Stop Crying Mother Nature, You Fuckin' Pussy!

"Whaaah, it's global warming. My seas hurt. My mountains ache. My trees are dying, whaaah." Shut up Mother Nature, you fucking baby. "Scientists" and a number of other friendly folks have been paid by Exxon/Mobil to "prove" otherwise. So now we all know without a doubt that you're full of shit and just looking for attention, global warming is a myth started by a bunch of asshole enviromentalists who are just looking to destroy our fantastic capitalist way of life that has done so much good the world over. Why would Exxon/Mobil lie to us? They just want us to be happy. As punishment we're going to pollute ten times the amount we have been. Tough luck bitch, you're getting a sex change.


If you can't note the sarcasm in the above post, don't ever come here again. Thank you. Also, the link above to the list of organizations paid by Exxon to falsely discredit the theory of climate change will be posted in the link bar.

Denial. It's Not Just For Breakfast Anymore. (A Public Service Announcement)

So there you are one morning enjoying breakfast with your loving, all-American family. Your son Jacob, a straight A student and champion rower who prays every night before bed and always (always) washes his hands, announces that he's decided to go to Princeton, from which you proudly hail, instead of Harvard as he'd previously suggested. Your daughter Sarah then further rewards you with news of her engagement to Todd Skrundelgrundingson, the well bred young chap who's father you sometimes golf with, heir to his family's diamond import business. Hoorah. As you stand to clear your plate the family dog, Reagan, rushes in with your slippers and newspaper. Oh what a glorious day this is turning out to be. Your beautiful wife suddenly whispers to you, as you place your dishes into the industrial Super-Power-Dish-Dirt-Killer-3001 located under your sink, that an angel appeared to her last night and that she will be giving birth to the second coming of Christ. A single tear rolls down your cheek and you quickly turn, excitedly informing your lovely children of the blessing your family is going to recieve. They lead from their seats, awestruck and cheerful. "Hooray!" declares Sarah and "Neato!" follows Jacob. You all hold hands and smile together. "Thank freedom for this wonderful life." you say unto them. "Thank freedom." they reply.

Just then the kitchen begins to darken and you peer through the window to see storm clouds, black as night, eclipsing the sun. Your doorbell rings and you walk to answer it. You're startled to find that it's a brown man, like the ones you've seen on TV but never in person because your office doesn't tend to allow those types to loafe about the premises. "Hel.." you begin to say, but he pushes you aside with load cries of "Allah!" and begins running through your home. "Now wait just one cotton-picking minute, mister." you boldly say to the man's back as he rummages through your belongings. "What's the meaning of this?". He turns to face you and says with an evil grin "Freedom. Where do you keep your freedom?". You begin to feel frightened. "Um, well sir, I'm afraid that is none of your concern and I would kindly ask that you leave my house." He then removes a large knife from his belt and lunges towards you, pulling your head back and putting the blade to your throat. Your wife screams "No, please!!! It's upstairs, under the bed." The man leaves you and runs up the stairs returning shortly with your freedom clutched in his palm. "Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!" says the darkerish skinned man who you are beginning to assume might not love Jesus as much as you. He then violently throws your freedom to the ground where it shatters against the tile kitchen floor. "No! Our freedom!" your family cries in unison. The man flees through the front door and you crawl, shivering to be comforted by your family. "Oh, (insert name here), whatever shall we do?" asks your wife. You glance at her, trying to hide the fear in your eyes, "I don't know" you say, "I just don't know." "Fiddle bumps." says Jacob.

TO BE CONTINUED...


Kevin's Religious Terminology Dictionary.

THE SECOND COMING:
When the Priest takes it out of your ass and unloads what's left in your hair.

I Had A Dream...

Really, I did. A real dream. Once, in a time and socially conscious place long since exchanged for wants and asthetically exciting doo-dads and trinkets in the name of social competition. Recently, I also had a dream of a much different colour. Green. And Silver. I dreamed that I owned and XBOX360. No shit. My dreams have become full of product placements. My friends and I were gathered around my living room drinking beer and playing what I assume was Halo 3 on my new XBOX game console. Everyone was so happy, just like in tv land. All smiles. During the dream, the feeling was one of absolute exhiliration, much like your first wildly vivid sex dream would have been. Or that dream in which your heart seizes and you wake only to find that you've forgotten the face of the dream girl and are left with an empty space where the feeling of what you could only assume was love used to be (this dream is most often followed by a few days of your walking around aimlessly in reality looking for something that never exsisted in the first place). It might have even felt like "the" dream, the one long since forgotten that you had as a kid. Regardless, that feeling was most certainly in my XBOX360 dream. How fucked up is that? When I woke up I was disgusted with myself. I just imagined a world in which Martin Luther King spoke: "I have a dream. A dream in which the sons of former slaves and sons of former slaves owners might sit at the same table and play the most amazing Halo tournament ever imagined. Buy XBOX!" and then everyone watching his speech cries as Martin takes a handfull of cash from Microsoft execs. I then line up with a great number of like-minded individuals to take a shitload of x-tremely strong perscription painkillers because my soul hurts. Across the way another line is formed for those wanting to buy XBOX360s (sooner or later all roads lead to this line). The worst part of this entire ordeal is that XBOX360 is totally sweet.


