I was flipping through the channels on TV the other day and came across “Forrest Gump”. Naturally, that pretty well ruined all my other plans for the next three hours. I love “Forrest Gump”. It’s like a hillbilly retard “Zelig”. It’s “Being There” without the unhelpful distraction of subtlety. Sure, it’s right-wing, jingoistic hokum, but if you don’t get a rush when Forrest tackles the hippie who punched Jenny and then beats the living shit out of him, then you are simply dead inside. Also, if you are sick of masturbating to “The Princess Bride” and want some more Robin Wright material, it does the trick.

Still, when I was watching the movie the other day, I was struck by a horribly disturbing revelation. I am sure that this so-called original idea of mine has been floating around for years and has been thought of a billions time before, but fuck you. It’s new to me. Hear me out for a minute.

Rather than spend time summarizing the end of the movie’s plot (thinking about Robin Wright has made me want to finish this thing quickly), I’ll go with the Wikipedia summary:

One day, while Forrest is mowing the lawn, Jenny returns to visit him, and he proposes marriage to her. She declines, though feels obliged to prove her love to him by sleeping with him, then she leaves early the next morning. On a whim, Forrest elects to go for a run. Seemingly capriciously, he decides to keep running across the country several times for over three years, becoming famous in the process. During his run, Forrest unwittingly inspires two separate entrepreneurs to create Smiley Face/”Have a Nice Day” T-shirts and “Shit Happens” bumper stickers.

In 1981, Forrest reveals that he is waiting at the bus stop because he had received a letter from Jenny, who, having seen him run on television, had asked him to visit her. Once he is reunited with Jenny, Forrest discovers that she has a young son, of whom Forrest is the father and who is exceptionally intelligent. Jenny tells Forrest she is suffering from an unknown illness (thought to be the AIDS virus). Forrest convinces Jenny to move back to Greenbow with her son and live with him, and Jenny decides to accept Forrest’s marriage proposal from several years prior. Jenny and Forrest finally marry, with a completely changed Dan arriving for the wedding, with his fiance, and now able to walk with the use of prosthetic limbs made of titanium alloy. However, Jenny dies soon afterwards.

The film ends with father and son waiting for the school bus on little Forrest’s first day of school. Opening the book his son is taking to school, the white feather from the beginning of the movie is seen to fall from within the pages. As the bus pulls away, the white feather is caught on a breeze and drifts skyward.

Let’s run this down:

Jenny has unprotected sex with Forrest. She leaves Forrest. Forrest runs around the country for a couple of years. Jenny gets in touch with Forrest, who visits her. Forrest finds out that Jenny bore his child (a young Haley Joel Osment). Jenny also tells him that she is dying of what is likely AIDS. Jenny and Forrest marry. Jenny dies. Forrest raises the kid.

You know what this means: Forrest Gump had AIDS.

It only makes sense. Jenny must have had HIV before she slept with Forrest. There are scenes of her whoring it up at a coke party, etc. She had unprotected sex with him and got pregnant. She left, found out she was pregnant, and straightened up. She had little Forrest, raised him, then called Forrest.

Forrest had unprotected sex with her. Are we to assume that he is somehow HIV-proof? Also, are we to assume that they had protected sex after they were married? Bullshit. It was 1981. The disease wasn’t recognized until 1981. People didn’t know that condoms could prevent the spread of HiV at that time, particularly in Savannah, Georgia and Fuckwit, Alabama. There’s no way that they didn’t consummate their marriage, and there is no way they were using protection.

Enjoy your Kaposi’s Sarcoma, Mr. Gump.

You know how he said “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you are going to get.” Isn’t that a little more poignant now that you definitely know what he was going to get? Full-blown AIDS.

Also, don’t try to tell me Jenny didn’t have AIDS. As the book clearly espoused, sexually-promiscuous hippies and drug-user are incapable of happiness and have to be punished in the worst possible way. Only pure-hearted simpletons walk between the raindrops.

When you start thinking about this, it gets even worse. How do we know that little Forrest wasn’t born HIV-positive? This could be really awkward. How could Forrest even explain that to his son? If only he had someone to help him out with that…

This post is probably as awkward to read as it was to write, but bear with me.

