Lindsay was said to be very upset upon discovering that the role had been given to Tara Reid twelve years ago, and that her agent had not informed her.

“Tara Reid? Fuck. Her gut looks like Roseanne’s ass,” Lohan said as cameras and reporters caught her entering her limo on the way to LAX.

Although only 12 at the time of production, Lohan was considered the odds-on favorite for the role as she was already displaying many of the whorish characteristics required of the supporting female character.

Reports from inside the Lohan camp reveal that Lindsay made the discovery after joining Netflix and searching movies containing the word “Big.”

“I can’t believe those motherfucking Jew bastards didn’t pick me,” Lohan was overheard saying while picking out $366 Alexander Wang tank top at Traffic in Beverley Hills this morning.

“I’ve dedicated the last twelve years of my life to this role,” reported a bemused Lohan when reporters caught up with her poolside at the Four Seasons. “Life as a voluptuary has been taxing.  I’m starting to feel like Gargamel, only I put cocaine up my nose instead of smurfs.”

“Do you have any idea how many guys I blew for a thousand dollars…while Sam sat by and played the role of Brandt? Well I’ll tell you. A lot. That’s how many.”

Bunny Lebowski, an obstinate whore, contumacious of Jeffrey’s wishes, was thought to have been the perfect role for Lindsay.

“We felt that Tara Reid was the appropriate choice for the role,” said casting director John S. Lyons. “If the movie was coming out in 2010 instead of 1998, Lindsay wouldn’t have needed to audition. She’d have been perfect.”

This blog looks a little thinner today. I’ve deleted all of the shit that I’ve been posting lately. I thought that a daily online presence would help inspire me, but it has just made me lazy and embarassed. This blog was initially a creative outlet for satirical works and political rantings. At times a poem or story. My experiment the last couple of weeks has not worked, and will now cease. My apologies for getting off-track. Do note, that I have been getting more hits the last two weeks than I’ve ever had, nearly 200 one day last week. There is no accounting for taste, as can be demonstrated by your continued readership. Nonetheless, I can’t continue to post this uninspired drivel. I will post when I have something good to say, or say nothing at all.

Kindly,

MZ

Dusk and driving, so deceiving

Dilating eyes, a mushroom trip

Leather gloves for extra grip

Approaching split, decision time

Indecisive shifting grind

Rainbows, bunnies, orchids nigh

The signs point here, the stars align

Frightened by the unknown path

Arching oaks and untamed wrath

The road denied, chimerical

The fear instilled, apocryphal

A metaphor from children’s lit

Looks obvious from where you sit

But as the fingertip exposes

Thorns attach to pretty roses

You are a wonderful creation. You know more than you think you know, just as you know less than you want to know.

Altered book

I was sitting in the Village with Jenny Amber on a Wednesday night last month, watching her eat an unimpressive pad thai, when we came upon a life summating analogy.

Jenny and I tend to have conversations about heartache, depression, dreams, vocabulary, angst, embarrassment, confusion, literature (which we can call it, as opposed to ‘books’, which you can call it), general malaise, the sadistic fucks that create crosswords, and on rare occasion, a glimmer of sunshine that creeps through the clouds.

This context is supposed to give you the idea that we aren’t fucking about with the weather and the news. We’re trying to keep a certain brow, but often part ways feeling like bayards.

So as Jenny clamored that the “fucking pad thai here always blows,” I was telling her about the unparalleled satiety of my morning’s breakfast meal. It’s called the ‘I Want It All’ and it resides at the Cook & Pan, otherwise known as the Polish Deli.

In a city filled with breakfast joints, the Polish Deli can compete. The I Want It All consists of two eggs, three pieces of bacon, two pieces of white toast (as Wonderbread as toast gets) and four perogies that are homemade and fried in onions and ham. Have you ever slathered perogies in egg yolk? It’s as though some Ukrainian Jesus planned it concurrently with soil, seeds and rain.

But the point of this story is not the superb quality of the Polish breakfast. The story is about its name.

The “I Want It All.” Each Word In Caps. Each word as important as the one proceeding and the one succeeding (except the first and last, which cannot do both).

The I Want It All breakfast is so fucking good that it literally shines, like a star. This could have something to do with the fact that all portions, minus the toast, are fried, but it shines in the analogous sense as well.

It is a beautiful gift, like life. Each bite, deserved of as much attention as the one before. When you stop to savour it, you are rewarded with a blissful high, your senses jumping for joy; while simultaneously, a calming awareness that exposes the true pleasures in life. A contagious glow enraptures all who revel in it.

I am still talking about breakfast, but the same can be said for life. The more time you take to acknowledge its rapturous pleasure and refined simplicity, the more you will notice, that the I Want It All breakfast, doesn’t come with hashbrowns.

“Yes My Lord.”

Imprudently, the King seals his fate.

He rises, and steps behind the curtain to have a word with the court jester.

“What do you have planned for us tonight, my dear Yorick?”

“Oh, much of the same your majesty. Some juggling, a few jokes, and perhaps a ruse or two.”

“Alas, poor Yorick. Why not try something new? Something bold?”

“What do you have in mind your majesty?”

“I want the people to be in awe. I want them to be astonished, and to look up in amazement. I want them to tremble.”

“Your majesty, the people are in awe of you. They tremble at your feet.”

“Then perhaps I can do a better job out there than you, my dear Yorick.”

And with that, the King removed his royal dress, and put on that of the court jester.

The horns sound, and the secretary begins.

