On deserving a body like Stephen Amell and a Chia Britney:

I just found out who Stephen Amell is. 

He's this sexy piece of shit, that's who.

I can openly hate this guy for a lot of reasons and I will happily list them off now: He’s a Canadian actor, he’s white (so it’s not a hate crime), and he’s straight (so it’s not a hate crime). Normally I can go through a day or two without happening upon someone I can effortlessly conjure a deep hatred for. Since the end of the Kardashian and Jersey Shore era, it’s been relatively peaceful in the glands that produce my seething disdain. 

This is them right? Jersey whatever...

Those are real glands, I didn't make those up. They are somewhere between your belly button and that part under your balls that throbs when you do coke and ejaculate seven times onto a strangers chest like a sex crazed robot.

Yesterday was an exception to that normality. While searching for ways to get discount prices on flights to anywhere Vice has filmed people having orgies on psychedelic drugs, I found a picture.It’s the picture of a man with no shirt on, from the series "Green Arrow". I decided he doesn't deserve that body because that body is reserved for someone who isn't an obscure comic book character on cable television. 

Oh, eat a dick, Lou... You know what I meant.

Did he earn it? Sure, with the help of a talented personal trainer on set. Did Thomas Alva Edison earn his fortune? Sure, because Nicola Tesla gave him all the ideas and was too Serbian to understand that American citizenship involves violent lube-less corn holing by rich white guys.

This doesn't look like money... Where is that little Serbian queer?

If I had a personal trainer on the set of Green Arrow, I could have that body, it would suit me. Unfortunately we live in a world where I can’t decapitate Stephen Amell and replace his head with my own and strut around in a tank top like a freakish Buffalo Bill/Futurama crossover. 

The worst part is, if I could wear him like Lady Gaga wears meat, our skin tones would match up perfectly. I’d just look like a sexy ass Frankenstein’s monster. 

                                                                                 "Come hither, bitch, I'm rock hard like rigor mortis"

The matching skin tone thing is a huge selling point for me on Stephen Amells body, because I’m whiter than regular white people. If I resided in Finland, people would still think I lived in a cave for thirty years and had cancer.

Finland: Showing you the sexy side of bone marrow deficiency.

So now I hate this guy because I don’t have his personal trainer and can’t have this ripped ubermensch physique. It’s irritating because I’m not even sure he qualifies as a “D” list celebrity, he’d be like an “F” list celebrity, as in “who the fuck is Stephen Amell”. You had no idea this guy was a person until you read this. I’m working class; I know you can’t tell because of how couth and cultured I seem when dispensing literary mirth, but I am! 

Because I'm a tortured, aspiring writer.

How is an “F” list celebrity able to afford the benefits that make him look the way I want to look and I am not?

Isn’t he technically welfare class in movie celebrity terms? Even the shittiest celebrity can afford all the protein shakes, steroids and personal training that I can’t even dream about obtaining unless I turn to vaudevillian prostitution. You know, handstand hand jobs, cartwheel cum shots, back flip blow jobs and the like.

I'm a gigolo, always on the go

Every time I turn around, I got another show... 

That’s why I need a Chia Britney. Some of us have to work, Stephen Amell from "Green Arrow", does that even compute? You’re a sexy piece of shit Stephen Amell. Anyway when someone like me has a real job from which I return home, I want to be greeted properly. I want something in my living room that is both a novelty conversation item, as well as a way to remind me that all celebrities, from “A” list to the imaginary “F” list I just invented for fuck face Amell, eventually falls from grace. They go crazy, get fat, are Mel Gibson or die. 

    Will   Eventually   Become 

As comforting as that is. It isn't enough.

Enter Chia Britney.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Charged with Hit and Run in 2007.

Chia Britney was invented by someone who is right below genius level intellect but above Ben Stein. Here it is in its simplistic perfection. It’s a clay head that looks like Britney Spears, and it’s a Chia pet. That’s it! Isn't that fucking amazing? Maybe you aren't getting the subtle beauty of Chia Britney. 

There's way too much Mel Gibson in that Sinéad O'Connor.

Let’s say I come home and I’m feeling pretty good. The office slut offered me serious herpes by as asking me out for drinks. I stare at Chia Britney and blast “Womanizer” all over my fucking apartment because I’m sexy as hell and Chia Britney will celebrate that fact.

 

Conversely, let’s say I come home after a twelve year old boy felt me up on some form of public transit. Let’s say instead of reacting I just froze. I didn't know if this situation was my responsibility as an adult to like, push him away and explain I’m not looking for a jimmy dean sausage in my life right now. I wasn't sure if I’m allowed to hit him because he’s gay and twelve. So I’m all fucked up and feeling dis-empowered  I get home and weep in the shower. 