Also, KEVIN'S ROCK YOUR ASS MOVIE IDEA #4:

- An evil geneticist, after cloning an army of giant stingray people, takes the crocodile hunter hostage and threatens to destroy the world. Martin Luther King, reincarnated into an XBOX360, teams up with the planet's croc population to fight him.

Make Your Hip Hipper (Of Advertising And The Eternal Struggle For More Cool)

Dear Advertising Types,

Hey. Guess what's not cool? Yogurt. Ever. I don't care if it's in a fucking tube or an easy to go container, if it has a rainbow swirl of x-treme colours or if it glows in the fucking dark. Yogurt = Not Cool, and I think we can all agree on that. It tastes good, granted. It's also good for you as far as snack food goes. It serves it's purpose and that's about it. Yogurt however, seems to one of the many uncool things that are currently being hippified by you marketing clowns who cry yourselves to sleep at night because you simply aren't creative enough to land the big contracts and get stuck with shitty products like, well, yogurt to sell. What's with this pathetic attempt to make everything newer and cooler and faster and smaller and sexier? Like some kid who spends his days in the skate park and his nights drinking with his friends at bush parties, trying his ass off to get laid before he turns 16 is going to see the new fuckin' go-gurt ad and say "Shit. That's what I'm missing. Yogurt! How could I have been so stupid? I'm sure to get some pussy with that cool, easy to carry tube of wholesomeness." You're insulting young people's intelligence with these ads. Stop it. Sell things for what they are. Never have I or anyone I know sat in admiration of the first kid on the block to get the newest yogurt. Same goes for milk. We like fucking milk OK. We get it, it's good for our bones and Posilac production hormones aren't allowed to be used on Canadian dairy cows, sweet. We drink it. But if I see one more fucking rapping farmer commercial I'm going to boycott the shit just out of spite and take calcium supplements for the rest of my life, which incidentaly may be very short if the ads continue. Who are you selling to? The only people I know of who never buy milk are individuals who are lactose intolerant and I don't think you're gonna hook that niche market anytime soon. Also, it hasn't become cooler. It's the same milk it was when my grandfather was drinking it. Isn't it? Have the cows gotten cooler? Are they throwing barnyard bovine orgies and listening to the newest, kick ass rock music like Good Charlotte (pure sarcasm)? Seriously, it's pathetic. You're making asses out of yourselves. What's next, the newest, coolest, hippest hip replacements for the young at heart geriatrics? You could have some 90 year old in an adult diaper with a mowhawk painted on his bald head playing guitar on a skateboard while sky diving from 30,000 feet in the ad. Fuckin' x-treme hip replacements, man! The wave of the future. They could have a built in iPod with pre-programmed Il Divo tracks and maybe some Rod Stewart just like the young'uns listen to. Fuck off already. Some things aren't meant to be cool. Infact, certain things need to be uncool in order for us to define cool. It doesn't mean we won't buy them, it just means that we aren't going to buy them based on their ability to make us masters of trend setting. Leave cool to the experts. The tobacco companies.

Kevin N. Burke

I Have An Idea (And Appearently I'm Hungry)

Dear President Bush,

I have an idea for the future of the United States.
I think that stupid people should have their own country, let's call it...the south. The north would continue destroying the planet with zero accoutability capitalism and we'd all become slaves to our industrial masters. In 2047 a very brave man takes it upon himself to try and unionize Burger King, but he is very quickly killed and his murder hushed up by the news media. His twin sons strap bombs to themselves and each blow up a Burger King restaurant as an act of revenge. Burger King blames the attacks on McDonald's who they claim has been secretly creating apple pies of McMass Destruction. Once a bill is passed unanimously through Fast Food Congress allowing the company to use all force necessary to protect themselves from snack-food terror, Burger King attacks several McDonald's locations with the support of Taco Bell and Quizno's. Subway, having suffered severe damage to many locations, accuses the Quizno's soldiers as using the battle to take out their competition by deliberately providing Burger King with intelligence only detailing the McDonald's sites located next to Subway locations. They side with McDonald's, as does Wendy's. Following a bloody 9 year war everyone in the United States North becomes healthier. The South is still dumb. Jesus finally returns as prophecised in the book of Revelations, but there are no more Big Macs so he's pissed. He takes out his crossbow that shoots bullets with lasers in them and takes out Godzilla. He then turns the planet into a bizarro type world where humans are grown and raised on farms where they are slaughtered at the age of 20 to make tasty treats that are served to literal capitalist pigs in fast food restaurants. The irony goes unnoticed. The end.

