 
The Hornbell Essays

Volume 2: The Better Essays

By

Sean Campbell And Dag Hornby

Copyright  2011 by Sean Campbell and Dag Hornby  
First Pseudo Experts Press edition 2011

Published at Smashwords

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Pseudo Experts Press

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editor@pseudoexperts.com

ISBN 978-0-9868848-3-2 (ebook)

For my Hot Dog fund.

Children's Literature

Sure I may tell people I'm a writer, but this book gig doesn't pay very well. In that it doesn't pay at all. Costs me money. Why am I doing this again?

So obviously, I've got to get my earn on. I thought to myself, how do I get rich from writing? Stephen King is rich so maybe the way to go is write about monsters and gore. Dan Brown did alright for himself with religion and intrigue. In the end though, the richest author of them all is the Harry Potter lady. JK Rowling is pushing Oprah for richest woman in the world and has an inexhaustible army of mindless little children doing whatever she wants. I heard she just walks down the streets of London yelling "Voldemort!" and pointing at homeless people just to watch the kids tear them to pieces. That's the kind of power I'm looking for. So children's author it is.

Here's an excerpt from my first book, I think it's a can't miss:

**Easily Relatable Wizard Boy Duels Aliens from Halo in Whoville**  
**By** **Clark Hornbell**

_Larry Motter awoke in the Whoville adobe hut he shared with his evil grandparents who mocked his special powers. He searched for his glasses for what seemed like hours. Just as he found them there was a strange noise on the roof. A dragging, a clanking, as if from a hoof. With a wave of his wand, a battle canon was there. With one step his broomstick had him walking on air. Now by the roof he was blasting away. It ran left and then right, but the Xenomorph couldn't escape his tactical spray._

_With the Xenomorph still smoldering he raised his cannon and said, "The only good alien, is one that is dead."_

Wow, that Larry is so badass and tapped into things that kids love! Guaranteed bestseller with bidding wars for the movie rights. Sure its been a bit slow out of the gates with your "standard" publishers saying things like they can't publish it because it's too "nonsensical" and "plagiarized," but I figure that just means I'm so far ahead of my time they just don't get it yet.

So self publishing it is, and you lucky reader will be the first with an opportunity to purchase it. Just send me your credit card number and I'll take care of the rest. Not sure how much it will cost yet, but I'll let you know. At some point. Might be several payments.

I'm thinking the cover will be made out of candy and every second page will be coupons for McDonald's Happy Meals. Might even throw some flashing lights in there somewhere. I can't wait to be looking down on all of you from the best-sellers list. Love you!

God gave me this package, I just signed for it  
Clark

Podium Shmodium

Needless to say things haven't been going great for me here at the Beijing Olympics. I keep coming in 8th. But 8th in the world is still pretty good right? No. Great Grandma Hornbell pointed out that those other 7 countries have athletes who didn't even make the team who are certainly much better than me. Then she held my head underwater while giving me a power wedgie. It's exactly that kind of Iron Curtain mentality that my training has been missing this whole time. I'm a product of my environment.

Lets compare my athletic life cycle to that of my Gold Medal communist counterpart: Zao Lundgren.

**Age 2** – Young Clark is drooling while being weaned from the nannies breast milk. In secret he has learned to walk, but he's not letting the world know. Zao Lundgren has just been 'acquired' by Olympic recruiters, identified for his bone structure, flexibility, and natural grace.

**Age 9** – Despite a restraining order young Clark is still being weaned from the nannies breast milk. A rigorous training regime and 2 surgeries have turned ZL into a 9 year old Lou Ferrigno.

**Age 13** – Urged by his loving family Clark signs up for some recreational sports. ZL loves his family too. He sees them once each year. Through glass.

**Age 15** – Clark literally does nothing this year. ZL's wins his first international championship, posing as a 16 year old.

**Age 20** – Clark receives a sponsorship from Rona Hardware Stores, allowing him to concentrate on his training: $900 per year \+ unlimited bathroom fixtures. ZL has never seen a bathroom – his toilet being built into his leg press machine.

**Age 30** – Finally completing his bathroom renovation, Clark competes in his first Olympic games. Despite smashing every known Canadian record, he finishes 8th in eight events. Chinese girls think that makes him lucky, which is sort of a self-fulfilling prophecy. "Ni-Hao" ladies. ZL brings home 3 Golds and 1 Silver. His community cannot see past the disgrace of a second place finish. He is murdered by an over zealous nationalist whose description matches that of his great grandmother.

Are you pregnant?  
-Clark

Fatso

I thought I was living the good life. Good job, good friends, a cold beer around every corner. All that time though I was (blissfully) unaware that I was fat. Total whale.

You see, I'm a big guy. Shoulders like a freeway, arms like North Korea. Sometimes I just stand on top of buildings with my chest out and my cape flapping in the wind. In kind of a super way. I'm like a man who is super. And when you're big and super the pounds can just creep up on you.

I didn't see them hiding at Arbys or the pub, but apparently these crafty pounds were disguised as frosty pints and cheese drenched roast beef sandwiches who I loved so much I didn't figure they would ever hurt me. BETRAYAL! For by the time I was heading on a trip overseas a few months ago (to bathing suit weather no less) I was flirting with a scale crushing two hundred pounds. I was totally in the dark. I had no idea. I even remember telling someone that if they pushed really hard they could feel my ab muscles...and I was bragging! So delusional.

As a loyal Hornbell reader you are probably intoxicated or English is not your first language, so you may have not noticed that I've been using the past tense throughout the first part of this post. But I have. And that's because while on this trip I dropped a tonne of weight. Well not a "tonne" obviously but tens of pounds, which doesn't sound nearly as impressive but trust me it's pretty good.

I thought my new skinny life would be full of free piles of coke and rock stars throwing themselves at me, just like a supermodel. Instead it kind of sucks. None of my clothes fit and I can't sit down for more than half an hour because I no longer have an ass. Plus I'm super pissed at all my friends for not telling me I was fat before. I guess I should have known when I rose to the top and started bobbing every time I jumped in the pool, but I still blame them for being so inconsiderate. Since I've been home I make a point of sending out a quick email each morning to all my friends to let them know they're getting fat just so I'm not as heartless as they were. Haven't seen the old gang in a while. Pretty sure they're still fat though. Send!

And I'm not one of these arrogant skinny people either. In every email I send out I share with them the secret to my success. It's far too valuable to put in a book though so I'm sorry but you're out of luck.

diet and exercise  
Clark

Both Barrels

Alright, people are starting to say I'm getting a little obsessed with the whole being skinny thing. Ok so maybe I answer "Hey how was your trip?" with "I lost 30 pounds!" and lift up my shirt to show off my new ab. And maybe there's a bunch of new mirrors at the house. Full length. That doesn't mean I'm obsessed, it means you're fat and jealous and I hate you.

In my defense I haven't just been spending all day baby oiling up the guns, I've been pondering the whole skinny phenomenon in our society. Really it's society that's obsessed, not me. God, so pathetic society.

Society pumps out ads with ripped guys and playmates whose bodies you would need a 24 hour trainer, personal chef, plastic surgeon, and talented photo editor to achieve. And don't even get me started on the music industry. Name one "artist" that has been popular over the last decade that's not good looking? Well there's Nickelback, wow I really don't get that one.

It will mess with the head a bit. Girls who sway scrumptiously on their way to the buffet table feel like they've got to drop a bunch of pounds and girls who slice through the air with their hip bones on their way to the salad bar seem to think the same thing. Doesn't seem to affect guys as badly, but I have to admit I'm not the first one tearing my shirt off when I'm standing next to Johnny Six-pack pro surfer at the beach.

Last night I wondered out loud to a good friend, why does it seem to hit girls harder than guys? He shook his head in a "poor, simple Clark" kind of way that really made me want to mention how doughy he was getting. Then he explained that girls get "both barrels" and guys get one or often none. If a guy starts to get out of shape then girls might be less attracted to him, but his buddies don't care. Hell you probably get more attention from your friends because of impromptu belly rubs and greater respect because of drunken eating contest dominance. Whereas the poor ladies get judged by guys almost constantly. Even when you think you're not getting the old up and down and that he's "so nice," he's not and you are. What's really brutal for the ladies though is the fact that girls judge girls, often worse than guys ever would. That's a lot of pressure to stay in shape.

Whew, that's a lot of thinking for someone as skinny and beautiful as me so I'll just leave it right there. Plus I'm late for my 5 o'clock sit-ups.

bone is for the dog, meat is for the man  
Clark

Shakespearean Fish And Chips

Fish and Chips Cooking Instructions:  
-Preheat oven to 450 degrees  
-Place frozen Fish and Chips loosely in a shallow metal baking pan  
-Cook for approximately 12-15 minutes  
-Turn for uniform browning  
-Heat 5 minutes more  
-Serve at once

Shakespearean Fish and Chips Cooking Instructions:

-Welcome friends, Romans, countrymen, into my humble dwelling to enjoy thee breadth of nature's bounty  
-I hath invited the brimstone of Hell to fuel our moonlit engagement well in advance of your arrival. Be not afeared weary traveler for I am free of sin and hath ensnared thee fiery tendrils of Satan's fingers, leaving them steady at 450 degrees.  
-Upon thine arrival, merriment will be our code of honor and I will romance each nostril with the angelic, arching aroma of God's oceanic creatures.  
-Now we must bond together close, for patience must be a virtue unto us all. These next 12-15 minutes will be trying, but conquer this time with courage we must.  
-A slight tease from such a strumpet, I will simply be allowed near her, allowed to caress her, smell her, turn her over, but in the end she will alight toward the door and bid me wait till she is ready.  
-Alas, alas, alas 5 minutes more.  
-It is time to enjoy that which we so richly deserve. Foreign eyes are upon us and creatures big and small have caught wind of our good fortune, waste no time in succumbing to your rampant desire.

Yorick is skinny  
Clark

Swimmy

Sometimes I'm surprised by my own genius. Even more surprising than the initial surprise is the fact that it still surprises me at all. Clearly my geniousosity has long ago been established and should no longer be the source of a startled scream and a cold sweat. I digress.

I have discovered an entire class of females who are by nature fit, flexible, and dumber than posts due to suffering extreme oxygen depravation on a daily basis. A few bricks short of a few bricks if you will. Where, you ask, do you find this goldmine of gorgeous idiots? At the pool my friends, during synchronized swimming practice. Man I'm smart.

My only problem was coming up with a way to meet these ladies. I'm certainly not going to run into them at the library. I pondered it for a while to no avail, until finally I was reminded of the old adage: _If you want to catch a fox, you go hunting; If you want to make out with a fox, you must become a fox yourself_.

Which is why this very morning, I found myself scantily clad at the poolside with three hung-over acquaintances doing a domino of side dives into the water. It was a bit harder than in looked, but after an hour or so we'd polished our routine to glimmering shine. I'm particularly proud of our finale, where we break from a spinning surface flower into a high lift where yours truly is lifted fully out of the water, arms spread wide and smile beaming. A beaming smile is the key.

Didn't run into any ladies just yet but the word should get out pretty quick. Four mostly naked guys tangled into crazy poses in a pool isn't easily ignored.

Big smile  
-Clark

Policy Clowns

Tourism is a major part of the economy where I live and like with most everywhere else in the world we're not seeing as many confused people with maps and oversized cameras as in years past. Never fear though, the people I am forced to pay thousands of dollars to a year are on the case. My government has decided that if they throw some low-grade, cheese ball entertainment on the ferry, Hans and Heidi German tourist will come running and bring their friends. Genius.

When I say "genius" I mean it in the sense that "hey let's lock that guy up because he's such a _genius_ he will probably hurt himself and everyone around him."

Until today, the few times I've seen someone performing on the ferry it has been an out of work singer/artist/re-creationist in a Victorian era get up strumming a tiny harp and missing the high notes in broken Latin. The last thing I want when I'm sitting back relaxing, enjoying the view or a good book is Lady PermaGrin from the Royal Court of FunnyHats invading my tranquil bubble with the talentless twangs of a centuries old fiddle.

But today they have hit an all-time low. Mid-way through the voyage it is announced that "Tickles the Clown" (sidenote: he went to clown college so at least he's qualified) was performing on deck 6. Where to start with how wrong it all is?

First, "Tickles" the Clown sounds more like "Tickles the Lawsuit" to me. The last thing you want is some face masked stranger grabbing foreign kids on public transportation. I've seen the same kind of thing on the bus and it wasn't pretty.

Secondly, who are we catering to here? Snotty little kids? They have no money. How about we institute "Lap dance the Clown" or "Free Scotch on the Rocks the Clown."

As a form of protest, I pushed through a throng of ankle biters and sarcastically slow clapped every time Tickles made a crappy balloon animal. Soon I was escorted to a different part of the ship, more of a small compartment if you will, that locks from the outside. Democracy has taken a major blow this day my friends.

Heedless horseman  
Clark

The Hunt

Dressed head to toe in battle fatigues, Hornbell stalks noiselessly through the quiet suburban alleyways. He approaches his target without making the slightest whisper. Every muscle tensed, every sense highly tuned, a single bead of sweat maneuvers the contours of his statuesque features, as he mutely observes his unwitting prey. Then in a flurry of motion he springs from behind a hedge, taking his objective totally unaware. "I've got you now", he snarls.

The House, although frightened, remains perfectly still.

Slightly confused at the lack of resistance, Hornbell continues up the front stairs. He freezes halfway up at the sound of approaching footsteps. The front door creaks open slowly to reveal the true enemy in all his splendor. The landlord. The evil looking hunch of his back sinisterly complements the menacing walking cane in his right hand. Hornbell is not fooled by his apparent geriatric condition. Clearly this guy has been evil for at least 80 years.

Adapting instantly, Hornbell straightens up, plasters a fake smile onto his face and slides seamlessly into character. "Why hello sir, I'm a highly paid professional individual with no friends, HUGE monetary assets and a long list of references that definitely weren't out drinking with me last night. I despise animals and smokers, LOVE to shampoo carpet and intend to live in this neighborhood for the next hundred years. Whoa I see this lawn is slightly unkempt, heh heh. That won't be happening on my watch, and you can rest assured that the chastity of the local females will be valiantly defended as long as I reside in the neighborhood."

A malevolent sneer oozes down the grotesque features of the evil landowner. "It's rented!" With that, he retreats and slams the door.

Unfazed Hornbell turns his nose to the prevailing breeze. Catching a sent he crouches low, moving catlike towards his next target.

