Poo, Piss, Madonna and Pine-Sol™ - Part III

I've been reviewing my creative output (posts, not poo and piss) from this past week and it suddenly dawned on me that this site is lacking visuals to assist my ever-burgeoning readership with understanding concepts unique to the arctic.

Just because I live in a barren, snow-covered wasteland doesn't mean my blog has to be without colour too, eh?

So I scoured GIS for some graphics. After a couple of hours of diversion down avenues I choose not to discuss right now, but will remember fondly when I retire to my bed, I found one photo of a honey bucket, not quite the one we used to use which was more far proletarian, but it'll give you an idea anyways.




Oh, and this is Pine-Sol.

And for my more delicate readership, I will only provide NSFW links to "poo" and "pee".

So I hope this approach will help all of you better understand my previous posts of Monday and Tuesday and bring you up to speed so you can fully appreciate Parts IV and V, the publication of which shall take place forthwith over the next few days.

Oops, forgot the Madonna pic. Warning: contains nudity.

Poo, Piss and Pine-Sol™ - Part II

No one in their right mind ever wanted to empty the honeybucket. It was a task inherently stomach-turning and fraught with danger. Unfortunately, since three gallons of excreta and Pine-Sol weight a fair bit, most women would defer to the male of the species whose musculature is such as to limit chances of a trip, slip or other mishap on the way out to the road (or so I was told).

Now anyone with half a brain would undertake this chore when the contents of the bag were less than a quarter-full. This way, you would really have to peer deep into the bowels of the container to actually see something.

In our household, we were not that smart. We would wait until the level was so high that there was scarcely an inch between half a week's former meals and beers and our butts sagging beneath the toilet seat. If you felt splash back, it was time to empty.

Here was the standard procedure. First step was prep: the route to the outside door was inspected to make sure there were no impediments which could either delay one's exit or cause a mishap. Then two twist ties were separated and placed near the toilet. Exhale, then inhale deeply, since it would take at least 30 seconds to close the deal. Finally, summon up enough courage to lift the toilet seat, and deftly pull up the first layer of plastic bag, bunch up the top, turn it and quickly attach the first twist tie, all with keeping your eyes open but diverted from the evil liquid, the sight of which could cause an involuntary retch and vomit, making the task nigh on impossible to undertake.

Most men would pause at this point, leave the bathroom, exhale, pour a stiff drink to calm themselves, and smile that the worst was over.

After a suitable respite, go back into the bathroom, lift up the second layer of plastic bag, bunch, twist and tie at a more leisurely rate. Then put on a parka and some boots, lift the bucket out of the commode by its handle (very important as we will see later this week), and carry it out onto the street side. Then "pour" the bags out of the bucket onto the snow, praying to God there are no leaks necessitating a gruesome washout of the galvanized pail.

Once back in the house, the pail was returned to the bathroom, two layers of plastic bags installed, Pine-Sol added and the whole placed back inside the commode.

Job done.

[Ed.'s Note: It would seem to me that this series of articles would make more sense if there were pictures of honeybuckets, since most of you probably have no idea WTF I'm talking about. I actually once took a picture of an incredibly disgusting one, but this has been removed from our family photo album for some reason. So I am counting on my large readership to email over any pix if they have them. You will be credited.]

Poo, Piss and Pine-Sol™ - Part I

Until the time they settled in communities in the 1950's, 60's and 70's, Inuit used to repair behind their tents or igloos to take a dump or slash. Nowadays, the modern houses up here have, to the most part, conventional flush toilets. But there was an intervening era between the nomadic life and present times called the Age of the Honeybucket.

The first houses built during the 1960's through 80's did not have a means of storing waste water, and permafrost prevents the construction of sewage lines. So every house and public building had at least one honeybucket. Plastic garbage bags (usually 2) were placed in a galvanized 3 gallon bucket, which in turn was put in a commode in the bathroom. About a cup of Pine-Sol or other heavily-scented cleaning liquid was poured in to kill the odor.

When the bags became full, they were tied off and the bucket was carried out to the edge of the road where the bags "poured" onto the ground to await pick-up, which was much easier in the winter since the contents would largely freeze making a manual lift from the ground to a truck much less risky. No one wanted that job during the summer.

While all this sounds quite gross, I can report that due to the amazing power of Pinesol the bathrooms smelt like a spruce forest in the Rockies, especially if you topped the bucket up with some more Pine-Sol every now and then.

Although not having much in the way of olfactory offence, honeybuckets were visually disgusting - a mess of brown frothing liquid mixed with asswipe and used sanitary napkins.

Most women only noticed this if they had to tie the bag off, but men (most of whom have to piss standing up and maintain a good aim) had to stare at this ungodly mess for the duration. I used a honeybucket for my first seven years up north, and never figured out how to divert my attention from what I was doing. Now with a flush toilet most men amuse themselves by trying to pee off little flecks of shit from the bowl with the force of their stream, or trying to cover the complete surface of the water with piss bubbles, but with the honeybucket any consciencious male had to stare at the contents unblinkedly while emptying their bladder.

