Rejected!

I'm not exactly over sensitive when it comes to handling rejection. I don't really mind. Every "no" moves you one step closer to a "yes", right? At least that's what I believe. You can't go through life giving up, you won't ever get anywhere. Christopher Reeve never gave up on his dream to walk again and look what happened to him.
Okay, that's a bad example 'cause he died before he made it didn't he? He didn't give up though...
I have been not once, this week, but twice rejected. First by the comic relief book, which I never really thought I would get in anyway but thought I should give it a shot. Then today, I find out that despite being nominated for some dubious post of the week thingy, I didn't even make the shortlist. The "short"list by the way was 10 posts, 15 were nominated. I'm not bitter, I didn't have time to read any of the other posts, so it's probably fair to say that they were probably much wittier, cleaner, safer, non-defamatory and just downright better than the shite I wrote about Marlon Brando's shit stained undies so fair play to 'em.
I've been trying to think of my biggest rejections and really struggled to come up with many but here is what I got:

Application to join the Cheshire Constabulary - Rejected. This actually turned out to be a win as I had been abstaining from drugs in a serious attempt to become a bobby. I don't know what I was thinking at the time but it seemed like a steady job. Anyway, suffice to say I have had infinately more fun taking drugs than I would have had being a rozzer.

Application to join the Brittannia Music Club - Rejected. Ironic that I had six other memberships under various made up names, including the budgie's, but when I applied in my own name they told me to fuck off. Their selection was shite anyway and did not accurately reflect my musical tastes at the time, or ever for that matter.

Application to re-join my old Rugby Club - Rejected. "There is no place at this club for thugs young man. Your behaviour has brought shame and disgrace upon not just yourself but the club as a whole." Least said about that the better but those thick Irish fuckers started it.

Various submissions to the New Yorker Magazine - All rejected. "We regret to inform you Mr. Waring that once again we will not be publishing your "artwork" in the New Yorker. As we have made quite clear on several occasions, ours is a highbrow publication. We have no interest, nor will we ever have in publishing crudely drawn cartoons of human and/or animal genitalia. I would also like to take this opportunity to remind you that the New Yorker crossword puzzle is intended to stimulate the minds of our readers with challenging cryptic clues. Your continued suggestions that we make it easier by adding "rhymes with______" to the end of every clue are no longer welcome. Please cease and desist from contacting us ever again. If you do not refrain from contacting us, you will find the matter in the hands of our attorneys."


I need some fuggin sleep.

Comic Relief

The lad over at troubled diva has been working his bollocks off for the past few days putting together a collection of humourous blog posts by Brit bloggers to sell for Comic Relief.

You can buy the book for only £8.96 of which £3.63 will go to Comic Relief. You can buy your copy at www.shaggyblogstories.co.uk.

I didn't make it in, neither did the fuckin' hi-larious Old Knudsen but congratulations to the very funny Foot Eater, the very saucy EmmaK and everybody else who made it in. Hopefully the book will make tons of cash for Red Nose Day.

M Twee V Cribs

Whats the worst place you have ever lived? When I first landed here in the US and A, Mrs.Waring and I lived in an apartment in the Westlake district of Los Angeles. Just outside Downtown, it's a rough, largely hispanic, gang infested area. There were not many white folks around. It wasn't that bad, I actually liked living there. We had a top floor corner apartment, with a great view of the downtown skyline from one side and a view over Hollywood from the other. The rent was cheap, but there were lots of insects and a rather unpleasant smell most of the time. The neighbors were odd to say the least, freakish is more like it and it was noisy, very fuckin noisy. Things could have been worse. We could have been living in a discarded kitchen appliance like Noel Currie of St.Ann, Jamaica who has lived in a 12 cubic foot refrigerator for the last 5 years.

Sadly, a few weeks ago, someone set fire to his fridge, leaving him exposed to the elements. "It was a man who helped me to do some work who gave me the fridge and I took it here to sleep because I had nowhere else to go," Currie told the Sunday Observer under a tree in Mile End, St Ann.

"When the rain a fall me will get wet"

59 year old Currie claims that the fridge was set on fire by some neighbourhood boys while he was at the doctors, and although he admitted that the fridge wasn't very comfortable, it was better than sleeping in the open air.

Currie, who used to make a small amount of money by running errands for the locals, is unable to work at the moment. "I used to work all over, and I'm willing to work to do just about anything, although me foot sick now," he said, pointing to a wound on the sole of his right foot.

"I just want someone good who I can work with because I used to wash cars, do farming, just about any little thing because I am a hard worker," he said. "It's just that I can't get anything to do to help myself."

