What do "puff" and "kneel" have in common?
Today is some sort of crusade-to-raise-awareness-of-lung-cancer-day. Whilst I am all for the prevention of this all pervasive killer, I am equally pro smoker's rights. I grew up in a society where we were allowed to smoke in malls and restaurants (I know... it seems like such a foreign concept now) and until a few short years ago, I was the poster child for smoking. I will say this, I commend the approach these lobbyists are taking. Instead of trying to scare the masses into abstinence (face it, that will NEVER work), they have taken to telling people it is uncool. Not only are you now shunned to the outer limits of our known universe if you smaak to have a fag, but now some lady on morning television is telling you that resembling James Dean or Dirty Harry is for losers. I don't know, hey. The terror tactics didn't work. The astronomical cost increases did nothing to put any of us off. Perhaps the tannie tuning you people will think you're cool despite not puffing away incessantly might just work. I'll tell you this, all my misguided attempts at "coolness" were for naught. Sucking on a Stuyvesant, while manfully holding back the tears and the overwhelming urge to cough a lung out, did nothing to convince any of the nice girls to touch me on my own cigarette. It was a very expensive exercise in futility. But oh how I did enjoy it! I even considered changing my name to Nick before I turned 20. So I am now a non-smoker. I do not condemn those that still enjoy it. That would make me a hypocrite. To each his own. Don't blow rings into an infant's face. As with everything, be cool. Don't be a dick.
Which brings me rather smoothly to today. As you may or may not have noticed, I have been rather quiet recently. This is because I'm cream-crackered. I have been slaving through back-to-back band practices and an assortment of other fun activities for the last few weeks. Fun is taking its toll. I wouldn't have it any other way, but it has rendered me zombified at work. And since I obviously write these dismissive missives during office hours, I have been less inclined to spill my cerebral diarrhea all over your news feed of late. But today is a special day! Yes folks! That cynical social satirist, the one and only Neal Goldwyer [Esq.] celebrates his birthday today. So from all of us here at the Monster Offices, hope you have a happy, hedonistic, blessed and bloody indulgent birthday! Here are some pearlers from the past, to remind you why you love him so much:
NGDG: Getting to, into and away in your car from a parking lot without being spotted by a guard after money is about the most Jason Bourne feeling a law-abiding man can have.
NGDG: Titanic. A cautionary tale illustrating how a game of just-the-tip can end in disaster.
NGDG: I must be very liberal because the only thing I find disturbing about a girl with a lolling tongue mock-masturbating with a huge foam finger is that she looks eerily like Robin Thicke when he sits down with his crayon to write lyrics.
NGDG: Machine guns in a Polo? I could kill that gangster Krecjik instantly. I'd just slip a note in his bodyguard's pocket that says: "Do you even lift boet? Kisses, Radovan."
NGDG: I wore Gorbachev-style glasses and had a Justin Beiber haircut in 1988. You can't imagine the shit I went through. I wish I had a time machine. So I could introduce fin-de-seicle weapons banned by the Geneva Convention to the youth of today.
NGDG: If I ever get banned from square one, I'm in deep shit.
NGDG: So you backward Nigerian twats killed a drummer. St. Anger was 10 years ago.
NGDG: Did you know that Donkeypuncher is an actual job? It's a kind of a winch operator. (Reading a book about logging in British Colombia that I was given free by the bookstore owner because he knows I like random stuff.)
Spread The Love. Inner Thighs Of Virgins...
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