Who's Got It Better? The Dog v. Baby Debate

Baby:
Sleep all day, night.
Others clean poo, pee.
When hungry only need to yell equivalent of, "where the titties at" and titties appear. Big titties, too.
Possess thumbs, albeit nonfunctioning.

Dog:
Sleep all day, night.
Lack of thumbs means reliance on others to go potty, but still - no cleaning.
Food generally available on a regular schedule.
Can lick own genitals at will.

Verdict:
Dead heat in both food and sleep competitions. Titties/Nuts debate boils down to a "you say to-may-to, I say to-mah-to", win-win situation, and therefore no advantage.

I guess you'd have to give it to babies based solely on the existence and hedged value of thumbs.

A matter of great concern...

It has come to the attention of the parent holding company of The Toilet Papers that a person in our employ, a Mister Silky (apparently an alias) has advocated the mangling and abuse of a large crowd of prepubescent children.  It is with great concern that we address this troubling situation.

The Board of Directors of Cheatum & Fukem does not advocate this kind of reckless child abuse in a public place.  We find it inappropriate and reprehensible that a person in our employ would address such despicable actions in such a truthful matter.

Mister Silky has been an associate of this company for the last thirty seven years, winning twenty six employee of the month awards, ninety two employee of the week awards, and four “ didn’t do it” awards.  He has been a consistent earner for this company, using his incredible business acumen to convince client after client to spend money on frivolous contracts with huge markups.  He has truly been an asset to Cheatum & Fukem.

In an effort to exonerate Cheatum & Fukem from any liability in his horrifying yet honest comments, we will now slander him to the very core of his existence.

Mister Silky was born in a barn in the back woods of Alabama.  His mother was a twelve year old ex prostitute named Thelma, who didn’t realize she was pregnant and panicked at the sight of the child, quickly discarding it in the woods with the umbilical cord still attached.  He was soon discovered by a pack of wild badgers, who feasted on the placenta and umbilical cord and became so gorged with the entrails that they had no hunger left for the child.  They adopted him into their pack, where he nursed at the rabid teat of a mother badger, learning how to survive in the wild.

At the age of five, the mother badger became concerned with Silky’s demeanor.  He had risen above the basic pack mentality of domination and started teasing the other badgers in a hurtful manner.  Fed up with his name calling and reliance on “I know you are but what am I,” the mother badger grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and deposited him on the doorstep of local farmer Jeb Thunderbrush.  Upon hearing the rattling at his door, Jeb opened it to see the mother badger fleeing across his lawn.  He quickly deposited four rounds of buck into her hide.

Silky was devastated.  The only mother he ever knew had died right before him.  He was taken into the Thunderbrush family but made living difficult for the simple folk, nosing through the garbage, urinating in the oven, and gnawing on the children in their sleep.  Soon, Jeb became as frustrated as the dead mother badger and decided to drop Silky off at a military preschool academy in northern Texas.

Not much is known about Silky’s time in the military academy.  Records show he arrived at the age of five and by eleven was on the front lines in Korea.  He returned to the state in the late fifties with three Korean wives in tow.  They weren’t allowed through customs and returned home.

Silky used the GI bill to get himself a college education from Emmanuel College, a women’s school in Boston, where he majored in business and minored in straight to cable soft porn story telling.  Upon graduation, he moved to California and started his own company, Silky’s Softcore Emporium, a storefront selling softcore and hardcore pornography, while filming various underground sex videos in the back.  The company became so successful that it was bought up by Cheatum & Fukem, where Mister Silky rose to the level of VP of Marketing and Sales.

It is with great regret that we, the Board of Cheatum & Fukem, dismiss Mister Silky amidst these horrifying allegations.  

How Many 5-Year Olds Can Silky Take In A Fight...

24





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Walt This Way

I have been transported to another land, my fellow interwebbers. A
place where mice are the size of people, where hot dogs cost five
smackers, where the mass transit sucks, and the evil empire truly
rules the land.

No, it's not New York.

It's Disney World! The land where marketing and merchandising combine
into one gigantic clusterfuck spread across thousands of acres of
humid Floridian fauna. Nowhere in the country will you see so many
fat Americans gathered in one place, eating food that liberal
documentaries should be filmed about while trying to squeeze their
bulbous asses into amusement park rides that were interesting when
animatronics actually entertained. I mean really? It's a Small
World? Pirates of the Carribean? Peter fuckin' Pan? Does anybody
still give a crap about these stories? Does an animatronic alligator
opening and closing its mouth really classify as entertainment anymore?

