Archive for the ‘Navel-Gazing’ Category

@Sidslang’s Best of Twitter #5

Further suggestions for maximing appreciation of the realms of hashtags and RTs. Past recommendations: #1, #2, #3, #4. @Sidslang can be tracked here.


So much of the public discourse concerning Twitter prefigures it as some sort of unprecedented new style of communication, but it has its clear precedents. I previously discussed the epistolary storytelling lineage of brilliant Oilers-centric parody of @SHorcov, but @SamuelPepys makes a much more obvious connection in the history of letters. Pepys was an English naval administrator of the Restoration era best-know for the detailed and amusing daily diary he kept as a young man in the 1660s, one of the key sources for information about life in the period and an inadvertent classic of literature.

The Twitter feed is connected to a blog run by Phil Gyford that posts a full entry of Pepys’ diary every day, and briefer snatches of it find their way into tweets. Though the content is not original, its use in the Twitter medium shows us how little has really changed in the chronicling of daily activities through written word in 350 years. Just as the lion’s share of tweets by most users of the platform from celebrities to regular folks surely concern what they’re doing, where they’re going, and who they’re doing it with, Pepys’ feed transposes his similar diaristic recording of quotidian comings and goings to the fresh medium. In this way, the distinctions of centuries of social and cultural history can vanish in under 140 characters.

Representative Tweet:


Categories: History, Internet, Navel-Gazing

In Which I Describe a Strange Dream Concerning Nail Yakupov

Last night was a restless one for yours truly, and in one extended patch of sleep, I dreamed briefly about dynamic Russian Edmonton Oilers forward Nail Yakupov. Perhaps last night’s breaking news of the trade of Oilers Kaptain Shawn Horcoff to Dallas sparked something in my unconscious dreamzone, I can’t rightly say. But I will lay out the detail of this Yakupov dream without interpretation or judgment, and let any amateur psychoanalyst who stumbles upon it speculate on my mental state as they will.

The dream-frame, as it were, was a television broadcast of some sort (my dreams are often couched thusly, like that odd faux-documentary on pink German-made anti-Frankenstein-monster foam my brain conjured up once upon a time). It constituted coverage of an international hockey tournament of some sort, a mixture of the yearly senior and junior world championships (I recall an in-game clip of Oilers farmhand Chris Vande Velde scoring on a point shot only to have the goal disallowed, which seems like a decent summary of his marginal NHL career to this point). The lead-in to Yakupov’s appearance was a montage of free time activities of players from teams already out of the tournament, showing them drinking, playing ping pong, setting off fireworks, and proposing to their girlfriends (the latter two were combined into one act with the fireworks spelling out a rather lengthy proposal message, which seems like an original idea, if a bit lugubrious).

After a short, wary introduction (these guys don’t seem too sure about him), Yak City himself stands among these bro-ish off-duty athletes, attired nattily in a suit coat and open-collared dress shirt and expounding on some subject or another. The program shortly cuts away from this social tableau and to a documentary-style interview with a seated Yakupov (I recall an onscreen title to the effect of “Nail Yakupov – Gentleman”).

Evidently more comfortable speaking his mind in Russian, Yakupov’s words were imparted via subtitles, and covered his eclectic interests away from the game of hockey. He first lamented that, due to his move to North America to play in the NHL, he had to give up his favourite pastime of ranching and riding llamas in his native Tatarstan. He expressed concern that he may have to sell off the property altogether, ultimately. He explained eloquently that being a substantial landowner is a vital factor in a Russian hockey player’s sense of identity and self-valuation, a form of conspicuous consumption used to measure his success against that of his peers. For example, Dallas Stars defenceman Sergei Gonchar, Yakupov tells the hidden interviewer, has title to most of the territory east of Krasnoyarsk, which he rules as a semi-independent duchy.

But Nail Yakupov is a sunny sort by nature, and has other sideline projects to keep this sort of thing from dragging him down. For one, he’s establishing an architectural firm called McElroy & McYakupov. He considers the Scottish affectation important, as it is well known in architectural circles that Scots have an appreciation of fine lines and cutting-edge design and the name will help to build a client base. Furthermore, he’s looking forward to re-organizing the discourse in the Oilers locker room along the free-thinking dialectic principles of the Socratic Method, though he acknowledges that this may take some time to implement.

