The Incident On Cake Mountain.

  For those not in the know, Hasbro made phallic extruder and put it in a Play-Doh Sweet Shoppe Cake Mountain play set. There was some huge stink. Some woman proclaimed it ruined Christmas. Right-wing libertarian bloggers have labeled the images NSFW! I don’t know what the hell they are going to do with it. I doubt there is much room next to the enormous cob they already have up there. Regardless it is now in that context. Of course, Hasbro is offering to exchange the toy. And, while I do have to admit that it does look like sex toy, I must also admit that this whole thing is insipid. It is really just a bunch of hyper sexualized adults putting it into this context, the kids have no idea what is happening. The kids are alright.

  Let’s get one thing straight, it doesn’t look like a penis, it looks like a dildo. Get your lexicon calibrated you value projecting, sexually repressed idgits. Honestly, your kids are just enjoying making cakes with Play-Doh. They are not yet cognizant enough of the world or the contents of the top drawer of your bedside table to know that anything is aloof. Although, now that you are taking it away from them and, soon replacing it with a new one, they will. Sure you can make up some story, but due to the magic of alcohol and internet, this topic is sure to come up in their twenties, when you aren’t around to protect them. A drink, a wistful walk along Reminiscing About Your Childhood Lane, and a quick google will bring this incident back to the light. Then you will have some explaining to do. Especially if Santa brought them the dang thing.

  The kids don’t really need to be protected. It doesn’t explode. There are no small pieces that they can swallow. It just looks like dildo. Which they don’t know about. So, why is there a recall? Is it because you can’t be trusted with your child’s toy? Does the voice in your head keep repeating the slogan, “Once it is done extrudin’, it’s time for your intrudin’!” Your kid isn’t going to do anything weird with it or at least not that kind of weird.

  Furthermore, how did this thing get into your child’s possession to begin with? I mean, surely your kid didn’t pour two fingers into a tumbler, grab the smokes by the door and take the minivan to the nearest big box, did they? Although, you are the one that bought them a dildo! Did you just randomly pick up boxes of toys and pitch them in the cart in a mad rush to get home and watch The Voice or whatever it is that people who don’t care about their children watch? It is on the front of the box! I googled it! I took the time, because I care more about this blog and its readers than you do about your child.

  In the end, your kid was going realize how much it did resemble a dildo. After they had grown up. They were going to look back and wonder about the horn dog designer, the bible thumping naivetes in quality assurance department at Hasbro, and why you let them play with it. Giving you a chance to have a teary ole heart to heart about how innocent your kid was and that they didn’t understand back then. Instead, they are going to get an extruder that is still phallic and a dirty shameful feeling every time they decorate a cake.

The Elf On A Shelf Can Go Stuff Itself!

  A couple of years ago I walked into Target Canada and saw the horrendous capitalist abortion, The Elf on the Shelf: A Christmas Tradition. Yeah, a tradition of lead paint, smoking while pregnant and hating Russians. Holy crap, what decade is this thing from? Honestly, has opening up a box of Kraft Dinner become so labour intensive that we don’t have time to create our own Christmas traditions? Especially ones not based a creepy doll watching your children and being a jerk around the house. Ones that look as though they crawled out of the rose colored past. Between the aesthetics and the prefab tradition, how could people not hate this thing. If you need swaying, read on. If you don’t, Merry Christmas you like minded bastard. Read on!

  First, the aesthetics. They harken back to a time before designers, polio vaccines and plastic. Which, ironically, that is what the elf’s perfect head is made from. The Elf on the Shelf’s expression is frozen in a “who me?” pose. You can almost hear the officer on the other side of the glass asking number three in the police line up to step forward. The same number held by the elf himself! However, in some cases it could be herself as the elf resources department is equal opportunity, as long as the elves are white or ethnically ambiguous brown. Next, the pointy little feet – as pointy as the seemingly hate group inspired hat upon its arian head – legs pour into feet due to a lack of ankles. Ankles that had to be broken in order to escape the shackles of justice of the Mexican prison the elf was held in. Which was not the last time the elf replaced its stuffing with cocaine and tried to cross the border. Just the only time it got caught.

