom: This autograph…the ‘a-g-a’ in your last name looks like…like the shaft of a penis and two testicles!
Drew: Don’t worry. (winks) That’s not to scale.
Mom: Mr. Magary! My son is ten years old!
Drew: Check the cover of the book, lady. This ain’t Lemony Fuckin’ Snicket.
Mom: (picks up book) What the…Petey! Is this the kind of filth you’ve been reading all this time?!?
Drew: (annoyed) Alright, hard-ass-formerly-known-as-MILF, now you’re holding up the line. Move along.
Mom: You are a horrible man. Let’s go, Petey. And we are getting rid of the internet first thing tomorrow!
Petey: But teacher puth our homework on there! (hangs head, walks away sadly. A number of mothers and their pre-teen sons quickly follow)
Drew: Bah. Who needs ‘em? Next!
(A pale guy in his mid-twenties, sporting a shaved head and a Queens of the Stone Age t-shirt, walks up)
Pale T-Shirt Guy: (hands copy of book to Drew) Hey man, can you sign this for my buddy Darren? He wanted to be here tonight but he had to work.
Drew: What, does he work at the fuckin’ Federal Reserve or something? What kind of friend does a dipshit like you have that has somewhere better to be? Great t-shirt, by the way.
Pale T-Shirt Guy: Huh? Oh, this? I spilled coffee all over myself on the way over, and this was the cheapest shirt in the mall. I actually think it’s kind of stupid-looking.
Drew: (stern) Come again?
Pale T-Shirt Guy: I mean, check out this guy with the red hair.
Drew: That’s Josh Homme.
Pale T-Shirt Guy: Yeah, well, he reminds me of Beaker from The Muppets. You remember him? Meep! Meep!
Drew: Get the fuck out of here.
Pale T-Shirt Guy: (surprised) Excuse me?
Drew: (throws book at Pale T-Shirt Guy) You heard me! Beat it, Dr. Bunsen Cunny-dew!
Pale T-Shirt Guy: Whatever, peachfucker. (leaves)
Drew: (shouting after him) Yeah, well thanks for reading the book, asshole! (to line) Next!
(Pasty-white skinny guy walks up and hands book to Drew)
Pasty-white Skinny Guy: Nice to meet you, man. My name is Hunter. I love your stuff.
Drew: Your parents must be very proud. How do you want me to sign this?
Pasty-white Skinny Guy: I want to sleep with a mentally handicapped woman.
Drew: That’s what you want me to write?
Pasty-white Skinny Guy: Naw, man. You’re supposed to say…(gesturing)
Drew: What, Powder? What am I supposed to say?
Pasty-white Skinny Guy: You’re supposed to say “Geez, Hunter, that’s just wrong!”
Drew: That’s not me. That’s Monday Morning Punter’s thing.
Pasty-white Skinny Guy: What? Well, then which one are you?
Ashen-faced Guy Who Looks Kinda Like Database from The Simpsons: Hey idiot, “ya betta ask someboddddaaaayyyy!” He’s the Marmalard guy.
Drew: (grits teeth) That’s Christmas Ape.
Translucent Guy Wearing Doo Rag and Gilbert Arenas Jersey: Y’all straight trippin’. He’s the ‘Always Be Covering’ Guy, yo. The black dude.
(Man in black t-shirt and camo pants bursts to front of line)
Camo Man: OOH-RAH! Second Lieutenant Greg Peterson, U.S. Marines, sir! Just wanted to say me and the fellas are big fans, and congratulations on your new book.
Drew: Now this is more the fuck like it. Respect from the real men with balls, not you milquetoasts.
Camo Man:And might I add, First Lieutenant Ufford, that it’s always encouraging to see a fellow Devil Dog doing so well for himself post-service.
Drew: (pounds fists on table) Look! Are any of you jagoffs actually here to see Big Daddy Drew?
(Crowd murmurs, then disperses, leaving only six shirtless guys with painted chests behind. Together their chests spell out F-L-U-B-B-Y)
Drew: SON OF A BITCH!