Homeless but svelte  
-Hornbell

My Monster And Me

Yesterday was an amazing day  
Ran through the fields, played in the hay  
Had a water fight, climbed a tree  
My monster and me

Woke up late, rolled out of bed  
Couldn't wait to see his ugly head  
His belch torched the car, so I knew he was hungry  
My monster and me

He wears no clothes but is never nude  
The restaurant had our favourite food  
McGriddles courtesy of Mickey D  
My monster and me

47 wasn't enough, not by far  
He proceeded to eat half my car  
"Looks like we're walking you big Yeti"  
My monster and me

He's got fiery nostrils, a bumpy tail  
A bad attitude, but is not female  
Next to him I couldn't be more pretty  
My monster and me

Went to the club to get some gin  
He ate a bouncer, we walked right in  
I drank nine, him 43  
My monster and me

A lap dance or two and we were on our way  
Dared a guy to drink out of an ashtray  
Buddy eyed up monster's girl, he had no time to flee  
My monster and me

The ice we were skating was pretty thin  
And before we knew it the cops busted in  
In the end we went quietly  
My monster and me

Prison life is not so bad  
With my monster I'm never sad  
He bent the bars and we were free  
My monster and me

incorporated monster  
Clark

Behind Closed Doors

Hey ladies, what in the hell are you doing in the washroom? There's 4 of you in there, you've been in there for 45 minutes with no water running, and I can hear a sinful amount of giggling coming through the walls. I have conflicting voices in my head explaining your actions. Tell me who to believe.

The Optimist: You're taking turns scrubbing each other down and administering vigorous full body massages. My name comes up as usual creating an atmosphere of giddy excitement, eventually leading to a tickle fight and maybe some playful bondage. For some reason there's a disco ball, a stripper pole, and some dance music pumping away.

The Pessimist: You're in a grooming circle like a bunch of surly apes, picking the nits out of each other's scalps and gobbling them down. You're taking turns on the toilet and giggling at the terrible smell. My name comes up as usual and you talk about how you like me for my personality. Then you all strip down and break into a tickle fight and maybe some playful bondage.

Even a pessimist is a realist  
-Clark

Lock Up My Daughters

There's a middle school near my palace that I walk past on a semi-regular basis. It's on the way to work I swear! It only goes to grade 10 so the kids in attendance should be what? 16 years old, max? 15 even?

I _cannot believe_ the way young girls dress these days. I see kids, _kids_ , walking around during lunch break looking like they're 25 years old, on their way to an upscale nightclub. They're clad scantily at best and have clearly been drinking their hormonally enhanced milk from cows with huge udders.

Back in my day (which wasn't too many days ago) girls wore loose fitting jeans and baggy tops. You'd get the occasional hint of femininity, but not the sort of thing that has grown men drooling all over themselves. As I wiped the slobber off my chin this morning I had to ask myself: Don't these girls have fathers?

Because if I ever sire a little monster of the female persuasion she'll be lucky if I let her tie a piece of cord around the waist of her potato sack. Makeup, perfume and jewelery? Maybe when she's 35 and knows how to handle that stuff. She'll be wearing a chastity belt so all encompassing that the Tin Man will look like he's wearing a g-string in comparison.

And if by chance a suitor should come calling, what he'll find is me sitting at the kitchen table with my shirt off, polishing my rifle. "My daughter ain't here little fella," I'll growl through the thick cigar smoke, "you feel like wrestling?" Then I'll give him a cold and intense stare. "What you comin' round here for anyway? You some kind of puuurvert? You look like a puuurvert to me. Now git, 'fore I shoot you in your ass!!"

I might fire a couple shots in his direction so he takes me seriously. Maybe even tag him with a minor flesh wound so he doesn't come back.

So take warning, fruit of my loins. Should you happen to be born a lass, the life of a veal beef cow will look exciting compared to your own. Don't mess with me. Or it'll get messy.

I'll get over myself when you do  
-Clark

Pilgrimage

I took a little pilgrimage down to the Fatherland this weekend to renew my faith. All the way to the United States of America, birthplace of the McDonalds restaurant chain, where it all began.

I entered the first temple I came across, and was immediately awestruck. Americans know what the hell they are doing when it comes to fast food.

Here's a quick breakdown of the obvious differences between a Canadian and an American McDonalds. Warning to Canadian readers: you will feel ashamed of your nationality by the time you get to the bottom.

1. The Condiments Bar – Just sitting there next to the napkins was a serve-yourself area complete with endless Big Mac sauce, Mayonnaise, Tartar sauce, Onions, Pickles, and a couple other odds and ends. I couldn't believe it. In Canada if you're stupid enough to ask for an extra pack of sauce you'll be lucky to receive a punch in the face.

2. The Pop Bar – You fill up your own, and refills are free. Free I tell you. I saw it with my own eyes. Plus they have a couple extra flavors that I've never seen before. I tried not to stare.

3. A medium fries in the States is equal to a large Canadian fries. Ron only knows how big their large is. If you super-size you'd better bring a couple Sherpas.

4. The average American McDonalds employee was equal to the average Canadian employee plus 50%. They clearly do a much better job of quality control than their scrawny Canadian counterparts. When I had a question regarding the extra value menu I knew I could trust the opinion of a person who had tried all 12 options – earlier that day.

I'm sure there were more superiorities but my mind was too boggled to absorb it all at once. Plus my gullet was filled to the point of bursting.

So if you're a Canadian who just hasn't been satisfied by the local McDonalds lately I highly recommend the trip. You'll find the experience not only enlightening, but very fattening as well.

Use your bumpers  
-Clark

Hades Golf And Country Club

So maybe it's not St. Andrews or Augusta National, but I was excited to play the Hinton Golf Club, nestled snugly between Mount Poverty and Lake PregnantTeenager in Hinton, Alberta. It all started when Satan chimed me out of a cloudy, hung-over mind and told me that a co-worker and I were driving up to Edmonton for a few days on a business trip. Sure, it could have just been my boss waking me up from an unscheduled nap with an instant message, but I'm pretty sure it was Satan.

Co-worker and I jumped in the Hell Wagon, skeleton at the wheel and flames blazing out of all 12 exhaust pipes, and began our journey. Just past purgatory was Hinton where we decided to stop for a quick nine-hole break. The course seemed big enough and it was certainly economical. How could one lose?

Let me tell you this course put all the ones on the so-called PGA tour to shame. Do you think Mike Weir or Tiger Woods get a survival kit at the start of their round? No chance. The brain trust at Hinton Golf Club thought of everything, insect repellent, snakebite kit, splint, six-inch adrenaline syringe for injection straight into the heart. I was ready to play some golf.

And play golf I did. What a delight it was to play on a golf course that didn't bother with all the snobbery of drainage systems and divot-free greens.

Perhaps the best part about the Hinton Golf Club is the fact that they give you so many tremendous extras without the extra cost. At any one of the expensive golf courses they would charge you greens fees in the triple digits for some of the things HGC carpeted its course in for free. By that I mean, mainly, Deer shit.

Plus it was really really really well designed. I'm pretty sure Arnold Palmer and Leonardo Da Vinci collaborated on this one. We only had time to do nine holes, but when we were finished we found ourselves on the far side of the golf course. As you may well imagine, property taxes are not overly high in Hinton and this course was massive. It was a solid 45 minute walk on a path that somehow led us back across 23 fairways of an 18 hole course. All the time dodging tee shots.

The locals knew we were outsiders too, with all our fancy teeth and literacy, so they sent a few low hard ones right over our bow. Co-worker even got nailed. He ducked to the right, but got a bad bounce off a rock and somehow it picked up speed before catching him in the back of the head. At least the local sniper was nice enough to apologize between high fives with his buddies.

Maybe purgatory will have a better course on the trip home.

perpetrating a tan  
Clark

HickeyGate

It was a dark and stormy night, many many moons ago. Much grog had been drunk and a fair maiden gained an appreciative eye for my roommate, court jester though he is. Fanned by lust, this spark of mischief became a vast fire of passion. At its height, the heat from this fire was all consuming and the maiden could not keep disguised her true nature. She revealed herself as a child of the night by leaving a demon's mark on his neck. So afeared was he of how the villagers would react, they being known to throw rotten cabbage and light things ablaze, my roommate began his tireless pilgrimage to rid himself of the mark

So that's basically how I found myself standing slack-jawed in the make-up aisle next to my roommate, saying nothing for the first time in our lives. "HORNBELL, I thought you were all man!" you say as you spit and punch a nerd. Rest assured dear reader that I am still the manliest of manly men and I was there simply to lend support through constant ridicule.

"Clark, I have to meet with clients tomorrow! They're going to think I'm Fourteen! How could she do this to my neck?" he said.

"You're irresistible, you know, like the plague." I comforted.

"Thanks loser. Do you think that cover-up stuff that girls use would help hide this."

I assured him I had no idea.

Before we left we felt it was necessary to dress with a certain air of machismo and masculinity. I mean, there was going to be beauticians there. I'm really superficial and beauty is basically there job description. The best part is they never wear too much make-up. You know like cover up is fire retardant and they are stepping into a four alarmer. They're just great.

We brainstormed and after several hours we agreed that the manliest thing we could wear is a leather vest with no shirt on underneath, accented with a menacing silver studded dog collar, and extra tight leather hot-pants that accentuate just exactly what makes us so butch. These articles of clothing may be hard to find as not many men are that raw, but fortunately my roommate had an entire closet full.

After half a day and a few gallons of Vaseline we were dressed and ready to shop the drug store. Once we arrived we were faced with a giant wall of expensive little glass bottles that entered our eyes like a kaleidoscope of vanity. Sensing our distress, the beautician ventured tentatively in our direction. She began asking seemingly simple questions, but was met only with our furrowed brows.

She moved to beautician plan B by starting to show us how each product worked using the "tester." Suddenly I was struck with a brilliant idea, "testers are free...free is good...testers will cover up the bruise just as well as something you buy." I'm amazing, it's clear. Through a HUGE frozen smile and clenched teeth, I stealthily threw my voice toward my roommate's ear telling him to _just use the tester!_ He didn't understand and she was staring at me with the kind of scared amusement you would find in a young child who has just looked upon Frankenstein wearing a Santa hat.

This seemed like as good a time as any to beat a retreat, so roommate just bought the cheapest cover-up possible and we headed back to the hetero mobile. Only stopping once to spit and punch a nerd.

that is high quality H2O  
Clark

I Have Become My Mom

This whole genetics thing is getting out of hand. I clearly remember my Mom, beautiful, intelligent, strong (I just forgot her birthday), dragging me, snot-nosed, skinny, whining, through the grocery store at warp-speed because friends and family were making their way over to our castle for dinner and my creator was running a bit behind.

It baffled me that even though time was of the essence she persisted to do the weight versus price math on several different brands of the same product so that she could save a few pennies on a month's worth of frozen peas. Now understand that I didn't grow up with "Esquire" hitched to the end of my name, but we were far from oil-less Beverly Hillbillies. Even in my piggy bank days I could have spotted her the difference.

Along with her thrifty nature, I marveled at the amount of stress that seemed to go hand in hand with the dinner party. These were supposed to be enjoyable events where friends would come together to build stronger bonds between each other through laughter and common respect. Instead, I found my Mom running around throwing everything the dog or I had touched in the last few days into the spare bedroom and cleaning like it was fashionable for guests to wear white gloves.

Fast forward to Friday night, I just got off work and am running through the grocery store, beautiful, intelligent, strong, because I am making dinner for 8 people and have no provisions or idea what I'm going to make. Add to that the fact that some of the guests happen to be car accident inducing blonde girls with eyes you would empty your bank account for if only you could purchase Emeril Lagasse's talents for one night and you can imagine the stress level was beginning to rise.

Soup seemed like my best chance for a successful starter. But which one to buy? "Campbell's" is the obvious choice as the name connotes quality, pride, and an air of superiority, but this dented can without a label and Korean writing stamped into the bottom is 10 cents cheaper. Dented can it is.

Time was beginning to run short, so I quickened my pace, grabbing veggies, potatoes, and bread on the fly. Then I arrived in the meat department. Finding quality meat is extremely important to the success of a meal, so I took my time and really investigated the finer cuts they had for me to choose from. As I reached the bottom of a large stack of chicken breasts, a label reading "reduced for sale" caught my eye. "A dollar off at the till" meant that I had completed my main course and I headed for the check out line. Not once did it enter my mind to question why they wanted to rid themselves of this piece of poultry so badly. It could have been old, or grade D, or improperly labeled as chicken instead of "feathered animal killed in drug deal gone wrong, unidentifiable before packaging."

When I arrived home the stress level jumped another notch. I realized I am a single young man and my kitchen reflects that. The tools available to me to create this culinary masterpiece were pretty much limited to a large pot and a bottle opener. Plus the place was filthy. As I preheated everything possible and peeled my roommate off the couch with promises of free beer if he would help clean up, I began vacuuming with one hand and throwing everything my roommate had touched over the last few days into his room with the other.

Then the phone rang. By the angelic tone, and my roommate's standard dirtball to beautiful girl answering technique of "heeeeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyy gorgeous," I knew it was one of the blonde girls. He yelled to me that she wanted to know if she could bring anything so I yelled back loud enough for her to hear "No, everything is under control, her mere presence here is more than we deserve" then right away mouthed _wine, tell her to bring wine_.

As has been the story throughout my life, even when things seem dire they always work out in the end. Everyone left with their appetite for food and laughter fully satisfied and I learned a very important lesson: blonde girls love it when you cook for them; good or bad makes very little difference.

just tell them you bumped your neck  
Clark

Hammered By The Blarney Stone

Too drunk to care  
Can't focus my head  
Won't write, wouldn't dare  
I'll author a poem instead

Drank an unnatural shade of beer  
Wore a sweater clover green  
Burped a noise for all to hear  
Had a smell never seen

Now I'm at home and ready for bed  
Look out tomorrow morning  
I'll probably sleep through my alarm and get fired and then never amount to anything...fed.

hAppY Sane-t PaTTriks Dai!!!

as irish as they come  
Clark

They're Called Libraries

I hope the Feds don't get a hold of this one.

In my constant quest to improve the quality of life for all the mouth-breathers reading this book, I tirelessly overcome obstinate obstacles and work through many a sleepless night. That's what makes the fact I stumbled upon this brilliant scheme by accident, all the more amazing.