At about this point, the particulars of the dream fade, and no more can be recalled. Again, I will abstain from analysis, but I think it’s fair to say that Oilers fans can safely add these fascinating details to the growing popular legend of Nail Yakupov.

Towards An Aesthetics of Hockey Violence: Fascism, Futurism, and the Boston Bruins

June 18, 2013 5 comments

Contending for the greatest prize in professional hockey for the second time in three seasons, the Boston Bruins are matched against the Chicago Blackhawks in this year’s Stanley Cup Finals (and took a lead of two games to one in the series with a grinding Game 3 win on Monday night). More than any other current NHL team, the Bruins are surrounded by a discourse that values old-fashioned smash-mouth hockey above all. Even if they are a strong puck-possession team with a protective defensive system (hallmarks of the coaching style of Claude Julien throughout his time in Boston), the Bruins are identified with all of those hoary old clichés clustered around the fading aura of hockey’s traditional culture of barely-controlled violence. Toughness, truculence, hitting, fighting, being “hard to play against”; these tropes are trotted out again and again to explain the current Bruins roster’s successes (which include a Cup in 2011).

Bruins forward Milan Lucic composes his Futurist manifesto, influenced as it is by the critiques of the Frankfurt School.

Certainly, the prevalence of former Bruins players and coaches in the hockey media goes some way towards explaining the spread of the concept of the value of hard-edged hockey. CBC’s hockey coverage flagship Hockey Night in Canada utilized no less than three former Bruins figures in its studio team of only about half-a-dozen not so long ago: Mike Milbury, P.J. Stock, and Don Cherry were also, not so coincidentally, the broadcast’s most stringent voices in favour of fighting, hitting, and violence in the game in general (Stock and Cherry still do defend that battered rampart, as Milbury still would as well, had his preference for physical violence not become unfortunately literal in a minor hockey setting). Other public hockey figures stick up for the role of violence in the game, certainly, but there is an added element of stubborn righteousness to those who have passed through the Bruins organization and into the media. They boast the intransigent certainty of true believers, of ideological foot-soldiers for the cause of Bruinism.

The always detailed and thoughtful Ellen Etchingham takes up this subject in a fascinating recent post in her blogspace at Her insightful consideration of the Bruins’ association with conceptions of the role of nastiness, aggression, and above all physical pain concludes that these elements are valued in the hockey context not as means to an end, but as an end in themselves. What matters is not whether smash-mouth hockey leads to winning; there’s little empirical or analytical evidence that it does, and considerable agreement that high hit totals in particular are indicative of a team with poor possession percentages that tends to unproductively chase play. Violence – and for Etchingham, the shared experience and understanding of pain above all – has an aesthetic value in and of itself; indeed, it is perhaps the central defining aesthetic of the sport of hockey, in its traditional delineations.

Etchingham, who loves the game with the passion of a recent convert, conceives this aestheticization of violence and pain as essentially positive or at least grounded in the lived experience of hockey’s fans and thus basically unchallengeable in reality if not in theory. To my mind, however, this aesthetic is more problematic; indeed, even the use of the term “aesthetic”, accurate though it may prove to be, is not without its attendant issues.

My thinking on this point is influenced by the epilogue of Walter Benjamin’s seminal essay, “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” (which I have employed on this blog in the past). This epilogue is often overlooked, as its specific contemporary focus on the ideology of the fascist movements sweeping Europe at the time of its composition is less widely applicable than the Marxist critique of industrial production in a cultural context that precedes it. But Benjamin’s consideration of the Futurist concepts of the aestheticization of war does seem to apply, surprisingly, to the Boston Bruins and the aesthetic of hockey violence that circles around them.

My Photoshop skills are insufficient to the task, so you’ll have to simply imagine Walter Benjamin wearing a hockey helmet.

Benjamin discusses the manner in which, in a fascist state that includes a sizable proletarian class but does not threaten the holding of private property, the masses must necessarily turn to the political arena for the purposes of expression. The purest and most powerful method of that expression is through war, which becomes highly aestheticized in the Futurist conception as the ideal melding of human productive activity with industrial processes. Benjamin quotes an Italian Futurist at length as he rhapsodizes about the artistic truth inherent in bullets, shells, and gas masks, about the greatly-desired “metalization” of the human body, about the artistic glories of death in battle and the “symphony” of “the stench of putrefaction”. The massively-industrialized and hugely destructive war launched by the fascists in Benjamin’s home country of Germany shortly after (the upheavals of which cost Benjamin his life) would have come as no surprise to him. Indeed, war is not only inevitable but inevitably desirable in the discourse of fascistic Futurism.

