Friday, October 22, 2010

Roman Turek Profile In Courage Award


It's Friday, and that means just one thing: sailors do it wetter, soldiers do it better, and cowboys stay in the saddle just a little bit longer.

Huh? What? Oh yeah, yeah, you're right. It is also that time of the week when we present the Roman Turek Profile In Courage Award (the RTPIC)!

As you locals know, this was a pretty busy week. Elections and civic spirit for all it would seem. About half the city voted, which means you can start packing your snowballs and scheduling your vacations to hell; it seems to us that it may have gotten quite a bit cooler.

Congratulations to Barb Higgins for running a campaign, congratulations to Ric Mciver for not killing himself as the results rolled in, but the largest and heaviest dap is reserved for the winner, Naheed Nenshi. We poked fun at him a wee bit about him still living at home, but that just proves we are douchebags. His father is apparently very sick, and Nenshi is just being a good son. Of course, some of the Domebeer-aholics were eager to point out that the effeminate, 38 year old mayor is a bachelor. We got no comment.

So with the local loco out of the way, let's get to the nominees for this week.

Our first nominee is Google. For being evil, obviously. Actually, we applaud Google in it's efforts to pay as little tax as possible, as evidenced by their head office in the Cayman Islands, via Irish tax law, via negotiations with the IRS. Those negotiations must have been great theatre: Now, IRS guy, we are much, much smarter and wealthier than you. If we want, we won't pay Uncle Sam a dime. But because we are nice, here's a shekel. Now go run along, you have mom and pop shop owners to harass.

Honestly, Domebeer-aholics, you know we love the flat tax concept here, and now you know a little more why. Under flat tax, you eliminate all those pesky little loopholes rich people get their lawyers to lobby for in the tax code. Which means a company like Google would have to pay whatever the proscribed rate is, not a made up 2.5% rate they are only paying for PR anyways.

But hey, if you still think byzantine tax codes, political influence, and Jacobin progressive tax rates are good things, power too you. You're only slightly less stubborn than Darryl Sutter is with his Olli Jokinen fetish.

Our second nominee is Richard Branson. Oh, we're sorry, that's Sir Richard Branson. Sir Branson's Virgin is close to offering space tourism. In case you are jaded, that means he is taking people up from Earth into Space-space. Not space-one mile above the earth where you can see black, but space-space, where your head explodes if you poke it out the window. Space-space, where Buzz Aldrin lost his mind-mind. You crazy capitalist, Branson, what will you think up next? A way to pay only 2.5% income tax, he replies.

Our third nominee comes from California, which we point out only because if we didn't, you may assume it had taken place in Egypt. Why would we say that? Because this California women has been driving around town with a dead woman in her passenger seat, mummifying it. Is being insane a requirement to live in that bankrupt state? It's not required, but it sure seems to help. This woman, let's call her Patty in reference to her being of a property owning class, befriended this homeless woman, let's call her Pleby in reference to her non property owning status. Anyways, Patty the patrician and Pleby the plebian became fast friends, and would often hang out at Pleby's place, the city park. Anyways, one day Pleby asked Patty if she could sleep in Patty's car during the night. Patty agreed to this decision, and the arrangements were made. All was going swimmingly until Patty opened her car one day and discovered Pleby had decided that Patty's car was a perfect place to expire. Poor Patty, she has clients to get to. What to do? Throw clothes over the dead body, and buy a box of baking soda to deal with the smell, obviously. And that is just what Patty did, and continued to do so for about 10 months. Turns out if you treat a body in this manner, it turns into a mummy, which a curious passerby had the unfortunate fate to discover. Patty hadn't done anything with Pleby's body because she thought she would get blamed. Only in America.

This week's winner of the Roman Turek Profile In Courage Award is: Garbage Baby!


Or Dumpster Baby, if you prefer. The story should be familiar to most of you by now. That old tale about boy meets fat girl, boy's fat girl is so fat boy fails to realize she is pregnant, fat girl goes Sparta on boys baby, boy discovers his baby in dumpster. Who hasn't been in that situation, right?

The best quote ever: "When I first met her, you would almost assume that she would have been pregnant and she wasn't."

While the father and mother of the baby were busy dealing with the police, Dome Beers managed to get an exclusive interview with Garbage Baby.

DB is Dome Beers, GB is Garbage Baby.

DB: So, Garbage Baby, can we call you Garbage Baby?

GB: Ha ha ha. Let's all point and laugh at the guy who was taking a nap in some garbage. Very mature. Listen DB, I'm like 5 hours old. I didn't know it wasn't socially acceptable to sleep in a pile of used ketchup bottles and empty Frito-Lay bags, ok? So just back the hell off.

DB: So...

GB: Yeah, you can call me Garbage Baby.

DB: Good. So Garbage Baby, your mom claims she didn't know she was pregnant...

GB: Yeah, I've heard that, DB, and I have to say, I'm not to happy about it. I mean, how stupid could you possibly be, right? And this woman is my mother, so I may have her stupid genes in my blood. It's really scary to think that I may grow up to be a fat idiot like my mom. It's chilling, it really is. I have this whole life ahead of me, and I can't just go out and live it because I may be a fat stupid slob.

