My Summer Vacation by Canada Jackson

Gentlemen! Pack your tobacco and clean your sidearms for I have returned.

(I would have said "Ladies and gentlemen," were it not for the common knowledge that women are not allowed to use the Intranets.)

I have not found time to bore you with embarrassing episodes of my miserable existence recently because of my increased duties as the weeping dwarf that the universe--like a mad medieval king intoxicated with feudal power, brain ravaged with a timely combination of syphilis and questionable grog--forces to dance in its dining hall, the only thing approaching recompense being the occasional chicken bone chucked halfheartedly at my head.

Ah, Jackson, you readers may say, if you're not viciously attacking random passersby with ad hominem like a hipsterish ancient mariner, you're bemoaning the existential despair of your comfortable, middle-class existence. It's the only game in town, says I.

Recently [Demarcations] hired six new bright-eyed and enthusiastic no-names as grist for the all-hungry soul mill that is their book selling operation. I felt nothing but pity when I saw them in the back room, eagerly absorbing their training. You poor, feckless motherfuckers, I thought. No training on this world can prepare you for discovering a naked, homeless man bathing himself from the toilet bowl in the public restroom. You will never be prepared to have a man--angry about not being allowed to cut the long register line--throw a book at you. But you will most certainly be familiar with being supervised by hill-folk whose knowledge of the product they're selling--literature--is taken up entirely by the crudest of facsimiles--pornography and Glenn Beck.

These delightful young pups are starting off at the registers, as I once did a little more than a year ago. What I was thrilled to discover, however, is that they are somehow getting paid fifty cents more than me. From day one. So, for the slower folks at home: new people, less responsibilities, less knowledge, less experience...more money. I, instead of starting a fire in the stockroom and spelling out "I quit" in urine on the carpet, discussed this discrepancy with the general manager. He was shocked by this difference in pay and said he would try and do something about it.

Apparently "something" is cutting my hours to one day a week. My last paycheck was fifty four dollars. I think I am going to work on my urine calligraphy. Either that or pimp this pitiful blog out in some fashion as to get an insane billionaire to finance the publication of a book--which, due to my brain's inability to (medically speaking) do anything will never actually see the light of day. And I highly doubt there is an audience out there for pompous, obscene rambling on the subject of everyday annoyances peppered with misused, misspelled ten-dollar words. Hurr hurr, beer, farts.

Speaking of not doing things, my good friend in New York City keeps harassing me to update this blog, citing the fact that she knows people who actually read it. Poppycock! It occurs to me, though, that if I mention her in this blog that I must come up with a handle for her, ala RJP4 and Mr. Midnight a.k.a the Food Monster. I find myself unable to do anything with her name, save the fact that her first name is more Irish than drunken morning premarital sex in a sheep pasture with a fiery barmaid named Moira, and her last name is more Jewish than complaining simultaneously about the air conditioning being too high and the soup temperature being too low in a deli in Manhattan. I expect a text message from her any minute ending our friendship. I'm just saying that if you need both a pub and a pyramid built in the same afternoon that I might know someone. Hi-o! Stereotypes.

Anyway, what I'm saying is that I'll try more to keep this damn albatross better fed. I know I say this with almost every post. But this time I might mean it. But probably not. Although now I do have tons of free time and no money to do anything else...

Maybe I'll passive-aggressively turn my posts into a more typical kind of blog in which I detail the horror of my daily activities. For example: "I wake up at eight o'clock sharp and then nap until around 11, when I am awoken by my stocky, homosexual pet cat's effort grunts as he climbs onto my bed. At this point I waste fourteen hours watching youtube videos of animals walking into things. My girlfriend sends me a text: 'What are you doing?' and I respond 'Working on grad school applications.' I eat several doughnuts and lose consciousness in my own filth--but not before a quarter-turn in order to prevent bed sores."

Is this really what you want, America?