Once I step out feeling as refreshed as one can feel after getting the “Tokyo Handshake” from a preteen. Then what? That’s easy: I crank “Stronger” and shave Chia Britney’s head bald as a statement.

Something something Stronger... Something *mumble* Survivor...*mumble... 

Do you see? Do you see how brilliant Chia Britney is? YOU SHAVE HER FUCKING HEAD BECAUSE SHE’S A CHIA PET!!! Remember that? Remember K-Fed? 

Yo stop cryin'! Where the fuckin' Brawny towels at, B?

God, I’m so pumped right now. This is a product made by a person who knows the inner me like no woman who fingered me ever could. This person knew somewhere out there, someone was unhappy about their body, and supplied that lost, pale soul with Chia Britney. Long story short I’m over Stephen Amell but to do so I had to create an unhealthy interest with Britney Spears. That said at least I moved up to “B” list celebrity obsession.

No regrets showing in this pictures. None. Zero regrets.

On everyone who is knowledgeable about music intimidates me:

My dad listened to a lot of Eagles. Not the Don Henley Eagles songs, no, he’d skip ahead to the Glenn Frey songs. I’m not saying that’s necessarily what stunted my musical development, but I’m pretty sure Justin Timberlake only had to bring sexy back because Glenn Frey tried to bury it alive and piss on its grave.

Now being who I am, I can’t be entirely sure that reference makes sense, because I’m not entirely sure I know who Justin Timberlake is. I vaguely remember a curly haired little abortion in N’Sync, and that Lance Bass was gay, and then he wasn't gay, but then he was gay again. 

Holy shit for real? Did NOT see that coming.

Most of this knowledge comes from avoiding eye contact in the line at the grocery store. I know nothing about the music I like because I don’t trust myself to know what music I like. I know that sounds confusing, but it makes sense if you either have a tumor or suffer from being me.

Tumors! Now with proper introductory etiquette!

My musical ignorance causes me panic attacks in the groin and inner child areas of my being. I believe my father’s dedication to The Eagles is a big part of the poison that courses through my musically oblivious veins. 

Not this kind of poison... Actually, no, exactly this kind of poison. Check out Owen Wilson second from the left.

Deep inside me, in the early nineties, was the potential for me to become the guy who could name a really obscure band and ramble off something about their unknown zydeco vinyl album. In that fantasy, I inform everyone around me that it was released some time between the industrial revolution and the invention of the first vibrator. The girl I have a crush on drops acid and nods sagely, obviously impressed.

"Don't let my crazy acid eyes veil how impressed I am with your musical insight. I can hear my teeth...."

But the reality is I never talk about hip underground music when the girl I have a crush on drops acid. I don’t even talk about hip underground music when the current topic among my friends is hip underground music. When that happens, I’m in awe of guys I've known since I was eight years old. The friends I rummaged through the rubble of the demolished hospital near my house with, looking for bloody gauze that may or may not have been wrapped around an actual dead guy.

Good times.

Even with all that history and familiarity, when they talk about music they sound so cool. So honest and open minded and inquisitive with each other about their various tastes in Albanian sub-hard house techno blues rock culture. I just sit there while they run the risk of sounding so fucking cool that they implode and fuse together to form Lou Reeds giant flesh cudgel pounding Amy Winehouse back to life directly in my living room.

Seriously, Look at Reed, that could happen.

                     "Rise, by the power of Lou's love log."                                                                  

Aaaaaaaaand, she's back.

Anybody who seems knowledgeable about music suddenly intimidates me into intellectual submission. It’s like none of my views on postmodernism matters because you introduced your boss to Wreckless Eric. I've never concocted an opinion of merit on post modernism, but guess what, I won’t even try now, in case I start talking about it and someone mentions how Peaches has been working on a new track in Germany that loops the sound of a dying ferret over the theme song to Family Ties and it’s fucking brilliant.

                        

                                       +

=

Hooray! You've just won GERMANY!

It makes me uncomfortable about dating, too. For some reason since torrents, “what music do you download” has become a supremely important question for a woman when selecting a mate to cream her discerning Ayn Rand power orchid. I’m not exactly a specimen in any other arena when choosing who to procreate with, but at least I once came close to constructing a very well researched opinion on postmodernism.

Post-YoMama-nism

Regardless, my conversation during a coffee date will inevitably degenerate into this basic concession:

“No, music is far more important than the rejection of global cultural narrative, Kirsten, you’re right! Let’s just agree that I could never impregnate you with anything more than a fetal version of the elephant man as I know nothing about Crushed Butler’s discography. “

 Shut up, Kirsten.