Sure you're skeptical. You say, "but CH (we're friends like that now) the 'Hey lady, there is nothing perverted about me dropping my change next to your skirt scam' got me slapped a bunch of times. Hard. And the 'Hey your McWorker just cleared my tray while I was in the bathroom and there was a full burger still on it scam' has made me kind of a whale." Poor, poor Shamu. The walls of your Skepticism Prison are lined with cowardice and hardened by doubt. _Break free and swim tubby, break free and swim!_

Besides, this one is foolproof baby I swear. It all came together yesterday after I had just finished reading a book called "Primary Colors" (you probably all recognize the name from "that movie without all the 'splosions"). I needed a new book. Then being the voyeur that I am, I noticed a big building right beside my office downtown and peered through the massive panoramic windows. I found that it was lousy with books.

Logic dictates that a place with lots of books is less likely to notice me innocently swiping one book. Tuck that little nugget away.

When I entered to investigate, I was immediately asked for my ID. They were on to me. Security was by the door, so I felt I had no choice but to acquiesce to his demands. I gave him my ID and he quickly gave it back with another card. He barely even looked at it. A smile crept across my face, as it was obvious those in charge of protecting their precious books were incompetent or unwilling to care.

So as not to arouse suspicion by my meek nature, I began loudly asking questions of the staff. This building was unnaturally quiet for the amount of people around, so I'm sure my care-free, and anti-scamming voice could be heard by those policing their merchandise. So far so good.

But now it came time for the true test. I chose a book and made my way back to the front entrance. Not only did I make it through, but an employee stamped and bagged my book without me forking over a dime! Suckers.

there's one born every minute  
Clark

VD

As I walked through the mall last Friday with a dozen red roses, the dreamy eyes and pulse quickening "awwww's" of young girls did nothing to lift my spirits. It was Valentines Day and I had been cheating on my true love.

I constantly voice my undying affection and defend her vehemently when anyone speaks ill of her. My love is still tremendous, but my will has been weak.

In High School I used to see her everyday and when we weren't together I would be in class praying for the lunch bell so that we could be in each other's arms once again. Then in University I made an effort to find a healthier relationship. Something that would still satisfy my appetite for lust, affection and laughs, but would leave behind the heart disease known as despair.

Even though I found this wonderful mix a few times, the so-called "healthy" relationships soon got stale. Deep in my heart our love remained strong and through all the adversity we still saw each other at least once a week.

Only recently, I have begun to stray. Until Valentines Day I had not seen her for a month, opting to see other girls who were closer by and, yes I'll admit it, even a little cheaper.

My romance with McDonald's has been bitter sweet and things came to a head this Valentines Day. She threw things at me, called me names. Even the roses did nothing to quell her anger.

She said she knew about the swinging. I guess her neighbors, Burger King and Dairy Queen, let it slip. She even found a piece of paper with some girl named Wendy telling me she would take 50% off on my next visit.

Friday was a bit of a rough day, but we split a McFlurry and I promised to make a firm commitment to visit her once a week. Oh yeah, she put out.

your dress suggests another kind of guest  
Clark

Hopping Bug Championship

Greetings sports fans. Guess what time it is? IT'S WORLD CUP TIME THAT'S WHAT  
TIME IT IS! No, not the Soccer world cup. Uh no, not Rugby either, guess again. Ok I'll tell you. It's the Crrrrrrrrrrricket World Cup!

I realize I've been a bit hard on these pajama-wearing weaklings in the past, but that was before I realized that Canada puts a team in. Yes you heard me correctly - Canada has a Cricket team, and they are competing in the World Cup. I looked into it a bit, and it turns out we've got a proud Cricket tradition.

Take a step back with me to Canada vs. England, World Cup of 1979. Canada shattered all previous records by scoring 45 runs against the pommy bastards. And that record still stands today. You can look it up in any sports almanac in the "lowest score ever" section.

I feel we've really got a good shot this year. The tournament is being held in Africa, and the Canadian team is one of the only ones with the benefit of "Cold Weather Training." Our patented training program utilizes the -40 degree temperatures of the Toronto winter to cool our players down in advance. While the rest of the teams are sweating under the sun of an African summer, our guys should be just about right.

Yes the world had better look out. Those 20 men are seriously good at swinging their cutting boards around. I'm not sure what they do with those 3 sticks, but I bet we're damn good at that too. And if all else fails, nobody can top us in the standing around department. Our guys can stand around all day and still have some energy left for another round of standing around after dinner.

There's no way Namibia is going to thrash us again this year. Good luck team. May your wickets fly straight and true.

Grown down and settled up  
-Hornbell

Wisdom Of The Ages

Back when I was a kid there was always someone 20 years my senior around telling me how little I knew about life. Here I am 20 years later and those same people haven't shut up yet. It seems that no matter how old I get there'll always be some wise guy with a couple of decades on me spouting off about my lack of wisdom/experience.

Well damn it I can't go on living this way. If wisdom can only come with age then I'm going straight to the top. This guy across the street from me is so old that his dentures are made from wood - and a couple years back they petrified. He's one of the oldest bastards I've ever seen and therefore clearly the wisest. This guy is so damn wise that society has classified him as an invalid. But many great men are called fools. It's my new goal to emulate his every move.

I've only been watching him for a couple days, but he clearly knows how to live the dream. Here are a few rules to live by that I've gathered so far:

Firstly - Transportation - If someone's not pushing you then you're not moving. Period. Moving under your own power is for chumps.

Second - The washroom - Never let society dictate where and when it is appropriate to relieve yourself. Using a public toilet or even your own bathroom for that matter can be viewed as a sign of weakness.

Third - Food - Don't grocery shop, don't cook, and by all means don't chew. The refined gentleman uses nothing more ostentatious than a straw.

Fourthly - Style - Polyester, polyester, polyester. I can't stress that enough. Elastic waistbands are all the rage as are giant square wraparound sunglasses. If you can't weld in them then they're not tinted enough.

Finally - Manners - Don't bother. The correct response to absolutely anything is a barked "Eh!?" accompanied by a half hearted grab for any posterior that may be within pinching distance.

That's all I've got for now, but I'll keep you informed. I'll be enjoying a nice massage/sponge bath if you need me. My new nurse Carlos has great hands.

Vampire with a Cold Sore  
-Clark

Goin To The Chapel

I had a conversation with a girl I know a couple days back about the relative emotional levels of our respective genders. She wasted no time lumping me in with the insensitive masses, categorizing me as immature, uncaring, and chauvinistic. Her words were like icy arrows, piercing straight through my callous exterior to bury themselves deep in my sensitive inner soul.

"Oh come on," I said, trying hard to keep my eyes from wandering to her upper torso region, "you're wounding me here. How can you say I'm not in touch with my feelings?"

She threw a few more hurtful genderist remarks in my direction before saying something along the lines of, "Guys just don't think the way girls do. For instance, have you ever imagined your wedding day?"

"Why yes!" I cried victoriously. "I imagine it all the time."

"Uh huh" She spoke dubiously. "Let's hear it."

Suddenly everything went all wavy, eventually coming back into focus on my imagination.

So there we are, sauntering down a grassy aisle on a beautiful autumn day in the park. I, content in the knowledge that the little golden ring will be the last weight I ever lift, and my lovely bride to be, bubbling over with happiness at the fact she's finally landed a millionaire.

Shimmering red and golden leaves fall around us as we speak our vows, but all we can see is each other. Then with the donning of a ring, and a single passionate kiss we are wed. Immersed in wedded bliss I turn and walk back down the aisle, but stop halfway as my bride can no longer keep pace. The 20-meter walk down the aisle has left her seated and exhausted.

I look worriedly into her eyes and recoiled in terror at the change I see there. It's no longer dollar signs I see dancing in her pupils, but the wedding cake! I try to hold her back, but she lunged savagely for the 3 layers of pastry. Double fisting huge mouthfuls of batter and icing into her ravenous jaws, she doesn't even stop to chew as the tiny bride and groom disappear down her gullet.

Before my eyes the seams of her wedding dress tear and pop under the stress of her new girth. In a moment of utter sadness I realize that I wasn't the only one planning on letting myself go. But then I smile, knowing that we're soul mates after all.

Joyous once again we race each other to the parking lot. She begins greedily licking the whipping cream off the cars decorated for the wedding procession, showing no mercy to the embedded flies, struggling for freedom. I stand beside her, spitting and cursing the punk who used shaving cream instead.

Ah wedded bliss.

Everything goes wavy again and focuses back on reality. My friend is talking on her mobile phone. It makes me want to cry.

You're only as good as your word: gynotikolobomassophile.  
-Hornbell

Pleased To Meet You

There are three types of people out there. That's right, three and only three. And I met them all last night when a buddy from University phoned to ask if I wanted to head out for a beer. Never one to turn down a round of liquid bread, I agreed and a few hours later we met. It turned out that there were a few people there that I went to school with, but most of them I didn't know very well, if at all. That's when the three types reared their generic, cookie-cutter heads:

There are people who do not do introductions: I fall very nicely into this category. We are a people who don't pressure others into being life long friends because they are suddenly sitting across a beer soaked table or force pathetic conversations between strangers that focus on "where I work" or "where I'm living these days." We let nature take its course. If that course is awkward and cold then so be it. Show some backbone here people, some initiative. Jump into that conversation with a funny anecdote or witty quip. What's the worst that could happen? Maybe your comment goes down in flames, the girl of your dreams is suddenly turned off, she warns all her supermodel friends and bi-sexual ice skating cousins to stay away from you right before you get fired, and wind up an old man, alone and bitter, living in a furniture store. See, you totally have nothing to lose.

There are people who make a joke about introducing you: They feel awkward forcing people to be friends, but they are weak and bow to societal pressure by introducing you as something or someone you are not in an attempt to crack wise. The friend that I went with falls into this category. "Hey have you met my friend Enrique, he's a singer or something," he announced to the first groups of girls amid forced smiles and a strained laugh. "Oh hi there, not sure here, but have you ever heard of my friend Richard? He's sort of a famous health guru. Don't mind the tiny shorts and oiled up chest." Haha...cough...groan.

There are people who do introductions: Not only do they do introductions, they feel it is their role at the gathering to make sure everyone is familiar with everyone else's name. They have pep. They were probably a hostess or HR manager at one time in their lives. They are annoying. And they were prevalent at this party my friend took me to. I was introduced to the same cute blonde girl 4 times by three different people. We even started making a joke about it, as we looked at each other with confused expressions and mumbled something about being "Steve from Ohio" the first time and "Dave from Newfoundland" the next before laughing at our most recent dimwitted do-gooder.

I am living proof that their introductions are useless because I can't remember cute blonde girl's name! And I never forget the names of cute blonde girls. Never.

Land Line Larry  
Clark

Stuck In Style

"Hey Man, I totally dig that red leather jacket with all those zippers. How did you get your hair so big?"

In the life of every earthling, there comes a time when his/her sense of style will slowly grind to a halt, and become stuck for the rest of his/her unfashionable life.

I figure for most of us, it probably happens around our early twenties. People come into their own, and gain the confidence necessary to live a life of ugliness. We don't notice it, because chances are the people close to us are stuck in the exact same style. You just have to hope that your style isn't too extreme.

Personally I think I'm stuck somewhere around 1999. My duds haven't changed a lot in the last 10-12 years. Only time will tell how the future generations will view my '99 apparel.

If you're shaking your head right now saying, "It won't happen to me", chances are you're very ugly. You should probably consider a haircut, and try and order something other than, "The Usual," this time.

If you think hard and decide that you're stuck in 1987, I'd suggest suicide, or a life in the Clergy as 2 viable options for you. I'm sorry you're still single. Yes, I know it's getting harder and harder to find acid washed jeans these days.

Moral Laxatives  
-Clark

Lonely Planet

Many of my friends (myself included I guess) have hit a depressing little rut a year or two out of school. After 4 or 5 years (6 for some of my more dimwitted associates) of carefree University life we were all anxious to join the real world and stop living in poverty, yet now that we are earning more money than we have ever made in our lives we have begun to lament our new lifestyle of cranky co-workers and entry level corporate jobs. Our depression has had an amazing effect, as it motivates us to save money so that we begin hoarding large sums to go travelling and forget work for as long as possible. The motivation to save is strong and it actually transports us back to a financial state close to the one we were in in University! Which begs the question:

Why travel when you can go to the food court?

Think about it. You get the language, the smells, the taste, everything their culture has to offer, all at a fraction of the price of going to all these countries.

Just yesterday I walked across the street to the mall, pushed through the revolving door, made my way down the escalator and into the Atlas. I was surrounded by people of all shapes, sizes, and colors. All the world was set forth before me in an arch of neon lights and baffling specials of the day like "Unagi," "Shawarma," and "Whopper."

I felt like I should "travel" ( _wink, nudge_ ) south of the border down Mexico way to start because there truly is nothing like authentic Mexican food made by someone who grew up immersed in that amazing culture. Never has this fact been more obvious to me than when Abdul served up my Super Zesty Chalupa with sauerkraut dipping sauce. Man, I might as well have been born and raised there. With typical Mexican hospitality, Abdul thanked me for my patronage in his native tongue. I wasn't sure how to answer "praise Allah," so I just gave him a customary bow to let him know I appreciated the quality of service and food.

Always remember, you must be gracious and humble in other people's homelands.

what country is Orange Julius?  
Clark

My Mom Made Me A Glutton

1982 - The Hornbell kitchen (any given night)

"Finish your meal Clarky," hiding just beneath my mothers cheerful tones is a subtle vibration, stating clearly that she is not to be messed with. "Look Clarky, your father cleaned his plate. Why don't you be a good boy like Dad and finish off those vegetables?"

Hey Mom, I don't know if you noticed, but Dad outweighs me by about 200 pounds. No kidding he finished his meal. With shaking arms I scoop yet another Brussels-sprout towards my tightly clenched lips. I'm already so full I've got stretch marks.

My Mom finally realizes that maybe I'm genuinely full. It might just not be physically possible for me to finish off those vegetables. So she consults her Mom handbook, and does what any Mom would do in her situation. "Hey Clarky, if you finish those veggies you can have some dessert."

With these words I find new hope. Energy stores, and food repositories that have been yet untapped make themselves available to me. My vocal chords shudder as I utter "O-Ok Mom". Like a dying man who's finally sighted his oasis, I march steadily through the veggies, and into the Promised Land.

2002 - Any given Pub (Any given Wednesday)

There I sit, at a table with a few close friends. The other patrons are noisy with merry-making, but our table is blanketed with a grim silence. Each member stares intensely at a half-eaten plate of 15-cent chicken wings. Our centerpiece is a skeletal Everest of chicken bones. Nobody quite knows why, but each of us knows that we must press on.