“The Royal family is pleased to present the most clever of His Majesty’s servants. The one! The only!! Yorick!!!”

Through the curtain, the king, dressed in jester’s clothes, trots out. He waves and smiles. He pats backs and points his finger like a gun, winking.

He centers himself, and places his finger over his lips, signifying his desire for a quiet platform.

Once received, he begins:

“My name is Louis, the King of you rats. I am stronger, and faster, and smarter than you. God has sent me here to rule over you. I am as big as a Pyramid, and more wise than Da Vinci. I’m as brave as a thousand soldiers. My blood is as pure as the Lord’s. I have my queen, but I’ll have your wife if I so please.”

The crowd is silent.

The King laughs nervously as he realizes his error.

The queen is sour. She will not tolerate such arrogance.

“Off with his head” she proclaims assertively.

The King is ceased by the guards.

He is lifted into the air, feet kicking, head frantically shaking back and forth.

“Have mercy my queen” he shouts.

She has no patience for this indiscretion. 

She cannot tolerate embarrassment. She cannot abide disrespect.

Her decision has been made.

And though she knows her decision to be correct, she wonders to herself, “didn’t that jester look like the king?”

He is dragged forthwith to the guillotine. 

The crowd and the queen follow. 

He is forced to his knees. 

His neck rests in the crescent shaped hollow. His adam’s apple compresses. He cannot speak.  He closes his eyes.

“I’m a bloody fool” he thinks to himself. 

The blade is released.

His eyes look up, and meet those of the queen.

Her hand shoots forth. 

A gasp.

The bucket is filled.

go slowly.

just take a second.

close your eyes.

be grateful.

breath.

breath deeply.

your lungs so full that your chin extends.

open your eyes and look up.

a sky so blue you mistake it for the ocean.

this is where you live.

paradise.

bring the cup up.

and breath.

peek down. 

discern.

the caramel layer says it all.

the sun, earth, and water, intertwined.

reap what’s been sown.

the labourers sweat.

their worn fingers, cracked.

their skin, black as night.

toiling the soil.

filling the burlap sack with seeds of love.

thank them.

bring the cup up again.

your nostrils flare.

breath deeply.

anticipate.

breath.

deeply.

all your cares. all your worries.

lost in liquid.

you can relax now.

you’ve found your bliss.

love your life.

My neighbour’s two boys (9 (Jack) and 10 (John)) come out of the house, and I hear their mom tell them to “go over and wait by the car.” I’ve never seen this request fulfilled, yet moms have been imploring it for decades.

The boys saunter down the sidewalk toward the car, and as they approach it, Jack notices something on the sidewalk. There is a dead bird on the ground. It’s been ripped open by some crows and is lying exposed, partially eaten belly up.

Jack crouches down to have a closer look, fascinated by the blood and guts that have spilled out. He’s pointing and oooing and ahhing, and as Jack is bent over on his inspection, John comes from his blind side, draws his leg back, and squarely gives what’s left of the bird’s frame a punt. The bird carcas flies up, grazing Jack’s brow, and thuds high up on the mailbox.

It drops back to Earth and Jack bolts, screaming to his mom that “John kicked a dead bird. John kicked a dead bird.”

John turns and frantically chases Jack down the sidewalk, hoping to catch Jack before he can relay this news and avoid the repercussions. In his pursuit, his feet get moving a little too fast, his legs cross, and he tumbles to the ground.

What John hasn’t anticipated in his pursuit is that there is a second dead bird, and as he falls, his bare arm comes barreling down directly on it (I’m hoping we have cats in the neighbourhood and not a serial bird killer). Looking himself over for injury, he notices that his bare arm is now covered in blood, guts and feathers.

I’m officially laughing milk and Cheerios through my nose.

By this point, his mom is on the sidewalk helping him up, and is noticing the blood and guts all over John’s arm. She’s completely disgusted and is holding the kid at arm’s length, while still trying to comfort him by saying “don’t look at it. don’t look at it. don’t look at it.”

Karma is a bitch.

Each time it’s the same. 

The Spring Equinox whispers softly, and I awake.

I know what I have to do.

I’ve been waiting for this moment.  I’ll always wait for this moment. 

My despair itches. I yearn for honor.

I know what I am capable of, but the price is so high.

To know such glory, sacrifices must be made.

The sun, so blessed. It’s my time to shine, if ever so brief. 

It’s time to chase my dragon.

With a gasp, it begins.

The first bloom, a tease that seals my fate.

Then a bunch, so small, only the discerning take notice.

An innocent pace that doesn’t suit me. I’ve never been one for patience.

I am the preeminent hedonist. (Feign blush)

I breath in. I breath out.

From my core, I send wave after wave. I am long and sleek. My control is flawless.

I laugh maniacally, and blast forth.

With licentious vigor, I spawn irrepressibly.

Bliss rushes through my veins. Indescribable joy.  I forget.

My pace is supersonic, the results, sublime.

Pause and reflect for me. I don’t have much time.

A feat this great is evanescent.

A climax of pink petals. An open invitation of love.

I am a cloud, pinned to the earth.

I remember. I hadn’t really forgotten. I was trying to protect you. 

I was trying to protect me. 

It’s heart-wrenching.

I can only get so high.

With a love this strong, annihilation is inevitable.

A fate sealed in suicide.

My tears float gently toward the earth.

A sorrowful finale.

It is a tradition that I wouldn’t change if I could. 

My time is short, but my presence is everlasting. 

Each time it’s the same.

I am love. I am beauty. I will see you again. Remember me.