Although the Marxist Benjamin does not connect this aesthetic valorizing of mechanized violence to the concomitant valorization of masculine strength and physical prowess in the mass culture of the fascist states (Nazi Germany in particular), it is this association that connects the aestheticization of war to hockey’s aestheticization of violence. Modern capitalist democracy has diverted the masculine self-expression of the masses away from its centuries-old conduit of martial warfare, ironically due mostly to the increasing mechanization of armed conflict that Futurists embraced as a harbinger of aesthetic fulfilment.

The expression of masculine aggression in the modern West has thus fallen increasingly to the sphere of sports, also famously extolled by the Nazis as a source of aestheticized Aryan glory. From the direct contending of weeknight sports leagues to the vicarious experience of rooting for pro sporting heroes, the masculine aggression of the masses once released in cathartic slaughter in war is now sublimated into the controlled, rule-bound competition of sports. The traditional hockey culture is often accused of glorifying violence, but Etchingham recognizes that what it truly glorifies is the endurance of pain, suffering, and physical difficulty, which are also the elements of war that are so often constructed as romantic and heroic. Hockey, therefore, is an ice-bound kabuki of teeth-gritting fortitude in the face of hardship enacted for the edification of the generally white, male, conservative, proletarian fanbase of the sport, or for the edification of this fanbase’s own hardscrabble daily negotiation of an increasingly obscure post-capitalist socioeconomic reality through association with their heroes’ struggles with adversity.

The point of this discussion is not to suggest that the Boston Bruins are Nazis (although Brad Marchand at least has probably been called worse), nor to simply equate sports to war in the one-for-one euphemistic substitution manner often favoured by its media. But dubbing hockey violence or “toughness” an aesthetic, just as suggesting that war is aesthetic as the Futurists did, opens up deeper and less intellectually ghettoized conceptions of its dissemination than dubbing it an ideology might do. Ideology exists beyond conscious adoption by subjective agents; it “works” even if you don’t believe in it, in Slavoj Žižek’s conception at least. But an aesthetic is closer to a preference or a predilection. It is chosen, while ideology chooses us. However we choose to justify it, either by Etchingham’s appeal to common empathy or the Bruinist insistence that it correlates to success in the win column, understanding hockey violence as an aesthetic makes its continued prevalence in the sport that much more troubling and difficult.

Good Old-Fashioned Wholesome Fun with Search Engine Terms #6

June 3, 2013 1 comment

Time flies when you’re blogging excessively. It’s been a whole four months since the last post reproducing and larking on the oddest recent search terms that directed web surfers to this humble space, so we’re about due to for another installment. Past posts of this sort: #1, #2, #3, #4, #5.

lebron james violin

Playing the violin is probably the one thing LeBron James cannot do. Well, that and choose a team to sign with in a way that won’t alienate most of the world.

nbc condescending olympic coverage

The first result in the search is the NBC website: Proudly Condescending to Olympics-Watching Rubes Since 1988!

who is the subaltern in the hunger games

Now you’re asking the right question, kids. The answer is: pretty much everyone who isn’t played by Donald Sutherland.

rape ewok meme

I don’t even want to know what other results this search produced, but I suspect they involve some rather disturbing things being done to Jar Jar Binks.

poofter definition

Oh, behave.

is thrift shop about consumerism

At least as much as it is about the paradox of frugality. And broken keyboards.

is it possible for another king leopold today yahoo answer

Why would you think Yahoo is gonna know that? Anyway, no one else could rock that beard.

what was the last film roger ebert saw

In a terribly cruel bit of irony, it was Spice World.

fanfiction reparation thor

The socioeconomic deprivations suffered throughout history by the Space Vikings constituted a considerable injustice indeed. But how will belated monetary compensation heal such deep wounds, especially when interspersed with passionate and imaginative Thor/Loki sex scenes?

doukhobor leprechaun

If ye allow me to practice me pacifist, spiritualist faith without suffering state persecution or exile, I shall give ye me pot of gold!

why is back to the future college film analysis

The person who typed up this complete thought took my review to task for its criticism of conservative Republican ideology. I think they were just disappointed that there wasn’t anything to plagiarize for their first-year essay.

best asses of the world

Here you go. What great asses. We salute you!

wholesome internet search

I hope this pulled up “Two Girls, One Cup” in the first three pages of results. Most searches will.

