To both our readers out there (particularly Brown), hope you have a fantastic night and are spending the evening with someone you love. If you’ve been drinking, be sure to stay off the roads. I’m operating an illegal mini-cab operation tonight and can’t afford to get into an accident. Cheers! 

God damn you, Marley & Me. God damn you straight to hell.

Five stars.

As you probably know, the Internet is closed in Canada over the holidays, so we at Food Court Lunch just wanted to take this opportunity to wish our loyal readers a happy, non-denominational, holiday season.

But don’t worry, folks! Food Court Lunch will be back in the new year (or earlier, if the court order comes through).

In the meantime, spend time with friends and family, eat and drink in moderation, and for God’s sake, get in front of a sunlamp or something.  You’re practically see-through.

Still having trouble embracing the holiday season? Then you obviously haven’t seen this.

If you are anything at all like us here at Food Court Lunch, you are poorly prepared for the holidays. Last-minute Christmas shopping, ill-conceived holiday travel plans and repeated incidents of impaired driving and domestic violence make Christmas a pretty stressful time of year. In order to help relieve this stress, we’ve come up with a few gift ideas for the last-minute shopper. Nothing says “Merry Christmas” like barely giving a shit about what you give someone as a gift.

A Calendar

Everyone loves wall calendars. They are so practical. I mean, until everyone has blackberries, computers, cell phones or other electronic ways to know the day, the calendar will reign supreme. And do you know what makes a calendar better? Images from something that was barely relevant in the previous year’s pop culture. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the 2009 “The Love Guru” wall calendar.

“His Karma Is Huge!” His box office isn’t. If you have a family member or friend who was one of the three people who saw this movie and didn’t want to murder Mike Myers, find yourself a copy of this little baby as quick as you can. These things will be gone in no time. I mean, Justin Timberlake with an awkwardly overwrought comic French Canadian accent? Comedic gold. Brown comedic gold with flecks of corn in it.

The 2009 Hugh Johnson

What lady in your family would be upset at receiving a “Hugh Johnson”? You know that Dad isn’t giving Mom a gift that satisfies her? Give her a “Hugh Johnson” and her taste buds will be screaming in delight. I know this because I fucked your mom. Oh, and then I gave her this wine guide.

…and we’ve got nothing else. You’re pretty fucked. Enjoy the cold shoulders, judging stares and drunken put-downs. Merry Christmas, dear readers.

This month, Esquire Magazine published it’s annual “What I’ve Learned” issue, where noteworthy individuals from a variety of fields share some of the wisdom they’ve accumulated during their time on this earth. However, not all the interviews Esquire does end up in the magazine. Some, for one reason or another, never see the light of day. We were fortunate enough to get our hands on one such interview.

***

PHIL MICKELSON, 38, PROFESSIONAL GOLFER

• Family. At the end of the day, it’s the only thing that matters. 
• It’s not enough to have talent. A lot of guys have the talent. To be a champion, you need to combine that talent with an unmatched will to win.
• Wow, these are strong. What’d you say they were? Rum and ginger beer? Sure, I’ll have another.
• I really do believe that golf is a metaphor for life. You can never truly master it, but there is infinite joy in the pursuit.
• The importance of tradition can never be overemphasized.
• I’ve got a lot of golf heroes. But the person I admire most in the world is the mother of my children, Amy.
• The ability to laugh at one’s self is important. Even more important, though, is to be a good role model.
• Don’t mess with how God made you. When I was kid, every coach I had tried to get me to play right-handed. But I refused to change. Now, one of my proudest accomplishments is being able to say that I’m the first left-handed major winner in the modern era.
• Waiter? Another Dark and Stormy. Make it a double. God, these are good. 
• I’m never too busy to sign an autograph for a fan. Without them, I can’t earn a living doing what I do. But is it too much to ask to hold off when I’m out eating dinner with my family? I mean, jeez.
• Good manners, like Lycra, never go out of style.
• I think the Internet is a wonderful invention, but it can also be dangerous. For instance, any idiot with a computer can make up a rumour about you, and before you know it, it becomes the truth. I wish the government would step in and regulate it more, because I worry for our future. For our children’s future.
• I’m not going to lie, some of what gets said bugs me, but there are always going to be people, particularly losers with no lives who live in their parents’ basements, who resent your success. I choose to ignore them. Life’s too short.
• I’ve never tipped a caddy, and I never will. Why should I, when without me, Bones doesn’t have a job?
• Barkeep! Another round! Chop chop!
• If I were Commissioner, I’d ban fans from bringing cameras altogether. I’m sorry, but their three strikes were up a long time ago.
• Finchem’s problem? No balls.
• If that is my nickname on tour, no one has had the guts to (hic) say id to my face.
• Whad aboud Mike Weir? Okay, I’m the only one who wasn’t a total fluke.
• Lemme tell you a secret - one of my daughters ishn’t mine. I’m nod sure which one yet, but I’m building the evidence. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still love her and raise her ash my own. But would I trade her for two more majors? Let’s jes’ say I’d listen.
• We live in pretty incredible times when an African-American can be both the best golfer in the world and the Preshident of the United Shtates. But lemme ask you this…is it right? I’m nod saying it is or it isn’t. I just wish (hic) somebody was agsing the queshtion.
• HEY! Leave the boddle! I’m sick of waiding for your fat ass to make the rounds.
• They’re real. And they’re spectagular.
• She…she thinks she can threaden to wog owd on me? Phil Miggelson? So I says to her, “Amy, you may be beaudiful, but you ain’t thad beaudiful. Now ged back upstairs.” And you know whad? She did.
• It never hurts to remind ‘em who pays the bills.
• Another (hic) way golf is like life? Too many blacks. 
• Sometimes one is too many.
• Speaking of one too many, I think I bedder hid the road. Hash anyone seen my keys?