Travels: Boise (Day One)

Day One of Boise started with a shower in Stone's basement bathroom. The shower was one of those stand-up jobs. I am what you might call "pocket-sized," and yet I still had a hard time maneuvering in this be-spouted shoebox. (When it came time for RJP4's turn there was only the sounds of muffled thuds and curses.) I also encountered a spider of some significance legging it under the door when I got out. I mentioned this to Stone. His response: "Yeah. We've got spiders here." It was implicit that "here" referred to Idaho. If we had driven to Idaho instead of flown we would have passed the massive welcome sign reading "IDAHO: Yeah. We've got spiders here."

For breakfast we decided to walk down to Elmer's--a diner-type place that Stone had talked up quite a bit. On the way we passed one of Boise's many irrigation sluices. It looked very much like a river, and Stone explained that some people do, in fact, swim in them. Apparently a fun thing that the children do is allow themselves to be sucked into one of the pipes and be propelled out the other side. Problem: sometimes there are grates on the other side. Again we see the invisible hand of Darwin plucking, in this instance, the chaff from the wheat.

Elmer's really was delightful. I got the best steak and eggs I've ever had there--and the hash browns were all mixed up with some peppers and onions. Very good. I also bought a copy of the Idaho Statesman from a machine outside. RJP4 and I compared it to the Scranton Times-Tribune we brought with us (RJP4 explaining his daily purchase of the Times: "It has two crossword puzzles."). Some notes: The Times had the following headline, "ANIMALS: Now We Know Better." The Statesman had excellent pictures--but all of its political articles were from either the AP of LA Times. The OpEd page had a prominently featured letter about tipping buffet waitresses. But then again, as stated, the Times had an article about us not understanding animals. Point, Scranton.

After Elmer's we crossed the road to Boise State University. All bicycles and pleasant people. Stone had to go to some kind of Theatre Person class where I assume they show you how to pretend to be a tree or paint yourself silver and stand still (the finer arts are lost on me). RJP4 and I walked over the "Friendship Bridge." The idea behind the friendship bridge is that if you walk across it with someone you will be friends forever. This is a silly thing, and even the attempt deserves our contempt and derision. I compell all of you to fly to Boise and openly urinate on this abomination. I'm a little worried that because RJP4 and I crossed it together that we are now gay married.

All my cranky cynicism melted away, however, because almost immediately after crossing the Friendship Bridge I saw a giraffe. You'd be surprised what wonders a completely unexpected giraffe can do. If only Hitler had, upon crossing the Rhine, stumbled across the legendary Meandering Giraffe of Gaul we might not all be comparing various American presidents to him completely outside of any historical context. ...I think things got away from me a bit. Anyway, the giraffes were peering over the fences from the zoo in the park across from Boise State. I found myself wondering--as we all do--if it were possible to put a saddle on one and ride it. And if so, what would be the top speed? What kind of obstacles would be neccessary to stop a giraffe cavalry? But the magic quickly disappated when I realized that the ground we were walking on was covered in geese. And their leavings.

While Stone was in class our wanderings were uneventful. We saw Boise State's Taco Bell Arena. I was almost tempted into free chili. We were loudly instructed to vote by a man wearing a homemade t-shirt proclaiming "TALK TO ME." We haughtily regarded an enormous drawing of a snail that was mislabelled as a slug. A few guffaws, upturned-noses, and East Coast elitisms later and we were reunited with our now more erudite travelling guide. And thus we ventured...downtown!

Here is where my remembering becomes fuzzy. Fuzzier. So bear with me. Bare? The following things occurred in some order on that day:

We went to what is basically the gift shop for all of Boise. I bought postcards and Stone bought us all "Spud Bars" because we didn't know what they were and how can you pass something like that up? It turned out to be a weird nougaty-marshmallowy substance wrapped in dark chocolate and coconut. I assume the goal was to mimic what it might be like to bite into a raw potato and perhaps enjoy it. The Spud Bar achieved this goal. I believe this is all that needs be said on the subject.