“Everyone Expects Me To Be”: An Existential Lament from Rob Ford

May 24, 2013 1 comment

Every time I write something about Toronto Mayor Rob Ford, I swear it simply must be the last time. Few would have expected that the man and his erratic, controversial actions could prove to be such a fruitful, tenacious subject of discussion. For a figure whose view of the world is so simple, whose motivations and psychology appear so entirely self-evident, Ford has proven to be a portal to access deeper social and political issues in Toronto, Canada, North America, and the West in general. This seems to be why critical analysts and opinion writers can’t quit Robert Bruce Ford, can’t seem to shake this bad habit of a subject. He’s like a drug.

But what’s even more like a drug is the drugs. Namely: crack cocaine, which a now-notorious (and still unconfirmed) video taken by an anonymous Somali-Canadian drug dealer from Etobicoke allegedly shows Mayor Ford smoking from a pipe. First reported on by a writer for American snark-oriented news site Gawker and very soon after corroborated by the Toronto Star (the Ahab to Ford’s elusive White Whale), the tantalizingly unsubstantiated cell phone video is the subject of much public and press speculation, a brusque dismissal (but not a full denial) from Ford and his brother Doug, and a “Crackstarter” fundraiser project at Gawker which seeks to raise $200,000 (the drug dealer’s supposed asking price) in donations to purchase the video’s rights in order to exhibit it to the world. The story has spread to the American media, may have contributed to Ford’s removal as head coach of a local high school football team (though the school board claimed to have been reviewing his tenure since March), and has (possibly) led to the dismissal of his chief of staff.

I certainly hope that is an Arizona Iced Tea in your right hand, young man.

But my interest is not in the ins and outs of this latest Ford scandal, yet another movement of the continuous, aggressive paso doble between his conspiracy-spinning defenders on the right and the relentless critics on the left hoping for his ouster. One moment, one alleged quotation from Ford in the infamous video as described in the Star, caught my attention and suggested previously unsounded depths to Rob Ford. I don’t mean when he apparently referred to Justin Trudeau as “a faggot” or to his football players as “just fucking minorities”. I mean this described instance of apparent introspection, doubt, and self-analysis:

“Everyone expects me to be right-wing. I’m just supposed to be this great.…” and his voice trails off.

We cannot be certain until the video is confirmed to be real and actually viewed, but if Ford did “mutter” these words, how can we understand them except as a sort of existential cry for aid? Is Ford voicing his own self-awareness, his knowledge that smoking crack is understood as being beyond the pale of the sort of settled suburban conservativism that he claims to represent? Is he chafing under the mantle of celebrated champion of the tax-hating, union-bashing, hippie-punching right wing, or retreating from its extreme pressures into narcotics abuse? Are the stresses cracking Rob Ford? Or is it something else?

The trailing off after that bitterly ironic amplifier “great” is interesting, indeed. The lament of Ford is one of deflated expectations of towering achievement, of the failure to live up to the ideological grandeur of the axis-shifting agenda that his Nation’s “revolution” was supposed to engender. Tone of voice is hidden from us (as is any certainty that he said it at all), but the chosen words sound resigned, melancholic, and above all self-deprecating. He doesn’t say that he does not meet these expectations, but the subtext is there; it would be the next sentence, surely, perhaps followed by a pithy quotation from Nietzsche or Kant (unlikely, yes, but then he’s purportedly doing drugs as he speaks; his power of intellectual recall may well be enhanced).

