THUD Toronto campaign

K-Dough is hereby challenging all Toronto cyclists to help control the horrid lack of road safety displayed by other cyclists every day by policing ourselves and joining the THUD Toronto (Torontonians Heckling Unsafe Drivers) campaign. The prevalent opinion that has emerged over the past week in the media, however misguided as it may be, is that poor innocent cyclists are daily persecuted by crazed anti-bike car drivers.

Well, the reality is that the majority of cyclists on our city streets are a bunch of law-ignoring, cocky/stupid jackasses who flirt with their own demises every day, flouting rules and riding like pompous 8 yr olds with entitlement complexes.

So it's really up to us- the cycling community- to make sure they know how the respectable and law-abiding among us feel about their retarded behaviour on the road.

What can you do? Every time you stop at an orange or red light and witness some stupid idiot riding gingerly half-way across the intersection and then through it; or someone speeding through the red light with no regard for their own, or others' safety yell as loud as you can: "THUD!!!" THUD is the sound of a body crunching under the wheels of a car or truck.

Or, yell THUD as you are taking a picture of them with your cell phone and post it online. Better yet, get the attention of a police officer and have them chase the idiot down.

It's not enough to whine and whinge about how cyclists are getting a raw deal when so many of us are ignorant, reckless idiots. Do something about it. Remind a stupid THUD near you that he/she is being watched.

You can JOIN a THUD facebook group organized by my buddy here: http://www.facebook.com/topic.php?topic=10370&uid=132728591329#/group.php?gid=132728591329

Psycholist's Death Mourned by 1,000 Fools

Someone has to say this.

Yesterday, approximately 1,000 cyclists disrupted Toronto city streets, ostensibly to mourn the death of a guy killed while attacking the car of Ontario's former Attorney General after a minor fender-bender.

But what was their message? What were these fools really doing? While a handful may have been truly mourning, the rest were displaying a mixture of dysfunction: blind allegiance to a nutty, geeky cyclist sub-culture that thinks cyclists are never guilty of infractions and that some evil car culture persecutes them; thumbing of the noses of the mundane and mediocre at the fallen mighty because all public figures deserve ridicule when their humanity is exposed; or, at its worst, this was a display of lawless, ignorant rage similar to the same rage that ultimately became that man's undoing.

The fools demonstrated publicly, crying "murder" despite published eyewitness accounts that clearly indicate this was no ordinary case of evil car dragging innocent cyclist. They rode in support of a fucked-up criminal, wanted on 64 outstanding charges in Alberta, who was drunk and removed by police from a property less than an hour earlier, with his own friends saying he was too drunk to drive. If he had gotten in a car at that point and killed a child, we would be publicly vilifying him. But because he rode a bicycle (which he reportedly threw at the car he attacked) he is a victim? That is indescribably fucked up.

I have true sympathy for the life of the man killed. According to media reports, he had to deal with a lot of unfortunate shit while he was alive. So have I. So have a lot of people I know. What drove him to to pay the ultimate price we can't change and the question of placing blame on others is for the courts to decide. We can only soberly think about that tragic example next time we want to punch someone in their car, on their bike, on the TTC or....anywhere.

But one thing is clear: This protest wasn't about cars versus bikes or the rich versus the downtrodden. This is about the glorification of crime, akin to gangbangers becoming legends in their hood once they are gunned down.

And even when the courts decide who really is at fault, and Bryant is exonerated to the sour milk cries of preferential treatment for the rich and powerful, the fools will learn nothing. Because they are fools.

Are the Spanish Retarded?

The Spanish Olympic men's basketball team posed for an ADVERTISEMENT in which they all pulled their eyes up at the side into a slant before the Olympics and they seem to see nothing wrong with it. I'm sorry? In an article that erroneously says the Spanish basketball team is trying to diffuse the damage they've done by mocking the physical characteristics of Asians, one Spanish player said this, "If we thought that it was going to offend anybody we would not do it. But if you think this is offensive you're not thinking in the right way, because it's not even a joke. It's just because we are coming to Beijing, we have this kind of eyes." The coach, Aito Garcia Reneses, pulled his baby bed covers over his face and said "Everybody is talking about something that I cannot understand."

Might as well have said "I'm a retarded Spanish dude. What the fuck do I know?".

Iz all I'm sayin'.

Cry Baby Tory Blaming Others

When questioned today about why he included funding for faith-based schools in his platform, even though 3 years ago his party knew it would flop, John "Cry Baby" Tory said: "I never had control of the message." Hm. If the central issue of this election was leadership, does it sound very leader-like for the leader of a party to have never had control of his own party's message?

Then, blaming the media for his dismal performance, he said "Did I say it (faith-based school funding) was the issue of the campaign? Never once."