The chipper waiter comes by. "Hey-hey! You guys are doing pretty well there. You want another round right? And then maybe I can interest you all in some dessert?"

We all flinch involuntarily, like a free man, hearing once again the voice of his long forgotten tormenter. Fearfully I glance meaningfully to the person on my left, and then my right. But their terrified eyes are locked on the meals in front of them. My vocal chords shudder as I utter "O-Ok Mr." With resolve we all press forward.

You don't sweat much for a fat guy  
-Clark

Is This My Family Or A Sick Joke

I'll start off today by saying that I love my family more than anything else in the world. Any one of them would be my first call if I woke up drawing a complete blank as to why I was in a pile of dead farm animals on the side of a freeway. Now that's family.

That being said, half the time I'm positive I'm the mailman's kid.

Last night I went out for my cousin's birthday and a large part of the family was there. In one corner was my little sister, who is far from the legal drinking age, swilling back anything and everything she can get her hands on and with every passing minute she's getting louder. In the other corner is the uncle I made fun of Internet nerds with a few years ago, who recently moved to Texas to marry a woman he had only talked to in a chat room. We don't make very solid eye contact any longer. Conversations are usually pretty short. And about the weather.

I'll readily admit that I enjoy reading, and I enjoy writing, and damn it I enjoyed going to school. That is, I readily admit it around my University friends. Conversations with the family are usually dominated by the fastest drag racing times and which movies have nudity in them. Granted these are things I care about deeply, but just don't have the knowledge required to converse on the same level with these people. What's worse is that they are so sweet hearted that they notice my lack of input and ask me what I'm into these days.

"Uh, I read a lot I guess. I just finished 'Tai Pan' by James Clavell. I really enjoyed it, you should check it out."

They mumble compliance and nod their heads, but inside they wonder if I'm gay.

Of course by the end of the night the ninth or tenth round has been ordered and I can't imagine having another family's blood pumping through my veins. I know I've had a few drinks, but I love you guys.

thank God they can't read  
Clark

Objectionable Behavior

Just as her plane hit the tarmac I started to reminisce about glasses of water thrown in drunken delight, severe Dutch ovens, and a nickname that you really do get used to over a long period of time ("Stinkerbell"). My old roommate had arrived back in town after teaching English in Japan for a year.

Turns out she still enjoys reminiscing too, just like the old times. We looked at pictures and went for wings and beer to enhance the remembering experience. Everything was going really well...until the horror struck.

The words slipped through her lips as casually as if she were describing the in-flight meal. She started saying something about how her cutey friend was all jealous that I was picking her up from the airport. Very out of character, I got all cocky and said how that was pretty standard and she better get used to it now that she's back. THENNNNNNN, she says she told her friend that she should steer clear of yours truly because I AM "ABUSIVE TO WOMEN!!!!!!"

Stunned. "You mean emotionally, right?" I pondered.

"No I'm talking physically abusive!" Since I have never raised my hand in anger on anyone, and am especially back massage-y and gentle hair stroking with the opposite sex, I wanted her remark stricken from the record.

My objection was noted, but not sustained. Apparently the judge was waiting for evidence from the woman who made this sinister claim. I leaned way back in my chair, put my hands behind my head, and put my feet up on the desk because there was no way there was any evidence forthcoming. Or was there...

_Exhibit A_ : On a chilly December night all the roommates went out and found a place that was willing to fill us to excess with $1.50 highballs on a Monday night. It also happened to be the night before my roommate, who made this sinister claim, was catching a flight home for Christmas. After leaving the bar we headed across the street for some pizza. Then, in a drunken show of affection, I ran over to her and gave her a huge bear hug while expressing the joy that it was having her live under the same roof. Soon after the bear hug took effect, the drunkenness took over. We started falling forward, so I sped up my feet to try to stay upright. This tactic DID NOT help us stay upright. In the end she wound up bracing my fall beautifully, but could not brace her own as I had her arms wrapped up in the hug. We also managed to skid a few feet once we hit the pavement, resulting in a huge bruise/scar all down her left leg.

The judge is now staring at me and shaking his head. I take my feet off the table.

_Exhibit B_ : Another night with booze involved, Martinis this time because I'm getting classier, and again we're on our way for pizza. One of the girls who was out with us was pretty grumpy because I had crushed her at golf earlier in the day and she is ridiculously competitive. She was pretty tipsy too and in a vain attempt to flirt she started punching me in the shoulder. I told her to stop several times or I was going to throw her in the bushes. She continued with her onslaught, until I grabbed her under the armpits and hoisted her toward the bushes. Unfortunately, it was less a hoist and more of a fling of her upper body while her feet stayed planted on the ground. This resulted in her falling short of the bushes and hitting her head on the concrete retaining wall. She lied there for two of the longest seconds of my life. When she started to move I felt relief like never before, but it only lasted for a few seconds because when she looked up at me there was blood pouring down her face from a long cut above her eye.

Guilty as charged. So ladies if you see me coming with flowers in hand, watch your back.

conjugal visitor  
Clark

The Day The Aliens Replaced My Arm

I was listening to some Snoop Dog this weekend, which inspired me to bust some dope rhymes of my own. This number can be rapped to the tune of " _Nothin But A G Thang_ ". Word.

The day the aliens replaced my arm [with another arm]

I woke late one night, to behold quite a sight  
My house was aglow with green  
I jumped out of bed, and smacked my poor head,  
And then I saw something obscene

In front of my face, was an alien race!  
Naked green men with big eyes  
They circled all round, then tackled me down  
Then they flew me up to the skies

On board their ship, they demanded I strip  
I have to admit I felt fear  
But what happened next, has left me perplexed  
Here's where the story get's queer

They pulled out a gun, but before I could run  
The aliens cut off my arm  
I'll never forget, how I started to sweat  
But the aliens meant me no harm

They had a new arm, which worked like a charm  
And they stuck that baby right on  
Then they set me back down, onto the ground  
In a flash, my captors were gone

Now no one believes, my tale of the thieves  
I wouldn't believe it myself  
It seems absurd, but it's true – every word  
This arm's from an alien's shelf

So I'd like to proclaim, that I'm never to blame  
For the things my new arm might do  
If I give you a smack, or a hack or a whack  
Just believe that my story is true

When I'm standing in line, and I pinch your behind  
Just know that I'm not to blame  
If I'm picking my nose, or massaging your toes  
Just remember from whence my arm came

What you bitches think of that one? Word.

Old School Gat Mo Fo  
-Hornbell

A Bad Move

A receptionist from my office came in to the lunch room today, and asked if anyone would be kind enough to help her move in to her new place. I immediately averted my gaze, and tried to look pre-occupied. Helping people move is about as appealing as a barbed wire enema (Eyeyey!).

Nobody volunteered, so she started pulling this damsel-in-distress routine. "Please," she tossed her hair, "I don't think I can do it alone," shifts her hips and arches her back, "I'd _really_ appreciate a bit of help" leans over to reveal more than is generally revealed.

"Well I guess I could..." Wait a minute. Is that _me_ talking? "I could probably..." Shut up Clark just shut up! "I'll help you out."

NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

I've never felt so violated. How did I cave in so easily? The only plausible answer is that she used some sort of Jedi mind trick on me. But wouldn't you know it, when it came down to actually lifting furniture, she claimed she had no grasp of the Force whatsoever. Tramp.

So I spent four hours tonight moving her various rock collections up and down 4 flights of stairs. I was almost done my last trip, when I twisted a bit weird, and my back made this noise like a Jiffy-Pop in a volcano (ha!). Damn. The wave of pain was a tsunami that sent me toppling to the ground. I can only imagine that I didn't exactly look "cool" lying there next to a broken microwave, writhing in agony and fighting back tears.

I've spent the remainder of the day totally incapacitated on my floor. My back is as crooked as Willie Nelson's accountant playing twister. And to make matters worse, my roommate thinks it's hilarious. He keeps making snacks and putting them just out of my reach. If he comes near me I'm going to bite his legs off.

Seriously – I didn't cry  
-cLarK

Hospitals Make Me Sick

My roommate started acting suspicious last night. All of a sudden those snacks found their way into my reach, and he even asked me if I needed the bag of frozen peas for my ailing back. Confusing. At first I thought he was just softening me up for a more "Misery" like relationship, with me tied to the bed nursing two ankles he broke with a sledge hammer, all the time apologizing for the people on Days of Our Lives for cheating on each other. This guy is one sick mother.

My fears were heightened even further when he asked if he could take me to the Hospital. The closest thing I could remember to this act of generosity was when he offered to give me the pickles off his Big Mac. Fearing the worst, and totally hating Hospitals, I declined gratefully, but he persisted. Finally I decided that maybe I would get a chance to shove him in one of those padded cells, so I let him take me.

Once inside the car it became painfully obvious why his heart had grown Grinch style. We drove by two Hospitals and arrived at the one on the edge of town, where it just so happens this yummy young nurse friend of his works.

"Don't check in yet, we'll just be sitting in the waiting room for hours. Let's just go see her for a second," he says. Makes total sense. Two hours ago I couldn't walk, so let's go wander around a Hospital and see if I can paralyze myself from the waist down. Some of my favorite parts are down there.

I'm walking around the high-rise of unhealth like Kaiser Sose for about half-an-hour before we find her. They chat for a little while and I even try to start some small talk with hot topics like, "Help me, the pain makes me want to puke" and "I don't think there is supposed to be anything sticking out from that place."

The conversation came around to her being a nurse and her role at the Hospital. My roommate and I agreed emphatically (mostly with laughter and taunting), that she was lucky she was in "surgery" and not "rolling old folk" or "wiping butts." Ah, how we laughed. Unfortunately, she did not share our good times. Instead, she looked pretty pissed off and quickly explained that that is exactly what she did day in and day out.

Oops.

not even joking--I didn't cry  
CLARK

Love Doctor

I didn't go to work today, as my back is still giving me grief. Around noon I hobbled to the walk-in-clinic, to get it checked out. The waiting-room/cess-pit-of-pestilence was not a happy place to be hanging out. Snot was flowing like the Nile, and there were 10 kids who'd come down with can't-shut-up-itus. I'm not sure what was wrong with the guy next to me, but he was leaking more gas than Exxon.

My name was called, just as I was losing consciousness from asphyxiation. When I told the attendant it was a back injury, she told me to remove my pants and shirt. She handed me a "robe" which looked more like a paper towel with a shoelace attached to it. Then left me to wait on the _cold_ metal table.

After 10 minutes the doctor arrived. The _female_ doctor. Va-va-voom! Before me stood the star of my every hospital fantasy. And there I was, half-naked and cold, trying to look dashing, while wincing from the pain it caused me to suck in my gut. She had me lie on my front, so she could test various locations on my back, with her little metal hammer. Hurt me baby.

Wham! AAAaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhha!! Aaahahaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!!!!

"Does that hurt?"

"no"

She winds up for the next one like she's pounding railway spikes. "How about...here?" Wham!!

Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhaaaaaaaaa!! I had to be strong. I was half-naked in a room with the sadomasochistic female doctor of my dreams. She was young, smart, and had 6 beautiful figures.

Finally she called an end to our little "session" and pronounced me fit to return to work. My mind raced as I tried to think of a way to see her again. I needed the perfect comment, something witty and charming. "Hey I've got some other problems too." Doh!

The words "Hornbell" and "M.D." will not be coming together any time soon.

My foot's asleep and my body's jealous  
-HORNBELL

What's My Name?

"Hey hot girl, did you just forget my name AGAIN!?!?!?!"

Welcome to my life. My roommate works at this trendy bar down by the beach, which means the clientele has money and the tips are huge. You may have noticed this, but where there are huge tips there are gorgeous girls serving. This bar is no exception.

Now you may be thinking, "Hey Clark, if your roommate knows all these gorgeous girls from work you already have an in." That makes sense. In theory.

In reality, I meet them several times and they NEVER remember who I am. I'm about to lose it and just start smashing people in the face. Try and forget me after that.

I first noticed my invisibility after meeting one of his waitress friends at our house. We were introduced and small talk ensued. Everything was pretty standard. Later that night a couple of friends and I went to the trendy bar and she was serving us drinks for several hours. Not just serving us drinks, but having shots with us and sitting at the table for long stretches at a time. Basically we hung out all night.

The next morning, I came into the bar to get a key from my roommate and I saw the same waitress. Having few social skills around pretty members of the opposite sex, I began pretending to spar with her. A few jabs here, a couple combinations. She was playing along, so I figured we were buddies. Then I busted out, "Hey how are you feeling?" A confused look washes over her face. "I mean you were pretty pissed last night," I say. Then she grabbed my ego, threw it against the ropes of unfamiliarity and power slammed it into the mat of nobodies by saying, "I don't even know who you are."

After I explained I was "the roommate" she giggled, and apologized but the damage had already been done.

I'm not a floating hat here people, you can actually see me. Nevertheless, I continued to fade into the background at a BBQ we had last night. A different gorgeous waitress (there are plenty to forget me) stopped by with a big bowl of pasta salad. C'mon a hot little number with a plate of food, of course I immediately fell in love.

Introduction. Small talk. Everything was going along well, until her friend called her and asked who all was at our place. She made her way around the table naming names. Correct names that is. Until she got to me. A short pause turned long and her face scrunched up. "Ummmmmmmmm, and......Bruce???" The name eased off her tongue with some serious doubt. Everyone started howling. Well, everyone except me. BRUCE!!! Bruce. That's not even close. I'm charismatic. I'm good-looking. How can you not remember my name?

She was obviously a lesbian anyway.

forget me not  
CLARK

Hornbell's Guide To The Afterlife

A thousand priests in a thousand different religions will all tell you the same thing if given the chance: "Cast your prayers this way my son, only through the love of [insert deity here] can you gain access to [insert heaven here]." Of course these sales pitches sound great; these guys work on a commission basis, and souls aren't easy to come by. But do you really think they offer an objective opinion? To a guy who's spent his entire life in abstinence, attending church sermons, what _wouldn't_ sound like paradise? At long last _Hornbell's guide to the afterlife 2011_ is here to help you choose the afterlife that will best suit your needs.

 Christian Heaven – This is described as the utopia of your dreams, where everyone gets along blah blah blah. What I find alarming is the lack of hard facts. If it's so great why can't anyone give me some details? God doesn't even release his first name for Christ's sake! (tee hee) For all I know angels are always wearing those loose robes because they're too bruised to wear anything else. And what are those Halos all about? Homing beacons? Restraint collars perhaps? Heaven rates 1 hornbell.