Bookstore manager: (comes out from stock room) What the heck is going on here? Where did my line go?
Drew: This town is full of dumbshits.
Bookstore manager: My store is completely empty! Look, I don’t know what you did, but if you don’t fix this, I’m pulling your book off the shelf!
Drew: Alright, alright, don’t get your cock in a knot. I’ll take care of it. (pauses) I’ll be right back.
(Drew runs into stock room, comes back out wearing a fake moustache)
Drew: (grabs copy of Boys Will Be Boys from store display; walks out on to mall sidewalk) Hey everybody! Jeff Pearlman here! Anybody want a signed copy of my book?
(A few people trickle back into store)
Guy: So you’re Jeff Pearlman?
Drew: Yep.
Guy: How old are you?
Drew: I’m, like, forty.
Guy: (suspicious) I don’t know. You don’t look any older than that Magary guy, and I overheard him earlier in the foodcourt telling some high school girls he was nineteen.
Drew: I am…I mean, he is nineteen. But he’s a blogger, and I’m just a sportswriter.
Guy: So?
Drew: So most bloggers have full-time jobs on top of their writing gigs, and therefore age twice as fast as sportswriters.
Guy: Well…if you’re Jeff Pearlman, what’s Steve Rushin like?
Drew: Queer. Look, do you want me to sign your book or not?
Guy: (warily hands over book)
Drew: (signs it) Here. Now fuck off and die. Next!
(Man approaches holding copy of A Few Seconds of Panic)
Man: I’m a huge fan, Mr. Fatsis.
Drew: I’m not…(sighs)…just give me the god damn book.
The eve of the 2008/09 NBA season is upon us, and Toronto is aglow with optimism about their newly refurbished Raptors. Will the addition of perennial all-star Jermaine O’Neal turn the Dinos into a defensive powerhouse, or will O’Neal tear an ACL during the singing of the national anthems? Will the suits actually start coming to games to do more than just swill Merlot and remark about how tall everybody is, or will the loss of all-time homer Chuck Swirsky result in levels of apathy seldom seen since the Harold Ballard days? It’s hard to say.
One thing’s for sure: Vince Carter is an assface.
You know the story by now: The Raptors draft Vince, Toronto embraces Vince’s high-flying act, Vince momentarily propels Raptors to previously-unimaginable heights, then Vince gets bored with whole “team” concept and stops trying, forcing the Raptors to trade him for Alonzo Mourning and the draft rights for Ernest Borgnine. Make no mistake: Vince Carter is the most hated athlete ever to pass through Toronto’s golden gates. We boo him as loudly as our Canadian decorum will allow every time he touches the ball. We even (gasp!) pray for him to be injured. In short, we want to punch Vince Carter. Here’s a quick look at the punchable faces of…Vince Carter!
The “Or maybe you’re the problem, coach. You ever think of that?”
The “Crunch time? I’ll just take a seat right here, thanks.”
The “Hey! Long Weekend!!!”
The “Hey Mom! Guess who just signed an endorsement deal with Puma!”
The “Playoffs? Who Gives a Fuck! I just got my english media/sociology degree!”
The “Why do they keep yelling ‘Ed O’Bannon’?”
The “My mom said I could wear camo, so we’re gonna do this”
I’m not going to tell you anything in this post that you don’t already know. Here’s the scoop: I, Butter Chicken, am the true star of this website. It’s patently obvious from a few clicks of your mouse. Most posts since site inception, people. Sure, the rest of the contributors to Food Court Lunch might write funnier articles or be guest editors at Deadspin, but that (a) is irrelevant and, in the alternative, completely subjective, and (b) the result of his whiskey-soaked lips and Catholic boys’ school-honed blowjob skills. In other words, it doesn’t count and unfairly distracts from my blogging superstardom. However, I am comfortable with this. I know I am the best. I am who Tina Turner was talking about. Weezer may have mentioned it as well.
