Cooper Green
> Hello, Howard
>
> I've decided to take a bit of a breather from blogging. A payment just came out of my PayPal account, so this would be a convenient time to let my subscription expire. I'm not sure what the procedure is, but can you please make sure the billings stop?
>
> Thank you, sir. I have a habit of returning regularly, and I have no reason to believe I won't be back soon. So, I'll see you then.
>
> Cheers,
> - Cooper
My Dear Mr. Green,
As you are undoubtedly unaware, when you signed up for Mo'time Pro, the contract that you inked was a lifetime, non-revocable and binding agreement that not only follows you to the grave -- it requires that at least 3 generations of Greens continue to pay escalating monthly fees. With the passing of each generation, the cost is tripled (to reward our staff for suffering the grief that these passages always bring).
The clauses were written in invisible electronic ink, a practice that has recently been upheld by the Italian Supreme Court. If you're curious about the technology involved, that's very nice to hear.
I had to smirk when I read your naive, plaintive and tenderly genuine request to terminate!
I shall not try to scare you by telling you the tragic stories of others that have tried to wriggle out of their contractual obligations, but if you insist on pursuing this madness, I would urge you to consult with the nice folks at PayPal.
We here at Mo'time Towers have relegated everything to them. Your payments both start and stop within your PayPal account. You must navigate to the section that contains the recurring subscription instructions and simply stop the damn thing. Delete it, kill it, annul it and make it go away. Take away their permission to pay us here at Mo'time Towers. That's the way to get us really mad and to put in a call to our collection agency, currently located in Kiev. The chicken is really delicious there, as you can imagine.
If you have any further questions, I suppose you can write back to me, but you may find me to be aloof as a result of my hurt, shock and dementia.
Thanks for the memories, even for those that haven't happened yet.
With respect and adulation,
Howard (maybe my real name)
xoxoxoxoxo
Naugahyde-Man Firmly Behind Earth Hour
Tomorrow night at exactly 8pm, people around the world will spend the next hour of their lives learning how to live without television, or lights, or blogging, or a nice warm microwaved cupcake, or a fully charged Tesla coil atomizing wayward household pets with a million megawatts of raw, unleashed power.
Yes, it's Earth Hour, the long-awaited Cranky Time for people who need to stand for something that you couldn't possibly find fault with. And standing firmly on their side will be Naugahyde-Man, your Hometown Hero dressed in his distinctive uniform of recycled breakfast nook fabric from the sixties, ready to smash offending lava lamps to pieces with a blunt object, and fill those energy-killing teakettles with quick-setting Plaster of Paris.
You too can be a handsomely attired Hometown Hero!! Be the scourge of your neighbourhood for one hour!!
Send us $39.95 in unmarked bills, and we'll deliver your Naugahyde-Man uniform* in plenty of time for Earth Hour. One blunt object included FREE with every order!!
... Plus ...
Your own FREE Naugahyde-Man Patrol Guide, full of useful hints on how to smash major appliances with one blow, and disable an entire home electrical system in less than eight seconds.
Send your cash, along with your Naugahyde-Man uniform size (S, M, L, XL, XXL, Jabba The Hut) to:
Naugahyde-Man
PO Box 23704
Codpecker Inlet, BC
Canada
Y0Y 0Y0
* Your Naugahyde-Man uniform is not a toy. If a child were to stick the entire uniform in his mouth, and then somebody held his nose, that child would not be able to breathe. Use with extreme caution. Do not put vinegar on your Naugahyde-Man uniform. Do not place your Naugahyde-Man uniform anywhere near a Volvo.
Doc Tagged Me
He expects me to memorialize myself in six words. Clearly, the man drinks.