I may not be a practising physician, but I know a thing or two about trademark law.   It’s Murphy’s Law: You may have the best pitchman in the world, but if it doesn’t have a great name like ‘Shamwow! or ‘Slap Chop!, then I’m sorry, but you’re just not going to sell units.

Like all other monarchies, the U.S. has a complex system of laws governing how products can be named.  The basic rule behind these laws is simple - First in time equals first in right.  In other words, if you were the first to call your urination device ‘The Whizzinator’, then you can be damn sure nobody’s going to come along and scoop that name*.  The law is clear: If the use of a same or similar name is likely to cause confusion to consumers, then the law generally prohibits the use of the name by the latecomer.

That said, it would appear that there is one trademark that is immune to all trademark laws.  Based on my research, that trademark is “The Liberator”.  Let me explain.

Like most men who spend most of their days seated at a basement computer, I suffer from seasonal allergies.  And like most men, I eschew traditional medical advice in favour of television commercials financed by multinational pharmaceutical companies.  That is how I came to learn that an antihistamine named “Liberator” was the answer to my problems.

But how could I be sure that Liberator was the right product for me?  I needed independent corroboration.  Naturally, I consulted the internet, where I discovered a very different Liberator.  Namely, this one:

I was initially skeptical about how a sex-specific wedge pillow might help me with my allergies, and after a couple of test runs, I can confirm that although The Liberator does in fact “make your sexual fantasy positions a reality”, it does little for seasonal allergy symptoms**.

Undeterred, although slightly aroused, I Googled on.  And lo and behold, Wikipedia appeared to have the answer in my quest to abolish hayfever symptoms.  It seems that in addition to being famous as a pillow designed to enhance sexual performance by improving entry angles, ‘The Liberator’ was also the name of a famous abolitionist newspaper that played a key role in the emancipation of slaves in the U.S. south.  A noble goal indeed, but I’m still sneezing here.

No, there had to be something else out there.  And there was.  And I fear that after having seen it, I may never be the same.  Here’s what I learned: According to the fine people of Liberator Catheters, hundreds of thousands of Americans use catheters.  You know, those tubes you jam into your bladder so that your urine can flow into a bag and you can go on with your everyday life blissfully unaware of societal norms of urological function?  Yeah, those. 

But here’s the kicker, folks! (Spoiler alert: the next sentence will spoil your dinner).  According to Liberator, the sad state of the U.S. Medicare system is such that thousands of Americans reuse their catheters! Just let that sink in.  Hello?  Oh, hi Joanne.  Yeah, I had a great time last night too.  I just love those penguins.  What’s that?  Knicks tickets? Well, I’d love to, but I’m washing my catheter in the kitchen sink tonight.  Yeah, it’s a bit of a hassle, but I have been feeling itchy lately and I just thought…Pardon? Oh, okay, talk to you later.

But don’t trust me.  Liberator Catheter practically implores you: ‘Stop Reusing Catheters!” Just watch this traumatizing commercial.  I dare you.

Ugh.  Now I don’t feel so yucky about smoking through my tracheotomy hole.  Thanks, Liberator.

Oh yeah - after all this, I figured out why I couldn’t find the Liberator antihistamine on the internet.  Turns out it’s only called Liberator in Canada.  Something about separate trademark laws here.

*That is, unless someone also drastically improves the performance of said product, renames it ‘The Original Whizzinator’ and sells 200 units to Tom Sizemore

**Particularly if your seasonal allergies are triggered by pity sex

At least I think they do. Otherwise, why would they put out a commercial like this?

This ad is the equivalent of having a group of eunuchs sing about abstinence. A few things:

1. First of all, talk about having no idea who your target audience is. Did we just time warp back to the early 1950s? You can’t reach today’s world weary, stiff-livered youth with cheese like this. Where’s the realism? The images of the lacrosse captain splattered all over the highway? The panicked kid lying in a pool of his own feces next to the still-sleeping girl of his dreams who he finally managed to hook up with the night before? The drunken father awkwardly flirting with the unattractive waitress during your mom’s birthday dinner at The Keg? The only kids you’re converting with b.s. like this are the ones destined to publicly humiliate themselves at an office party in their early thirties because they finally decided to try drinking for the first time.