Kevin N. Burke



Also, WICKED MOVIE IDEA #3:

- Cinderella Man VS. X-Men 2: The Movie

It's Hollywood, Charlie Brown

Well, it's that beautiful time of year when all the nature starts dying and it gets really cold and the Toronto Film Festival comes to town in order to kill you with celebrity gossip and a shitload of people who chat inceasantly about their chance encounters with Nicole Kidman's pillow mint security taste tester. Since the circus is here and I've noticed a patern emerging among Hollywood movie themes lately, I think I may be able to read the market, so to speak. So each day I'm going to post a couple Hollywood movie ideas that I think might sell to the big execs. Here we go:

KEVIN'S BRILLIANT HOLLYWOOD MOVIE IDEA #1:

- A by-the-book detective who plays by his own rules gets teamed up with two (2) funny black guys who are running from a mob boss who has a crossbow that shoots bullets with lasers in them for an arm. But the detective falls in love with the mob boss' daughter who has a really funny ferrett that serves as the comic relief because he farts all the time and we can hear his thoughts (voiced by Jim Belushi) and he says funny stuff like "wazzzup!".

#2:

- What if cellphones turned into a vampire!

More to come.

How I May Have Caught The Flaming Lips By Having Unprotected Commercial Intercourse With Virgin Entertainment (A Short Story In 3 Deviant Sex Acts)

This past Saturday, I visited the Virgin Music Festival on Olympic Island in Toronto. For the most part it was a good day. I was able to visit with some friends I hadn't seen in some time, become blissfully inebriated and enjoy some great live music. All of this courtesy of Virgin Entertainment Inc. My adventures in Virginland were not without their price however, as the headlining act most patrons waited patiently all afternoon to see was cut short due to the island's ferry boat schedule. Add to this the constant bombardment of not so subtle, but well placed marketing campaigns all over the island and the experience seemed much more like a synergistic orgy of commerce taking place on a bed of complacent music lovers. From the red carpet welcome of Virgin Mobile flags at the island's ferry docks, through the outrageous beer ticket prices (to be expected), under the Levi's jeans tent, over the Axe deodorant spray reps and around the mini Bacardi dance club our travels through capitalist wonderland lead us finally to the shining emerald city we'd been so longing to reach, the Virgin Stage. All of the performances were fantastic, but the Flaming Lips being allowed only to play four songs before their forced removal from the stage prompted the outrage of many fans, myself included. Was it not enough that we all payed $60 a ticket? That we paid $5.50 for each individual can of Budweiser? That concert goers all night long paid 50cents for 15 nanoseconds of fame, watching as their text messages of 'I Luv Tits' and 'Kevin Smells' (thanks Bob) scrolled across giant screens flanking the stage? Hell, I'm sure a few poor souls even bought a pair of 501's from the Levi's tent at $90 a pop. It was clearly demonstrated to us by Virgin Entertainment Saturday night that the music was not what was important about the event.

I'd like to make mention that the following letter is heavily inspired by Alan Moore's latest graphic novel endeavour, Lost Girls and it's full of extremely graphic sexual innuendos in the interest of mocking the commercialism of Virgin Fest, so if you have children:

a) Don't let them read it.
b) What's wrong with you?