The rules:
1. Write your own six-word memoir.
2. Post it on your blog. Include a visual illustration if you’d like.
3. Link to the person who tagged you.
4. Tag six more people.
In six words, here is how I expect to be remembered:
The Lesser Known Saints
Now that St. Patrick's day is over, it's time to shed a little light on some of those other, lesser-known saints who are revered in their own countries. Just as Saint Patrick is held close to the hearts of the Irish for driving the snakes out of their country, there are some first class "A"-list saints from other places who did some really fabulous things in their day, but through no fault of their own didn't happen to get their names in the paper. Here are a few of them:
Saint Scooter of the United States: Patron Saint of Packaged Airline Snacks
Scooter was the actual first name of the third child born to Buggerboy and Euthanasia Nipplefoot on June 19th of 1889 in Sedro Wooley, Washington. They wanted their son to have as normal an upbringing as possible, and gave him the relatively benign name of Scooter in an attempt to avoid the ridicule that had been heaped upon both his sister Septic Discharge Nipplefoot, and his brother Cute Little Ground Squirrel Nipplefoot. They were encouraged by Scooter's early interest in aviation, as he joined the legions of inventive young people who were intent on finding ways to make heavier-than-air vehicles not only fly, but to carry passengers from one city to another. And, like most others, he was encouraged by a series of near-successes. At one point he had managed to keep a bedroom dresser aloft for nearly six seconds, bearing a small goat from the Brownstuff farm, their closest neighbours in Sedro Wooley. Needless to say, however, a gust of wind brought the dresser crashing to the ground, snapping off one of the goat's fragile horns and damaging several pairs of socks that had been in the top drawer. As luck would have it, Scooter learned through friends of the promising trials that had been held by the Wright Brothers at Kitty Hawk. The impatient Orville told Scooter that he would be wasting his time, but let slip the fact that Wilbur had actually gotten a tad peckish during his manned flight from one end of the pasture to the other. Seizing his opportunity, Scooter quickly wrapped bits of cooked goat in burlap rags, and caught the next train to North Carolina. History shows that these popular snacks became the precursor for such delicacies as small bags of peanuts, miniature puddings, and hard chunks of inedible meat that graced airline cabins right up until the end of the 1990's. Today, Scooter's sainthood is recognized by the citizens of Sedro Wooley and nearby Mukilteo who honour his memory each August with feasts consisting of Pizza Pops and tiny bottles of rye whiskey.
Saint Gordie of Australia: Patron Saint of Bedding and Pillow Shams
History tells us that St. Gordie was very shy as a boy, and had a difficult time competing with the other children in his home town of Alice Springs. Most of his schoolmates were destined to pursue fulfilling careers as sheep shearers and septic tank installers, putting them in high demand with the huge number of attractive, high-fashion models who are scattered throughout the Australian outback. As a result Saint Gordie (known more commonly as Saint Loser at the time) was a virgin until well into his 30's. However, through a series of liaisons whose details are lost to us today, the former recluse found that he would frequently be invited back under the covers if he simply offered to sleep on the wet spot. This single gesture of selflessness was rare in the rugged, manly outback of Australia. As his laundry bill grew, so did his reputation as a nice person, and he continued to make out like a bandit. He was murdered by jealous boomerang carver on October 23 1972, and was granted sainthood the following year. For the past thirty years, Saint Gordie Day has been celebrated on October 23 by Australian men who selflessly perform a minimum 90 seconds of foreplay before plundering their women.
Saint Tuan of Greenland - Patron Saint of Chapped Lips
When Tuan's parents emigrated to Greenland from their native Guam in 1923, no one would have dared believe that the tiny 2-year old might someday become one of the most revered figures in Greenland's history. But Tuan was different. From an early age, he showed his blond, blue-eyed schoolmates that he was every bit as hardy as any Greenlander who had ever lived. The nation's elders would speak in reverent tones of the boy who would jump into the freezing Greenland Sea during fierce winter storms, and could be seen surfacing on nearby ice floes with several seals under his arms, perhaps dragging an unconscious walrus to the surface with a tusk firmly in the grip of his strong teeth. He liked to gather food during storms because the wind and ice would affect the senses of sea mammals, and Tuan was able to sneak up on them undetected. Tuan showed himself to be worthy of sainthood during a particularly cruel winter in 1942. In pursuit of an unattentive sea lion, Tuan leaped into the Arctic Ocean off Oodaaq Island and swam to a depth of about 300 feet, where he was surprised to see a German submarine heading towards Norway. The bow rope had been carelessly left unattended, so Tuan swam at top speed to reach the front of the vessel. He placed the rope between his teeth and towed the sub back to Daneborg, where the Nazis on board were arrested and given a severe tongue-lashing by the Allies. It was calculated that Tuan had been underwater for a total of 4 hours and 23 minutes without breathing. Saint Tuan died of sunstroke during a vacation to Florida in 1967. He was granted sainthood at the Epcot Center before his body was packed in ice and shipped back to Greenland.