The locals, who have known him for years, say that he isn't mentally ill, he was just dealt a shitty hand. One resident who asked to be named only as 'Miss Jill', said that when Currie first returned to the community after having gone to live with his father in Kingston as a child, he was neatly groomed and smartly dressed. But the years of living under the tree and sleeping in the refrigerator at nights have taken a toll on him.

The residents say they remember that Currie used to live in an old house in the community, but when the owners returned to take possession of their property he had to leave.He said it was at this time that he got the refrigerator, which he moved to one end of a flat piece of land which was later developed into a cricket and football field. One resident explained that when Currie took sick recently and left for the hospital, persons who wanted to further develop the field were only too quick to set fire to the refrigerator, thinking he was not going to return.

"Irie Mon! Me am got no arms!"

In the meantime, 'Miss Jill' is hoping that Currie can get some assistance from the state, as, she said, he has suffered long enough. "People always promised to help him but is always only a promise," she said, adding that he can no longer work to support himself."You should see how him bend up in pain and was crying the other day when his stomach tek him," she told the Sunday Observer. "I just had to boil a lot of tea and give him until they took him to the doctor."
Currie showed this reporter the medication prescribed by the doctor. They are to be taken after meals. Unfortunately, he did not have enough food to take them. In fact, the only food in sight at his makeshift home was a pot containing boiled bananas, remnants of his breakfast.The residents say they want to see him get a roof over his head, now that the refrigerator is gone. They remember that during Hurricane Ivan in 2004, Currie spent the time locked away in the refrigerator under the tree.
"He loves to work and is not afraid to work, but he just needs somewhere to live," said one resident who gave her name only as Marvet.
Another resident, who wanted to be identified only as Joy, echoed Marvet's appeal. "He really needs some help, and I hope that someone out there will help him," she said.

Two things struck me about this poor bastard. One, look at him smiling in that second picture. Two, in the first picture, he is wearing odd sandals even though he has a pair of blue ones.

It's not what happens to you, it's how you handle it. Like locking yourself in a fridge during a hurricane.

EDIT: Just want to thank 'Kate', whoever you are for nominating the Brando post at Post of the Week. I had never heard of it before, but thanks for the recognition!!

Pig Snouts! Get 'Em While They're Hot!

I just read a short piece in the LA times by Steve Lopez who is moaning about the price of a hotdog at Downtown LA's new Trifecta Sports Bar. I agree that $15 for a fuckin' hotdog is a bit steep, but they aren't catering to the 4am Pink's crowd or your average Wienerchnitzel punter such as I. Their location is a stones throw from the city's financial district and the type of customer they are trying to attract are more than overjoyed to pay $15 for a hotdog that has been specially 'imported' from Chicago, just so they can tell their snooty fuckin friends about it down at the raquet club. You definately will not catch me in there, or at the raquet club for that matter, since I violated their strict 'no urinating on the courts policy' my name is mud down there.

Now I consider myself no fool. I suspect I know full well what goes into hotdogs, but as they taste so good washed down with several imported non-american beers, I allow my hedonistic urges to make the call over common sense on this one and eat the fuckers anyway. Shit, I even like the canned ones you get in the UK. When you get in at 3am totally wankered you will eat practically anything that will go between two slices of bread, it's amazing how good cold Princes canned hotdogs taste at that time in the morning.

One of the major manufacturers of hotdogs here in Southern California is LA's own Farmer John. They have had the contract with the LA Dodgers for many, many years and produce the succulent foot long treats that are 'Dodger Dogs'. Baseball is a guilty pleasure of mine and I like going to games, eating Dodger Dogs and drinking (overpriced) beer. Anyway, Farmer John don't just make hotdogs, they have a wide range of delectable pork products and lard, one of which is Liverwurst, a pate like substance shaped into a sausage German stylee and one which I developed something of a taste for last year.

As I said, I'm no fool. I know all about the alleged unethical treatment of animals in the manufacture of such stuff. I know that the ingredients used to make such things are not choice cuts of prime pork loin. Liverwurst, as the name implies has nasty things in it but even I admit to almost dropping my liverwurst on toast one morning as I read the label. The three main ingredients were:

1. Pork - Makes sense
2. Pork Liver - Okay, liver goes in Liverwurst.
3. Pork Snouts - What the fuck?

Pork Snouts? Fuckin' dogs eat pork snouts! Okay, maybe some of our South and Central American friends enjoy them too, but fuckin' pork snouts? I was mildly shocked and almost didn't finish my toast as I contemplated where the line should be drawn. I mean, what parts of a pig can be classified as simply pork and what parts need further clarification? Should such products be subject to some kind of warning on the label? Pictures of pigs sniffing each others arses or foraging in their own shit for rotten carrots and onions thrown in by the farmer? I'm pretty sure the industry would resist legislation, much like the tobacco industry doesn't want pictures of still born babies on their product, as it puts off the occasional would be buyer.

