I Long For The Dulcet Tones Of Vanilla Ice.

Hey Kids,

You know when white people try to rap?

And not in the Linkin Park way, I mean when pasty-ass white kids (as white as me) try to get all gangsta on your ass? It's worked once. Eminem did it, was good at it, and was successful. Kid Rock did it, and was successful, but I won't go so far as to say that he was any good.

And now there's Damian. Yes, his name's Damian. He's from Windsor, that hotbed of street cred and hip-hop talent. He's Polish-Canadian (moved here as a small child, so thankfully there's no accent), and he has created the worst insult to the Terpsichorean muse that the world has ever known.

Here: (click this to hear a giant douchebag bleating over bad GarageBand beats)

We've got twelve "songs" and six "beats" here. The songs speak for themselves, but I think this mongoloid just made the beats by dropping his mac down a flight of extra-lame stairs and then peeing himself.

And I'd like to skirt the edge of hypocrisy here by saying something about his potty-mouth.

I know, I am rather fond of nasty language. Sometimes too fond. I think I said 'shit' accidentally in front of my grandmother last weekend. She didn't care, but still, it's my grandma, for God's sake. Anyway, this shithead's lyrics are generally about all the pussy he definitely doesn't get. By which I mean that the songs are at least half composed of graphic descriptions of disgusting and deviant sex acts, as well as the regular sex acts, but it's sort of infused overall with the vibe that this guy has never, ever been bare naked with a girl. I mean, that's cool, save it for the one and only girl if you want, but don't rap, poorly and inaccurately, about ass that you never got. The only bits that have a ring of truth to them are the parts about masturbation.

Now, this guy's playing tonight at a banquet hall in Windsor, at an all-you-can-eat spaghetti dinner to benefit the Downtown Mission. Which is cool; I mean, he's helping out. But I have to wonder if this is Damian being charitable and donating his time out of the goodness of his heart or if it's the only gig he can get. The show is from 5 to 9 pm (!) and Damian will be booed off stage around 7:10.

And there's another one.

I have nothing against Christianity. Let's get that up front right here. I know there are some rather devout people reading this, and I love 'em all. I know I'm kind of a dick, but I really try to be open-minded. I was Catholic when I was a kid (which, they tell me, is a kind of Christianity), so I've developed a rather cynical world view, but I think faith is necessary and important... blah blah. For Chuck's full discourse on religion, send a 3x5 card with your name and address to 666 Spadina Ave (that is really my address - Ask Joel; he got his car towed from it).

But this next kid, from Dallas, is just like if you took Damian and took out all the bits about guns and pussy and inserted bits about Jesus and doing right and how he liked English class and his friends and stuff. Still talks about 'gettin the honeys', but he won't even say 'damn' (e.g. 'dang straight').* But everything he does is so fucking lame, it's really astonishing. It's like if Rod and Todd Flanders joined the Wu-Tang Clan. This is, siply, the most astonishingly lame thing I've ever heard. He makes Damian look like Flava Flav and Busta Rhymes combined, Voltron-style.

We have to stop this guy before he scares more people away from Christianity. His heart is in the right place, I'm sure, but the Pope would kick this guy's ass on general principle, were they to meet.

And the worst of it is... I'm ashamed to say this... he goes by the name of...

C-Money.

Which is a thing that Joe and Joel sort of call me from time to time.

Click to hear this fuckwad.

And that's enough of that shit.

By the way, in lieu of a proper website, I stuck our stuff up on the same site (It's not all losers; Snoop Dogg's on it, and Orgy, NOFX, DFA1979, Hawk Nelson (who we know(of)), Red Hot Chili Peppers, and a bunch of shite punk bands that seem to be ruling the airwaves (alexisonfire, at the disco, fall out boy, my chemical romance, and other cookie cutter emo kids)).

Honestly, check out the parentheses in the last paragraph. I am so good.

So, here we are: Vincible.

Shake it easy, people. But shake it nonetheless.

shit, I need a new signoff....

C-&?

fuck.