2. Second, Mr. “Responsibly Calling a Cab” there has a full vodka cranberry sitting in front of him. And nothing else. Trust me, Lawrence - eating the two maraschino cherries you’ve had soaking in there for the last fifteen minutes does not render you unable to drive. Also, it’s one o’clock in the afternoon. Go walk around the mall three or four times and “sober up”. You can spend the eight bucks you saved in cab fare on a couple extra bottles of mousse.

3. Third - God bless good old fashioned Canadian production values. Ever wonder what the director of The Beachcombers, The Littlest Hobo and Degrassi Junior High was up to? If you said working for Pixar - incorrect!

4. Finally, a word of advice to Sass Jordan’s daughter on keyboards - you’ve got a lovely voice, and most likely a promising music career ahead of you. Don’t throw it all away by playing Astar for a new generation:

Ah, memories. Anyone else feeling wistful for their old table saw obstacle course?

As you may have noticed, we didn’t post anything today. The reason? We are all dead. All of us. Four bright lights snuffed out in a tragic threshing accident. Well, not necessarily “bright” lights, but lights nonetheless. More like those glow-in-the-dark star stickers you put on your ceiling when you were a kid (or a lonely adult, as the case may be). And yes, I am indeed writing this from beyond the grave, smart guy, so shut it!

As for what this means for future posts, who can say? Will this sudden turn of events impact our production? Probably not. Will it improve the content? Undoubtedly. Will the Duke boys consider incest as they realize their “cousin” Daisy is balls hot, or will they explore their latent feelings for each other? Only time and, God willing, a 5th Dukes of Hazard reunion will tell…

In memoriam donations can be sent directly to the site - we accept PayPal, Visa, gold bullion and shameless sexual favours.

When we last heard from Gus Lee Roth, he was selflessly warning us of the dangers of Eye Odor, a potent if self-diagnosed new strain of sexually transmitted disease. Recently, a chance encounter with a newspaper Gus was using as a blanket led to his discovery of the lawsuit launched against Chad Kroeger, who is being sued by a heckler he punched in the mouth outside a Vancouver night club. Inspired, Gus stands waiting outside the studios of 102.7 KIIS-FM in Los Angeles.

Gus: (to self) …you’ve fixed your last Master System, Gussy Boy, I’ll tell you that much. Time to move on up to easy street. Alright now. Here he comes.

(David Lee Roth emerges from the studio’s front door. A half-dozen grizzled-looking women in their mid-50s excitedly rush over to him)

David: Oh, hey there girls. Now how’d you know I was doing an interview here today?

Women: (all) We love you, Dave!

Gus: (to self) Showtime. (yells) Careful ladies! He has more STDs than…(checks writing on hand)…than a garbage bag full of Alpha-Bits!

(David looks over, rolls eyes)

David: Hey there, Gus. How’s it going?

Gus: It’s going fine, Gay-vid. Don’t you worry about me.

David: “Gay-vid”. That one never got old.

Heavily-Mascaraed Woman: Hey Diamond Dave - how’d you like to go for a ride with a real California girl? (opens denim jacket, flashes Dave)

David: (shielding eyes) Oof. Hey now, girls. It’s Sunday morning. Even God had to rest on Sunday morning.

Woman: (disappointedly closes jacket)

Gus: Hey! Speaking of resting, Davey Boy - you ever get tired of resting on someone else’s laurels? You ladies should be lining up to see Eddie Van Halen. Without him, your little boy toy here would still be working as a…(checks hand)…busy boy? Wait, no…a bus boy back in Pasadena. (nods smugly)

David: Ignore him, ladies. He’s my bitter older brother.

Gus: Oh, I’m your bitter older brother, am I? Let me tell you something about bitter. You know that David once drank piss?