You know the worst part is, I get it, music is more important than contemporary society rejecting objective truth. It’s more impressive and sexier and God damn it’s more relevant to our daily lives.

So why does taste in music seem like such an elusive social Rubik's cube to me? I understand it’s subjective to the listener’s interpretation. If that’s the case how come pop seems to effortlessly snap open my auditory bra and get me to second base like a wanton rhythm slut while what others subjectively consider “proper honest genre defining” music sounds objectively bad to me. I want to like the Pixies, but I really only like “Wave of Mutilation” and that’s only because it was in Pump up the Volume and I saw Samantha Mathis’ boobies in that movie.

You can pump up MY volume any day, and by volume I mean your penis... That doesn't sound right... I meant YOUR penis. No, wait... Whatever something something please do sex on me.

How is that wrong? How are Samantha Mathis’ boobies responsible for this? They aren't  Maybe dad didn't pass on some kind of hereditary bad taste in music either. Nor did Glenn Frey stunt my- No, fuck that Glenn Frey definitely messed something up. But maybe it’s not the record companies or Suge Knight or Christian Slater acting as an implausible pirate radio DJ, that has anything to do with my self loathing ignorance when it comes to music.

"Don't blame the Knight, baby, it ain't no thang... Now come get some Sugar."

Maybe everyone likes the music they feel they aren't allowed to like because it’s too easy to like. No one gloats about making it down the kiddy hill at the ski lodge. That’s a good analogy because this is obviously 1986.

YEEEAAAHHH!!!

Let me try that again. Maybe it’s because the “proper honest genre defining” music is hard to listen to and hard to find so that makes it better. Like a battle scar and a good story is better than Christina Aguilera reminding you that “you are beautiful” as greasy brown thigh liquid rolls down her legs, regardless of how catchy it is.

YEEEAAAAAAHHH!!!

So somehow that makes Rhythm Nation and Good Vibrations inferior to The Decline and anything by Nick Cave. I can live with that, but album sales and song charts would classify that statement as inaccurate at best. Good Vibrations sold 230,000 copies in the first four days of it’s release, Rhythm Nation, 14,000,000 worldwide. The only real glaring difference I can see in all honesty that favors Janet and Wahlberg is you can actually fuck to their albums.

Then again, I've never tried to plow the fertile fields to John Lyndon’s “Psycho’s Path”, so who knows? That album might give me an erection so hard and glorious that Gaza peace talks resume and Jesus personally re-seeds Prince William’s hair. I find that highly unlikely on all counts, but then again Susan Boyle released an album on the cover of which she actually doesn't look like hobbit rolled around in dog shit, so I guess anything’s possible. 

"You came to the wrong Shire, mother fucker."

On being horny when I’m hung over and Canadian Films:

I am frequently exposed to more Canadian films than is healthy for any young man.  Now anyone who considers themselves a proper cinephile would exclaim the opposite, that I am not sufficiently supporting the Canadian film industry. As if the Canadian film industry is so impacted by my refusal to sit through The Love Guru in theaters as I’d prefer to set my hair on fire and eat glass; that it caused the Canadian share of the box office to plummet. Well good, because we make maple syrup and hockey for the mentally challenged in this fucking country, not quality films.

We’re not Hollywood, I mean they don’t make quality films either, but they have the assets to paint up a ten dollar whore of a script until it’s a high class call girl of a blockbuster. We do not, and that should be okay, because we aren't suited for that particular brand of affluence and eccentricity. Roman Polanski feeling up a fourteen year old in Jack Nicholson’s apartment while his wife is getting fucking murdered, that’s Hollywood. The Canadian equivalent is like, Justin Trudeau giving an elk an HJ in Christopher Plummer’s herb garden. Even that scenario sounds too interesting for the Canadian Film industry. Though I’ll bet they could make a movie using that premise, Canadians can make a film about any piece of shit event that ever happened; call it like, “Christopher Plummer’s: Elk Moan Garden”.

"I could have sworn I heard a francophone liberal jerking off local fauna back here..."

Look, I enjoyed Hardcore Logo, I know who Don McKellar is and I’m sure I've pulled my mush-cap to Laura Vandervoort at least twice. 

Or 1,436 times, whatever... ... ... ...1,437.