  Second, the tradition. This is some other families tradition. Neatly boxed up with a book. The lousy movie is sold separately. I am sure, within the last four hundred years, there were other families who did similar things. But these go-getters were all, “I’m tired of being upper middle class on Christmas.” And have since started a new tradition of being rich! There are plenty of traditions and many of  them don’t cost forty bucks. The ones that do should get you drunk! Call me a cheap ass, but couldn’t you just make your own tradition, sans creepy doll? Your pediophobia laden child will thank you! How about a nice advent calendar, some hay for the reindeer or spaghetti sandwiches for Toy Boy, AKA Kakeman.

  Seriously, standing under the mistletoe, screaming the lyrics to “Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer,” while sloshing what little is left of your eleventh Jack, with all of your friends and family standing around you doing the hokey-pokey is a Christmas tradition. It is weird and possibly creepier than the damn elf, but it is one you made on your own! You did it! And when you look up to that shelf – as the oxygen deprived tears well up in your eyes, as you belt out the third rendition, as you find yourself  profoundly moved by your friends shaking it all about – and you spy that mother-stuffing elf on your shelf. The one you bought to be ironic because you are such a hipster. Grab it! Make it quick and clean. Hold it firmly so it doesn’t run. Have a friend open the door. And lastly, look it straight in the eyes say “I voted for Dukakis!” Then punt it out on the freshly fallen snow. Boom! Elf punting! New tradition! Merry Christmas!

One Small Observation From A Vegetarian In Regard To Gluten Free People.

  Okay, I am a vegetarian! My wife and I pretty much went cold tofurkey back in November of 2007. She had made a bet with a co-worker that she won within a month. After that, there was two month transition, where we settled our accounts, cleaned out the freezer, and had our last traditional Christmas dinner. By February we were completely clean and haven’t fallen off the wagon once.

  So after seven years my dietary decision is still a fairly hot topic. I am ovo-lacto, that means I will eat eggs and dairy. I stick to free range eggs and small local dairies. I will also use other products where animals were not slaughtered, such as honey. I will avoid animal stocks and oils.

  “Do you eat fish?” Is it a slaughtered animal? No! Pescetarianism is for quitters. They are trans-dietarian, carnivores stuck in vegetarians bodies. Also, if I did eat meat, it wouldn’t be from the overfished ocean!

  “But you eat eggs.” Yeah because I am pro-choice. I don’t want to be hypocrite. Also, the eggs are not fertilized and, once again, the chickens are free range. Yes, real free range. I checked-out the eggery, ovary, rootin-tootin egg ranch, or whatever it is called. Honestly, I don’t even know what to type into google.

  “And you eat off of grills where meat was cooked, you scandalous bastard.” What is this the fucking Spanish Inquisition! This seems like it is a religious choice fraught with persecution. All I am trying to do is avoid harming and slaughtering animals. Food production economics and my health are secondary benefits.

  Within recent years there has been a spike in people who can’t eat gluten. Celiacs disease is apparently a fucking pandemic. Look, I understand that there are people who actually can’t eat gluten. Who were told they shouldn’t eat gluten by a doctor. It’s the other ones I have an issue with. For the love of fuck people, you are supposed to fart! It is cool, everyone does it. Some of us just do it better. Especially me, after a bowl of vegetarian chili I can go full Umbrella Man.

  Anyway, gluten free folk walk up to the same people that were asking me all those questions above and announce, in a very Marvin the Martian like voice. “I don’t eat gluten.” No pins drop, no records skip, no one bats an eye, no questions asked! “We weren’t supposed to eat wheat,” they continue as they take a bite of lamb shank.

  I don’t think we were supposed to eat meat either. In fact, I can’t even bite through an onion ring without pulling out the scalding hot slime of pain causing first degree burns on my chin[1]. While my dog stares at me with a an expression that says, “Dude, your teeth suck!” Much less take down a gazelle and tear out its throat.

  Yeah, we were totally supposed to eat meat! What the hell are we supposed to eat? Were we even meant to survive? Maybe we were just meant to live in trees, throw fecal matter, and rage hump magic mushrooms in a glorious mating ritual that happens every Tuesday. Except we wouldn’t know it was Tuesday because magic mushroom rage humping fecal flingers don’t have calendars, typically. I don’t know. Maybe I should just take it as a compliment that my being a vegetarian is a conversation piece and not the tax forms of the food world.

[1] Which is why I have grown a beard, to cover the scars.