David: (shakes head)

Gus: That’s right. Human piss. He was six years old, and I peed into a water gun, and convinced fancy pants here to drink it. He said it tasted like vinegar! Can you believe that?

David: Some real timely material you’ve got there, Gus. You should have been a comedian.

Gus: Don’t change the subject.

David: What’s the subject?

Gus: Your general level of pussiness, that’s what!

David: That’s enough, Gus.

Gus: Ooooh! Mr. Tough Guy. Tell you what - (just out jaw) - if you’re so upset, why don’t you come over here and do something about it?

David: I’m not upset. I’m just trying to stop you from embarrassing yourself any further in front of this fine group of females.

Women: (clap hands excitedly)

Gus: Embarrassing myself? You’re going to talk to me about embarrassing myself? Maybe I should remind you about your eighth grade formal!

David: What?

Gus: Ha! Got your attention now, do I? Don’t even pretend like you don’t remember. You know who Mr. Big International Ladies Man took to his junior high dance, ladies? Our babysitter, Mrs. Brixton! Yep. Dave was madly in love with a sixty-two year old blue haired widow who lived down our street! Can you believe it? I can still picture him dressed up in that stupid little pastel suit, pinning a flower on her, wearing the biggest, dumbest-looking smile you’ve ever seen. Man, you were such a little tool.

David: That was you, Gus.

Gus: Huh?

David: You took Mrs. Brixton to the dance.

Gus: What the hell are you talking about?

David: Don’t you remember? You came home in tears because you saw her flirting with the vice-principal.

Gus: No, that was…it couldn’t be…

David: Oh, it could be and it was, big brother. Matter of fact, I remember that night perfectly. Because when you took Mrs. Brixton to the dance, she left her sixteen-year-old twin granddaughters in charge of “babysitting” me. Heh. I was only ten at that point, so it was my first time being with two sisters at once. (turns to women) But it sure wouldn’t be my last. (winks)

Women: (all) Tee hee!

Gus: You’re…you’re lying!

David: Yeah, I’m lying. So I guess that means I’m also the one who got suspended for two weeks for getting caught trying to toilet paper the vice-principal’s front yard.

Gus: (rubbing temples) Oh man…it’s all coming back…

David: You should have been there, girls. Ol’ Mr. Fitzhugh found him stuck up in his oak tree after he’d come outside to see where all the crying was coming from. Gus here had only managed to t.p. half a branch before he remembered he was scared of heights and couldn’t get down.

(Women giggle)

Gus: Shut up, Dave!

David: Actually, now that I think of it, I did end up bopping Mrs. Brixton, too…

(Suddenly, Gus lurches forward and punches David in the face)

David: (staggers slightly) What the…oh, that’s it.

(With lightning-quick speed, David delivers a perfectly-executed DLR Kick to Gus’s jaw)

Gus: NUNNNGGGHHH!

David: You saw him start that, ladies? That was pure self-defense!

Woman in Tattered, Hot Pink Feather Boa: It sure was, Davey!

Gus: (rubbing jaw) I thing it’s brogen!

Woman in Skin-Tight Zebra-Striped Bodysuit: I got it all right here on my cell phone camera, Dave!

David: Perfect. Air-tight. (puts on sunglasses) Man, I’m all charged up now. (to zebra woman) And seeing as how you’ve got that camera handy, what say the whole bunch of us grab a room at the Four Seasons and make a little video of our own?

Women: (together) Ooooooooooh!

Gus: I ain’d god insurance!

David: Send me the bill then. And pick up something for your eyes while you’re at it. When you blink, it smells like compost. (walking away with arms around women, singing) I’m just a gigolo…and everywhere I go…people know the part I’m playin’…

Gus:  (smiles) Free eye medigation - score one for Gussy. (tries to whistle) Owg! My jaw…

Day jobs - aren’t they the worst? Mine certainly is. Then again, I didn’t get into involuntarily breeding the homeless for the glory.

It’s been a rough week, fellas (let’s be honest -there’s no ladies reading this), so instead of something original, we are posting Zack Galifianakis’s “Between Two Ferns” interview with Jon Hamm. It’s lazy, sure, but really, really funny (he has three others with Michael Cera, Jimmy Kimmel and Natalie Portman, and are all on the YouTubes, if you haven’t seen them) - and isn’t that what Memorial Day is all about?