It began to drizzle, and then rain. RJP4's "solution" to this "problem" was to buy a one hundred dollar jacket from The North Face. It was bright red and he did not regret it: it had technology that caused the rain to simply bead up and wipe right off. Arthur C. Clarke, I think, said that sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic, and clearly this is the proof. In the meantime the rain soaked through my ten dollar hooded sweatshirt. I did not have the aid of sorcery. At this point I threw out the latter half of my Spud Bar.

We visited Stone's place of employment: The Flying M, a coffee shop that is decidedly gay. And by that I mean that it is frequented by homosexuals. It serves many things--including various cereals in bowls--and there is a vending machine that pops out little boxes with art in them. None of the furniture matches and I think the best word for it is "comfortable." It was an excellent place to sit while the rain really picked up.

We visited the liquor store and saw vodka sold in a bottle shaped like a human skull. RJP4 bought some black label and all was well with the world. We trudged home in the rain like immigrants. Stone had to go to a long rehearsal and I put my hoodie in the dryer and fell asleep. Before he left Stone told us that there was a Chinese food place "nearby" called Panda Garden. RJP4 left in search of it. It turned out to be about a mile away.

I woke up when RJP4 returned, and the smell of his veggie lo mein made me envious. I, then, set off for the distant Panda Garden--but without the aid of the magical water repelling coat. My poor hoodie, so recently dried, was soaked through again by the time I returned. Along with most of the rest of me. But there were things to be said about my miserable trek: it gave me a good look at that part of Boise. Three observations: /1. Many houses in Boise are very small and simply do not believe in a second story. "One is enough," they say, believing more to be a sign of capitalist decadence. /2. There is a ponderous amount of classic cars in excellent shape in Boise. (My uncle would later explain that they don't use salt in the winter...which sciences up your car.) /3. The community pool is an above-ground. Who ever heard of such backward and savage ways? My hoodie went back in the dryer.

Later when Stone returned from rehearsal we walked back in the same direction, but past Panda Garden to the Albertson's grocery store. I picked up a package of "brownie cookies." A sticker on the box had a picture of the brownie cookies and read: "Brownie Cookies. It's a cookie and a brownie!" I could not pass this up.

On day one we walked, in total, roughly one thousand million hundred miles. My legs hurt as I drifted off to sleep on Stone's couch--surrounded by my cookie brownies or brownie cookies and the sleeping sounds of my close, drunken friends.

Next time! It doesn't rain, we walk more, and sadly no more giraffes are seen. Tune in!

Nasa is full of shit

It has been awhile since I ventured into the blogosphere, but I've returned and well equipped to deal with fat acne scared folk who haunt this realm looking for innocent and helpless people to "pwn." Don't fret, I have not returned solely to fight the tyrannical uber nerds, but to also deliver you a good heaping pile of funnies from the fourth grade.

This past week my class took a test on the solar system. This was a basic test asking for information on all eight planets, and Pluto who is now treated like an unwelcome step child at dinner after making a comment about the "zoo noises" mommy was making last night. The students were given a study guide that was filled in over the course of the week with a final review by the classroom teacher where they were all given the correct answers. All the students had ample time to study, but a few students went the extra mile and did some historic and scientific re-visioning for us. Here is a list of the new facts I learned today:

1. All the inner planets are not in fact made of rock, but made of Ice and dust. (I knew global warming was a conspiracy made up by the liberals.)

2. The outer planets are giant snowballs, not gas. (God does love giant snow cones...)

3. Saturn's rings are not made of ice, rocks and dust. What are they made up of then? The truth, fire.

4. The first person to walk on the moon was actually Arnold Schwarzenegger, not that phony Neil Armstrong.

According to the logic used to to arrive at the last fact I can only assume it will soon be revealed that it was Will Smith who first flew across the Atlantic. And when he landed in Paris he promptly punched the mayor in the face, stood over him and said, "Welcome to Earth."

Canada Jackson's Doctoral Challenge vol. II

My express train to failure, poverty, and self-loathing continues to chug along nicely. On this edition of Canada Jackson's Doctoral Challenge we will be discussing Marquette University, located in sunny Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Today, Marquette University wrote to inform me that they could not offer me admission into their Doctoral program.