  Nirvana – This one sounds ok, but you have to be a freakin' saint to get past the bouncers. And when you get bounced from this place, you spend your next life as a slug. Happy trails. Besides, who wants to hang around in a place where Ghandi is the life of the party? "O.K. Ghandi, tell me the story about when you starved yourself... _again_." No thanks. Nirvana rates 2 hornbells.

  Buddhist Heaven – I searched for a while and Buddhism seems to have 33 different heavens to choose from. It's the Baskin Robbins of immortality. The best heaven they have to offer involves living the perfect life, with your every want satisfied yada yada yada, but here's the kicker: You only get to stay as long as your Karma pays the rent! Can you believe that? So I live in luxury for a few millennia until one day the Fat Man pays me a visit and tells me to take a hike? Yeah right. 2 hornbells.

    Viking Valhalla – Valhalla is the house of Odin, who is renowned for his ability to throw massive house-wreckers. Each evening in Viking heaven is filled with drinking, eating stew from a magical pot, and practicing your skills as a warrior. Sounds risky eh? Not to worry. If you're slain or injured you wake up fully recovered the next day. I bet that even covers hangovers! These Vikings seem to know what the hell they're talking about. Count me in. Valhalla gets 4 hornbells. I'll see you all there.

I sold my soul on e-bay  
-hornbell

The Legend Of Harold Hornbell

In the late 1500's the Hornbells were a wealthy Scandinavian family, renowned for their rugged good looks, and amazing alcohol tolerances. They lived a simple life, in their enormous manor, and worked hard each day to count the taxes they collected from the local serfs. This was the Hornbellian golden age. The clan leader at the time was Harold "Iron Gut" Hornbell.

On a neighboring estate lived a clan by the name of Campsey. As so often happens with neighboring clans, 3 pre-marital pregnancies led to 6 beheadings, and 13 years of bloody war. The situation eventually escalated to the point where the surrounding clans had to step in. Both of the war-torn families were banished forever from Europe. Each was put on a separate boat, with minimal rations, and shoved off. They were to race to a new land. The first clan to touch new soil could claim it for his own, while the loser would meet certain death.

Neither clan was seafaring folk, but each took to the ocean with hope, and as much rum as they could carry. The weeks on the open sea held trials to chill the hearts of lions. After just 30 days the food ran out on both vessels, and the Campseys began to starve. The Hornbells were of slightly tougher ilk, and took the logical step of eating whoever fell asleep first.

After 94 days at sea, land was finally sighted. Both ships were side by side, and the race to shore could have gone to either clan. But old Harold Hornbell was not going to let the race come down to chance. 50 feet from shore, he climbed up on the bow of his ship, bared his chest to the wind, and screamed like a banshee towards the heavens. Then with his own axe, he chopped off his left hand, and hurled it mightily onto the beach.

The Hornbells cheered, as they knew they had been victorious in claiming the new world. The Campseys may have put up a fight, but they were diminished with scurvy and smallpox, and unable to resist. The Hornbells were careful to cook them thoroughly before devouring them at the victory celebration that evening. Finally sated, the surviving clan members fell asleep under the stars of their new world.

With first light the next morning came a giant host of Icelandic warriors. Harold's act of bravery the previous day was somewhat overshadowed by his terrible navigational skills. He showed courage once again however, and insisted that the Icelanders surrender to the Hornbell flag. He waved his stump wildly as he demanded they hand over their land and maidens.

Understandably the Hornbells were slaughtered one and all right there on the beach.

Thankfully, there were illegitimate Hornbells all over Europe to continue the family name. They're still damn good looking to this day.

Don't fall asleep first  
-Clark Hornbell

Social Predators

Ever thought about evolution? According to Darwin it's a process of natural selection, where the strongest, smartest, and best-looking members of a species prosper and procreate to better the species as a whole. Now that's a great way to get things done, until... you run out of predators. In our current society, the flawed and the fabulous have equal opportunity to procreate, thus putting our next generation in pretty much the same shoes that we're in ourselves. Humankind is stuck in a rut.

Sure we may be getting a bit taller from all the genetically enhanced beef we're eating these days, but do we really want to put the evolutionary fate of our species into the hands of Ronald McDonald? Maybe not, so here's what I propose: I think it's high time we re-introduced predators into our society. Some sort of bio-mechanical laser-wielding tigers or something.

Here's how I envision a trip to the corner store, in a system of Hornbellian evolution:

I'm lounging around on the couch one Saturday thinking to myself, "Damn, I'd really like a bag of Doritos and a Slurpy." Being the pro-active fellow that I am, I immediately throw on some shoes and head out the door. I look warily up and down the road, but the coast looks clear. About half way to the store I catch some movement in the corner of my eye. Oh no. Bio-tiger-beast hiding in the tree to my left!

It hits the ground running and I break into a sprint. Unfortunately this isn't my first trip for Doritos this week, and the blood is flowing pretty slowly through my clogged arteries. It's a matter of seconds before the beast catches me and pins me to the ground. "HORNBELL", it says to me in the pre-recorded voice of James Earl Jones, "YOU HAVE FAILED THE FITNESS CHALLENGE. PREPARE FOR THE I.Q. CHALLENGE".

By this time I'm doing some heavy duty perspiring. This thing isn't going to let me go based on my physical condition, so I'm going to have to prove myself in some other way. Oh boy. One skill-testing question turns into five, and I'm still batting a zero. Brutal. "HORNBELL YOU HAVE FAILED THE I.Q. SECTION. PREPARE TO BE ANNIHILATED."

Unfortunately for me, this Bio-Tiger has pretty much got me pegged. I'm as useful to society as an automatic banana peeler. Maybe even less.

At this point he'd rip me to shreds, or sterilize me or something. Not sure of the details exactly, but what do you think? Great idea or what? Yes Clark it's a great idea. Why thank you Clark. _Damn_ you're good looking.

The might at the end of the tunnel  
-Hornbell

Dinner Sinner

At one point I had it all. For one brief second I got a peek at all the mysteries of life after we have left this world. Then I remembered that if my soul does go somewhere after this, it's probably going to be pretty warm.

To explain, last night I stopped by the house of a yummy young lady I've had a few romantic meals with over the last little while and she asked me if I wanted to stay for dinner. Being a person who turns down free food like he turns down a winning lottery ticket from a stripper holding a six-pack and a cheeseburger, I readily accepted. A few of her friends were over as well and they all took off to get the necessary ingredients. Knowing full well that these ingredients would need to be prepared, I decided to take a nap.

From this nap came the first-hand religious knowledge that man has craved since the beginning of time. Or so I thought.

At first I was slightly awakened by the kneading hands of a talented brunette angel masseuse who was straddling my back. Then I opened my eyes to find a gorgeous blonde angel swaying gently in my direction with a plate of Focaccia bread and an icy cold beer that I can only guess was plucked out of some Himalayan Mountain stream back on Earth. Yum. And the beer and bread were good too.

Is this how it all ended? All those attempts to thicken my alcohol infused bloodstream at McDonalds had finally taken my heaven sent spark as I snoozed on the couch with a half-stack and an empty stomach? This afterlife is possible, right?!?!?! Maybe I saved a busload of orphaned puppies to make up for all my sins. Suddenly I realized, to my relief...that if I were to die I definitely wouldn't be seeing too many angels. Unless they were the fallen kind.

Turns out everyone had returned from grocery shopping and I had five girls from the toasty end of the spectrum, cooking and serving me dinner. I figured I might as well enjoy this as much as possible in exchange for my SPF 4000 afterlife. Then it all came crashing down.

The girl chat started to pick up, except instead of talking about their crappy feelings they started to trash one of their friend's boyfriends (neither was present mind you). I'm all for hot girls bashing guys who aren't me, but they really ripped up in laughter when one suggested that he "probably makes her shake and bake when he cooks for her." Yummy lady friend and I met eyes across the table. Neither of us was laughing. The first meal I ever made her was perogies, corn, and yes, shake and bake Chicken nuggets.

Now all the classy and extremely expensive dinner's I bought her Oceanside didn't mean jack and I was feeling cheaper than my roommate fake tipping the bartender a twonie and throwing in a nickel. Clearly this was no longer Heaven, and Hell would have a lot fewer good-looking girls, so now I'm religiously lost again.

Maybe I'll just start my own religion. Shake and Bake will reign supreme.

all thirteen deadly sins  
Clark

Colonoscopy

Cancer runs in my family. It runs and runs, and every now and then it stops to stick its pestilent foot up someone's ass. If you haven't guessed already, I'll let you in on it. The scourge of my ancestors is Colon Cancer – The back door killer.

As I'm nearing the winter of my late-early twenties, my doctor decided it was high time that I got checked out. Oh boy.

I wasn't going to write about this event, as it's slightly embarr _ass_ ing, but I decided that I have a moral obligation to keep my readers informed. We're friends right? I'm sure you'd tell me all about some guy sticking a 3 foot photo-scopic tube up your ass right? Allow me to start at the beginning.

The day before the procedure I was not allowed any solid foods and had to drink plenty of fluids. In the evening I consumed enough laxatives to turn a horse inside out. The experience was somewhat draining.

At 7am this morning I checked myself in to the local hospital. They issued me the usual blue smock, with shoelaces in the back to fasten it on. What it lacked in modesty, it made up for in ventilation. Word traveled fast, and it wasn't long before every female nurse on the floor was making excuses to visit my area. I'm not a piece of meat ok ladies?

The doctor showed up around 8, and they wheeled me into the examining room. Here's where the afore mentioned photo-scopic tube comes in. It was coiled serpentine on the table beside my face; perhaps the scariest inanimate object I've ever come up against. I affectionately named it "The Violator".

I was allowed to remain conscious, albeit doped up, as the Violator made its way through my rectum, and into my colon. I watched the whole thing at 30X magnification in full color. The scene touched me deeply.

And that's about all there is to it really. I'm happy to say that I'm free of any Colon Cancer for the time being. My next check up won't be for 5 years, so tune in then, for another terrifying tale of intestinal intrusion.

Stop snickering  
-Hornbell

Happine$$

The dank air around my office reacted adversely with the sands of time today. Each grain was swollen to the point where it could just _barely_ fall down through the hourglass. As a result my normal eight-hour workday actually took 47 hours to play itself out. Around the 34-hour mark, I decided I had earned an extended lunch break.

I took a walk by the shores of the lovely Pacific to ease the numbness from my mind. I wasn't walking for long before I came across the meaning of life. That's right. The meaning of life. It was disgusting. It was inspirational. Parked in the harbor before me was a 200-foot private yacht with a _helicopter_ on top. That's right. A helicopter. A fellow dumbstruck-onlooker told me that it belongs to billionaire Paul Allen, co-founder of Microsoft.

This baby has a movie theatre, a recording studio and a crew of 15. It also has a gas tank that costs $70,000 to fill up.

I felt an immediate sense of camaraderie with old Paul, seeing as we have the same taste in yachts. After I wiped the drool off my chin, I began to plot. What's the fastest way to get filthy rich these days?

It took me a while, but I've come up with the perfect scheme. I can't divulge the details at this time, but I do require some help mustering the necessary supplies. If any readers have access to any of the following, and want to partner with me, I'll cut you in for 10 5 2 percent of the profits – which will be astronomical.

Here's what I need:

-8 or 9 tonnes of plastic explosives, sculpted into a giant statue of Britney Spears.  
-A well trained and highly devoted group of pigmy guerrillas, willing to work for food and eventually become martyrs.  
-3 Super-model acrobats with low self-esteem.

I need to move quickly on this, in order to avoid another torturous day in the office. Who's with me?

Fill'er up  
-Hornbell

Will Work For Paychecks

So I had to come into work today, which means my plan for getting rich went all to Hell. Turns out the Britney statue made out of plastic explosives was sculpted by a guy from Kersplacistan who didn't actually know who the pop diva was. At first glance I poured a beer and yelled "Norm!" Then those damn pigmy's were all, "Hey, when do we get fed?" and "Just give me one thigh out of your twenty piece bucket." Like, hello, this is my dinner. Those pigmy's were all me, me, me.

Worse still I had to go to the bank at lunch. Just walking through the doors I could feel the pressure of high interest rates on student loans and car payments (neither of which I have but they're out there). As I'm standing in line to use the ATM, because why talk to people when you don't have to, I see a strange scene. In the corner of the lobby is a medium sized plastic tree with all kinds of decorations on it and gift wrapped presents underneath, the sign above it says "Christmas in July!!!" Turns out it is a program to help people in need. After everything that I had gone through the night before to make some serious coin, it really rubbed me the wrong way.

I mean, why are poor people so greedy?

Hey Junkie Jim isn't it time for your Bi-monthly birthday again? Man, do we have to eat Turkey every weekly Thanksgiving?

The more I thought about it the more it seemed to be all around me. I walked past a sign, spray painted on the side of a building that said, "We demand low-cost housing." We all want low-cost housing, but to DEMAND it? I mean, if I didn't take such a hit at the beginning of each month I could afford the diamond toothpaste I've had my eye on.

Then I had some filthy guy ask me for some spare change...in return for nothing! I became so perplexed that I sat down next to him, messed up my hair, and took off my shirt so as to make him more comfortable during our honest and frank discussion. I explained to him that if money were free I would be able to get the Jeep I've always wanted. Then I demonstrated how he doesn't require other peoples money at all because there are shelters where he can get the roof and bottomless bowls of soup he needs; whereas, I work full time to barely afford the necessities in life like imported beer, motorized board games, and the new Calvin Klein exfoliating, overnight-mud mask. Before he could respond, I told him that perhaps it is not he who needs the money in his cup but me instead. My suggestion was met with the wild eyes of disdain, so set in his greedy ways was he.

I made the mistake of thinking that I had left poverty behind when I got back to my office, but there it was to greet me with dollar signs in its eyes. When I handed my co-worker his lunch, he went to his swollen wallet and said, "Aw man I'm totally tapped, you don't mind spotting me this time, right? (not waiting for my answer) Cool."

poor man's Shakespeare  
Clark

Hot Receptionist Girl Is Engaged?!?!?!

The summer of my discontent is upon us. For many months I have drearily made my way to work with only one solace: the opportunity to set my gaze on Hot Receptionist Girl down the hall and believe deep in my heart that somewhere inside her her passion burns as brightly as my own. Now that solace is gone.