Have a great (long) weekend, (American) friends. See you Monday.

 You’ve probably noticed that the American car industry is going through a bit of a rough patch right now.  GM is teetering on the brink of bankruptcy.  Fords are being found on road dead with increasing frequency.  And Chrysler! Don’t even get me started about Chrysler.  They would have plunged into insolvency even more quickly, but their Stratus broke down on the way to bankruptcy court.  Things are looking so bad that American legislators consider Fiat (Fiat!) to be a white knight.

What happened to the once-vaunted American automobile industry?  Who is behind this Carpocalypse(tm)?  And whither Lee Iacocca?

The Automobile desk of Food Court Lunch has done a little digging, and we think we’ve found the cause of the death of the American car.  Prepare to have your mind blown.

What Killed the American Car?

For the answer to that question, you need to look back a couple of years to that loveable McGuffin, Chrysler.

The year is 2006.  Chrysler is riding a wave of renewed popularity brought on by the successful refresh of some of its key models.  The public has embraced the series of new ad campaigns featuring its approachable yet very German CEO, Dr. Dieter Zetsche. 

“Dr. Z”, as he comes to be known, is meant to symbolize the amalgam of German efficiency with American power that came to pass when Daimler bought Chrysler in 1998.

Now fast-forward to November 2008.  Chrysler sales saw their deepest decline in the history of the corporation, forcing its principals to reveal that the company is dangerously low on cash and might not survive 2009.This was to be the world’s first hint at the collapse of the American automobile industry. 

Now, you might be inclined to think that the worldwide credit crisis caused Carpocalypse.  The tightening of worldwide credit markets caused Americans to limit discretionary spending on such things as family cars, or so the story goes.  But you’d be ignoring an even bigger cause of the car crisis.  Because at the exact time the bottom fell out of the car market, a very important person suffered a debilitating stroke.  In particular, this guy:

‘Dr. Z’, I presume.  “But wait a minute”, you say, “That’s Dr. Z from Sports Illustrated, not Dr. Z from Chrysler!”  But because this is a website, and not a telephone conversation, I cannot hear you.  And besides, the evidence is irrefutable.  The comically overwraught German accent.  The delightfully anachronistic handlebar moustache.  The amazing inability to determine the outcome of football games.  Clearly, Dr. Z and Dr. Z are one and the same.  Think about it: Have you ever seen Dieter Zetsche and Paul Zimmerman together in the same place?  I rest my case.

Dr. Z hasn’t spoken a word since Chrysler announced that it would likely claim bankruptcy.  One thing’s for sure: Lee Iacocca is not walking through that door.  Get well soon, Dr. Z! The American car industry (and Peter King) needs you!

A critical look at the headlines that shape our world

Blake Griffin Wants to be Clipper; Also, Honestly Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter

Isn’t that the first question on the NBA’s version of the Wonderlic test?  ‘Are you interested in being a Clipper?  If the answer to the above question is ‘yes’, then please elaborate and provide written copies of any relevant psychological assessments and/or evidence of any childhood traumas.’

Women Smokers At Greater Risk of Premature Cougarism

With your generous gift, we can fund important research aimed at striking out PC in our time.

Long Lost Brother Found Across Street; Police: Decision to Use to 20-ft Search Radius ‘Unfortunate’

‘You mean he’s been in the Carlsons’ yard the whole time?  Well I never!’

Peter King on John Gruden’s New Gig: ‘Brett Favre is an Iron Man’

The early Neilson numbers for the new MNF cast show an expected 13% increase in intensity, coupled with a 35% decrease in chutzpah.

Canada Eyes Arms Sales to Pakistan: ‘What Could Possibly Go Wrong?’

‘Tribal tensions reaching a fever pitch? Check.  Rising support for the Taliban?  Check.  All right, looks like conditions are perfect for a little addition of high-tech Canadian weaponry.  And by weaponry I mean crossbows and broken beer bottles.’