The Lying Bastard's Once-In-A-While Caption Contest No. 9
We haven't had a Caption Contest here in a long time. This seems like the perfect opportunity.
To Whom It May Concern
My Dear Whom
Permit me to say that it goes without saying. My protestations shall not fall on deaf ears, as truth is my witness. To say that I bear a modicum of ill will with regard to the issues at hand would be a miscarriage of the integrity which I so reluctantly apply to my notable absence of bonhomie, and trust that you will respect my given right to bear this enmity with which I am so evidently endowed.
You have not heard the last of me. Please apologize at your earliest convenience.
Yours faithfully,
Cooper Green, Esq.
Biggest-Ever Olympic Swimming Pool Opens In Beijing
With just five months to go before the opening ceremonies, the Beijing Olympic Committee today announced the opening of the games' official Swimming and Diving venue, the Honourable E-Coli Tainted Pet Food Olympic Swimming Pool. It is slightly larger than the Caspian Sea in volume, and stretches all the way from Tienanmen's Squashed Protestor Yummy Foods-2-Go (shown here) on Shameful Environmental Damage Boulevard all the way to the Human Rights Violations Square in downtown Tianjin. The depth of the shallow end is demonstrated here by Beijing's famous home crafts TV personality Mah-Tah Stoo-Watt, who is a scant 5 feet 2 inches in height, but still has enough of her head above water to scarf down a bowl of raw squid entrails without drowning.
The depth of the water at other end of the pool, 80 miles to the west, is not known. Officials are hoping that bodies will bob to the surface in the Enemies Of The Glorious Revolution Deep End so that they can judge the depth by the time it takes for their ascent. Meantime, the newly-founded Republic Of Mafia has petitioned the IOC to introduce a new sport to the games, The Jimmy Hoffa Hiding Competition, which would likely require some extra seating to be built in Tianjin's Leaded Paint And Choking Children's Toys District, adjacent to the deep end.
The President Of France Meets The Press
The Press: Bonjour, Mister President, thank you for taking the time to meet with us today.
President Sarkozy: It is my pleasure, you lice-infested whore.
The Press: Mister President, it has been widely reported that you insulted a French citizen at an agricultural fair yesterday. Can you tell us what you said to him?
President Sarkozy: Those reports are false, of course. I told a gentleman with an exceptionally large nose that he looked like a bloated pelican. It was a compliment. In fact, he smelled very wholesome.
The Press: Many people who attended the event say that you called him a 'bastard' or an 'asshole'. Is this correct?
President Sarkozy: Absolutely scurrilous lies, I must insist. The gentleman clearly had a medical issue, and I felt it was my duty to help him. It appeared that a large rodent, perhaps a vole or a beaver, had ravaged a number of the more important fleshy parts of his body, and his resulting appearance was that of perhaps a walrus that had accidentally passed under the propellor of a passing oil tanker. He was unfortunately hideous, and it looked to me as though all that might be remaining of him was his asshole. I certainly did not mean to imply anything that might be considered uncomplimentary or insulting to him. Quite the contrary, in fact. I was trying to help him.
The Press: Mister President, had you ever seen this man before?