* Now, to me, 'dang' is only a replacement for 'damn', representing the same intent, so it's just as (bad/good/effective). It's not the word that's important, it's the thought behind it. Words are nothing but audible expressions of the thoughts we want to communicate, so if you say 'dang', you mean 'damn' and that's all there goddamn is to it.

The Bowels Of Humanity Are Nothing, If Not Busy.

So, you know the difference between a drunk guy and a drunk, right?

Apart from the word being used as an adjective and then a noun, saying 'drunk guy' is implying that the guy's usually sober, and is now drunk, whereas the drunk is generally sauced, and, if caught sober, would be referred to as a 'sober drunk'.

There is a futher, but similar, difference between a drunk and a Goddamn disgraceful drunk. I'm quite sure I don't need to explain this; we've all either been that drunk, or seen it at New Year's somewhere, throwing up on himself in a Subway, but we've never done it at two in the afternoon, on a bus, in Etobicoke.

The residents of the Mimico neighbourhood are all Goddamn disgraceful drunks. All of them.

Let me describe him to you:

• Gimme T-Shirt (either Blue, Canadian or some sort of golf ball)
• Cutoff Jeans, worn low, but not for fashionable reasons; just because a belt and cutoff jeans (extra fringe) don't go together. It's like the white-trash version of blue pants and brown shoes.
• No Gitch. Fuck, why do they all do this and then bend over to help the lady get her baby carriage on?!? Not only are you shitfaced, and manhandling some other lady's children, but you're now showing me things that would make an ER nurse blow her groceries.
• 1992 Nike Air Cross-trainers. Can't wear them basketball shoes; wouldn't want your friends to think you liked something that black people like, so you gotta make do with these. remember the upturned-toe look? Yeah. And no socks.
• Might be a mullet, might be just long hair, but it's flat, and greasy, and under a hat.
• Several missing teeth, and one (only one) of the ones that's left is orange because that's where the Player's light goes.
• At least two large steel rings with either skulls or eagles on them. So it looks real scary when you threaten to punch your nine-year-old.

Now, this guy might be twenty; he might be seventy. In any case, he has to shake the bus driver's hand for some reason. Always. Every damn time. And he has to ask how much it is, every damn time, even if he took the same bus an hour ago. And when you tell him it's two seventy-five, he drops in three bucks and asks if it's okay, as if the goddamn mayor's gonna jump up from the back of the bus and demand that he take his quarter back.

And then -- and this is the best part-- he winks at you in a conspiratorial fashion, as if you've just helped him defraud... something, anything... and he laughs. Just a little chuckle, but it sends a VISIBLE SPRAY OF WISER'S INTO THE AIR. You have to turn on the defroster now, because your window's all fogged with bad rye, and your whole bus smells like that and slightly used pizza.

In eight hours, today, there were at least sixty of this guy. That's once every eight minutes, we're seeing in inebriated mongoloid making his way from his rec room to the worst bar in the world. And there are four buses out there experiencing the same volume as I am... and how many of these baboons are driving?

And as far as the bars go, they all make the Diplomat look like Club Fucking Fifty-Four.

But, I suppose, for every one of these asses, there's a Stephen Hawking, a Mother Theresa, a... John Stamos. The world balances, somewhat. Life finds a way, a wise man once said.

So, then. What time is it?

Oh.

Finally. Sweet, Spicy Cooba.

Because they say it that way. The don't say 'keyouba' like we do.

No, they pronounce it in a most outlandish and disturbing manner.

'Cooba.'

But it's sunny, the booze was free and the cigars were cheap, so who really gives a fuck?

Yes, kids, it's time for Captain Chuck to tell you all about the approximately three percent of Cooba that he saw, which, naturally, was either the 'good three percent' or at least a reasonble cross-section of the island and its 500 years of history.

Apparently some guy discovered Cooba way back in

(partial deletion due to boredom)

but then Kennedy tried to invade them in '61 and they had a big pissing contest over some missiles, then... well, I guess that's it. The Soviets went tits-upsky, and Cooba was broke all of a sudden, so they all put on their good shirt and said, "Hey, Canada! Hey, fat German Speedo enthusiasts! Come on over here and we'll play salsa for you, and tell you it's salsa from Cooba every time we do!"

