If We Die... It Will Be For Glory, Not Gold

Beowulf Monster Mash

Hwæt! Wé Gárdena in géardagum þéodcyninga þrym gefrúnon hú ðá æþelingas ellen fremedon. 

"Listen! We -- of the Spear-Danes in the days of yore, of those clan-kings -- heard of their glory." I'm not about to spew lines of Beowulf on you, but those clan-kings have heard about me and legendary radio on WRICH 109.9 FM, WOW 87.7 FM and AM 2200. But now, I wish my novel idea didn’t put me on the throne as the king of Lionheart’s failure. It started out nobly as The Lionheart Sound Network, but then Lionheart Leaks ruined everything. It started out as a bad joke, but there was nothing funny about Prime. 

I feel sorry for co-founding Lionheart Inc.™ and running the company into the ground. It was a mistake to accept responsibility. I tried everything. As a bad president, unqualified to run a network of radio stations, I’m sorry. Playing number one hit music after number one hit music, adding it up; and playing classic commercials, and then spending months trying to create an app, but nothing worked and I am sorry. The most common complaint about the network was its poor taste. It was offensive and recreating history was not a good idea for a company model. It was offensive, and although it might have been a home run if I pitched the idea in Cleveland, it was a cheap idea -- and my selfish quest to ruin the company trumped any chance of profit. I got out just in time, but now I'm apologizing and I’ll be sorry for at least the remainder of the decade. I'm so, so sorry.

All Apologies

The truth is that I've always controlled Lionheart Inc. and I've always participated in ceremonial duties. From food tours in Stratford to Mississauga, in the GTA and abroad, I've enjoyed the finest cuisine and all the best food from every culture. Just don't get me wrong. Slothful behaviour demonstrates how I'm wallowing in sorrow for wrongdoing to the company. Company expenses on great Mexican food is a fine example of how truly sorry I am -- that I want to do good, and better than good, by eating great.

Mississauga Food Tour

And I giveth you thou Burger King. May you eat plentiful and shame thyself by eating Whoppers. It sounds cruel, but in a cruel world, political correctness stifles free speech. Perhaps you’ve noticed that when the politically correct liberal rule-makers decide to name a group of humans they view as victims, they begin by creating a sense of shame to the group’s existing name. And so, somewhere over the years, the word Indian has been discarded. Nobody mentions Indians anymore. That’s because, in yet another stunning attempt to stand reality on its head, Indians have been assigned a new designation, the Indigenous people or Aboriginal people. This is an obvious attempt to make people feel better. The idea is, as long as we can’t help these people, let’s give the First Nations a positive name to distract everyone. I’m sorry, but it’s a way for government to say that’ll learn ‘em. And another thing, the closest anyone has ever gotten to the Star of David since biblical times occurred before Jim Morrison opened The Doors to Morrison Hotel. Blessed Jim looked up high into the dark sky and started singing Indian Summer. It was summertime, he'd checked out of his hotel and Indians and old cowboys surrounded him. They thought he was sick in the head, but he was just finding his way on the cross.

As a conspiracy theorist, I just don’t believe Jim Morrison is dead. He's risen for our sins. I don't believe in Juno or Man on the Moon. The closest we’ll ever get to Jupiter will be The Great Beyond. If you want to avoid 'The Great Beyond,' drink more water, and read my cat's new book, instead of trying to find water on a distant planet. They can’t even fix the water pipes in Flint, Michigan. Why not get a Juno to fly looking for water on Jupiter? Drink a cup of water and go to bed. And what does ‘Goodnight, sleep tight,’ mean? In Shakespeare’s time, mattresses were secured on bed frames by ropes. When you pulled on the ropes, the mattress tightened, making the bed firmer to sleep on. Goodnight, sleep tight. “Parting is such sweet sorrow, / That I shall say good night till it be morrow” when you visit Mattress King to get the best deal possible on a good night’s sleep. New products arrive in-store on a weekly basis at Mattress King. Visit Mattress King to view their whole selection of mattresses in stock. But this is not where I promote Mattress King. Get a better sleep by reading a good book. I'm here to promote Skedaddles' new book. As a writer, I'm here to promote literature -- so buy my cat's new book now. She (I mean me) would love her book to sell. STOP what you're doing and read cat books. Imagine a furry feline discovering if there will ever be a rainbow. Get it on Amazon.

The Happy New Novel By Skedaddles

Celebrating Misery And The EU

Stairway To Heaven

Are you suffering from Led poisoning? Get the goddamn Led out of your ears and focus on the truth in media. Why do we want to hear about unhappiness? We want to hear Stairway To Hell in a heavy metal jam. You want to learn about my feelings of great distress and discomfort of mind and body. From territorial pissings to when I'm going to climb that stairway to heaven and sing about misery a final time. I can almost hear the organ now.