How do I deal with the other writers of Food Court Lunch trying to steal the spotlight from me? Easy — I take shits into bags and leave the bags on their porches. It makes me feel better and makes their porches smell like shit. It’s win-win. Or win-lose. Regardless, I win. Beyond that, though, I look to see how other celebrities deal with situations where less-talented people try to ride on their coat-tails. The stupid celebrities get angry, pick fights, and alienate their fans. It’s the wrong thing to do — it makes you look petty. The smart celebrities know how to handle it. They don’t beat the hangers-on, they join them. The truth is, if you spread your magic, it makes the world a brighter place. People respect your for it, and they will always know true talent, regardless of the context. You’ll be making the lesser lights around you shine a little brighter, but you’ll always be the true star. The perfect example? Chris Burke. Who? Oh, you’ll know who.
Someone’s trying to hitch a ride on the Butter Chicken Stardom Express? Grab hold, baby! Am I going to get upset? No, because life goes on.
Canada is oft associated with a multitude of stereotypical imagery, all of which is fairly representative of life in the Great White North: Canadian bacon (or as we call it, “bacon”), Anne Murray, rampant socialism bordering on communism, igloos, poutine, constitutional federalism, tundra, the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, the Queen, inbreeding, constitutional poutinism. Similarly, in the world of sports, Canada is associated with the twin pillars of frozen athletic competition: hockey and the luge. Interestingly, however, neither of these is officially recognized as our national sport. Rather, that coveted title belongs to lacrosse.
A version of lacrosse has been played on North American soil since the 14th Century, when it was known as “baggataway”. French Jesuits subsequently re-named the sport as part of their ongoing efforts to transform the Natives (whose land they had recently “borrowed”) from heathens into God-fearing European slaves. Trading fire water for the naming rights, the French soon dubbed the sport “lacrosse”, meaning “quick surrender”. The rest is history (or so I assume - the Wikipedia page was really long).
Shamed by my lack of familiarity with our national sport, I recently took it upon myself to attend a local “Toronto Rock” game. The Toronto Rock are members of the National Lacrosse League (”NLL”), along with other lacrosse “tour de forces” such as Rochester, Edmonton, Portland and San Jose. I must confess that the game delivered everything that I look for in a sport (namely, an orgy of organized violence and a small rubber ball). And while it took me a few minutes to understand the intricacies of the match, I managed to get a pretty good handle on the rules by the end of the game. Desperate to show off my new-found expertise, I decided to share my wisdom with the internet masses (i.e., you). And so I present to you the “Official” Guide to Lacrosse:
In many ways, the game is like a cross between hockey and football. In many ways it is not. The goal is to put a small rubber ball in the opponents’ net using a series of baskets on the end of long poles. The goal of the other team is to do likewise (which really works out well). It’s like that trackball game you used to play as a kid in your backyard with the giant yellow ball, with the added excitement of possible life-ending injuries. From what I can gather, the majority of the match is spent violating opposing players in increasingly violent and innovative ways. I am pretty sure I witnessed 4 sexual assaults and one date rape during the first period alone. It was like hanging out in a frat house basement.
The assessment of penalties is by far the most complex element of the lacrosse game. In an effort to assist the uninitiated with this aspect of the sport, I have prepared a matrix of possible acts and their relative “penaltiness” (it’s a word - look it up):
Fighting - not a penalty (and strongly encouraged)
Tripping - penalty
Tea-bagging - not a penalty
Cock punching - not a penalty (and mildly encouraged)
Slashing - penalty
Throat slashing - not a penalty
The Dreaded Rear Admiral - not a penalty
Unnecessary Roughness - penalty (though it requires an act of homicide to be deemed “unnecessary”)
Donkey Punching - not a penalty, unless causing a delay of game
Well, there you have it - everything you could possibly want to know about lacrosse. I have included below a couple of instructional videos that explore some of the fundamentals - enjoy!!
This is a helpful summary — several people critically injured in a horrible industrial accident. Oh, also, traffic. Don’t forget the important issue — the traffic.