DB: Garbage Baby with some harsh words for his mother.

GB: I should apologize. It's all the cigarette butts I was smoking, you know, when I was abandoned in a garbage. I never believed those advertisements, but those things really are addictive.

DB: What?

GB: Yeah, someone had thrown out a pack. There was this gross picture of a baby that had been born too early because his mom smoked on the pack. How soft is that? I saw that picture and smoked two right away. I've been through it, man, what with being thrown naked into a garbage bin , and that stuff don't get to me.

DB: How did you get them lit?

GB: Hey, you know what's actually pretty tasty? Banana peels. Banana peels are pretty tasty.

DB: You mean bananas, not the peels.

GB: No, I was left in a garbage. I mean the peels.

DB: That's disgusting.

GB: I also ate cardboard. Anyways, you have some questions you wanted to ask me?

DB: Directing the interview and you're not a week old. Pretty slick, Garbage Baby.

GB: Was that another garbage joke?

DB: It sure was, Garbage Baby. Listen, the season has started, actually it started pretty much the same way your life did: in garbage. What are your observations on the team so far?

GB: Well, I know a lot of people have concerns right now. Iggy isn't scoring, Jokinen seems to be a bust, Ivanans can't even serve as a punching bag, let alone an enforcer. Kipper is letting some softies in, Bourque is already getting injured. I know people are down in the dumps rights now. But I think fans should just keep their heads up. You never know when your dad is going to rip open the garbage bag.

DB: Isn't that insane? That your own father was the guy who saved you? Garbage Baby, we were going to make him the RTPIC winner we think he's so cool.

GB: I think that guy is really cool, too. Nothing bad to say about that guy. Well, perhaps his choice of mate.

DB: What do you think about the Stamps chances this year?

GB: They are a good team with a lot of potential. I would hate for them to waste this opportunity to win a Grey Cup.

DB: Subtle Garbage Baby, very subtle. What do you think the future holds, Garbage Baby?

GB: DB, seriously, I still have my umbilical tube attached. I'm covered in uterus juice and filth. You're trying to ask faux-deep questions like what does my future hold? I don't have time for this shit. The future holds a bath. Garbage Baby out.
...

Who wants to start the trust fund?

Furthermore, I think Peter Loubardias should be fired.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

I Wonder If The Dome Beers Guys Went To Raw

Last night was a historic one for the City of Calgary.

Amid all the hand wringing about low turnout and civic disengagement, much of which turned out to be the paranoid braying of the pundit class, a show did indeed go on.

And after it was all over, a young city had to experience a changing of the guard.

Yes, last nights WWE RAW was that epic. What, you thought we were talking elections? We didn't even vote.

No, we spent last night in the cozy confines of the Saddledome, surrounded by costume wearing girls (love costume wearing girls, by the way) jersey wearing guys, proud parents, and screaming children. Lots of screaming children.

Did we mention how we got tickets to the event? You know how we hate to name drop here, but not on this occasion. A wrestler who will remain nameless got us tickets to the event. Fuck it, his name is Harry Smith, proud member of the Hart Dynasty, and he, not the Miz, is awesome.

This is a bad photo of a bad dude
Got us nice tickets too. Which we appreciate, as he probably had to find tickets for everybody coming back to one of his stomping grounds.

Hey, DB, are you telling us about wrestling just so you could tell us you know a wrestler? Yeah, pretty much. Well, also so we could talk about Bret Hart.

Bret Hart was making what was billed as his final performance in WWE. Because we are dealing with wrestling, we are feeling pretty safe in our assumption that that is a bunch of bullshit, but who knows. Anyways, in what could possible maybe be his last show, in his home town, Bret Hart screwed the fans.

Now, it wouldn't be fair to him for us to just accuse him of mailing in a performance without us giving the disclaimers. It may have been that the writers for that show were stupid and couldn't figure out a coherent way to work Bret into the show without jacking up the storyline. We highly doubt this was the case, however.

Let's get into why we think Hart screwed the paying customer (a rank of file that we are not included in, because a freakin wrestler got us into the show). The show is going on, and it's basically a pimp job for whatever PPV WWE has coming out next. Fine, that's cool, but it's suppose to be Bret's last show. And because of that, the 'We Want Bret' chants are going off like James Harrison at Browns game.

Bret doesn't come out. This is good, this is real good. It's called foreplay, and we are happy to see that the producer is engaging the crowd with it. Anticipation, as any man who stalks all girl Catholic schools will tell you, is essential to the process of having a good time.

The matches go on, the videos they show at the show go on and on and on, but eventually, the thing ends, we are off live TV, and still no Bret. Now the crowd really starts chanting. One minute, two minutes, 3 minutes of agony before they hit the music.

The crowd goes Brendan Morrison.

The ring announcer announces (that's not an awkward sentence) a 4 way fight for the WWE Championship Belt. Bret Hart walks down to the stage, and the whole stadium is on their feet, clapping and screaming. The ovation may have lasted 5 minutes, which is a pretty long time when you are in it.