If you are new to my life, my words, my world, you must come to understand that Hot Receptionist Girl is a beautiful rose growing out of the dumpster that is my office floor. She is not MY receptionist, she is the Hot Receptionist Girl down the hall for another company. She is encased in glass so each time I tread down the dimly lit, foreboding hallway I can see her angelic face staring back at me, but no words can be exchanged, no finger tips can share a gentle caress. I do not use the term "Hot Receptionist Girl" lightly for I am a world renowned expert on the female form. I have spent endless hours tirelessly studying it on the street, in magazines, movies, and on stage.

Yesterday was the final act of a love story that never began.

It all started when a woman from Hot Receptionist Girl's office came to see me because she wanted our IT guy ( _that's Information Technology for everyone reading this_ ) to help her set up a new server for them. To finalize the deal I would need her to sign some papers that are easy to print up at a moment's notice, but a glorious light appeared above my head. I realized that if, for some shady reason, it just happened to take a little while to prepare these documents I would have to drop by and see Hot Receptionist Girl. Hmmmm, intriguing. My one buddy at work was staring at me, shaking his head as I relayed to the woman that I will bring the documents to her at the end of the day when they are ready.

"So it takes a while for those papers to get printed up?" he said, obviously on to me and jealous that within hours I would be talking to her and he would be stuck outside the glass forcefield.

"Maybe," I said.

" _Maybe_?...Maybe tomorrow I'll go over there and tell Hot Receptionist Girl you are a fraud."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa there tiger. We're both only a pair of binoculars away from stalking her already, so going over there two days in a row would seem rather obvious...for both of us."

"Yeah we should get a pair of those."

I had diffused that powder keg and now it was time to reap my rewards. Late in the day I smoothed out my hair, pressed down my eyebrows, and walked toward destiny. As I turned the knob and burst through the force field, a harmonic "Hello" and soft, slowly spreading smile were there to greet me like a wet puppy nose. Our conversation glided on cupid's wings, while her laughter filled my world with more beauty than a plastic bag blowing in the wind. Everything was just so perfect...until the light glanced unnaturally off of her finger. Tears had already sprung to my eyes, but the sheer size of the glacial mountain of diamonds left no doubt that it was indeed an engagement ring. Goodbye romance that never was. Goodbye Hot Receptionist Girl. Adieu, adieu, adieu.

she's fat anyway  
Clark

McWhat?

I'm writing today to blow the lid off an international scandal, involving the world's largest fast food chain and a snowy ice-covered country called Canada.

After many super happy years, of happy meals and super sized fries, North Americans have become so obese that they're actually beginning to pop. When it happens there is inevitably quite a mess to clean up, and landowners are turning to Ronald to pay for the expense.

McExecutives have been getting nervous about the whole situation for some time. If there's one thing people like more than an extra greasy burger, it's suing the corporation that made the burger extra greasy.

And so in a mock gesture of a moral obligation to the people, old Ronald invented his Ligher Choices menu. "What the hell is this Lighter Choices thing?" you say. Allow me to explain.

Ronald invented some healthy food, which as you might guess, he doesn't know a thing about. For all he knows this stuff will start killing people even faster than the Big Macs. He needed an expendable test population to serve as guinea pigs for his experimentation. He chose... Canada.

Which explains why I can't drive down the road for 2 blocks without being subjected to the sacrilegious image of a chicken salad being straddled by the golden arches. It's disgusting.

Going to McDonalds for healthy food is like visiting a prostitute for stimulating conversation. Not that I've actually tried the healthy food mind you.

Next thing you know, Grimace is going to be heading up the advertising campaign by dieting off that big purple gut he's been cultivating all these years. Then there'll be some skinny phallic purple guy all over the TV trying to shove salads down my throat.

I'm scared. Somebody hold me. Not you Grimace.

I'll take a super-sized all grease milkshake – 2 straws  
-Hornbell

Hamburgler Steals For A Reason

Intriguing. Could it be that your hero was wrong? After discussing yesterday's essay, where I decried my McChurch for turning its back on the faithful fat masses, I received a great deal of negative feedback. Perhaps the most jarring, moving, and somewhat articulate rebuttal came from my roommate.

He explained to me that by providing healthy food with half the fat, I could eat twice as much. His math seemed sound. It's just that I have always viewed healthy food, like veggie burgers, rice cakes, and tofu, as being better used as hockey and/or urinal pucks. To me these items are not worthy of my plate because I don't eat to live, I live to eat!!!

Then he continued with his brilliant argument and attacked my vanity. "You know if the fries are cooked in grease with half the fat, then maybe you could get half a six-pack. So you know like a four pack or whatever." His math skills seemed in decline, but still his point was valid.

Maybe I made a mistake.

Maybe if it's possible for healthy food to taste good, Ronald M. would be the clown who knows how to cook it.

Maybe going to a prostitute for stimulating conversation wouldn't be all bad ( _see next Monday's essay for full details_ ).

For the first time in my life I had some serious doubts about being right. It's scary. How do all of you go through life like this? This feeling would not stand, so I marched down to my neighborhood McDonald's, bowed before the cash alter with all the pictures of the food on it, and with tears streaming down my face I ordered a McVeggie Burger with... _dear lord please give me the strength_ ...a garden salad instead of fries. I expected "Cindy: I'm new, please be patient" to scream blasphemy and cast me out, but instead she only smiled and asked me what I would like to drink with that. I cried out "a pizza!" She only giggled and turned away. Minutes, nay seconds later she returned and heaped the foreign green wrappers on my tray. With quaking hands I found a seat and began to eat.

In the end it tasted like nothing. That's where it's true evil lies. Heed my words fatty, the uber-intelligent McExecutives have found a way to make you eat more than you ever thought imaginable. Usually when you go into McD's and order a supersized Big Xtra meal, a nine pack of McNuggets, and a sundae or two (otherwise known as "the usual") you get that glorious McQueasy feeling all through your stomach and arteries that brings vomit to your mouth and a smile to your face. This feeling lets you know that it is time to stop eating. With the healthy meals, you could eat FOREVER!

I ordered a dozen apple pies after my McVeggie burger just so I could make it out of there before Christmas. Never doubt me again.

low-fat mayonnaise, is no mayonnaise at all  
Clark

Who Needs Sheep?

I've been thinking a bit lately about some practical applications of cloning technology. I have to admit, when I first heard that they had duplicated that sheep, for weeks I had only one image stuck in my head. I won't go into detail, but it involved me, and four copies of Britney Spears.

I realize now how simple and shortsighted those thoughts were. Like great men throughout history, hormones clouded my judgment, and almost stopped me from seeing the big picture. Cloning technology has infinite potential to do wonders for our civilization. Now some of you are nodding your heads in agreement and listing off things like, organ harvesting, replenishable food supplies, and medical testing, but I mock thee for thy simple schemes.

This technology has opened the door to a wholly greater and more glorious purpose. Through the wonder of modern science, we earthlings now have the unprecedented opportunity to make millions and millions of ME.

I mean – Holy crap eh? What could be better than a Hornbell on every street? Maybe even in every home! Just picture it! You could be sitting next to an exact duplicate of yours truly at this very moment! Of course, I'm not really comfortable having exact duplicates running around. The mold, after all, is broken. Each Demi-Hornbell would have to be just slightly handicapped in some way. But a broken Hornbell is better than no Hornbell at all right? Am I right!?

So place your orders today. It took years of selective breeding to create the perfect speci-Man that is Hornbell. He (or a slightly crippled/mentally-lacking duplicate) can be yours for the low low price of just nine-ninety-nine-ninety-nine!

Call now and receive a ¼ scale Mini-Hornbell, for no additional charge.

Wait your turn  
-hornbell

Hornbell's Guide To Safety: For Everyone

Life is precious. I bring people joy, laughter, and ever increasing visual impairment every week with my essays, but sometimes I feel I need to reach out with some general life advice to make a real difference. Several months ago I focused on dating etiquette and now I feel the need to help people live long, pain-free lives. I don't want either of my readers to come to an untimely death, now do I?

1. When applying pants to legs, go one leg at a time. Same goes for shorts and swim trunks.

2. Wear a helmet at all times. In the shower? Helmet. At the beach? Helmet. Pillow fight with the two supermodels you made out of Jello? Helmet.

3. If your shoelace becomes untied. Retie.

4. When driving be sure to fill car with bubble wrap. If you can find beautiful women with large silicone impact absorbers that would be good (great!) too. Helmet.

5. Your office presents numerous hazards. You could bleed-out from a paper cut or catch an elevator door in the head. The only way to ensure your safety is to sit motionless at your desk. Don't even blink. In fact, do not go in to work if at all financially viable.

6. Heart disease is the number one killer. Drink lots of booze to thin out annoyingly thick blood. If blood becomes too thin, head directly to McDonald's to ensure healthy balance.

7. Eating brings sharp metal utensils perilously close to your face, but eating with your hands is not safe enough. Extended fingers can cause harmful poking and nails take out eyes at BBQ's everyday. Use loosely clenched fists only. Yes, for soup as well.

8. Oh my God!!! What are you doing? Exercising? See you in an early grave there Elvis.

"swim trunks"? What a dandy boy  
Clark

Bananarama Stinks

My car and I have a love/hate relationship. I love how it costs me next to nothing to run and how it doesn't draw all that pesky attention from girls on rollerblades wearing bikini tops ( _stupid car_ ). At the same time, I hate how grannies in cars built shortly after the First World War blow by me on any type of incline and how the muffler makes a car that would have trouble pulling a friend on a skateboard sound like a jet engine. And the smell people, let us not forget the smell.

Admittedly, I'm going to have to take a bit of the blame in the smell department. There have been several toasty weeks in the summer where sweaty soccer bags, brimming with soaked jerseys, cleats, and shin pads, have been left to ferment. Then there was the Big Gulp Disaster of '96 that sent several mix tapes to the morgue and left a permanent brown residue on the back seat.

Most recently, there was the car battery that tipped over in my trunk and drenched everything in acid. It was probably two days before I realized what had happened and by then everything in the trunk had melted. After two hours of my roommate and I throwing everything we could find in the back to see if it too would melt (it did), I began the painstaking task of cleaning up.

This was no walk in the park, as all kinds of things had been destroyed in the coolest way possible. This mixture of acid, maps, hats, socks, an umbrella and a golf club, were all reduced back to their molecular building blocks and it totally reeked.

Following a week of cleaning, the smell still wouldn't go away. It was becoming a problem. Saying, "Hey do you smell pizza?" whenever someone got into the car and watching their face crinkle up in disgust as they frantically clawed at the window is only funny once, maybe twice. Alright half a dozen times tops. In the end something had to be done. I just couldn't figure out what.

Then I had a stroke of luck that I would have given anything to live without. I lost my sunglasses and my search lead me to scour the compost pile that is my car. Under the drivers seat there was a thin black tube that seemed to take a shot at me when I pushed past it. Upon closer inspection it turned out to be a several month old banana. It had turned black and its contents had become liquefied with age and heat. To be honest, the phrase "several months old" is just an estimate because I can't remember buying the phallic fruit in the last few years.

In the end my car smells better and my roommate gave the elderly banana a proper burial by using a shovel to launch it at a car across the street. It exploded real nice.

has anyone seen a pair of Oakley's?  
Clark

Alfabit

It occurred to me today that the English language has been swelling and morphing out of control for some time now. Words are added, changed, and dropped every day without any sort of rhyme or reason. The gross corruption of our speech has continued unchecked until now because the governing body, which overlooks our language, is totally and completely incompetent. They're the worst people we could possibly have chosen to take on the task. I, Clark Hornbell am hereby relieving you, the General Public, of this duty.

If left in control you buffoons will soon have English turned into the laughing stock of the galaxy. It's high time someone took control, and shaped things up. I nominate Me! I second the motion. Perfect. Below is the first round of changes that will one day make up Hornbell's New Improved English Language (HNIEL). Learn it. Love it. Live it.

C - This letter has been stealing the glory of the 'S' and the 'K' for far too long. It no longer exists.  
F - This will take on the additional responsibility of any "gh" sounds.  
G - It will no longer be responsible for the "j" sound. "J" is going to have to stop being so lazy.  
L - There will be no more double L's. That's dumb.  
Q - Gonzo! This letter has never been able to stand on it's own. All "Qu"'s will be replaced with "Kw"'s  
X - Redundant. EKS spells "X". "X" is out!

There are obviously more changes needed, but we can worry about them later. Another rule I'll implement immediately is that all words should be spelled exactly as they sound. EGSAKTLY AS THEY SOWND!

Yu can thank me later for chanjing yor wurld for the beter.   
As this task is otherwize thankles, I wil be forced to charj a smal royalty for the spoken use of any HNIEL words for the next 5 years.  
Kash, kredit kard, chek and fair madens are al akseptable forms of payment.

Donashons for continuing HNIEL reserch are welcum, and rekwired.

patent pending  
-klark hornbel

The Talk

DISASTROUS!!! After over two decades of shirking their parental responsibility, my Mom and Dad have decided it is high time we have "the talk."

Growing up, I thought parents talking to their kids about sex was just a ploy by "Growing Pains" and "The Wonder Years" to hammer out a few easy episodes. Around my house the closest thing we ever came to a sex talk was my mom yelling "don't do it" after a friend of hers mentioned the word. The closest I ever came with my Dad was having him quickly change channels when people were making out and then glancing in my direction to see if I noticed.

All my friends describe similar blueprints for their childhoods. In this I am not alone, and that gives me strength.

A few weeks ago, I made the four-hour trek home to visit the folks and attend an impromptu bachelor party for a friend. Things got out of hand as they tend to do and I wound up falling asleep on someone's kitchen floor around 5AM. When I returned home the next day, my look was decidedly disheveled with a hint of amusement from the goings on of the night before. No sooner had I passed through the same doorway I have passed through thousands of times before, when my Mom asked, "What, did you score or something?"

Now on its own that's disturbing, and I won't relate to you all that went on after her head shaking Jeopardy answer, but all in all one could chalk it up to the random Mom nuttiness that rears it confused, crazy-clown laughing head every so often. That is, if it was on its own.

Last night I was talking to my Dad on the phone. I was trying to steer the discussion away from the car for once and made the mistake of mentioning the same girl's name twice in the same conversation. Understand that I am terrified of commitment, so any mention of a girl more than once signals to my parents that something might be up. Instead of avoiding it my Dad asks, "Are you making time with this young lady." _Making time?_ What do you mean Dad, like creating minutes and hours out of paste and pipe cleaners? Again I don't want to get into specifics regarding the rest of the conversation/interrogation, but now both of them have pushed "the talk" right out into the open after avoiding it for so many years.