President Sarkozy: Yes, and I can say that I admire him. He is a man of impeccable taste. I had noticed him prior to our encounter, and he was staring at my wife's breasts. She has two, you know. And they are spectacular. Forgive me, but did you know that your face closely resembles the underside of an abbatoir's waste bin?
The Press: Yes. Thank you for your time today, Mister President.
President Sarkozy: It has been my pleasure. And may I say that your many obvious flaws are quite regrettable. I am most sympathetic.
Thank you for your indulgence. As it turns out, it wasn't so much a lack of funny that was taking the wind out of my sails. It was winter. But once the driveway was cleared of snow, thanks to the kindness of my new neighbour Aspidistra, I've started feeling a resurgence. A rebirth, as it were. She's a frisky little thing, who can make steel-toed workboots look as pretty as a pair of slippers.
It won't be much longer. Just a little business to take care of, and it's back to blogging (wink wink).
It's this or steroids
Would it bother you folks too much if I took a bit of a breather? The dipstick in my funnybladder has been reading 'Empty' recently, and I just seem to be a bit too exhausted to do anything about it.
As a last resort, I had a Greek olive right this very minute, just before going to bed, but its curative powers are unproven. Chances are, I'll just fart in a few minutes and go back to sleep. By all means, if I have anything more interesting to report, I'll be in touch immediately.
And I'll be reading your blogs. Count on it.
Thank you for your kind comments. I don't care what people say, I think you guys are pretty cool. See you soon.
Codpecker Inlet Royalty On Parade
The fourth Saturday in January marks the traditional beginning of Frost Heave Season in the greater Tidal Flats region, when prolonged freezing and plowing cause the asphalt surfaces of Barnacle Boulevard to crumble and disintegrate, a welcome harbinger to another pothole-riddled Spring in Codpecker Inlet. It's also the day that Codpecker Inlet's beloved Monarchs don their splendid attire and lead the lavish Annual Parade Of The Royals through the crush of adoring Peckerites, who line the sidewalks of Barnacle Boulevard hoping to catch a glimpse of royalty. Here, dressed in brand new clothes for the occasion, Emperor Jimbo and Empress Becky greet their admirer outside the Valu-Mart Pickle Emporium, obviously pleased that a resident braved the inclement sprinkles to enjoy the festivities. Out of range of our cameras, the spectacularly decorated John Deere backhoe from Ace Excavating joins the parade, keeping a respectful distance from the royal party. Moments after this photo was taken, the Squalor family (Hal and Twyla, plus the three kids and Sparky the ferret) gathered outside Chuck's Bail Bonds to enjoy the spectacle, spontaneously lifting the festive atmosphere to an even greater level.
Following the parade, Emperor Jimbo and Empress Becky joined the Squalors for celebratory blueberry pancakes at the IHOP. The other celebrant apparently left early, and was unable to attend the Royal Breakfast. In all, it was an event of breathtaking proportions, a sure sign of Spring, and a measure of the esteem in which Codpecker Inlet's residents hold their beloved monarchy.
New Measures For The Forest Industry
The British Columbia government will appoint a roundtable to review government forestry regulations in an effort to buoy the ailing industry, Premier Gordon Campbell said Friday.
In unrelated news, the Parker sisters discovered a naked man sitting on their woodpile early Sunday morning. The sisters, Agatha and Lucille, were released from hospital after being treated for exposure to the reflection from a large washbasin, and apparently suffered no ill effects from occasional glimpses of the intruder's genitals. The unidentified man made his escape in a 1954 Austin Somerset with a sticky signal arm, after terrorizing the sisters for several minutes. The authorities arrived on the scene shortly after his departure, at which time the two sisters discovered that several bits of kindling were missing. Then they had tea.
Why They Want To Be Paid By The Hour
"Ugly Brandi?"
- nope.
"Ugly Wanda?"
- nope.
"Ugly Billie-Jo?"
- no.
"Ugly Samantha?"
- nope.
"Ugly Tallulah?"
- no.