Plus, I am Canadian, but These theatrical atrocities have to stop. I've seen over thirteen Canadian Films, which is likely twelve more than you have, so I’m basically an expert. I’m a doctor in Canuck moving pictures. How you ask? Because when I get black out drunk, the next morning when I’m hung over to the point of heart palpitation and leg cramps, I’m horny as hell

Like, this drunk.... ... Holy shit is that Christopher Plummer?

I’m “lock your doors and hide any small mammals you keep for comfort ” horny. I will sex you and your gerbil or hedgehog or whatever directly the fuck into submission. No joke. So how can I ensure I won’t go all Carlton Gary on good people just out for a Sunday stroll? Well I handcuff my left leg to my bed post, but also, I slap on a Canadian made movie because Canadian cinematography kills an insatiable morning bone faster than pressing a lit cigar to you nipple.

Guess which country actually made this film... GUESS!!

I think it’s the shame. I am shamed as a Canadian to watch the unjustifiably shoddy cinema just ooze through my fifty-five inch television screen, bounce of my ten inch erection and strike me direction in my one quarter inch pupils.  Okay, I exaggerated, the television is only a fifty-one inch but the beveled edges make it look wider. Let that sink in. I wake up in a state of mind that exists right before a person becomes a raging sex offender, and Canadian movies are so bad that they prevent various molestations that could have occurred throughout the city just because of the sheer embarrassment they cause me as a Canadian citizen. They stop me dead in my tracks. No matter how horny I am, feeling ashamed about my national identity gives me Bob Dole penis.

Because I haven't since 1964

Why do I get so horny when I’m hung over anyway? I wonder about that every time I wake up after binge drinking the night before and get that “Christmas Morning” feeling in the pit of my stomach. Instead of gifts under the tree, it’s just my unwrapped ding-dong but it’s the same anticipation. I’m a grown ass man, why am I so excited about spanking it,  I pretty much perfected the technique when I was fifteen. It’s old news. 

Universities even have established protocols for this sort of thing.

Not when I’m hung over though. When I’m hung over, my dick becomes a mystical divining rod, something Indiana Jones would gruffly say belongs in a museum and something so precious Nicolas Cage would tell me to put back in the box with a hilariously bad southern drawl.

Sweet, Face-Off  is on... or the... The other one....Whatever.

Notice how none of those movie references included Ginger snaps 3. I’m going to repeat that Ginger snaps…Its Wiccan vampire lesbians who bake… I guess… How many of these installments do we need in the franchise? Canadians say at least three. Speaking of franchises, do you know what big box office movie was filmed in Canada; Twilight. It’s not a Canadian film per se, but it was filmed here. We can now add sparkle-tards that implausibly pull themselves along what appears to be the magnetic bark of a magic tamarack to local British-Columbian fauna.

Yes, Of course you are. Shine on you crazy piece of shit.

I Googled “Why do hangovers make me horny?” and I found nothing. Am I seriously the only guy that gets aroused the morning after drinking and needs the sub-par directing skills of Grant Harvey to not cause second degree friction burns to my todger? 

"I guess that's okay, but now let's try and make it less like a film and more like a vasectomy for your eyeballs."

I found “why am I hungry when I’m hung over” which I tend to be as well, but only after I've given myself a flogging of epic proportions. I found a myriad of advice on how to avoid a hang over. Unsurprisingly, none of them suggested you not get shitfaced in the first place, because alcohol is the ambrosian lube that keeps the societal gears blissfully turning.

I wish Bruce McDonald hadn't made Hardcore Logo 2. The original film was one of those ignorance shattering experiences that forever changes the way you look at the medium. Like the first time you make a gay friend, excitement and social tolerance building at it’s best. It was black and white, it was about punk rock and it introduced me to the Headstones. That film was so far from being the usual thin donkey spunk Canadians churn out that I was floored.

"Did your scrotum just fucking explode from how punk rock you are?!?"

"Yes it did, did yours?"

"No, you should get that looked at, mine stopped at an erection."

"You're right this is extremely painful. This movie fucking rules!"

Then it became a boner killing Canadian film when its sequel came out and it was about Bruce himself. Not even actual Bruce McDonald, like an imaginary Bruce McDonald who cashed in and went to the states and made cable television shows and shit. That should highlight my point about Canadian films generally being script and cameras put to boring events no one cares about. A Fat director’s attempt at non-fiction does not a movie make. Bruce McDonald, to you and the entire Canadian film industry: stop killing my top ‘o the morning white birch love logs with your confusing Canadian crap. That’s unless you make a Canadian film about why people get fucking horny the morning of a hangover. For that film, you have my blessing for the straight to DVD release any day of the week.

Yes, this looks exactly like the sequel to Hardcore Logo I had in my head. Fuck you Bruce.