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?

Food Monster

A few days ago I spent the afternoon in the company of an old friend, Mr. Matthew "Midnight" Serverster. He has recently moved back to Scranton after a stint of substitute teaching in Delaware. He's a good man and will make some lucky fella an excellent wife some day if he manages to get his rampant body hair problem under control. (You see, the joke is that I implied that Mr. Midnight is a homosexual--and it's funny because homosexuality is morally wrong and socially unacceptable).

There are many interesting things about Mr. Midnight besides his uncontrollable man-loving and his thick matte of ape-like, full-body bristle. For instance, he is well known amongst our group of friends for being an impressive eater of foodstuffs. "An 'impressive eater?'" you may ask, "What does that mean and why might that be even remotely interesting?"

Well, first off, fuck you says I. Mr. Midnight's eating ability is truly incredible--incredible in the proper sense of unbeleivable, in that you can witness him eat something and literally be unable to process what you have witnessed. Mr. Midnight's eating ability is not just limited to quantity of food ingested, but also the food itself. He can, and does, eat things that would cause decent, church-going cardiologists to rip off their doctoring hats and stomp on them in impotent rage.

It should not be inferred that Mr. Midnight is unhealthy or morbidly obese or any such thing. It is simply that, on occasion, he seems to get considerable amusement from eating the most disgusting things possible in front of horrified villagers and making them lose their faith in God, reason, and basic laws of physics. It is because of these unholy proclivities that he has earned the title of "Food Monster."

One of the tales surrounding Mr. Midnight's obscene abilities is that he has--on more than one occasion--consumed something called a quad stacker from Burger King. A quad stacker is a hamburger that has four beef patties, four slices of something similar to cheese, topped off with bacon and what might be thousand island dressing. I ate three quarters of a double stacker once and for the rest of the night my stomach felt like it was trying to forcibly secede from my body. But, as if to prove something I never asked him to prove and never would, Mr. Midnight decided to show me that these legends of him eating a quad stacker were true.

The quad stacker is not even on the god damn menu anymore. That's how terrible this thing is. He had to order off-menu to get it. It felt like we were not only doing something biologically wrong but also morally and legally wrong.

Watching Mr. Midnight eat at least for years of his life away without struggle or difficulty is something that will stay with me for some time. By the time he effortlessly popped the last bit of burger into his mouth I realized that I had only eaten half of my pitiful chicken sandwich and no longer desired to finish it or any other kind of food for some time. But Mr. Midnight simply smiled and asked if he could finish my fries. I stared at him in astonishment. He just kept smiling at me like a retard who has just killed a small animal and doesn't understand the horror of the situation.

"I'm going to shit my pants," he said, finally--still beaming with delight.
"There's a bathroom ten feet from us," I replied.
"It's not close enough. I'm going to shit my pants. We need to leave."
"I don't want you in my car if you're going to shit your pants."
"Then I'll just have to walk home."

In the end he didn't have to walk home, nor did he shit his pants. After leaving burger king we went to Target. We were standing in the electronics section talking about Bioshock or something when he cut himself off mid-sentence to declare, "Oh God. I have to go." He then walked very quickly to the unisex bathroom.

An uncomfortably long time after this he returned, smiling again, only to declare, "That was actually pretty painful. A woman walked in after me and I actually heard her say 'Good Lord!.'"

This was my day, ladies and gentleman. This is a day in Scranton. Long live the Food Monster.

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

A Christmas Message from your Uncle Jackson

Merry Christmas, you little scamps! May you and yours have a lovely time worshiping, ignoring, or denying the existence of the deity or deities of your choice. Personally, my family and I spend the holidays remembering that thousands of years ago a child was born who would grow up to be tortured to death to save us all from some kind of especially nasty metaphysical pigwidget. We do this by giving each other scarves and eating cookies, and occasionally going to a movie none of us really want to see. This is called Catholicism, and it is weird. No one really gets it the first go-round, but fortunately we have an eternity of either damnation or stagnation to think about it after the fact. I subscribe to a service called agnosticism, which means I rightly don't give a shit about the large-bearded-man-in-the-sky and would rather watch disturbing and violent pornography anyway.

As most of you are aware, our friend and colleague Tyler hiked up his grumpy pants recently and clattered out a special Christmas tirade railing against nearly everyone. I would like to take this moment here to let our readers know that Sports Quiz Radio covers all kinds of political ideas--and while Tyler more often represents the Center-With-Mild-Right-Flavorings, I want to assure you that I am here to represent the far left with positions such as mandatory man-marriages and beating unwanted babies to death with socks full of nickel rolls. And, while we're outing our habits, I voted for Barack Obama, may peace be upon him. And I also must agree with Tyler that my fellow supporters of Obama tended to be more annoying. But that's mostly because I hate hipsters in general and that Venn diagram had a hell of a lot of overlap. Just like "McCain Supporters" and "People Who Cannot Read."

But this post is not about politics. It is about Christmas--which is a completely a-political time of year. This year my scattered immediate family collected in Scranton and drove down to my grandmother's house in New Jersey. Somehow my father had procured an audio copy of the only mystery ever written by Abraham Lincoln, and we listened to it on the way there. It was disturbingly awful. It was based on a case in which Lincoln was the defense attorney, and it shows that Lincoln was actually quite bad at his job. His clients managed to get off mostly on sheer luck, and he was never able to offer an explanation of whatever happened--even for the fictionalized story. Most mysteries have some kind of ending, perhaps in which the strangeness of the whole story (the "mystery") gets unraveled and explained (the "solution"). But Lincoln ended his story with what was basically "Well that was all quite a strange occurrence, wasn't it? Too bad we never figured out what the hell happened there. Might have made a good story." Perhaps one day he took off his lawyer-ing hat and put down his mystery writer-ing pen and said to his beastly wife, "Mary, I can't write worth a shit and I'm the worst lawyer in the world, so I might as well give up now and become the President of the United States and free an entire race of people from centuries of institutionalized inhumanity." It is unsettling to see an amazing specimen of human capacity fail spectacularly at something. It was like watching Thomas Jefferson inadvertently fly a hot air balloon directly into the waiting jaws of a crocodile, all the while screaming incoherently and helplessly. Or like watching To Kill a Mockingbird with all the reverent children and black people edited out. Or it's like neither of those things, because they are silly.

Remember, kids, on this most holiest of days, that even a middle-aged Jew with good prospects can fuck it all up.

Merry Christmas, everyone!