It is reminiscent of Ford’s greatest (alleged) moment in my experience, perhaps the only time that I’ve ever liked him or understood how he might be appealing to anyone other than your run-of-the-mill, pinko-raging, self-interested political reactionary who clings to a comforting narrative of persecution and victimhood even while reaping socioeconomic rewards. An inebriated Ford was reported to have responded to a female critic on the Esplanade on St. Patrick’s Day who told him to his face that he was “the worst mayor ever” by kissing her on the forehead like a corpulent linebacker Jesus is a sweaty suit and saying, “I know. But I try.” Ignoring the invasion of personal space, his kiss struck me as a simultaneous act of benediction, forgiveness, and atonement, and his response betrayed self-awareness, wit, and even humility.

This latter quality is perhaps the most salient common feature of these two otherwise very different reported exchanges, and the most fascinating for its brief, unrehearsed appearance. Ford, a comfortable son of a wealthy businessman who now rubs shoulders with the Prime Minister and has much of the city’s elite on speed dial, has built a meticulous populist image for himself as a fighter for the self-perceived marginalized suburban conservative tax base.

Whatever we might think about this image’s authenticity or lack thereof, it is at its heart based in an essentialy humble proletarian ideal. But it has been adopted by a man whose boorish, aggressive, confrontational and self-aggrandizing approach to being a champion of the people has left little room for humility. When Rob Ford talks in an alleged drug-using video about what his fellow citizens expect of him, he is stepping outside of that image, examining it, critiquing it, and finding it wanting. How much more productive his tenure as mayor may have been had he applied this same cool eye for self-examination and constructive criticism to his application of civic policy.

@Sidslang’s Best of Twitter #4

February 23, 2013 1 comment

More recommended Twitter feeds for your consideration and consumption. Previous iterations: the first, second, third. @Sidslang can be examined and judged and found wanting here.


Parody accounts have populated Twitter like a multiplying brood of satiric spiders, but the true champs of the form leap off from the parodic target’s stereotyped qualities into inventive brilliance. Witness, therefore, an exhibit of this craft at its highest level with this parody feed focusing on English Premier League football manager Sam Allardyce. Currently helming West Ham United, the voluble Allardyce (nicknamed “Big Sam” for his physical size as well as expansive personality) is as well-known for his lusty, outspoken public image as he is for his managing prowess, which has mostly been burned away on second-tier clubs.

@TheBig_Sam, though infrequently updated, leaps off from this base on flights of inspired and often explicit creative riffing on not only current developments for his club or in the game, but also in the world at large. His discourse is rather Brit-centric, understandably, and an outsider to the island’s culture often required a quick Google search or two to gain the measure of the references. But the effort is ever rewarded; once you’re all caught up, it’s ripping stuff.

Multi-tweet bursts detailing with comically-reimagined figures that “Big Sam” encounters are true highlights. Scroll through the tweet archive for his befriending of Swansea’s Danish manager Michael Laudrup on February 3rd (they share a Toblerone after a game between their clubs, and Laudrup invites his counterpart over to his place to “watch ‘The Passion of the Christ’ and have some Mai Tais”) or West Ham player Matty Taylor telling him on December 7th of last year that he found a bird that closely resembled a disappeared rock star.

To be truthful, the completely inspired litany of tweets about prominent British Conservative politician Michael Heseltine from today (Feb. 22, 2013) forced my hand on this point of recommendation, it must be said. Proceeding from an off-colour quip about South African amputee runner Oscar Pistorius’ artificial legs to a nighttime stroll with Heseltine during which “Big Sam” watched Heseltine “hold the moon in his hands, and orchestrate the stars”, it’s a perfect distillation of @TheBig_Sam’s imaginative, crude, and killer comic method.

Representative Tweet:

Good Old-Fashioned Wholesome Fun with Search Engine Terms #5

February 8, 2013 1 comment

It’s that time again: I need new content but don’t feel like writing 2000 words about Oilers second-line wingers. So! I shall post some of the strangest search terms that have directed internet surfers to these parts. Past entries: #1, #2, #3, #4. Call this #5.

guy fieri twat

That’s a touch harsh, isn’t it? Okay, maybe not.

i find your lack of progress disturbing

Darth Vader gives quarterly employee evaluations. Force-choke layoffs likely to follow.

virulent smile

Before travelling to happy places, be sure to arrange an anti-grinning innoculation.

jeremy lin oil painting

Googled that myself, and found this. Glorious. Too bad he’s a Rocket now and the Knicks are better without him.