Who the fuck cares what you say is the issue of the campaign John Q. Tory? You released your platform and people focussed on what they wanted to focus on. That's democracy John, you spoiled, corporate hollow man. Take off the tear-stained dress and suck it up princess.

Urban Vignette #45-A.

Having suffered some memory damage due to a severely dehydrated brain, I just recalled a strange thing that happened on my way to getting hammered with the illustrious Sheena last night. Two guys in a white Cherokee pulled up to the curb beside me as I walked up the street and said "Hey dude. Do you want a home theatre system?" I said "what?". The guy reiterates his generous offer and points to the back of the truck. I said, "uh, no I'm good". Dude tried harder. He says "seriously dude, do you want this home theatre system? We just scored it from work".

WTF? Brilliance seems to know no bounds in the city I love.

Atwood, Plath...Step Aside

A friend pointed me towards THIS. It's a collection of love poems by Leonard Nimoy. I loved it so much that I approached the publisher and was asked to write the following review, to be included on the back cover of the next hard cover edition:

Wow! I'm blown away by the profound sensitivity, introspection and unique, masterful use of language that Leonard employs. "We are the dreamers. We are the dancers. Life is the music. Love is the song." I mean, I never would have thought to say that. Who the fuck says that? I'm humbled. I'm shocked. No, I'm spocked. Holy fuck.
K-Dough

Chrétien Foreshadows Book Content

When I asked him this morning at breakfast** what manner of dirty secrets would be exposed in his upcoming book, Jean Chrétien lifted his drunken, drooling head off the pillow and murmured "A book is a book. What kind of a book? It's a book. A book is a book. And when you 'ave a good book it's because it's written."

**In response to an offline questioner who asked "What would you be doing in bed with Chrétien " I thought I should clear things up. Hey, everyone knows how easy it is to get into the Chrétien bedroom. Last night, I drunkenly stumbled into the wrong house, and when Aline attacked me, some kind of sexual chemical reaction occurred. Next thing I know, the Chrétien's and I are entangled in the throes of a sweaty ménage a trois. Hey, one should never look a gift former PM's wife in the mouth...mwahaha.

Knaked News

Speaking of sucking and blowing, funny thing happened to me on the way to work this morning... No wait: I just drove in from Talahasee, and boy is my screwdriver tired. (Ba dum dum- spshhh)

But seriously, my greased and horny pot-bellied piglets, today I am offering you a quick rounding up of the truly bizarre in two ridiculous sentences. And here it is:

Even though unfathomably stupid teen beauty contestant Lauren Caitlin Upton did not win the famed Dumb As A Pool Noodle But I'd Love to Schtoop You contest, she is rumoured to be dating Leona Helmsley's dog Trouble, who just inherited a cool $12 million, and has quit her job as the CEO of a major Bay Street Investment house, where other stupid, yet great looking people are overworked. Helmsley's clearly insane financial decisions left her peniless and dead in some guy's garage, after being treated for blemishes by a Viennese descendant of Beethoven's private doctor, who is rumoured to be having an affair with gay denier and 3 term Republican senator, Larry Craig.

Whoosh! Oh yeah, and I'm not wearing underwear. Or overwear for that matter.

Blow the Man Down

I'm in a shitty mood today. So, all I can say to anyone who expected a post on Conservative attack ads, the finer points of whether Stephane Dion is low-key or not, the Truscott decision, Quebec by-elections or whatever: You can blow me.

That's right, I said "blow me". And I don't mean in a cute Japanese porn, delicate pursed-lotus mouth, showering-the-shaft-with-butterfly-kisses kinda way. Neither do I mean that I want you to blow me in a "I'm gonna do this for about 45 seconds just to make it look like I appreciate your member before I have intercourse with you as fast as I can to get it over with" kinda way. And I definitely don't want you to blow me like a shy tearful amateur, akwardly inflicting toothy damage and looking up at me with questioning fawn eyes.

What I mean is, I want you to blow me in a nasty, sloppy, drunk out of your mind, slobbering kind of way. You know, like you've been famished for days and just got your shakey hands on a street dog smothered in mayonnaise, as you gurgle the word "fuck" as loud as you can kinda way. I want you to really get your hands dirty and work it, in full-fisted tandem, like you are adjusting a greased-up telescope. I mean, I want you to blow me like you are an insatiable sword-swallower on Ecstasy in an Amsterdam sex circus with complete abandon and dedication to your meaty craft. Ok, look, just think 'jungle cat ravenously eating a stiff turkey neck' if that helps.

Hmm...did I say earlier I was in a shitty mood? Suddenly, it feels like the sun has shone on my soul. I feel much better now. Thanks for listening - you're a good friend.