The three-time major winner recently made a foray into acting with a guest appearance on HBO’s Entourage. Interviewed by Cal Fussman on the evening of October 4th, 2008.

The coveted title of “Biggest Douche in the NHL“ was long ago secured by Mr. Sean Avery (formerly of the Dallas Stars), with many pundits predicting that his title will go unchallenged until his untimely demise (likely at the hands of (i) a jilted lover, (ii) a disgruntled fashion designer, (iii) his mother or (iv) me). While many defenders of Avery have claimed that he has been unfairly villainized by the media for what is nothing more than a “rough and tumble” approach to hockey, these vocal dissenters are generally functionally retarded. That’s just science. After all, his passion for “rough and tumble play” has really nothing to do with hockey:

However, in light of Avery’s recent problems with the League (and humanity) and the Stars’ announcement that they would like to part ways with young Sean, fans have started to question what the future holds for the poor lad. After all, with only $15.5 million left on his contract, the 28 year-old will need to quickly find employment in this uncertain economy. Some have suggested that his recent decision to enrol in anger management classes signals Sean’s own recognition that he will soon be joining the workforce. We here at Food Court Lunch, long-standing supporters of “Savoury” (a nickname that we hope will catch on), have therefore decided to assist him in his job search by compiling a list of job opportunities for which he is ably suited:

• Mrs. Claus
• One of the Keebler Elves 
• Professional Douche
• Personal Shopper
• Personal Douche
• Part-Time Jiz Mopper at a Montreal Peep Show
• Parliamentary Secretary
• Gay Cowboy
• “Straight” Cowboy Who Pretends Not To Be Gay By Dating Hot, Famous Cowgirls And Then Gets Dumped When They Find Him Wearing Their Cowgirl Panties
• Gay Parliamentary Secretary
• Professional Hockey Player Mom
• Dion Phaneuf’s Ball Washer
• A Chin Rack For This Guy’s Nutsack:

Give us a call Sean - we feel absolutely horrible that you managed to squander the opportunity of a lifetime by acting like a petulant child, and we want to help…

As you may have heard, the ‘Snowpocalypse’ (alternatively referred to as ‘Stormaggedon’ or ‘Blizzardolocaust’) has landed upon our home town.

Out of an abundance of caution, Food Court Lunch has decided to suspend operations for the day in order to concentrate on plowing down pedestrians with the company car.

 Please feel free to entertain yourselves at one of the internet’s many other compelling websites or ‘blogs’.  Like this one.

Nothing is more precious than the holidays here at Food Court Lunch.  That’s why we’ve taken this classic Christmas poem and updated it by seemlessly incorporating contemporary sports references that the kids will be able to appreciate.  See if you can catch where we’ve made changes!

 ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even Ed Werder, whose sources tell him Jason Witten was spotted doing Tony Romo’s nails in the Cowboys clubhouse. 

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in the hopes that Charlie Weis would somehow be able to reconcile with Touchdown Jesus and return Notre Dame to respectability.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of A.J. Burnett living up to his new contract with the Yankees danced in their heads.
And mamma in her pink Red Sox jersey, and I in my clubbing sweatpants,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and saw Sean Avery being severely beaten and then run over by successive celebrity ex-girlfriends.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of brand new 22’s to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a brand new Hummer H2 with custom ground effects package, and eight hangers-on.

With a massive old driver, so surly and portly, I knew in a moment it must be Hall of famer Charles Barkley.
More vapid than ever his cronies they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

“Now Kenny! now, Ernie! now, Michael and Hakeem!
On, Pork Chops! On, Chowder! on Souvlaki and Ice Cream!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now make inflammatory statements about the state of the game today in order to give the appearance of controversy!

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Official WNBA Merchandise, and a Whizzinator too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Charles Barkley broke through the rafters and landed on a grandfather clock, destroying it in the process.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with rib sauce and sprinkles.
A bundle of casino markers he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And his chins resembled a flesh accordian.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly [id.]!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I was in for the worst poker game of my life.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, he filled his sack with everything in our refrigerator.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like some unholy cabal of caricatures of the NBA’s glory days.