Where the fuck am I going with this? I'm half pished now and things are getting a bit jibbery wongery.

Okay, yeah, so it's a matter of choice innit? If you don't like paying $15 for a hotdog, don't. Go to Wienerschnitzel and pay $2. It's all the same stuff with a few different spices and a bit more or less salt and pepper thrown in, and if you want a delicious hotdog without pork by products, try Hebrew's Best, made for our Jewish cousins and supervised by a Rabbi they are almost guaranteed to have no pig snouts.

The Night Terrors Are Back

I got a nice email from Lambent yesterday who said:
“You’re a fucking cunt and I’m going to kill you with a fucking spoon.”

Thanks mate, that’s my weekend fucked. I have a deep rooted fear of spoons. I flinch whenever one is brandished or pointed in my general direction. I cannot use one, not even a spork. I have had to invent an alternative spoon like utensil for the purposes of spooning, which due to an agreement with the International Brotherhood of Utensil Manufacturers, I cannot show you.

I know you are all dying to know what possible series of events, what kind of trauma or experience would cause such an unreasonable fear of an everyday household item. Well, I don’t like talking about it, but my therapist says that it’s good to talk and that by getting it off my chest, I may someday be able to once again enjoy soup. So, here I go…..

The burning body of a girl had been found dumped on a golf course just outside Manchester. (Why do they always dump them on golf courses?) A number of youths, both male and female, were arrested and tried for the murder of the girl and the story that came out in court was intriguing to say the least. One of the female members of the group had lost a prized pink jacket and had spotted the unfortunate victim wearing a jacket of the exact same colour and style. The defendant claimed that the girl had stolen the jacket and hatched a plan with her group to seek revenge.

The group decided to kidnap the girl and kept her in the home of one of the group, tied naked to a mattress spring, where they proceeded to torture her. The torture was the worst part for my acid and ecstasy addled mind. They had strapped some headphones to her head, injected her with speed then made her listen non stop to one of the popular techno albums of the day, Void Dweller by Eon. If you don’t know, Void Dweller, with tracks like Fear: The Mindkiller, Basket Case and Spice is not an album to fucked with if you don’t like techno, especially if you are being forcibly injected with speed and are tied to a bed frame at the time. Anyway, as if all this wasn’t bad enough they also set about beating the shit out of her with a wooden spoon. I remember thinking “How bad could that be? How much damage could you do with a wooden spoon?”
One night, shortly after reading this, my friends and I were tripping our tits off round at somebody’s parent’s house while they were away for a weekend in Prestatyn or somewhere like that. I went into the kitchen to make a brew and saw something that totally freaked me out. Hanging on the wall above the stove were these:

Instruments of death

A gigantic wooden spoon and fork set. I backed out of the kitchen, visibly disturbed by what I had seen. My friends, sensing that summat was up, asked what the problem was. I told them the story and pretty much ruined everybody’s trip as we spent the next couple of hours trying not to think about the girl’s ordeal.
A short while later, I went for a piss and some fresh air, when I returned I was pounced upon by a couple of the lads and held down while one of the others fetched the dreaded implements from the kitchen and another changed the CD and turned up the volume. The track? Fear: The Mindkiller. I just want you all to know, I didn’t cry.

With friends like these, you don’t need an enema.

What Am I Bid?

I saw that the brown cloak worn by Alec Guinness as Obi Wank-Enobi in Star Wars just sold at auction in London for $104,000. It was bought by an anonymous telephone bidder, as were many other items of clothing worn at one time by celebrities in various movie roles. A tuxedo, worn by James Bond, a dress, worn by Madonna in Evita, and some other less memorable items all sold for ridiculous amounts of money. These kind of auctions, usually at least one a year, are always popular and usually offer the most bizarre items for sale to the saddest of high bidders. A friend of Mrs. Waring once owned a felt hat worn by a munchkin in The Wizard of Oz, knowing what I know about this person, I shudder to think what depths of depravity he may have sunk to while wearing it.

Anyway, cash has been a bit tight in the Waring household these past few weeks and I am seriously contemplating offering for auction one of my prized possessions.

I have so far resisted the lure of eBay, preferring instead to keep hold of said item as a nest egg for some security in the future, a college education perhaps for the younger Waring, or to finance an expensive crack addiction, or maybe even a nubile young “housemaid” when the wife finally wises up and leaves me. What is this golden ticket, you ask? What could you possibly have that would be worth so much? Is it a family heirloom? Could it be property in a prime location? Is it the secret to eternal youth or a perpetual motion machine? No, it is none of the above. It is Marlon Brando’s underpants.