For those interested, I have compiled some information about Marquette University. From their brochure:

"Marquette University was founded in 1855 by known whoremonger and sexual deviant Herman Marquette. It was originally supposed to be the largest house of ill repute in the country until it was taken over by the Jesuits in 1860. The Jesuits, however, quickly found that prostitution was not a financially stable endeavor, so they turned it into a university.

Here are some quick Fun Facts about Marquette University:
-- Ninety-nine percent of America's serial killers graduated from Marquette.
-- Bestiality is not only accepted at Marquette, but a requirement to obtain tenure.
-- The current president of Marquette University is Robert Mugabe.

Marquette University received world notoriety in 1961, when it was visited by President John F. Kennedy. The young, charismatic president spent around fifteen minutes on campus before, according to his aides, he was so disgusted that he dropped his pants and defecated in front of cameras, reporters, and shocked students. He then ordered his staff and Secret Service agents to do the same. Years later he was assassinated in Dallas, Texas, by Marquette graduate Lyndon Baines Johnson.

Marquette University statistics:
-- 67% of Marquette University students are illiterate.
-- The other 33% of Marquette University students are cows.

Marquette University firmly believes in the supremacy of white males of European descent. In keeping with this tradition, every semester one or more of the following classes are offered: Intermediate and Advanced Eugenics (BIO216 and BIO416), Confederate Studies (HUM304), Introduction to the International Jewish Banking Conspiracy (PS263), and/or Lynching Theory (PE101).

Thank you for your interest in Marquette University.
Note: Irish and coloreds need not apply."





I feel better now.

Kermit THE Bigot

As some of you may know, Sports Quiz was at one time a radio show that was held weekly on the family friendly 99.5 FM WUSR radio station. In this time of peace and prosperity, a cultural favorite was brought on the show as a guest. A Mr. Kermit THE Frog. We, the SQR staff, were delighted to have such a lovable and celebrated icon join us on our program. We danced jigs, played lutes and even engaged in the spanking of the wench around the town square. Our ecstasy was soon halted once Mr. Frog was given the opportunity to speak to the world. He came into our studio seemingly joyful, but something seemed...well a bit off. His presence brought with it the subtle scent of Wild Turkey. He habitually kept on sniffing and scratching his nose, even bleeding slightly from his left nostril at one point. What appeared to be track marks plagued his arms. This...ladies and germs...was Kermit THE Mess. He immediately lit a fat joint upon entering the studio space, and greeted us with the words, "Hey fuckers. I'm the fuckin' frog. It's not easy bein green and all that shit. Thanks for havin' my shitty ass." In our child-like wonder we could not accept such a horrid truth this said moment, so we went with it, making excuses to ourselves as to how and why this lovable character could fall. Directing him to a seat in front of the mixing console, we kept ginger and wide-eyed in the presence of our guest. Upon introducing him after our commerical break, he immediately vomited on himself...and began to laugh about it, not even bothering to clean himself. This is where everything turned ugly. Real ugly. Kermit decided he was going to rant on and on about poison of any race that isn't white. Even presented us with some sound clips from an episode on the Muppet Show where he degraded Rowlf the dog and Ben Vereen for being African American. He even played archival audio of himself reporting from the 1992 LA Riots, in which he made yet another horrendously charged racial slur.

After a few more devastating suprises, and much throwing of fecal material on Kermits part, we ended our time with the Frog and escorted him out of the studio. With heavy hearts, we eventually accepted the sad truth about our dear friend Kermit. The pressures of show biz surely got to him. And from then on, we spoke not a whisper of his name again, although I personally spent many nights sobbing hysterically in the shower. As for how Tyler and Canada handled the rape of their childhood memory, I do not know.

Years past with no word or sign of life from Kermit THE Terrible. The painful memories of that night began to fade, and life moved on...

Until a few nights ago...