Armchair Mayor Flings Crap

Responding to Toronto Mayor David Miller's threat of cutting services if the province doesn't raise its allowance, former mayor Mel "the Buffoon" Lastman took a page from Clyde, the Orangutan from the movie Every Which Way But Loose and passed wind, slapping himself on the belly repeatedly today. Reporters were aghast, when he then picked up a handful of his own faeces and flung it at a City TV cameraman, who then tripped over a cable and landed in Mel's hay pile, at which time Lastman planted a big, greasy kiss on the soiled cameraman's cheek.

See the whole story HERE.

Pope Called It First

Today, the Pope, in a brilliant display of pomposity and ignorance -- virtues held sacrosanct by the Vatican-- proclaimed the Catholic church the only true church, or as the Toronto Star put it "reasserted the universal primacy of the Roman Catholic Church".

On the heels of the news, several other groups around the world scrambled to proclaim themselves leaders of their domain: The Falun Gong have claimed the title "Slowest Moving Human Targets"; the Hare Krishnas are now recognized as the Smoothest, Orangest Mental Patients in the Great Milky Way; the Jehovah's Witnesses have snagged the "Most Depressed, Flattest-Nosed Cult" mantle; and the U.S. Republican Party has become "the Only True Purveyors of the Wisdom and Teachings of Adam Smith, Jesus Falwell and Jed Clampett".

In yet another related story, K-Dough of K-Dough's Canada has proclaimed himself the Sexiest, Most Excellent Omnipotent Ruler of Blogolia and All Outlying New Mediums and Vaginas.

Eat that, Pope Whatevvvvver.

Britney Sucks Off a Moose

The vag wasn't enough. The dangerous driving wasn't enough. The public disdain for the aesthetic smear of a carelessly displayed Caesarean scar wasn't enough. The Madonna faux-lesbo kiss wasn't enough. The divorce, rehabs and head shaving bullshit weren't enough.

Now what? A breakdown? Well, I guess fucking so.

This stuff happens to average people with no talent everyday. The trials and tribulations of the infinitely rich with no talent? Who the fuck cares. Get a life, world.

Who Needed Playboy?

If I had've known about THIS as a pubescent boy, I would have grown my own and never left the house. In fact, my life probably would have turned out completely differently...

Quebeckers Love Doze Raceests

Amidst the current hooplah about whether or not Quebec contains a racist province within a province, I thought I'd ask my buddy Pierre Tremblay to comment on the controversy. Here is a transcript of a phone conversation I had with him last night, although sections are inaudible because he was yelling into his cell phone from the DJ booth at Club SuperPussy in Kirkland Lake.

Tremblay: Allo? Allo? Oo ees it? (blaring music breaking up in background faintly discernible as Helix's Rock You)
K-D: Hey dude. Sorry to bother you at work, but did ya hear about that insane Dumont guy today and the Leger poll?
Tremblay: Pole? Huh? You dat guy ooze gonna come replace dat pole dat biker dented hier soir?
K-D: Dude, (yelling) it's K-Dough!
Tremblay: Ahhhhh, mon ami! Ows eet 'anging you batard?
K-D: I'm good. I just want to know if you think most Quebeckers are racists. It's for a piece I'm doing for the blog.
Tremblay: Huh? You gonna call me frog you batard?
K-D: No, I said blog. Look, never mind. Do you think most Quebeckers are racists?
Tremblay: Ah oui, merde. Mais of course hus Quebekers har raceest. Tabernacle mod zeet. Look at 'ow much we loves Jacques!
K-D: What are you talking about? Parizeau? I don't think that's a very good...
Tremblay: Parizeau? Non, non, non. Your henglish eez not very good I thinks. Jacques Villeneuve you batard stupide!
K-D: Dude! Did you just say you think Jacques Villeneuve is a racist?
Tremblay: Huh? Don't you watch da sports? You know, Patrick Carpentier, Bertrand Godin, Mario Gosselin. You know, we loves doze Quebecois raceests, you hunderstand?
K-D: Ahhhh, gotcha. Ok then, I'll let you..
Tremblay: Huh? (garbled yelling away from the receiver) ... I tell you, you gots dead hair on your mix tape. Huh?! Get up dere, I put some Whitesnakes on. K-Dough, you dere? Mod zeet tabernacle...
K-D: Thanks for your, uh, help dude. I'll talk to you later.
Tremblay: Huh? (Yelling, away from receiver into microphone) Helene Bouchard to da booth toute de suite! Ladies hand gentlemans, put your 'ands together for da very super sexy....
(Dial tone...)

*Hat tip to ChuckerCanuck for graciously allowing me to rap in the East Coast style.

A Very Tory Christmas Warning

Notice to all Employees:

Non-sectarian holiday time is once again upon us. In the past, we have lost workers to festive accidents, diseases, viruses, acts of God and job fairs. In order to maximize work output in the New Year and minimize collateral losses, we have prepared the following list to guide you through any time your manager may have APPROVED for you to be absent during this holiday season. Please print and distribute copies to your colleagues, family members and friends and post them around your house.