Dear Virgin Entertainment,

My body still quakes spuratically with enthralling tremors as the memory of your hedonistic, pleasure palace of capitalist fantasy rests clearly in the most uninhibited and exotic parts of my psyche. I'll admit that I was no stranger to commercial intercourse upon my arrival to your "party", but my experiences had been limited to private encounters behind closed doors, a purchase here, a purchase there I would indulge in, though I was always fearful of letting my passions get the better of me. All that changed under the canopy of starlight this past Saturday at Virgin Festival. I was at first taken aback by it all, wary of societal reprecussions should I partake in the activities, but my aprehension quickly dissolved into a curious desire as I observed the transactions of others. Aroused by my own voyeurism, I watched intently as Levi's spread her legs for numerous patrons. Taking advantage of her presentation they caressed her rough, denim skin, shortly thereafter thrusting their bills into her and removing their change, in and out, in and out in full view of the adoring public. It was at that moment, when my arousal had reached a feverish peak, that I laid my eyes on Budweiser, the young American tent dressed in little more than a small, tight tarp and a see-through chain-linked fence. I approached her cautiously, not wanting to seem forward, but she had been through this routine before as I could tell by her eagerness to allow me entry. The conversation was brief and she seemed to care about little more than my age, she then, in a contrast of grace and filthy intent, opened the gates to her fertile grounds begging me to enter her, and I did. Slowly at first. Gently. Carefully exploring every inch of her. It was then that she unshealthed her northern quarters and presented me with her cans, cold from exposure to the night's cool breeze. I firmly pressed my lips on them, tasting her, becoming high on her juices. Perhaps it was my eagerness that caused me to become spent as quickly as I did, perhaps it was boredom and desire for variety, but it wasn't long before I pulled out of Budweiser and moved on. On to more exotic fare. A beautiful Cuban tent by the name of Bacardi who I'd been eyeing maliciously all night. Much like my previous conquest, she was not to be impeded by idle chat and immediately opened herself to not only me, but my friends as well. Others still, strangers, were simultaneously making use of her rear entrance. It felt so wrong, our abuse of her, but it felt so right. My friends and I took turns digitaly photographing each other inside of her in all different kinds of positions. We pumped our money into her with little to no regard for chivalrous behaviour. Her taste and smell would linger on us well into the morning as our senses became drunk on her nature. We left Bacardi not knowing whether we had had our way with her or she with us. The night continued in this fashion as we defiled Axe deodorant spray, molested Pizza Pizza and did things to XBOX 360 that no gentleman could mention even in type.

It is you though, Virgin Entertainment, that I have to thank most for my newfound love of taboo capitalism. Your soft synergy, your supple marketing, your relentless quest to be filled in every orafice with our currency while we orgasmically bliss into bankruptcy. I hear there was also music.

Can I call you sometime,
Kevin Burke

Check Out Found Magazine

Came across this brilliant site today which you can visit here. Essentialy, it's just dumpsite for anything people come across at any given time (i.e. notes, shopping lists, photos, journals), but if you want to get all poetic about it, it's a mosaic of human emotion realized through the widespread exposure of their random leavings creating, by the voyeuristic appeal to net surfers, celebrities in brief for many an unknowing citizen. Also, CNN reported today on the ABC/Scholastic deal I mentioned and my city's newspaper called today to say they're printing my editorial letter tomorrow, so...sweet for me.

We Don't Need No Education, We Don't Need No Thought Control (And, Shut the fuck up Suri Cruise)

Remember Scholastic books? I do. I remember how excited I was in grade school to bring the new month's Scholastic catalogue home to beg my parents for all the cool books that I just had to get to read. Scholastic has changed it would seem. In conjunction with the release of an ABC television docudrama based on the 9/11 Commission Report entitled "Pathway to 9/11", Scholastic has issued notices to 100,000 teachers in U.S. highschools asking the teachers to instruct their students to watch the program and then discuss it in class with the help of an ABC/Scholastic provided "Discussion Guide". Not only is this flagrant, bullshit advertising for ABC at the expense of students (similar, in my opinion, to jean, etc. ads in highschool washrooms), but appearently the docudrama and discussion guide are both full of propagating misinformation (just in time for the U.S. congressional election, I might add) such as suggesting that there were ties between 9/11 and the invasion of Iraq. You can read more about this here at mediamaters.org. You would figure that the "free" press in the United States, considering that many of the networks are in direct competition with ABC, would at the very least make mention of this story. Nope. Would you like to know why? More fucking celebrity baby news!!! Hooray! Pictures of Suri Cruise! And we can only judge by the frenzy of media surrounding this child that she is infact going to be the savior of the world. Why else would they avoid every other relevant piece of news the world over? The continuing genocide in Darfur, the increase in violence in Iraq, ChoicePoint working to rig democratic elections the world over, the real reasons for the increase in oil prices? Suri Cruise will take care of it all. Thank your lucky stars that we finally have a picture of her. I don't know about you, but I'm ordering a few 8x5's and a shitload of wallet sized prints to hand out to all of my friends. That poor, poor kid.

Dear Suri,

Hey there cutie, you sure are a little bundle of joy aren't you? You are the most famous baby in the world and I'm willing to bet that you might have had a really good chance of becoming a wonderful person someday. Unfortunately, the environment that you are going to grow up in is bound to fuck you up beyond belief. It's not just your psycotic parents, but the expectations that our news media has knowingly dumped on you. Also, it's us. Humans. If we weren't such ass backwards, fucked up gossip pigs not only might we have been able to set up a better world for you to be born into, but we wouldn't be watching your every move from birth. Rent the Truman Show when you turn 16 and you'll understand what Uncle Kevin meant from this letter someday. Sorry kiddo, we've failed you and the rest of the world. Hope your thetan levels are high.

Kevin Burke

P.S. Rebel your fuckin' ass off.