abraham lincoln vampire hunter fanfic jack barts

For those who kept their essential dignity and steered clear of the summer’s B-movie pinnacle, Jack Barts is the sashaying slave-owning vampire who first runs afoul of young Abe and his family and steers the future President towards his youthful vampire-hunting calling. Later, they face each other down and throw horses at each other. Fanfic cannot be weirder than that, try as it might. Defused, as it were.

old picture of white males voting

So, any election photos from before 1970 or so, then. Or, in the case of Saskatchewan, from the last election.

dope trolls hobbit

Dope-smoking trolls are maybe the only off-colour, tonally incongruent joke that Peter Jackson didn’t do in that movie.

god is a badass

That pretty much sums up Milton, doesn’t it?

big fat dumb viking comic strip character

Somewhere in the fjords, Hagar the Horrible sits in the prow of his longship, clutching his knees, tears soaking his beard. You have done this.

amitabh bachchan stand in coat pant

Yeah, this is incoherent. But it did make me realize that Jewish gangster Meyer Wolfsheim is being played by an Indian Bollywood vet in Baz Lurhmann’s The Great Gatsby. Which raises the eyebrows yet another millimetre.

best male bums 2012

Best asses of last year, or best hobos of last year? Either way, I would direct you to alternate precincts.

the most random picture on the internet

Here’s my vote:


@Sidslang’s Best of Twitter #3

October 23, 2012 2 comments

Some more recommendations from across the Twitterverse to mull over, if you would. Previous posts on the subjects can be read here and here, and my Twitter self plies his trade here.


Rob Delaney is Twitter. Twitter is not quite complete without Rob Delaney. A comedian of mid-level fame in the stand-up world who has not yet moved into the realm of mass cultural penetration (he would enjoy that phrase) of, say, Louis CK, Delaney’s feed is another organ of his body of comedic work, and a very funny one at that. Delaney mixes sexual humour with loopy surrealism, often involving animals (“So crazy that when a man gets an erection it’s because his penis is filling with millions of microscopic sparrows”). But his humour is unpredictable. His jokes turn inside out, reversing themselves, taking turns into precincts unmapped. Delaney is also keenly aware of the opportunities afforded by the medium. He’s chosen a few corporatized “official” Twitter accounts to terrorized with consistent impunity: he tweets the strangest questions and/or calls for help at Walmart’s official feed, flutters lovingly around music-world crush Adele, and has made headlines for his hilarious tweet-badgering of Republican presidential nominee Mitt Romney. More than anything, Delaney’s feed serves as a reminder that both comedy and Twitter are, at their similar cores, writerly pursuits, and that it takes a certain skill and predilection as a writer to succeed in both. And that Rob Delaney does, very nicely.

Representative Tweet:


Self-described as a “mash-up” of the philosopy of the 19th-century Danish proto-existentialist Søren Kirkegaard and the vapid tweets of reality TV star Kim Kardashian, KimKierkegaardashian initially promises a species of easy invidious distinction between intellectual depth and contemporary cultural superficiality. A similar trick is achieved by the @Justin_Buber account, which combines Justin Bieber’s pop lyrics with the snatches from the theorizing of Martin Buber. But where Buber has nothing to do with Bieber, besides a coincidental homonistic relation, the writings of Kierkegaard give us surprising insight into the supposedly unpunctureable pink balloon of Kardashianism. In the direct juxtaposition of Kim’s inane Twitter narration of upper-crust consumption and Søren’s existential exploration of alienation and despair, a human core hitherto believed to be empty (indeed, often conceived of as the very personification of cultural emptiness, as Paris Hilton and Snooki once were in their turns) is filled with doubt and disconnection from meaning. Kierkegaard believed that humanity could only approach meaningful existence through acts of subjective being. @KimKierkegaard suggests ironically that there is no act of subjective being more meaningful than keeping up with the Kardashians.

Representative Tweet:

Good Old-Fashioned Wholesome Fun with Search Engine Terms #4

September 6, 2012 2 comments

It’s time for Round 4 of Random Dangling Mystery’s collection of the randomest of dangling mysteries: fourteen of the oddest recent search engine word-combos that lead the internet’s vagabond denizens to shelter briefly in this particular backstreet doorway. Previously installments can be found here, here, and also here. Current installment can be found, well, um… here.

does tatum oneal ride horses?