"Ugly Bozina?"
- hmm ... nope.
"Ugly Valerie?"
- no.
"Ugly Tonya?"
- no.
"Ugly Tanya?"
- nope.
"Ugly Shaniqua?"
- no.
"Ugly Darlene?"
- you said Darlene?
"Yes."
- nope.
"Ugly Annie?"
- nope.
"Ugly Stella?"
- nope.
"Ugly Kevin?"
- she's a girl.
"Ugly Kevinette?"
- nope.
"Disproportionate Elizabeth?"
- you mean so you can call her Dizzy Lizzie?
"Yes."
- nope.
"Ugly Harriet?"
- nope.
"Bald Harriet?"
- nope.
"Harriet With The Thing On Her Nose?"
- well ... no.
"Angry Harriet?"
- no.
"Juiced Harriet?"
- no.
"Bald Brandi?"
- nope.
"Bald Wanda?"
- nope.
"Bald Billie-Jo?"
- there's a hyphen in that, right?
"Right."
- nope.
"Bald Yasmin?"
- nope.
"Bald Nancy?"
- nope.
"Bald Sister Bertrille?"
- what?
"Bald Caroline?"
- nope.
"Bald Prunella?"
- good god no.
"Bald Wendy?"
- no.
"Bald Betty With A Goiter?"
- ha. nope.
"Bald Betty With A Wart?"
- nope.
"Warty Betty?"
- no.
"Betty The Ugly Hump?"
- no.
"Scabrous Betty?"
- no.
"Psoriasis Betty?"
- nope.
"Not Nice To Touch Betty?"
- nope.
"Tonsil-Face Betty?"
- nope.
"Ugly Betty?"
- Good. Okay, I like that. Thanks, Bob.
Week 10:
Doctor's Orders
Doc tagged me, and it's not like me to ignore the advice of a medical practitioner, so here we go.
First, the rules: Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself on your blog, tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs. Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
1.
Tom Cruise is my twin brother. We were born on June 17th 1960, 23 minutes apart (I'm the oldest). Apparently twins weren't in our parents' plans because they got divorced a few hours after we were born, and they decided to split all their assets right down the middle. Mom got the double-wide plus Tom, and Dad got the VW van conversion and me, plus the brand new Philips swiveltop black and white TV.
Mom had been a waitress at a dinner theatre when she was single, so show business was pretty much in her blood, and she sent Tom to acting school as soon as he was in Junior High school. Dad thought acting was a bit poofy, so he enrolled me in bricklaying school after I graduated. I thought that was a bit of a crappy deal, since Tom was already getting bit parts on TV, so I threatened to quit unless Dad sweetened the pot a little. So he gave me the VW van, which by then had 450,000 miles on it, and promised me I didn't have to be a Scientologist. I figured bird in the hand, and went for it.
2.
As luck would have it, we discovered I was allergic to cement almost the same day Dad finished paying for my textbook and my very first trowel. Bummer. So, I spent the rest of the summer playing pool and doing heart surgery on neighbourhood pets. Towards the end of summer I got a job as a lifeguard at the Hello Kitty Daycare wading pool, and while I was there I was approached by a woman named Wanda Fupping, who turned out to be a world famous brain surgeon. Her kids were under my care for an hour a day, and apparently she was quite taken by my stunning physique and my charming demeanour. One day, she mentioned that her assistant had decided to go back to hairstyling school and wondered if I might be interested in learning entry level brain surgery. What a break! With my heart surgery experience, I figured I was a natural. I jumped at the chance.