Sometimes we are all too damn busy to do a Friday post. Sometimes (well, all the time) our former New York correspondents let us down. Sometimes we are completely spent and have nothing funny to write about. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to “Sometimes”. The well has run dry, folks. Luckily, we have a fall-back plan: post the most offensive thing we can think of. Controversy means funny. Am I right? If it worked for Andrew Dice Clay, it can work for us. Accordingly, without further ado, our very own “The Adventures of Ford Fairlane” — the Punchable Faces of Anne Frank!
The “How exciting! Someone’s at the door!”
…
Fuck it. I can’t go through with this. Have a good weekend.
If you hadn’t heard already, Rudy Ray Moore died on Sunday at the age of 81. It’s alright — you can sit down. He was one of the first blaxploitation movie stars of the 1970s, appearing in films such as “Dolemite”, “Disco Godfather”, and “The Human Tornado”.
I’d like to say that I remember him when he was a big star, but I think I was a one year-old when “Dolemite” came out. My parents weren’t that into taking their small blonde children to blaxploitation flicks at that time — it was all “Behind the Green Door” and “Deep Throat” for our family. After that, I kind of lost touch with current cinema — Children’s Aid never let me go to movies. I first heard reference to “Dolemite” on the song “What Goes Around” on the Beastie Boys’ “Paul’s Boutique”. I had no clue what it meant, but the internet didn’t exist so that was the end of that. Later on , I saw a copy of “Dolemite” at my local Blockbuster (which apparently believed it was located in Harlem, because I can’t think of any good reason why a suburban Toronto Blockbuster would have a copy of “Dolemite”. “Huh, I guess “Andre” and “Angels in the Outfield” have been rented — let’s give this a try.”) I rented it, and I can say for certain that this was probably the first movie I ever saw that made me say, “what the fuck just happened? What the fuck did I just watch? Did I just dream that? ” Basically, a similar reaction to when I lost my virginity*. I subsequently rented “Disco Godfather” and “The Human Tornado” and was sorely tempted by “Petey Wheatstraw”. Thanks, BlaxploitationBuster!!! I think Richard Roundtree was the store manager. Anyway, the movies were, simply put, completely fucking insane. They were a fantastic amalgam of poor filmmaking, unintelligible plots, terribly choreographed fights, blatantly offensive racial stereotypes, casual gunplay, intermitent nudity, indiscriminate drug use, urban funk soundtracks, random dancing, huge afros, and Rudy himself, who had the awesome habit of either breaking out in impromptu raps or yelling his lines without a hint of modulation. He was around fifty years old, couldn’t raise his foot more than a few inches off the ground and yet was cast as a bad-ass kung-fu master. You could tell he was a master because when he hit someone, it sounded like a pie plate being hit by a spatula. That, my friends, is the sound of a legend.
The movies are awesome fun, so do yourself a favour and watch at least one of them. As a tribute to the Disco Godfather himself, we have included a few clips from his flicks, as well as Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s video for “Got Your Money”, which features Mr. Moore’s finest work. Enjoy, and RIP, Dolemite.
Disco Godfather (Trailer)
Dolemite (Trailer) (NSFW)
ODB - “Got Your Money” (NSFW - strong language)
* Let me have some artistic license here. Please. Remember, I am a virgin. I don’t have much beyond this website.
Confession time - and I realize this may put me in a big minority - but I still love Saturday Night Live. I still record it every single week, I still gobble it up as soon as I get up on Sunday morning (because only losers admit that they actually watch it on Saturday night, and I’m no loser!!!), I still watch sketches I like three, four, five times, I still think there are way more funny than unfunny sketches, and I think the current cast is one of the strongest they’ve ever had. Even the sketches that completely, utterly bomb (and there are a lot of those) don’t bother me. In fact, in what has been another typical up and down season for the show, there was only one thing I saw this year that actually made me cringe.
The Killers performance on the October 3rd Anne Hathaway show.