Yeah, I'm old, and maybe I'm not the crowd that this drivel is
directed to, but I don't know too many kids who know about the
androgenous flying freak who steals a group of children and almost
gets them killed by pirates, while being chaperoned by a fairy.
Disney would never make this crap into a movie today: no one would let
them with all the violence and adult themes. And how the fuck is my
kid supposed to see it if Disney only allows the DVD to be sold for
short periods at a time? Who deliberately keeps their products AWAY
from the public? Arrogant pondsucking greedheads, that's who.

What did Disney ever really achieve to deserve such prime real estate
and an ever expanding chunk of Americana? Mickey Mouse? Donald
Duck? Cartoons? There are children running around this park, begging
their parents for mouse ears, pins (the latest piece of marketing
genius: buy pins and trade! How 1850!), or Cinderella dresses so they
can run around Florida in 90 degree heat wearing teflon head to toe.

The accomodations! Bringing your child? No problem. Need a crib?
How's about a pack and play instead. Have a toddler? Need a toddler
bed? How about a pack and play instead? A multibillion dollar
company, who's focus is children, can't be bothered with proper
orthapedic sleeping arrangements for their lemmings? Why use a
mattress when foamed cardboard will do?

Screw Walt Disney and his ancient boring rides. I can't even find a
roller coaster in this fucking place that does a loop. It ain't the
fifties anymore. Talking mice and singing puppets don't count for
entertainment in the 21st century.

What happens when you lie to the Sundance Channel

Well, I didn't really lie, but some of the questions are phrased in such a way that I didn't exactly answer them as truthfully as I could have. When the choices are "I like air" or "Fuck baby seals, they're yummy and I'm cold" you end up scoring slightly higher than perhaps you're living.

Whatever, such is the nature of multiple choice - and only two choices at that.

The Straight Dope, Straight From the Thinkbone of Silky

A total fucking wasteland. Las Vegas is a town built on nothing, representing only the basest of human interactions, lacking even the modicum of soul one would attribute to the common housefly.

I'm not prepared to offer a quick announcement of a found silver lining here in the beginning of my second paragraph. I stand by my grim assessment, and shall let it rest unmitigated by any snarky, neo-gonzo intimation that we and we alone were armed with the tools to save truth, beauty and meaning from Las Vegas' gaping maw. There will be no saving Sin City from itself, nor a need to save ourselves from Sin City. The place is too ravaged by its ever shifting caprices - that it may continue to attract unending waves of the indolent and the pie-eyed and the desperate- to ever leave a mark deeper than a headache on the likes of Bumpy Squires and The Shadow.

Come here looking for nothing, and you won't be disappointed.

The bats? Well, the bats are another story.

Vegas: Afternoon to Evening

Saturday was the big wedding day. Nuptials were at 11 AM at one of the Elvis chapels, where Elvis would drive the happy couple down the aisle in a pink Cadillac, sing a few songs, and basically move and talk about with Elvis merriment.

We needed to return the Jeep to the rental place, which was conveniently located across from the Bellagio, where the Shadow and I were planning to go. Silky dropped us off, hopped in a car with his cousin, and drove off to the wedding. We went in search of the infamous Bellagio weekend brunch.

We stumbled around the casino a bit, forgetful of where the brunch was actually served, until we finally found it and the twenty minute wait outside. The Shadow was there with purpose, however, and would not abandon his gut. And so we waited...

The brunch was as delicious and incapacitating as it had six months earlier on our last trip. Breakfast consisted of eggs, french toast, leg of lamb, roast duck, chocolate éclairs, and a shitload of coffee. We forgot to tip our waitress, a gross oversight we instantly regretted eight hours later, and hit the sidewalk.

The next few hours were spent roaming the various casinos leading up to the recently added Wynn. Caeser's is typically huge, with sections looking like the sets of the movie 300. Except the malls, which look like every other typical high end mall you would fund anywhere in the
US.

And this is really my big beef with Las Vegas: the city is one large strip mall, filled with Tiffany's, Louis Vitton, and every other typically expensive and unnecessary store you can think of. The effort to separate you from your wallet is astounding, from the never ending malls and ornate, often intimidating architecture, to the four dollar bottles of water and expensive cab rides, ten dollar Corona's and twenty-five dollar blackjack tables. To experience Vegas in the name of debauchery requires the kind of money that most of us can't afford to throw away over a weekend. So how the hell are all these people doing it?