The ‘Facts of Life’ Cast: Then & Now (Hint: It Ain’t Pretty)

Oh, Blair.  How you’ve grown.

Why Bills May Welcome Vick: Social Experiment by Randolph and Mortimer Duke Continues

…You want to talk about injustice? Michael Vick is poised to return to the NFL, Kyle Orton is a starting quarterback, but Doug Flutie sits patiently waiting by the phone.

Hi Gary,

How are things? How is the family? I hope you got my note - it was the one written entirely in letters from newspaper clippings. Sorry about the whole “threatening to kill your dog” thing. I know it’s not his fault you’re a total ass hat. Please give him my apologies. Also, don’t let him eat the “dog treats” you may or may not have found on your doorstep last week. You should feel free to try them, though.

Anyway, I just wanted to wish you luck with the big hearing today. I know how much it means for you to suck the life out of hockey, and let’s face it - a victory today would be a huge step even for you. Certainly you have made tremendous strides in the field of douche baggery in your 16 years as NHL Commissioner. Your accomplishments are legendary - (i) massive league expansion in the southern U.S., where hockey is about as appealing as a rectal scoping (genius!), (ii) moving the NHL from NBC to the highly-esteemed Versus Network (brilliant!), (iii) the introduction of the glowing puck (really?), (iv) four bankruptcies, with a fifth on the way (ok, no one is perfect…), (v) three franchise moves (umm…), (vi) two lockouts (are you even trying?!?!).

And here you are, standing yet again on the precipice of greatness as you seek to undermine a financially viable restructuring of a franchise that is the hockey equivalent of New Coke. And by “greatness”, I of course mean “dickishness”. Sure, Balsille probably over-stepped his bounds by trying to do an end-run around the League - everyone acknowledges that. But you have to question why he was forced to do so. The answer, quite simply, is your unparalleled and undeserved ego. Also, you’re a hairy nutsack. You can’t stand the idea of anyone other than you having a say in the process. You treat the League like your personal fraternity, and you do your utmost to make it impossible for the fans to enjoy the sport. I salute you, G-Bett - you are the Leonardo da Vinci of crapulence. It’s almost as though the conspiracy theory surrounding your appointment as League Commissioner is entirely legitimate… 

Anyway, kick some ass in court today Big Guy. I look forward to the announcement that the Coyotes will be moving to Reno, where they will be sharing a venue with the Reno Bighorns and Monday Night Bingo.

Suck a dick,
General

For those of us here in the Great White North, this coming weekend marks the first long-weekend of the “summer” (which in Canada lasts only 5 weeks). For many Canadians, this holiest of weekends is often referred to as “May Two-Four” (a clever pun referring to the fact that it (a) is celebrated on the last Monday on or before May 24, and (b) is the weekend when Canadians head into the wilderness with a case of beer (conveniently containing “24″ beers - get it?) to open their cottages / camps / rural shanties / brothels).

However, the official name of this sacred holiday is in fact “Victoria Day” (or in Quebec, “Fete de la Reine”), in honour of our favourite monarch, Queen Elizabeth. For it was on May 24, 1809 that Queen Elizabeth landed on the shores of Nova Scotia (or as it was then known, Chevy Nova) and rid our fair nation of snakes. Some say it was in fact the snow and ice that killed the snakes, some say it was Destro, while others seem to suggest that the celebration has nothing to do with snakes whatsoever. We will likely never know the truth. Nevertheless, the fact remains that every year we honour this auspicious occasion by getting pants-wettingly drunk and toasting our English betters.

We here at Food Court Lunch are nothing if not lazy (and sexually inadequate). Accordingly, we treasure long weekends more than most. It is therefore in the spirit of this unabashed laziness (and sexual inadequacy) that we present this tribute to our English brethren and sistren. God Bless Queen Latifah!

1) UK Dental Care:

2) English Cuisine

 3) Friendly Competition

 4) English Fashion

5) English Tourists

6) Beating the Gene Pool Odds

7) The Fox Hunt (aka An Excuse to Post A Photo of Megan)

Happy May 24, everyone…