I was watching everyone's favorite show about the american household, "Family Guy." Suddenly in a cut sequence, which the show is know for, Kermit is polishing a rifle in the swamp. Along comes a black man in a small boat, asking which way town is. Kermit points the rifle at him and says, "back the way you came."

Seems Kermit is still overcome by his amphibious bigotry. Unfortunatly now, he's being paid to display it on cable television.

Pisses me off, because someone probably heard him on our show, and decided to make a buck off of it. I'm going to go cry in my shower now.

Ringing in a New Year

DRock here again. Hahahahahaha! I'm back. I think you cats can tell that I really like this whole blog thing. Keeps my mouth off of people's ears and on their eyes instead, I guess. I want to talk about the holiday known as New Years. Or as I like to call it "I make promises that I don't keep and get stupid drunk in a pool of my own misery and disappointment while filled with false hope of a better year than last." Damn, I'm a joyous person eh?

' Like gettin' raped in the face.

AnyCindyLouWho...I personally think New Year's is a good idea. We reflect upon the past 12 months. We think about the future, and even enjoy celebrating in the present. It's probably the only time of year that the American collective consciousness is consistently alive and well in what has been, what is, and what may be. So cheers to that!

As far as my own plans go for kissing 2008 goodbye, I'm not sure yet. One thing's for sure though...I'm not kissing it goodbye...

I'M KICKING ITS WHORISH SLUT MOTHER BITCH CRAP ON YOUR DAY CRAP ON MY DAY INSULT YO MAMMA ONE IN THE STINK LOHENGREN CMON SHOW I DON'T CARE SO SCREW YOU SHAVED POSSE MEMBER YEAH FUCKED BY A TRANNY FUCKED BY YOUR DEAD RELATIVES WHILE RIDING A PINK HORSE AND WEARING A PINK BUNNY SUIT ERGO PINK NIGHTMARE SUCK ON A STICK O' DYNAMITE MY WIFE LEFT ME MY DOG LEFT ME MY OWN DICK LEFT ME FOR CHRIST'S SAKE EVEN MY FAVORITE PAIR OF SOCKS LEFT ME donkeycheese DONKEY PUNCHIN ASS GOODBYE!!!!!!

*hehe*

Yeaaaaah...it's been a shit year. So I guess I'm one of the false hope fools who longs for 2009 to have a shred of something better. We. Shall. See.

What do you all have in mind for this beloved and despised time of year? Please, comment and share. Let's all get crazy.beautiful.sexy.baby.buttsex.nutso on this one eh? Let's get it together. Meeting of the minds. HELL!!!!! LET'S MAKE IT A SPORTS QUIZ NEW YEAR!!!!!!!!!!!

We'll get all of our old guests together at Tinks in Scranton and reallllllly party it on down! Just think of it, Bill Cosby chastising everyone for drinking alcoholic beverages. Kermit the Frog committing racial crimes!! Chris Walken humping a barstool, mistaking it for a fine piece of ACE! Father P jerking off onstage!!! The list goes on and on and on.....and on............on...........

I mean it. Let's do it. Because if we don't, I'm just gonna have to settle for a threesome with Canada and Tyler, and although that's fun, we've pretty much exhausted our creativity in that arena already. (Unless someone's got a Crocodile we can borrow, and a can of powdered organic south African bee honey.)

Don't let me down peeps.

syug ih

hi guys

Dear readers,

It is important for you to know that we, here at the Sports Quiz Media Empire, are lazy, easily distracted, and poorly motivated bastards. And so, we humbly suggest that if you enjoy our blog and our humorous mix of mildly offensive tirades and tales of folly--please tell people about us.

The bottom line is this: if people actually read this crap, we might actually keep it up. If people actually comment on our posts, we might actually keep it up. Otherwise we might get distracted by some shiny object and wander off--and definitely not keep it up.

So if you want our kids to eat, and if you want us to be able to maintain our hedonistic lifestyle of gold-plated hooker parties, you'll help make this shit popular.

Until we get famous and forget all about you.

Yours in Christ,
SQ