Yes, I own a pair of Mr. Brando’s underpants. Not just any pair, but his favourite pair, his lucky pair. Brando wore these in many of his most famous movies. The Cat From Outer Space, Herbie Goes Bananas and most notably Apocalypse Now! In fact, they are complete with shit stains due to a rather loud explosion on the set of Apocalypse Now! after which Brando discarded them outside of his trailer where they were later found by a janitor with a wayward eye for celebrity cast offs. How they came into my possession, I cannot say, but if they were stolen at any time in the last 3 years I had nothing to do with it. The pair of 5XL Fruit of the Loom boxer shorts are not in the best of condition, mostly due to the skidmarks and some shredding of the gusset, but are priceless to collectors of celebrity under garments and should fetch a pretty penny if sold in the right place at the right time.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I start the bidding at $1.75……do I hear $2?

It was BBQ for lunch on the set that day

The Priviledged Few

I am not one of those people who takes up a disabled parking space, thus denying a less fortunate citizen their right to park near the front doors at the supermarket or the post office. Here in California, the $500 fine is more than a deterrant. It just isn't worth it. I would rather watch a seemingly healthy person climb down from their H2 Hummer and make their way effortlessly up the steps at Dodger Stadium and bite my lip than to be accused of harrassing a disabled person. Many disabled people do just fine and abuse their situation for the priviledge of good parking spaces. If the rules are to be followed to the letter, the fuckin Bionic Man and The Terminator would qualify for a blue badge. Oscar Pistorius, double amputee world record holder in the 100, 200 and 400 metres could get one if he wanted. This guy ran the 100 metres in 11.16 seconds at the 2004 Paralympics. For those of you who don't know, the record at the 2004 Olympics for normal folk was 10.93 seconds. My personal best over 100 metres is about a minute 30.

Oscar "Fastest Thing on No Legs" Pistorius. Like shit off a greasy shovel.

Even though I refuse to park in a disabled parking spot, I do enjoy shitting in a disabled stall when I visit the bogs. As far as I know there is no fine for this, if there were, I probably wouldn't risk it.

Why Eddie, I hear you ask, must you shit in a disabled toilet? Well, I like to spread myself out a bit. There is always lots of room, they are never out of bog roll and there is a conveniently placed bar for you to hold on to for those "white knucklers". So, given a choice of a regular, cramped, no bog roll stall and one of palatial dimensions with a hand rail, I'm taking the latter.

This policy has only ever backfired on me once. I was in an office building downtown and needed to drop the groceries off urgently. Most office building bogs are kept locked to keep out the undesirable element (me), so I hung around in the corridor for a few minutes until someone came out then rushed in before the door closed again. There were only 2 stalls, one disabled (per the Americans with Disabilities Act) and one for normal people. Naturally, I opted for the spacious and shiny chrome handle barred disabled bog. After sitting there for a few minutes, enjoying the silence and contemplating the uncontemplatable I heard the door to the bathroom open followed by the click, click, click of crutches on the tiled floor. Bollocks, I thought, hopefully the lad just needs to piss and he can use the urinal. The clicking stopped and I could see the lads foot between two crutches underneath the cubicle door.

I heard him mutter "Fuck!" before he tapped gently on the door and said "Will you be long?"

"Er....I dunno mate, having a bit of bother, might be while," I said, hoping he would out of necessity have to use the other stall, allowing me to escape with no embarrassment.

"Okay....I guess I'll have to wait then...."

"Can't you use the regular stall?" I asked hopefully.

"Not really, I need the bar to help me get up..." Fuck, fuck, fuck.....

"Er...right. I'll get on with it then," I replied.

"Are you disabled?" Fuck, fuck, fuckin bollocks.....

"Legally blind mate," I lied. " It's a bugger, can't tell when you're done, end up wiping 'til it bleeds."

"Oh.....I see." He didn't seem to find humour in my remark.

After about 5 minutes I decided that he wasn't going to give up so I gave in and flushed, leaving the stall by pretending to feel my way along the wall. Through my squint, I could see a look of utter comtempt on the lads face. When I got out into the corridor, I waited for a second or two until I heard him yell "BASTARD!!!!!" He had discovered that I had taken the toilet roll.

Heaven, I'm in Heaven......

I felt bad about it afterwards and did so for some time until I got yelled at by a real disabled person for parking in a space (not designated for the disabled)close to the front door at Vons beacuse all the disabled spaces were taken. Angry fucker.....