What could have possibly triggered all of this? Could they have seen a public service announcement that quoted statistics like, "90% of girls in high-school are pregnant and the fathers of their children are in jail, but if you talk to your child they are guaranteed to grow up and become a doctor." What's next? Maybe they'll call me long distance on my cell Friday night because it was 9PM and they in fact DON'T "know where their children are."

Even worse could they have sat down and, try not to lose your lunch here folks, discussed it?!?!?

faint heart never won fair maiden  
Clark

Hornbell's Happy Ball In Space

Brave French Explorer: "My Leige, I have discovered a new land full of bountiful opportunity. I've sailed all our fleets to take it over. We've subdued the locals, and built ports, outposts and colonies. The land is now fully under our control".

Wise French King: "Excellent, you have done well. As is customary, you shall be allowed to name this new land. I ask only that you choose something inspiring, and worthy of the glory of France. Have you a name for your conquest?"

Brave French Explorer: "Yes my lord. During my months at sea I pondered the issue for many a sleepless night. Then one day, like clouds parting to reveal a flawless sunrise, the perfect choice made itself clear to me. We shall call this land... NEW France!"

The Wise King looks incredulously at the explorer. He rolls his eyes and heaves a giant sigh of disappointment. "So be it." The royal record keeper is called in, and the name is entered into the history books.

This is a scene that has been played out again and again throughout the ages. New England, New York, New Zealand, and somebody hold me back... Newfoundland, are ALL examples of why explorers should NOT be allowed to name their discoveries.

In the age of space exploration, this issue is becoming increasingly important. How'd you like to be sitting there, one of the first colonizers at the grand opening of our brand new planet, when they pull back the curtains to reveal a giant banner that says, "Welcome to New Earth!".

Personally I couldn't stomach it. We need to plan in advance, to avoid any last minute naming blunders. Since I am the one who had the foresight to bring this tragedy to light, narrowly avoiding millennia of interstellar embarrassment, I feel it's only fair that I should be able to name the first planetary conquest personally. So be it.

The site of our first extra-terrestrial colony shall be named: "Hornbells Happy Ball in Space".

Pretty good eh? My parents will be so proud. It's a bit wordy, but so am I. In this age of instant gratification, it'll be good to have a planet name that can't be belched out in a single syllable. Only the skilled belchers can get this one out.

Helluva Guy  
-Clark

Canada D-eh II: Son of Canada D-eh

You actually thought the Horn would give up on the lovingly icy touch of sweet lady Canada? No chance.

My Canada Day was bigger and better than ever:

6:00AM: Rolled out of bed to celebrate Canada Day after celebrating Pamela Anderson night.

6:15AM: Noticed thick layer of Maple Syrup Overnight Skin Moisturizer and UV Protectant starting to wear off. Quickly re-applied from head to toe, except for arms.

6:20AM: Fell asleep in backyard on beautifully sunny day. Buck naked.

11:00AM: Awoke with bright red lobster arms and pasty white torso. Decided to make the best of situation by attaching strategically placed Maple Leaf. My patriotism is now officially on display.

11:15AM: Made my way down to Canada Place to enjoy Beaver Dogs, the cross-checking booth, and loud music from such Canadian icons as Bobby Brown and Enrique Iglesias.

11:30AM: Women and children shield their eyes from the intensity of my massive patriotism. Faint cries of "I'm blind, I'm blind!!!" ring out. What a day to be Canadian!

12:00PM: A pair of Canada's finest Royal Canadian Mounted Police approach and congratulate me on my unwavering Canadiannessosity with poetic words like "vulgar," "disgusting," and "under arrest."

12:30PM: Arrive at stationhouse and receive free lunch and jumpsuit. Am also given the tremendous honor of being able to spend the night in one of our country's most exclusive, federally sponsored hotels.

8:00PM: Other patriots I am staying with decide to celebrate with a good old-fashioned bench clearing hockey brawl; the RCMP add to the festivities by firing some fireworks just above our head. A magical night indeed.

11:59PM: Realize that, other than my arms peeling, this has been the best Canada Day ever. HAPPY BIRTHDAY DIRT!!!

I'd kiss you but I just brushed my teeth  
Clark

Cake Eaters

While partaking in some of the greasiest "Moons over My Hammy" Denny's has ever deep-fried this hangover soaked morning, two of my Italian friends enlightened me to the fact that they slur white people with the Italian translation of "Cake Eaters." For those of you who are hooked on phonics, so all of you, it sounds something like "manja kak". Now I'm not one to condone the disgusting display of bigotry perpetrated by these two greasy, grape squashing guineas, but it did make me think. And what I think is that they may be right. We do eat a lot of cake.

Fast forward to this evening when my Mom has a dinner party. Most people brought wine, but two people brought cake. Since my mom already had cake, that meant we had three cakes to choose from tonight. Maybe they should tack the Italian equivalent of "fatassed" in front of manja kak.

To make matters worse, the cake that my Grandma brought was disgusting. I'm not sure why Safeway would make a snot with liver icing cake and I'm doubly not sure why my Grandma would buy it. After one bite everyone started remembering the diets they were on or the diabetes they had. This stuff was so bad that after I flushed my piece the toilet spat it back out.

By the end of the night all three of the cakes were completely gone, one set ablaze and banished to the compost and the other two eaten. That's a lot of cake white people. Just chill out already. It made me want to call my two Italian friends and tell them that they have opened my eyes to so much about my own people...and ask them how their lasagna dinner was.

So the next time you order a cake from a soccer player "With Out Papers" and he starts to snicker, you'll know why.

tonight was no piece of cake  
Clark

One Foot In The Grave

Yesterday I became an adult. Looking back it was obvious that adulthood was slowly creeping up on me, the purchase of a nose hair trimmer and worrying about salt were sure signs, but the indisputable realization was quick and painful. Yesterday it took me 10 minutes to pick out a greeting card.

In my never ending quest to make more and more money by doing less and less work, I've decided a strong strategy is to buy thoughtful gifts for coworkers who are above me on the corporate ladder. I'm sorry what's that? "Suck up"? Suck up is such a harsh term, let's go with "sir" because I'll be your boss soon. So we had just finished a big project and after work I was walking through the grocery store. Right next to the Booberry Crunch was a big bank of greeting cards and I figured this would be a good opportunity to "improve my skillset" (yeah, there we go!).

In years past the act of picking out a greeting card amounted to little more than snagging the most colorful cover without breaking stride on my way to the till. Often with donuts and/or booze in the other hand. Even if it was for the wrong event, I would just cross out whatever was written inside and pretend it was a big joke. That's gold, trust me. Feel free to use that one.

Yesterday though I paused in front of the greeting cards. This one looked too intimate, while this other one just didn't fit my boss's personality. And this other one, I mean, what _were_ they thinking! I could feel Frankenberry starting to look at me with disgust. But I just couldn't choose one. I milled back and forth, and I hummed and hawed...for 10 minutes. Then, and only then, I found the perfect one and clutched it to my breast. Finally, my heart beating rapidly, I made my way to the till and onward into adulthood.

So although my status as an adult is now beyond doubt, I promise to continue fighting this new status with mid week benders and inappropriate body noises. No wait, that sounds like my Dad...

Two minutes for yawning  
Clark

Raising Kids Is Easy

For the better part of my life I've feared children. Having them, the responsibility involved in raising them, and, of course, the way they creepily look to you for guidance and support with their bright, empty eyes. And kids are a hot topic of conversation these days. It seems that it's on the tip of everyone's tongue. Here is a typical conversation:

Me: "Hey buddy, I just got a promotion at work by buying everyone thoughtful greeting cards."

Buddy: "That's great man. That extra cash will come in handy when you have kids."

Me: "Uh yeah I guess. I think I'm going to the game tomorrow night to celebrate. Want to come?

Buddy: "Lori and I are trying right now. She went off the pill last month and we have a chart of when she's ovulating and (several more intimate details his doctor would blush at)"

Yikes. I mean, I sort of get it. The little disease spreading, pant dumping, snot factories are cute, but they're also expensive and needy. When Britney finally asks me to go on tour with her as her CEO of body oil coverage, what am I supposed to do with junior? I'm not letting Federline raise all our kids.

But just recently I've come up with a plan for raising kids that has made all my anxiety disappear. And it's so simple my real shock is that I didn't think of it earlier.

Whenever I've built up the nerve to even think about kids, ideally I would have two kids: one child the old fashioned way and then adopt a child of the opposite sex. My theory has always been that you're giving a child a good life where they would otherwise have it tough and if there is more than two they can gang up on you (although if you just have a bunch, your odds are better that one will turn out to be a professional athlete/gravy train for daddy...food for thought).

Now your mistake, and mine before I came up with this brilliant plan, is to think of this adopted child as an infant. Adopt a kid who is like 16 or 17. They're still too young to leave the house, but they're more than old enough to get a job and help take care of the new born. Plus, you get to feel good about giving them a roof over their head, a brighter future blah blah blah.

It's win-win...meaning you win twice.

children are my future  
Clark

Fear of Flying

You probably think that a guy who snowboards, rides a motorcycle, and is a hobby crime fighter ("hobby" in that I fight crime in my free time, not that I browbeat perps in stamp collection theft cases) wouldn't be scared of anything. For the most part that's true. I'm lucky/powerful enough not to have been inflicted with some of the more common phobias like spiders and needles, but unfortunately I am scared of flying.

And apparently I'm not scared so much as I am anxious. At least that's what the doctor told me when he gave me a big bottle of pills to help me control my rampant anxiousness. I like "anxious" as opposed to scared, it makes me think of the butterflies you feel in your tummy when you're going to ask the girl in your 4th grade class if you can hold hands on the walk home as opposed to the pants crappingly intense act of defying gravity in an aluminum tube.

Sometimes I ask myself, why am I anxious about flying? I mean, you're simply traveling at 500 miles an hour, 40 thousand feet above the ground, held up by little more than magic. Shouldn't be a problem. I have to admit though that sometimes the thought slips into my mind that maybe, just maybe the engines will explode, the wings will fall off, the fuselage will disintegrate and I will plummet to the Earth for like 5 minutes. Perhaps I will be on fire.

Somehow it all makes me a touch antsy. I mean anxious. Pills please!

that's what she said  
Clark

Ticket to Ride

If you've noticed an increased musk coming off this book lately it is because I'm officially a badass now. That's right, the Horn just aced his motorcycle road test and got his class 6!

Well maybe you don't need to fit me for my Hell's Angels leathers just yet. By "aced my road test" what I mean is I almost failed for going too slow and I left my turn signal on all the way through a school zone...and somehow still passed. Just as good.

I've always had this dream of doing a coast-to-coast road trip across Canada (yep I'm Canadian...sorry). You know, head up to Tofino and go for a dip in the Pacific then hop on my turbo charged A-frame chopper and head toward St.Johns to swim around in the Atlantic and party with some crazy Newfies. No work, no timetable, just the wind in my hair, arms full of tats, and a Brazilian super model who only has a firm grasp of my waist and the word "Yes."

It's all very glamorous, no?

What's not glamorous is the fact that I had to take a motorcycle riding course for 6 days before my road test. Two days classroom, two days in the parking lot doing figure 8's, and then two days of road rides to practice. Not exactly how Steve McQueen did it I don't think. Things reached an all-time badass low when after one of the road rides our instructor told us to pair up and practice tandem riding. I excitedly looked around for the South American lingerie models who were going to help us with this exercise.

Sadly, there were no lingerie models and there was exactly zero ladies taking the course. To make matters worse it was raining that day, so I was paired with a middle aged chartered accountant who was wearing a yellow rain slicker. I really don't want to use the word "straddled" here, but he straddled the back of the bike. The shocks wheezed in protest. After years of toning his arms into a pudding mush by working a calculator all day, he wrapped them around my waist. And off we shot weeeeeeeeeeeeee! It was still pretty awesome.

So even though I've had this minor set back in cool, please feel free to cower in fear and respect the next time I see you because I'm a big time biker now. Maybe you should even divert your eyes from this page a bit just to show the proper unease while in my presence. Oh yeah, and enjoy the musk.

I may have to go into a controlled slide  
Clark

To The Future!

For the past year or so I've been using the technological wonder known as Google Calendars. It's the perfect tool for your modern day Internet celebrity has-been on the go. Schedule speaking engagements, autograph sessions, even organize groupies across various cities.

It was only recently though, that I discovered the _real_ power of this tool. Using an online calendar allows you to send yourself messages... in the FUTURE!

I just got one today from myself 2 months ago:  
_  
Dear Future Clark,_

_YOU SUCK! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA._

_Love,  
Clark Classic_

I let out a few weak chuckles, doing my best to maintain a strong exterior. I don't want to let Clark Classic think that he's won this round. I have to admit though, I'm crying on the inside. It's different being on the receiving end of these things.

So I decided that moving forward, I will send Future Clark nothing but words of encouragement. And I will send them far enough into the future to allow him the chance to reply, should he disagree with anything I have said. I'd say we should have that technology by... January 1, 2012.  
_  
Dear Future Clark,_

_Congratulations on your appointment to supreme ruler of the galaxy! Who would have thought the galaxy would accept a leader who was three quarters robot? I have to ask, was force involved or did you go the democratic route? Back in 2007, civilian blood-baths are sort of frowned upon, but a lot can change, right buddy? High Five. You're probably laughing to yourself about how old-fashioned I sound. Do you even have hands? You're the best!_

_Love,  
Clark Classic_

_ps YOU SUCK! HAHAHAHAHAHA._  
-CLARK

The Dirtiest of Dancing

Like most men, once or twice a year I'm forced to watch Dirty Dancing by my significant other. It's hard to get too surly about it when I make her watch Swingers and Braveheart bi-weekly, so I suck it up and let her enjoy. I never really paid attention so I never really got the appeal of this blockbuster. I mean, on a cursory glance there's not much to it. Boy meets girl, girl's father hates boy, it looks like things won't work out, then they do. You may have seen this plot before. But last night after two or three Gingerbread lattes (THOSE THINGS ARE GOOD!) I was pretty wired and really watched Dirty Dancing, probably for the first time. And now I totally get it. I'll explain:

1) First off you've got Patrick Swayze (heretofore refered to as "The Swayz"). Totally hunky bad boy in a few-steps-lower-on-the-evolutionary-chart kind of way...and he loves to dance! He's probably down with throwing you on his Harley with one arm and going shopping too, but that must be in the sequal.

2) Then there is Baby. A kind of oatmeal looking young lady who is going on a dorky trip with mommy and daddy, who risks everything during her sexual awakening to become (inhale) a sexy, self-confident woman.

3) The two meet and start breaking all the rules. But it's for love so it's OK.