The food was bland, there was a douchebag from Montreal there that attempted to fuck everything in Cooba that looked like it might have been concealing a vagina somewhere, and I got a moderate sunburn, but it was fun.

We rode horses.

But they don't have big Canadian horses there, to fit my big Canadian ass. No, they had Negrito (that was the horse's name, not a racial slur. Translates to 'Blackie', fo the liguists among you). He was almost as tall as a regular horse, but if you walked around behind him, he sort of disappeared. He was one narra-ass horse. I was never in danger of falling off, but Jose, coming up behind the horse and whacking it on the ass with a stick to make it run, did not exactly instill confidence in me. And Giggity-Goddamn, did it hurt the next day. Not my ass, which I expected, although I should have realized that my ass is very well padded. No, it was everything else. Pretty much anything you use to hang on to a skinny horse for dear life, hurt. But it was still fun, and for fifteen pesos, how can you go wrong? Insurance? Helmets? For pussies, I say.

Yeah, we went to Havana, too. Lots of old buildings and sweet-ass old cars. It's bizarre, because all the shit went down in 1961, so that's where the line is drawn for Yank cars. the latest model American car I saw was a 1959 Thinderbird, and it was FUCKING SICK. All the other cars are Japanese, European, and a fair few of them were Russian. Lada AND Skoda, would you believe! The rental cars were all Peugeot 206's, all brand new. I'd've liked to take one out, but I've done too many Gran Turismo rally races in a 206... it would have gone badly.

Shit, what else did we do? Spent half a day walking around this little market trying not to buy anything on the four-page list of endangeres species... and the rest of our vacation was pretty much all...

Let me tell you about the Varadero Peninsula. It's not really an island. Get it? Of course you do. Anyway, The V.P. is 20 kilometres long, 1/2 a kilometre wide, and is almost all white sand beach. What do you think we did? Nothing. We sat on the beach and read books. We swam ocasionally. We made the odd foray back to the bar for beer (me) and mojitos (Tanya). The beer's okay down there, too; it's pretty much a straight-ahead lager. Like Canadian, I suppose, but with a little less on the back end. It's refreshing, though, like Corona, say, or Beck's. Good beer.

Except in the evening, of course, they had these little shows they put on. Sometimes it was a trivia thing, or one night it was a magic show, or whatever. Doesn't matter, but the M.C. killed us. Slaughtered us with our own laughter that all the European people didn't get. Because it was this grimacing Cooban dude in a white suit, and every time anything happened, the DJ would put on 'Axel F', the theme from Beverly Hills Cop, and he'd do this little dance, hoist up one eyebrow, and leer at the audience. He was a goddamn stitch. We didn't watch the shows, we just waited for this guy to come back out. Hilarious. He was like a slightly ghetto Ricky Ricardo.

So that was Cooba. I'm quite sure there was nothing else on the entire island worth seeing or doing, and I say that with a factual assurance that can only come from years of spewing utter horseshit and KNOWING, not thinking but KNOWING FOR ROCK-SOLID FACT that you're still gonna buy it. Oh, you'll talk about me behind my back, but you'll come back. You always do.

Insufficency Wins The Day! More to Follow!

What a horrid-looking man.


But then, it's not really his fault. He's French, and hisname is Reggie.



Anyway, it's 11:46pm on Monday. I woke up yesterday at 6:30am in Cuba, flew home, drove a bus until 5:58am this morning, slept for four and a half hours, and drove a bus intil an hour ago.


But you need to know about the next beer.com article; a warning, if you will against those funky chicks we've all met in the online dating community. You, know, with all that online dating that we all do. On the internet. Chicks.


Anyway, probably Wednesday I'll have a full post going with several funny things about Cuba, and some absolutely non-Photoshopped pictures.

Until then, bend an elbow for me.
Chuck