Probably not too much anymore. But really, who has the time? Besides Ann Romney, of course. Tons of time.

tom cruise you’re a jerk

A sneak preview of Katie Holmes’ divorce brief.

cinnabon at union station toronto location map

Just follow your nose. And your fat, fat belly.

jeremy likes fat bitches

You said it, not me. Also, I have no clue which post this might be referring to.

why is canada called the undersogs of the olympics

Must be something to with our endemic typo habit. Although perhaps “undersog” is an archaic form that has survived in, like, Kingston. Sounds pretty 18th century to me.

best deep sexy navel of the decade

I really feel for the second and third best of the decade. It’s viciously competitive at the top of the deep sexy navel pyramid.

attention grabbing southern phrases

You can never go wrong with classics like “The South will rise again!”, “Keep the government’s hands off my Medicare!”, and “Meet you at the McDonald’s in the Walmart.”

does four lions crctrized islam?

Not nearly as strenuously as I plan to crctrized your spelling.

is agent prentiss punky Brewster

This is my lame-ass go-to joke and you will relinquish your claims upon it forthwith.

did george lucas approve family guy

Surely someone must have, but let’s not pile all of the evils of the modern world on the Lucas of George’s doorstep alone. He was responsible for midichlorians, Jar Jar Binks, and “I don’t like sand”. That’s more than enough horror for one man to be responsible for as it is.

rob ford hilarious

To the rest of you, maybe. But some of us have to live here, you know.

odd novosibirsk subculture

You don’t want to go there. Seriously. It’s too cold for that much leather.

hullabaloo steampunk

Isn’t that a Frank Zappa album?

chris hemsworth eating pop tarts

I’d watch that. Maybe more than once, even.

Good Old-Fashioned Wholesome Fun with Search Engine Terms #3

May 22, 2012 3 comments

Returning for the third time, it’s the slightly-widely-loved Random Dangling Mystery feature that throws bizarre, jocular, and otherwise notable search hits back at site viewers in a run-on meta-posting of mind-boggling proportions. Spelling and grammatical errors, of course, very much preserved. Previous installments are from July and December 2011, making this the first such post of the last year ever, if the Mayans’ obscure astrological calculii can be believed. Which surely they can. My own calculii comes to thirteen (or fourteen, technically) terms. Down we go.

teen girls taking there close off

Simultaneously illustrating both the pedophilic undercurrents of the internet (the wider culture, really) and the importance of proper spelling and grammar, this was by far the tamest and least skin-crawling search that yielded my review of Girl Model.

russian beefcake

I hear that goes nicely with some borscht and a shot of vodka. Prijatnovo appetita!

corpulence unchecked

I cannot find any post on this site where I might have used a phrase so rhetorically wonderful as this, although the one I chose to link to does employ “blithe suburban corpulence”. So, you know, close, but no cigar.

fuck off wall e

A bit harsh, no? What did that sympathetically-eyed clunker robot ever do to you, besides feature in a cutesy dystopian animated film that analogized your comfortable North American existence as a moral, ecological, and technological disease that would render Earth an uninhabitable wasteland? The mass consequences of corpulence unchecked? Man, that phrase is my new drug. I’m hooked.

does the r in royal family have to be capatalized?

Only by un-bumpkinesque non-peasants. Now drop and grovel, maggot! A day’s not complete without some prostrate subjects.

ross langager girlfriend

It will never be revealed who exactly she is.

ross langager gay / ross langager fucking with your site stats

This is exactly who she is.

beavers and bitches in town

This sounds like the title of a very sexy Prince song.

chris nolan fascist

One mustn’t confuse implication with intention in such matters. But we can have that discussion, if you like. I have my suspicions, if you would know.

cartoon caricature of a raptor descending on a defiant mouse

It’s times like this that I wish I was a surer hand at MS Paint.

good old fashioned wholesome porn

Is there any other kind? Hold on. Don’t answer that. Rhetorical.

boston red sox b stands for bitch

I can’t fathom what post this would have lead anyone to. My Boston travel post? The Town review again? All I know for sure is that Yankees fans are a tremendously witty bunch.

romney is a weird mormon plutocrat

You said it, not me. And if he keeps leading Obama in the polls, “you” could refer to a lot of people indeed.