4) Unfortunately, and totally unexpectedly, things aren't all partially clothed lifts in the water for these two. Dad misunderstands a situation and hates the Swayz. But the Swayz is actually the good caring guy. His hotness rises by a factor of ten. Then Swayz admits that he's gotten down and dirty with lots of the old and dirty ladies at the resort. But hey "They used me Baby, they used me." Damn those rich old ladies and their advantage taking! Swayz's hotness rises again, now to surface of the sun like intensity.

5) On his way to Samba class the Swayz beats down the dirtbag who got his friend pregnant. Doesn't finish the job because dirtbag "isn't worth it" Baby is right there to witness his ability to protect while staying in total control. Everyone is left breathless.

6) The Swayz is accused of stealing but he couldn't have done it because "he was with me last night." Baby basically tells daddy she's nailing the cromag dance instructor, not a comfortable moment for anyone.

7) The vacation goes downhill from there because the Swayz gets fired, Baby's parents are hating her, and the talent show at the end of summer sucks...until. The Swayz strides in, black leather billowing out behind him. With a Devil may care attitude he tells daddy that "no one puts Baby in the corner." Did anyone actually put her there? I can't remember her being forced, but whatever it's a pretty classic line.

Then it doesn't really say what happens next, but I'm guessing they're free to love each other for the next decade or so. Probably just until Baby hits med-school and the Swayz turns 42, his body losing its dancer form after drywalling all day and sitting on the couch drinking beers all night.

just like you guys use me  
Clark

Blood Donor

Today I was driving down Oak St. minding my own business when an enormous sign rose up from the horizon, looked me straight in the eye, and said "Hero's needed, apply inside." Finally, this was the universe letting me know that yes indeed I did have super powers, so I heroically swerved across 3 lanes to get to the parking lot. Already I was feeling like Superman atop the Empire State building, as all the other drivers turned to gaze at me with astonishment, pointed many different fingers at me, and slammed on their brakes. Oh yeah, I could get use to this level of recognition...and helping people or whatever, of course.

However when I entered the building to learn more about my real alien parents, they just kept asking me about my blood and have I ever donated it before. "No," I said, thinking that needle probably couldn't puncture my skin anyway so who cares. Then I was shuffled off to another nurse to see if I had enough iron in my blood to "donate." I started thinking this "donate" must be a secret government code for Superhero DNA testing. Fair enough. The nurse gave me a tiny pin prick on my finger, somehow it broke my super skin, and put a drop of my blood in a beaker. It plummeted to the bottom, almost shattering the glass. "You've definitely got enough iron," she said, "but men always do." Yeah, _Super_ Men.

The pin prick didn't even hurt. I mean, my eyes may have watered up a bit, but that's just because I had a Philly Cheese Steak for lunch and the onions were still on my breath. My breath is directly below my eyes, OK!?

Once I passed this iron test, the nurse gave me a sticker to put on my barrel chest that said "I gave blood today. Be nice to me!" I figured, people better be nice to me regardless or I'll cook them down to their sneakers with my heat vision, but the sticker was cool too.

After all this they sent me over to fill out some forms, which was a real downer. I thought being a super hero would be all saving cheerleaders as their bus teetered off the side of a bridge or saving cheerleaders from a fiery plane crash. Think about the intensity of their cheering after such an ordeal (gimme a C gimme an L gimme an A...). Finally, after a few minutes of filling out forms, a far more shapely nurse came over and called my name with obvious lust in her voice. I may not be able to fly yet, but I certainly started having some super thoughts.

We started with a little small talk like "Have you ever had any STD's" and "Have you ever paid for sex or used intravenous drugs." She was quite the wild cat. I was just about to brush her hair behind her ear and whisper sweetly how I would crush all her ex boyfriends, when she said "Have you been in the UK for over 4 months total between 1980-2000." I thought she was complimenting me on my worldliness so I said, "Yes." She gave me a sad little look and told me I couldn't donate blood because I might have untraceable mad cow disease.

In that one sentence I heard, "You are not a superhero and you are going to die from mad cow." It was a little tough to hear. To make matters worse the nurse asked for my sticker back! I thought she was joking so I just smirked and hid my tears. Then she held her hand out and blocked the door. With my non-super hero noodle arms there was nothing I could do but relent and give her back her sticker.

So all in all it was a tough day. On a positive note, even though I couldn't give blood they still let me sit around and eat all the cookies and juice I could handle.

is a plasma screen what I think it is?  
Clark

Elderly-Sitting

The more I take care of myself the more I yearn for the days when my meat was cut into pieces for me and my laundry seemed to magically wash itself. Yes, when I was a kid and mom and dad were handling everything in my life not related to Nintendo and kicking piles of leaves, I had it made. Being a kid and being entirely catered to was the best. Commerce? That's yelling "I want ice cream" until it shows up in front of your face. You could go so far as to crap your pants and one of them would be there with a wet nap and possibly more ice cream to soothe your fragile psyche. Try that at work on Monday. Rest assured there will be no kind words. No ice cream.

Unfortunately, and I'm not entirely sure how it happened, I got older. As I piled the years on, my parents increasingly began to expect that I take control of my own cooking and my own purchase of sugary treats. Quickly I found out that sugary treats cost money and I would have to get a job. So things were bad and only getting worse.

I just realized that the "worse" part of that last sentence is here. You see, my parents aren't sluts like yours so they had me later in life. By waiting until a healthy early thirties they not only instilled in me a strong moral fortitude (I can't wait to have intercourse for the first time and have a beautiful child after my one and only encounter just like them!) but they ensured that I would be the first of all my friends to have to take care of his folks.

We're just in the beginning stages, but it's still starting to freak me out.

With my mom it's not too bad. I'm just starting to have to remind her about her keys and show her how to use the DVD player on a weekly basis. Oh and if she needs to read anything and can't find her glasses, she either has to sit it across the room or yell at me to read it for her. Nothing to get too excited about just yet. Yet.

With my dad it's taken a very interesting turn toward the strange. His dependence and weakening state have taken the form of the oddest emails I've ever received. About a month ago he sent me one where the entire text of the email was in the subject line. Then he sent me one where it seemed as though he went for the A key and hit caps lock insteAD AND JUST KEPT RIGHT ON TYPING FOR THE REST OF THE LETTER. Of course all of this has been without punctuation and proper spacing, which makes them really creepy as well.

The next time I go home, I'm bringing ice cream and some wet naps.

I don't trust her as far as I can throw her herpes  
Clark

Patriot Love

I attended a hockey game last night here in Vancouver and the guy who usually sings the anthem was out with injury. The replacement was a man by the name of Malcolm "The Rev" Truelove Jr. He was a lot of man – and a lot of that man was covered in jewelry.

Truelove sort of flowed out onto the little red carpet laid out for him. He took hold of the mic, and in the deepest baritone he said:

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I know you've heard this song a thousand times. But tonight... tonight I'm going to sing it the way it was meant to be suuuung. Tonight I'm going to sing this song like you would sing it... Like you would sing it if you were making luuuuuuuuuuv."

Absolute stunned silence from the crowd. Truelove smiled and took a breath. Then embarked into a rendition of Oh Canada that nobody present will ever forget. It was slower than usual, with an unusual feeling of rhythm. It had soul. Most importantly, it had The Rev Truelove ad libbing between every line. I can't begin to do it justice, but here's the words he sang that fateful night:

O Canada! – oh... _oh Canada_  
Our home and native land! – _mmmmmmmmmm yeah_  
True patriot love – _lets make patriot love baby_  
in all thy sons command – _son's at the babysitter tonight girl_

With glowing hearts we see thee rise – _oooooooh it's rising_  
The True North strong and free – _free lovin' girl_

From far and wide, O Canada,  
we stand on guard for thee – _standin' aaaaaaall night Canada_

God keep our land – _you'll see god in a minute girl_  
glorious and free! – _oh Glory!_  
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee – _we're standin' and makin' love to you canada!_

O Canada, we stand on guard – _we love you_  
for... _all night long canada_  
thee..... _mmmmmmmmm hmmmmmmmm canada i want to take you in my arms right now, find a quiet place with a nice view and show you some things I learned in some dirty countries! we love you Canada!_

It was the greatest thing I have ever heard.

tear. sniff.  
-hornbell

Rawk Stars

Like my good friend Mr.T, I spend most of my day pitying fools. For the most part my pity is aimed at the fact that other people are not me. It's sad.

One of the few groups that has quite easily avoided my pity is rock stars. I think for the majority of people in this world it would be their dream job. The money and fame are limitless, you would have huge crowds chanting your name, and the parties would be epic. Just packed hotel rooms that you can trash after sleeping with lines of beautiful strangers and snorting piles of groupies. Or something like that, I can't say I totally understand the rock star lifestyle.

So no pity for these rock gods...until today.

I was at work and the Blue Oyster Cult song comes on. I don't need to name it, you know the one. And man they are working that cow-bell. Really exploring the space just like rock producing legend Bruce Dickinson asked them to before he put his pants on one leg at a time and then made hit records. If you're me hearing this song at work and thinking about the SNL skit and Will Ferrell's two sizes too small sweater it's good for a laugh, if you're Blue Oyster Cult it kind of sucks. That's a good song, it was a huge hit when it came out, and it stood the test of time. Not a lot of bands can say that, but now their big hit song will forever be a joke. You'll only listen to the first few lines of the song and then turn to your friend to laugh about the intensity of the cow-bell. Hey Blue Oyster Cult, your biggest achievement in life is now a punch line that inspires lame "more cow-bell" t-shirts. And so I pity them.

There are lots of songs like this. OK, I can only think of two more and they're both from Oldschool (Dust in the wind and "I f**king need you more than ever!"). So awesome, but they will never be sung in their original form again.

Enjoy the pity now rock stars because once I see another Motley Crue True Hollywood Story about wall to wall orgies I'm taking all the pity back.

bit of a slapper  
Clark

Obnoxious T-Shirt

I have gone for a run the last three days. Now I don't like to throw the phrase "triumph of the human spirit" around willy nilly, but that's three days of running...in a row. Generally when I test myself it involves putting back that last slice of pizza so I've finished 2 whole pizzas instead of a meager 1 pizza and 7 slices. Clark Hornbell = all man. Well maybe like 15% cheese after all that, but that's still like 73% man or something. Pretty good.

As you know, running is boring. Like really boring and often kind of painful, but the first two trips I just strapped on the old IPod and hit the street. It was good to be outside and nothing fell apart, so I can honestly say I didn't completely dis-enjoy it. Today though, today was a different story. It wasn't even the running that got to me, but it is an episode that threatens to end my delicate tango with physical fitness and send it into a vicious unsupported dip into the dance floor.

There are plenty of computer software places near where I live so of course I run past several of them. There is always a wide array of nerds outside smoking or drinking their fifth Big Gulp and talking Warcraft. When I ran by today I noticed that one of them was wearing a shirt that read _:_

_There are 10 types of people in the world. Those who understand binary and those who don't._

Having been on a date, I am not one of these people who understands binary and I didn't understand the shirt. But I did know the shirt was making fun of me. GODDAMN SHIRT! Man I was pissed. When I got home I called one of my nerdier friends who likes to live "off the grid" by living on a boat in the harbor. After a few minutes of him laughing at how great this shirt was, he explained to me that 10 in binary means 2. So after a few minutes of laughing, I explained to him how 2 is 2 and 10 is 10 and binary is obviously very stupid just like that shirt and just like him. Click.

Like it isn't hard enough getting yourself out there running, you get insulted along the way as well? I am so sick of nerds and their shirts that I think I might have to take tomorrow off from running and maybe the next few months.

bandied about  
Clark

Naked Guys

Everyone knows that naked guys are disgusting. That is, everyone knows except the naked guy.

It's quite obvious to all that we're lumpy and hairy and unpleasant, but to the guy strutting around his house on a Saturday in nothing more than a pair of socks, he's the model of perfection. "Eat your heart out Michelangelo's David," this naked man may say before unleashing a savage hip swivel in front of the mirror. No one wants to see that, and right about now you're probably thinking that no one wants to visualize that after reading about it in a book either.

Then there's the streaker. Streaker's joy is unmistakable as he makes a mad dash across a sports field or night club parking lot forcing all onlookers to get an eyeful of his Law & Order.

Worst of all is the gym guy. Gym guy strips down after a few rugged sets and tosses his towel over his shoulder instead of around his waist on the way to the showers. Gym guy might even talk to you, describing and pointing at his thighs that are "just burning" right now because he had such a good workout. Gym guy has even been known to stretch it out, glory to the wind, after a long swim.

That's all bad, but recently gym guy has reached a new low. There was a new gym guy in the locker room today and as he prepared for work he stood in front of the mirror with a dress shirt, fully buttoned, blow drying his hair, with nothing on downstairs. Top and no bottom on a guy is disgusting with a capital yuck. Far more disturbing than mere complete nakedness. To make matters worse this gym guy figured bending over to shake his hair out was a good idea. I'm pretty sure he's deranged. Yet another excuse never to go to the gym again.

ladette to lady  
Clark

Advice Time

Here's a little advice from the Horn. Say you're hypothetically playing poker and it comes down to you and a beautiful young lady. Perhaps you were hypothetically drinking. A lot. You both go all in and, no kidding, you have pocket aces. When you both show your cards maybe you get a little cocky because she only has a pair of 8s. Then the first three cards get turned and you get a lot cocky because you're in the drivers seat. Cockiness only increases with the fourth card...and then on that last horrible card she gets an 8. You lose. Once she wins and everyone around the table is cheering, do not, I repeat, DO NOT start yelling "WITCH, WITCH" and pointing at her. She might hypothetically look at you horrified and then start to cry.

even the losers  
Clark

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About the Authors

Sean and Dag lead exciting lives in Vancouver, BC. Dag enjoys quitting his job and living on his sailboat because it makes him feel rustic. He recently had twins, do you want to see some pictures? They're perfect. He'll seriously send you some. Sean lives in the 'hood, and enjoys eating and thinking about exercising sometimes. He has been working on his Masters degree for six years. Any day now.

They both edit and write for the wildly popular website, PseudoExperts.com and believe this to be the start of their publishing empire. Go check it out. Right now.

Along with this ebook and its companion title _The Hornbell Essays Volume 1_ , Sean and Dag have two full length titles to their name. _How to Survive the Next Recession_ and _How to Raise a Billionaire Genius_ (out Spring 2012).

Much love to everyone who bought this book!

www.pseudoexperts.com

editor@pseudoexperts.com