We met up with Silky in the room back at Disney Vegas, where parents and their children seemed to be all over the place. I beg you, please, if you have children, don't bring them to Vegas. Get a weekend sitter and go by yourself. And don't do it for me, do it for the kids, because there is no reason for a child to spend a better part of their weekend exposed to the profane living one's going to see on a casino floor. And there isn't one thing for a kid to do in Las Vegas. Not one. There's no parks or playgrounds or jungle gyms. I didn't even see a toy store in the midst of all the mercantilism. Leave them home.

We hung around the room a bit, getting ready to go out. Silky's cousin Diane came up to the room, a dangerous undertaking on her part, given the smell and condition of the facilities. From our window we could see New York New York and the roller coaster that runs around it. It was decided that before anything could be done, we had to ride the coaster.

The line to ride the coaster was formidable, like all lines in Vegas, but moved at a decent clip. It wasn't until we were pretty close to the coaster that the Fear really began to strike The Shadow. He became even more fidgety than usual and started to sweat a bit. We tried to talk him down when we realized Diane was a little nervous, too. Silky and I put on the brave face until we actually got on the coaster and did the long climb to the first drop. Then we screamed like little girls.

We grabbed a cab and headed to a local bar called the Double Down.

There is a Double Down in almost every town in America. You just have to go find it. Its usually a run down place with cheap beers and a beatup stage for a band in the corner. The walls are covered with stickers from previous acts, lending a bit of worthless history to the proceedings. Random tables and chairs sit a fair distance from the stage with two billiards tables in between that lean slightly to one side. It was the perfect place to start an evening.

We started with four dollar Sierra Nevadas and Stella Artois, continuing our theme of avoiding hard alcohol in hopes of staying strong for the whole weekend and not derailing the train. We joked and drank until the bride and groom arrived, which forced the action to the pool tables.

I'd like to report that there was a fair display of recreational skill at the tables, but no dice. Ernesto, the groom, possessed good skill, but was surrounded by lunks. The Shadow brought little finesse, while Silky and I traded bad shots. What Diane lacked in skill, she tried to make up for in luck and morale. None of it was effective, each game more painful to watch than the previous. Fun was had as we wallowed, neigh, languished in our absurdity. Soon, the band started loading gear to the stage and the pool tables were covered. It was our cue to head to our next destination: Champagne's.

A Shadowy man mumbling CCR.

From the moment we walked in the door to Champagne's, we knew we found our spot. The bar was red, red from floor to ceiling, with red lights, red velvet-like wallpaper, filthy red carpet, and all kinds of red trimmings. The room was warm and not overly crowded with an L shaped bar, the long end servicing a half dozen booths, the short a karaoke stage. We quickly split into two groups, the drinkers and the singing drinkers.

This was definitely a local bar. All of the performers knew each others names and didn't even need to refer to the songbook in order to pick. The songbook itself seemed about ten years old, which was ok, but was a bit light on choices. Alison and Silky kicked things off with a spoken word interpretive of "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds," followed by my rendition of "I've Got You Under My Skin" and The Shadow mumbling "Fortunate Son"

We hadn't really won the locals over yet until Silky performed a rousing, spirited rendition of "Stand By Your Man," which I followed with "You Make Me Feel So Young." Call it the booze, but suddenly strangers were cheering, asking us to help on their songs. I got pulled up to sing the Fred Schneider part on "Love Shack," an old classic with boisterous, over the top singing. Silky shocked and awed the crowd with a Tom Waits approach to "All of Me," then reteamed with Alison for a version of "The One That I Want" of Grease fame. Silky and I did a little backup on the Lion song for someone, then dropped an all male review of "Suspicious Minds," complete with Elvis ridiculousness.

Alison and Silky belt out the hits.

At this point it was around 2 AM. The karaoke guy started packing his shit and we all decided to head in. We dropped Diane off at the Tropicana where she parked her car and we headed back to Queer Castle.

All instincts pointed to food which sent us directly to the food court. One would expect that the food court in a Las Vegas casino would be open twenty four hours a day. Apparently not. The only establishment open was McDonalds, and they were closing for fifteen to twenty minutes for some reason. Pissed, but taking it as a sign, we proceeded upstairs to the buffet, whose line was at least an hour. We returned to McDonalds to find them not only still closed, but with a huge line. We sucked it up and waited, ate our food, and went to bed.