1. Every part of your workstation that has a lock should have a key that you can lock it up with at the end of the day. If you are missing any keys to your workstation please advise management immediately.

2. Do not put your mouth, dry OR salivating, directly upon any type of Christmas tree bulb or electrically-powered decorative device or insert any such implement into your rectal cavity. This could lead to debilitating lesions and/or electrical shock and death.

3. Please retrieve your dishes from the staff kitchen area by 5 p.m. today or they will be discarded.

4. Never put a live electric eel or holly bough in your pants. This could lead to debilitating lesions and/or electrical shock and death.

5. Do not leave your house at any time during the holidays, for any reason whatsoever. Leave your lights off 24 hours a day and make sure all windows are covered. Make sure your basement bunker is stocked with at least 3 months supply of powdered milk, dried protein powder and water. Also, keep at least 4 flares and a shotgun on hand. Old bed sheets make good bandages, and a hairdryer hooked up to a gas generator can heat a family of four for at least 12 hours during a power outage. Do not open the door for strangers, neighbours or relatives. Although they may come bearing gifts or sweets, they can not be trusted. If your children try to leave the bunker, beat them with your shot gun, and bandage their heads with the bed sheets.

**Should you die during your holiday, please be sure to leave detailed instructions for your next of kin, including changing your voice mail and Out Of Office e-mail message to reflect the fact that you have died.

Have a safe and productive holiday!

The Management

Stockwell Day = Fucking Moron

Stockwell Day is a fucking moron. Hey, if every other blogger can write about it why can't I?

That's it -- show's over.

Nothing else to see here.

Put your greasy hands back in your pockets and surf on you rubber necked bastards.

(Who, did I mention, I love, by the way.)

Laughing Stockwell Day...

...fucks up again (READ). The best thing is he actually put in print his utter ignorance of and insensitivity to foreign affairs. Day published a factually barren column, completely misstating the political, historical and social situation of Mexico- a country he just visited as a representative of the government and people of Canada. What's more, he spelled the name of the Mexican president, whose inauguration he recently attended, incorrectly.

In Day's defense, his briefing before the trip consisted of this:


I can't wait until jackass-brained, beef-jerkey chewin' droolin' goobers like Day are once again banished to the backwoods of Shit-Fuck, B.C., where they can breed, read their bibles and shoot their guns with relatively low risk to the rest of civilized society.

K-Dough Accepting Submissions

Yes, it's true. I am taking submisssions for book pitches in the style of O.J.'s new psycho-thetical admitting-murder-in-hindsight masterpiece called If I Did It.

While I wait for your creative ideas to pour in, here are a few options I'm looking at for ghost writing gigs at this point:

Bill Clinton, If I Put It In All the Way

Ollie North, If Reagan Knew Everything

Alfonso Gagliano, If I Hung Out With Murderers

Donald Rumsfeld, If I Knew the WMD Excuse Was Absolute Bullshit

George W. Bush, If I Couldn't Read

Wayne Gretzky, If My Wife Had A Gambling Problem

Peter Mackay, If I Still Obviously Loved An Evil Demoness

Jean Chretien, If I Didn't Axe The GST, Where Would We Be Now?

Condoleeza Rice, If I Had Known In Advance They Were Going To Fly Planes Into Buildings

Richard Nixon, If I was A Crook

Happy F-Day, you seksy phuckers!
K

Rumsfeld is Toast

Bush is announcing, as I type, that Donald Rumsfeld- architect of evil; bitter, mean-spirited, lying, smirking fucker- is stepping down. Nice knowing ya and hope you burn in hell, you senile war pig.

Tales of Eastern Europe

In the stark absence of anything relevant, newsworthy or erudite to impart today, I leave you with the Vaudevillian cop-out that is this:

An elderly Ukrainian man lay dying in his bed. While suffering the agonies of impending death, he suddenly smelled the thick, familiar aroma of his favourite Ukrainian perogies with fried onions and salt pork wafting up the stairs. He gathered all his remaining strength, and feebly lifted himself from the bed. Gripping the railing with both hands, he crawled downstairs.

Downstairs, he leaned against the door frame, gazing into the kitchen, where if not for death's agony, he would have thought himself already in heaven, for there, spread out upon waxed paper on the kitchen table were hundreds of his favourite perogies.

Was it heaven? Or was it one final act of love from his wife of sixty years, seeing to it that he left this world a happy man?

He threw himself towards the table, landing on his knees in a crumpled heap. His parched lips parted, the wondrous taste of the perogies was already in his mouth.

With a trembling hand he reached for a hot buttered perogie at the edge of the table, when suddenly, he felt a searing blow to his hand from a lightning-fast wooden spoon.

"Get the fuck out of here old man" she screamed. "They're for the funeral!"