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
“Alabama has a problem with black people!”

Happy Holidays from your friends at Food Court Lunch!

Oh, Toronto Star, you’re not even trying anymore, are you? First you cite Food Court Lunch as the source of some sort of underground blogosphere buzz about the Canadian Olympic Team uniforms. Now it’s this hot slice of cutting edge journalism:

Young people are engaging in a “new culture of intoxication” that even has its own buzzwords – “pre-drinking” or “pre-gaming.”

If you’re a confused parent looking for a simple definition, just click on YouTube, or on urbandictionary.com, where it’s described as the “act of drinking alcohol before you go out to the club to maximize your fun at the club while spending the least amount on extremely overpriced alcoholic beverages.”

This new form of binge drinking goes far beyond a warm-up to a night out with friends, says a new report by Centre for Addiction and Mental Health researcher Samantha Wells and two colleagues at the University of Toronto and University of Western Ontario.

It’s an “intense, ritualized and unsupervised” drinkfest, in many cases perfectly timed so that the booze hits the bloodstream within minutes of stepping inside the bar, Wells said in a telephone interview from London, Ont.

Hmm, this “new culture of intoxication” sounds pretty serious. However, it was also pretty serious fifteen years ago when I and every single person I knew did it. Are you kidding me? How in God’s name did researchers get approval to do this study, never mind get its findings reported in the mainstream press? Are CAMH researcher Samantha Wells and her two colleagues twelve-years old? Did they skip university entirely? Are they Amish? How could they have not heard of this “phenomenon”? Also, how is this even a bad idea? If you are going to get drunk, why not save money, and why not time your drinking for when you arrive at the final location? Why is there an article on this? Why do I keep asking questions?

If I had a kid in university who did this, I would be proud of them. Why waste your money at a bar when you can booze it up at home first and still have a good time? That’s just thrifty common sense. Daddy’s money is going to go a hell of a lot further with that kind of value drinking. Daddy might even be able to pay for that abortion that my kid is going to claim is “a textbook the professor made us buy.” Good thinking, future kid.

Susan Pigg, just admit that you really didn’t try very hard when you wrote this. I mean, you cite “Urban Dictionary” as a source. Granted, Urban Dictionary does define “pre-drinking”, but it also has a definition for “Pregnant Asian Albino Shit Footjobs“. It may not be the most reliable source. However, as this appears to be the new wave in journalism, we have a few news scoops that you can use for future articles:

* Guys try to get girls drunk in order to sleep with them.
* Cats are less friendly than dogs.
* Cats are, however, friendlier than goldfish.
* Strippers don’t really like you — they just want your money.
* Teenagers and Floridians have poor judgment.
* Teenage Floridians are just fucking dangerous.
* Paper cuts hurt.
* Little girls want to own ponies.
* Extended warranties are poor value.

Go to town on these, Susan. Go to town.

Ah, the difficulties of being a robot-inventing genius. On the one hand, you probably can’t wait to share with the world your amazing invention, an incredibly life-like female humanoid who can speak two languages, solve math problems and recite information accessed through the Internet. On the other hand, there are some details to your design that you probably wish you could keep hidden. In the case of Le Trung, a 33 year-old man from Brampton, Ontario, and his robot “friend” Aiko (that’s “love child”, for the non-Japanese speaking among us), such details include the fact that Aiko, oh, I don’t know, has:

• silicone breasts;

• the ability to “move her hands” and “nod her head”; and

• “sensors in strategic points all over her body”, including “down there“.

Of course, when you allow a photographer to take a picture like the one above, you’re probably not helping your own cause.

Yep, Mr. Trung is big news in these here parts (and around the world, it seems). And he certainly isn’t shunning the attention his invention is getting him, especially given that he’s looking for an investor to help him finish designing his “perfect domestic companion”. And an investor he needs - Aiko has already cost Le Trung $24,000 to build, forcing him to max out his credit cards and move back in with his parents. Typical scene at the Trung household:

          Mom: Le! How come you’re taking so long in the bathroom?
          Le Trung: I’ll…I’ll be right out, mom!
          Mom: Wait a min…Le! Is that god damn robot in there with you again?
          Le Trung: I’m…um…teaching her to use the toothbrush.

But before you start thinking that anything untoward is going on with the inventor and his hourglassy-shaped bucket o’ bolts, hear the man out - their relationship is strictly business. “She’s not my girlfriend,” he says. “I have friends. I don’t need to create friends…Aiko’s a robot who can do a lot of things, and hopefully more soon.”

Oh, I’ll bet.

Well, nothing to do now but wait for “soon” and start casting the made-for-t.v. movie. Quick - who is the Japanese equivalent of a young Kelly LeBrock?

Pic up top from The Toronto Star