Over the next 15 months I not only earned my Certified Brain Surgeon Apprentice ticket, I became the youngest Brain Surgeon ever to graduate from the Brains Is For Thinking Correspondence College Of Brain Surgery and Screen Door Repair in Tierra del Fuego. Once I had established my credentials, and my patients' survival rate began to creep into the double figures, Dr. Fupping gave me an opportunity to spearhead the establishment of the Codpecker Inlet Stop 'n Think Drop-In Brain Surgery Clinic, which was to become the first drive-in brain surgery clinic in Canada. Our first patient, Newton Pucky, kindly gave us permission to let his brains appear in our promotional photo, which appeared on page 2 of the Codpecker Inlet Gazette on October 12, 1983:
This same photo was proudly displayed at the head table of the Rotary Club Hall during Mr. Pucky's memorial service later that week. The Pucky family were so taken with our efforts that they had Newton's brains bronzed. They are still displayed on a shelf in a bookcase in the rec room of Newton's mom's rest home in Clam Bay, and this picture is right next to it. I couldn't be more proud.
3.
Having access to brains when the owners weren't around was a real bonus. Usually we only needed a brain for a day or two, mostly just for a lobotomy or a mood control adjustment, something simple like that. However, most people thought their brains were more complicated than that, so they would leave them at the Drop-In Brain Surgery Clinic for a week or two when they thought they wouldn't be needing them, like when they were going on a honeymoon or doing their taxes. By then we were so busy we had hired a part-time assistant named Mungo, a wild guy with huge intelligence but no common sense. For Mungo and I, those extra days meant that we could get the surgery done in a few hours, and then have the rest of the time to embed chips and try out our circuitry on a racetrack we built in the parking lot behind the clinic. Mungo was brilliant. He brought in two remote control cars from his home, a Ferrari and a Porsche, and build a kind of saddle in each car that fit in the cockpit and could hold a brain. Then he built a VLSI interface between the remote controllers and the brain's motor cortex that fit perfectly in the brain cavity, and we raced cars around the parking lot for hours.
Mungo even figured out how to induce artificial road rage. One day he put a road rage chip in Mrs. Paisley's brain and put her in the Ferrari, and then I raced her against his Porsche that had Gunther Humbuck's brain in it. You need to know that Gunther is a big bad-tempered guy, a longshoreman who is mean as hell, and Mrs. Paisley is the Welcome Wagon lady, 85 if she's a day. Well. Gunther and Mrs. Paisley went into an S-turn neck and neck, and Mungo decided to have Gunther swerve and force Mrs. Paisley off the track. Her Ferrari did a couple of donuts, hit the side of the clinic and stopped dead. She wouldn't respond to my commands, so I put the controller down and went to move her car manually. Just at that moment she took off, entirely on her own, and started ramming Gunther's car over and over again. She actually gave him a concussion. When Gunther got back from his Las Vegas weekend and wanted his brain back, we had to make up some lame excuse about how the equipment wasn't made for a brain as big as his, and it accidentally got damaged. He didn't buy it, though. The concussion was giving him headaches, and he really got pissed off. Long story short: he called the police, they found the Porsche with his DNA on it, Dr. Fupping fired both of us, and Mungo and I had to go to court for driving without a license.
4.
While I was in prison I made some serious lifestyle changes, if you catch my drift. I had been sentenced to two years less a day, and that's a lot longer than it sounds. For a while my roommate was a cute little guy from Iran, as queer as a three-dollar bill, who had been given 30 days for soliciting. I had no interest in gay sex before then, because I had never had any problem getting women to pay attention to me on the outside. Gay wasn't even an option. But prison is prison. There's not much to do, but lots of time to do it, and the place is wall-to-wall guys. Moomie was on my case as soon as he arrived. He'd flirt with me, and sit with me at mealtime, do my laundry, give me massages, make my bed ... everything. I didn't stand a chance.
Imagine my surprise after I finished my time, and discovered that Moomie had been elected President of Iran.
5.
One of the skills I learned in prison was puppetry. I used to make puppets out of soap, by scraping the bars of soap on the cement walls until they were the shape I wanted. Then I would dress them in little costumes that the book lady used to bring me, and I would put on shows in the common area on weekends.
I figured if Tom can make a living in show business, maybe I should give it a try as well. This is me with my favourite puppet, a little freckly guy I named Palmolive Ultra Moisturizing All Natural.
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