MISERY’S SONG

You’ve heard a song

     that’s had a struggle before,

     where twinges meet to adore

an admirer or half-

     faced rock star in a cloud

     of smoke. Yodel louder

than that melody

     within her soul -- tormented in

     anguish from lies and sin,

as lovers cross a corner

     of time like rubber-stamps 

     of harlots and tramps

that play a painful piece

     in rump-fed hearts to go

     or follow. Winds will blow

with me as I travel

     to it; a slow under-

     current as they were

   

in waves to throngs of folk

     gone fly-bitten to the ground

     where sounds do pound

like euphoria! What concert

     went astray in sadness

     to bring a heart-filled bliss?

The rolling thunder goes

     gaily, the listeners join free

     to pass in mirth of glee

from a paradox. A fool

     went through just yesterday

     to hear the dreary music play!

Misery brings joy. The Raptors suck, but the Cavaliers rock. I want to go back to Cleveland to see the Indians play at Progressive Field. I want to hear the blues when I think about Cleveland. It's been a long time since the Indians won the World Series. It's been a long time since Indians won anything. Lately, I've been thinking about how to make sports better. Las Vegas needs a hockey team. There needs to be another Indian team to help the Blackhawks. Professional wrestling needs to play a bigger role in Bollywood. Let's face it, wrestling is not on the map like it was years ago. Bollywood needs to embrace old-school wrestling. There needs to be a Bollywood Hogan of wrestling to start a new era in sports entertainment. How can Western Culture better embrace Indians? Start by celebrating Ramadan and misery. Ramadan is a time for reflection, giving, and being truly charitable.

1. Refrain from consuming food until after midnight
2. Refrain from a cold beer until after midnight
3. Refrain from smoking until after midnight
4. Refrain from sex until after midnight
5. No sinful behaviour that may negate the reward of fasting
6. No listening to WOW 87.7 
7. No listening to WRICH 109.9 
8. No listening to AM 2200 
9. Don't wrestle until after Ramadan
10. Don't insult Catholics until after Ramadan
11. No opening Doors or listening to Jim Morrison

Vive la France. Euro 2016 is here and my eyes shift to Britain. For a long time, we had a Game of Thrones in Europe. They couldn’t get along and there were border wars and then we created something called the European Union. And it’s grown to be a huge market in many countries. Europe was starting to compete on a global scale and now Britain is going to decide whether they stay or leave the European Union. Some people might not think it’s a big deal, but it is. Start on the business side, twenty percent of our exports go to the European Union. We want a healthy EU because it’s good for us. Oscar Wilde once said “Britain has 42 religions and two sauces.” Right? It’s not a place of passion. But you cannot believe the passionate divide, and it is too close to call on whether they’ll be division. A lot of people are saying let’s have Britain just be Britain. That's great, but therein lies the debate. It’s important to you because if for some reason the EU falls apart, we are going to have to spend a lot more money, a lot more treasure, time and maybe some of our blood to try to put Europe back together. If the EU holds together, it’s good for us economically. It’s bloody good for us, because if they hold together, armies can mobilize on other parts of the planet. It relates to us and we need to join in celebrating Europe's utter misery.

Long Live Misery

The Edge Of Reality: Can't You Smell That Smell?

Credit Valley Footpath was quiet and I was quietly lost in the middle of nowhere and there was nobody and it was awesome. All of a sudden, a tree started talking to me. What the fuck? I wouldn't talk back to it and it wasn't Skedaddles the Cat, but wow, it was a fucking big ass tree staring at me with wooden eyes. Looking down at me, it wouldn't leave me alone. Its leaves were huge, tree trunk enormous and round with roots spreading out, dominating the forest -- there was nowhere to hide.

The tree said to me, "You don't have the credit to be in the valley of my footpath." The tree was right. I had blown my savings on Amazon, betting on Indian sports teams, Nyquist as the Triple Crown winner, and NyQuil. I wanted to go home, but I was curious about the talking tree.

"How did you know that?" Maybe the tree put on a suit and tie and worked at RBC when nobody visited him. Everything was trippy.

"I've read your diary," the motherfucker echoed. "You're a poet." Shit, I had Lionheart Leaks and unreleased installments. It was worse than the Sony cyber attack. I was going to sue his goddamn wooden ass.

The tree grew a second face with three eyes bugging out at me, another mouth formed under its two noses and it grew nine branched-out arms. It was the most wood that I had ever seen. It tossed my diary at me with two of his hands. His third arm reached out and grabbed a fat joint underneath a log. Buddy was into the herb and Indians.

Indian Teams

Buddy rolled another joint. I took a mean piss on his ugly roots. It felt good to relieve myself and I wanted to piss off the tree. The tree tried to grab me with his arms. Wood was flying everywhere, but I escaped. I started running away. Stopping once to look back, the tree turned around and mooned me with his wooden ass. His deep crevice spat out birch bark, but I was beyond his teepee and the edge of the magical, enchanted forest filled with giant mushrooms and eleven-leaf clovers.

Credit Valley Footpath