Now I’m not saying that the performance in and of itself was particularly bad. For all I know, that was entirely indicative of what a standard Killers show is like. And I’m not even going to start in on the lyrics, except to simply reproduce the following - “Are we human? Or are we dancer? My sign is vital. My hands are cold” - and let you judge for yourself. No, what made me cringe were their facial expressions. I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say that these guys must spend as much time practicing looking cool in the mirror as they do rehearsing. Never has a band with so little to express looked so utterly pained in expressing it.
And I’m not trying to pick on Brandon Flowers. Against all odds, he is the least ridiculous member of the group. I mean, have you ever seen this guy?:
But Brandon Flowers is unquestionably the face of The Killers, and it is therefore by definition that his is the face most deserving of a punch.
I’m sorry, Brandon, but I’m only human. I’m not a dancer.
October 21st - the greatest day in history. Why, you ask? Because all great things can be traced to this date. Life as we know it is a product of the wonders that have occurred throughout history on successive October 21sts. But don’t take my word for it - history itself offers definitive proof:
310 - Saint Eusebius ends his reign as Catholic Pope. The world mourns his loss (while secretly mocking his super-gay name).
1520 - Magellan entered the strait which bears his name, awestruck by the strange coincidence.
1797 - US Navy frigate Constitution, Old Ironsides, launched in Boston. Red Sox fans, too drunk to show up, decide to TiVo the event.
1871 - First US amateur outdoor athletic games (New York). Dick Pound on hand to take urine samples, offers free happy endings.
1905 - England Pilgrim Association beats All New York 11, 7-1 in soccer at Polo Grounds. The world never quite recovers…
1918 - Margaret Owen sets world typing speed record of 170 wpm for one minute. The typing world erupts in an orgy of senseless violence. Many people die needlessly.
1933 - German Chancellor Adolf Hitler withdraws Germany from the League of Nations. World takes comfort that this would likely be his last mistake, as he fades into obscurity.
1945 - Women in France allowed to vote for first time. Men in France proclaim their extreme douchery for thousandth time.
1950 - Chinese forces occupy Tibet. Tibetans decide to “wait it out” on the assumption that it’s just a fad.
1959 - Birth of George Bell in the Dominican Republic (outfielder: Toronto Blue Jays, 1987 American League Most Valuable Player). Dominican baseball coaches oddly decide to shift their focus from baseball fundamentals to slugging percentage.
1967 - Ejnar Hertzsprung, Danish astrophysicist, dies at age 94. Unable to pronounce his name, eulogist simply plays “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas.
1975 - Boston Red Sox Carlton Fisk’s 12th inning home run beats Cincinnati Reds 7-6 in game six of World Series. Red Sox fans, too drunk to show up, decide to TiVo the event.
1976 - New York Knicks retire first number, 19, Willis Reed. Years later, Knicks fans would ask: “Willis Reed? Really?”
1983 - Birth of James Dickson, British lighting designer. World stands still.
1990 - Birth of Ricky Rubio, Spanish basketball player. Spain predicts NBA expansion league “any day now”.
1995 - Death of Jesús Blasco, Spanish comic book author. Pressure on Rubio increases tenfold.
2004 - The Royal Canadian Mint releases a circulating 25-cent coin featuring a black and red colored poppy. This is the world’s first colorized business-strike coin in circulation. Baffled Americans declare it a threat to national security.
2007 - Kimi Räikkönen is crowned world champion as the 2007 Formula One season ends at the Brazilian Grand Prix. NASCAR officially declares him “totally gay”.
2008 - The Food Court Lunch team forgets to write something to post on their half-assed website, and panics over lunch. General Tao proclaims that he will put up a work of unprecedented brilliance that will catapult the website to fame and fortune. Is later shot for lying.
DISCLAIMER: In the event that you are inexplicably confused by our site, this is parody (poorly executed, but parody nonetheless). For the sake of clarity, however, please note that the opinions expressed in the Comments section of this site are NOT moderated or endorsed in any way by the authors of this site, who do not understand HTML and can scarcely manage to post items themselves
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