But then 3 wrestlers make their way to the ring. One of them is the champion, and so they wrestle and it's ok but because the match is a dark one (that is, not on TV) you pretty much know that the champion is going to win. Bret Hart does not get into the ring, and just walks around the ring, talking to the fans.

The match ends and the WWE's current bad guy, some guy who looks like the wendies girl, is in the ring 'knocked out'. The champion calls Bret into the ring, and the crowd once again goes nuts. Bret Hart puts the Sharpshooter on the bad guy, and the Dome's dome gets blown off.

But that was it. Bret was in the ring for maybe 30 seconds, he threw 2 punches and put a Sharpshooter on a guy. It was about the minimum amount of work that he would have been able to get away with. What? Aren't we this cats 'home town'? Isn't this his home arena? Bret can't go out for a final match?

Whatever. We guess we should be happy he even showed up.
...

Calgary, AZR here. I live in Ward 11. Last night, it appears that we may have re-elected the city's biggest tool, Brian Pincott. On behalf of the people in Ward 11 with brains, I would like to apologize to the rest of the city. I'm sorry we re-elected a man who worked as a set designer, who ran failed provincial campaigns for the NDP, who wants to bulldoze the Sandy Beach so he can build a monument to himself, to city council again. It wasn't my fault, but I will try to fix it next election. Again, I am sorry, Calgary, that Ward 11 is stupid.
...

Nenshi did it. Congratulations Nenshi. But Calgary, really? Naheed Nenshi lives at home with his parents. He is 38 years old. We just elected a 38 year old who lives at home Mayor of Calgary.

That, in a word, is insane. Please don't get us wrong, we aren't apologizing to the rest of Canada because of his election, he isn't Brian PincottNenshi. Please don't get us wrong here.

But electing a 38 year old who lives at home to be mayor is nuts. Not like letting politicians set the price of gas nuts, but sending monkeys into outer space nuts. It just isn't...orthodox.

Nenshi has loaded parents (that's what 'Harvard degree' means). He is living in their mansion. He worked as a professor (he taught marketing, another thing that makes us a little uneasy) so he has had a job with a real paycheque. Now he is Mayor, another job that comes with a paycheque. We don't care how ballin your parents house is, Nenshi. It's time to move out, no?

You are the Mayor, after all.

Actually, without knowing much about the cat (we heard he lived at home from Linda Olsen) we must suspect that he is single. Ladies, start your engines.
...

TJ Brodie may have completed P90X in 3 days, but that wasn't good enough for the GM, as the kid was sent down today.

Our thoughts? Well, the only image we can recall of young 66 was from that game against Florida (or something) where he was left on the point, alone, during the PP, and the kid looked like he knew he was a rookie. He looked like he didn't want the puck on his stick, and he didn't want to be running the PP. He didn't look like he belonged. That's the PP where Gio basically grabbed the puck from him and tried to go one man show. If he was pissing Gio off with the kid rookie act, it's probably best he isn't on the roster.

The NHL is elite level. Elite level means eat or be eaten. If TJ was showing any fear of the moment, the stage, whatever, then he isn't ready and should be sent down. It was a nice little exercise in PR for the Flames to be able to go 'See, see? We develop kids too.' but it's time to win some games, and bringing the best roster possible is one way to do that.

Or TJ Brodie can be sent down, and Steve Staios can't be without having to cut him a cheque.
...

Brendan Mikkelson is the new guy on the team, claimed off waivers from the Ducks. We don't know anything about the cat, except his bloodline. Sister is a gold medal hockey player, his father was a NHLer, and he is Canadian. The Kansas City Star describes him as a smooth skater.

Who knows. We are inclined to believe that the administration wants this guy sitting in the press box over Brodie. If Sarich is getting the treatment because they are trying to get him to waive the NMC, then having a guy who can play some minutes in the NHL sitting the press box as a threat to him isn't bad at all. We just don't know if Mikkelson can play.
...

Before we forget, everybody give some dap to Ian White. Not for his play, obviously, but for his charity. He gives away tickets to members of the Armed Forces, which we love. The whole team should be doing it, but at least one of them is. Good on you, Mr. White.

Furthermore, I think Peter Loubardias should be fired.

Monday, October 18, 2010

It's 'Write In Lanny McDonald For Mayor' Day

Ladies and gentlemen, I spent two hours plus writing out a post for today, only to, when I had it finished, press the publish button and have the thing get nuked on me.

Nuked! It brought me to a page that said they couldn't handle my request, and when I re-logged into Dome Beers, the fucking draft didn't save.

I'm fucking furious, to be honest with you. I had a bit that featured the mayors and shit. It was funny, it was topical, but now it's fucking gone.

Fuck. It's my fault, I guess. I should have had it backed up in MS Word or something. I didn't though, and I'm not about to rewrite all my shit. Fuuuuuuuck.

FUUUUUUUUUCK. Writing 2000+ word articles is fun when they disappear completely.

I'm sorry guys. I can't rewrite it. I don't get paid for this and don't want to spend half my day on it. I'm too pissed off right now to even make the humour work. I'm inclined to hit the bottle early right now.

Again, I apologize. I'll try to have an article up for tomorrow, I guess.

Furthermore, Blogger is a piece of shit that ruined my day. Go out and vote.