The honeybucket, therefore, was a rite of passage for those first coming to the north. Sadly, today, no one uses them any more.

The second installment of this series involves methods of determining who would be the lucky person to tie the bag, as well as some horribly disgusting stories of honeybucket mayhem.

Stay tuned.

[Generic Title]

Crap. I don't have any time to compose a regular post and I've got nothing in the can this morning. So I'm thinking to myself:

1. Is it too early to have a "Best of . . " after two weeks' operation?
2. Maybe I could just link to someone else's site?
3. Perhaps a tease of things I have in production?
4. Slack off until I've got something to say?
5. If I think REAL hard will I come up with something?
6. If I don't think at all will I come up with something?
7. Should I slag off someone else's site?
8. Does the use of the phrase spunk slurping underage crack whores increase traffic?
9. Why not rip off a jpeg without crediting the source?
10. Shouldn't I just STFU for a while?
11. Why not go "release" some of that writer's block tension?
12. Scrounge around my dry town for some "Johnny Walker wisdom"?

Anyways, I've written too much already. Got to go fix a truck.

Inuit: 2 - Polar Bears: nil

For the second time in a week or so, a Polar Bear has charged a person. Unlike the my post on the previous attack, this one occured outside of town and the bear in question was shot before he was able to inflict some damage.

Here's the low-down: Paulusie Tayara of Salluit was about 10 km out of town and off his ski-doo when he saw a polar bear running towards him. He picked up his rifle and tried to shoot, but his clip was not in his rifle. Paulusie began running back to the skidoo for all he was worth, but realized he had loose bullets in his pocket. So he loaded one round and shot, missing the bear but slowing it down. He reloaded and shot, this time bringing down the bear.

Like the polar bear which attached Lydia Angiyou last week, the stomach was found to be completely empty when they eviscerated it. This means this bear, too, was starving.

I am very glad that Paulusie was unhurt, and that he has a nice bear skin in the bargain. In the old days a tagged skin untanned was worth $100 per linear foot measuring from tip of nose to tip of tail and I imagine it is worth much more now.

But I also feel very sorry for the bear. The weather has been so warm this winter that they are not able to get the seals which make up most of their diet. I am certain that this is an effect of global warming.

I can tell you from personal experience that a well-fed polar bear is a happy one and unlikely to be overly aggressive. But if the bears are starving now, when they are usually storing up energy for a summer of famine (they usually cannot get much in the way of food at that time), what is going to happen to them when the ice goes out and they will really have difficulty in getting seals?

Not only are polar bears more than a kindred spirit to me, they are a majestic icon of survival in the harshest of climates. Isn't it ironic that when the Arctic's climate becomes more temperate, polar bears probably will not be able to survive?

The Flight Back Home

As my faithful reader(s) have noticed, I am not one for flying. Especially in a small plane, especially at night. Luckily I was able to snag a couple of shots of vodka which I am drinking now for purely medicinal reasons.

This post, and most of the next post is being composed in a Twin Otter flying in the dark at 10,000 ft over the frozen east coast of Hudson’s Bay. The computer is swiveling on my knee since there are no tray tables on this flight. No flight attendants, no padded seats, no oxygen masks, no in-flight service, and no toilets. About as barebones a service as you can get.

Please excuse any typographical errors since the inside temperature is about 0 celsius, although I am beginning to feel a little warmth.

A mid-flight update. Although the flight is smooth as can be I’m feeling right snakey. Of all planes the De Havilland Twin Otter is the safest in the world. It can turn on a dime, land on 500 ft airstrips, tundra or snow. It holds the record as being the only plane to have flown into the South Pole in mid-winter to medivac out a sick scientist. Yet for the past 20 long years it has been my worst nightmare.

Sorry about the delay in posting and commenting, got home late last night.

I've got Blisters on my Fingers

Virgin Mobile has issued the results of a survey conducted in the UK showing a significant increase in the number of cell phone users reporting repetitive strain injuries from text messaging. Sore wrists and thumbs are the most common complaints, and a frightening 3.8 million people now indicate they suffer from this condition.

It is my suspicion that most of the sufferers are male, and that their condition is exacerbated by OMS (Obsessive Maturbation Syndrome). I want to stress that, although I have not had this affliction, I can empathize with those who have.

Having an inventive mind (and a lot of time on my hands) I have come up with a solution: an audio interface (patent pending) which actually permits transmission of the message by speaking into the device. I am also working on some cutting edge technology which will allow the communication to be decoded and transmitted aurally to the recipient.

My only problem is that I haven't come up with a sexy name for my invention. Any ideas?

Canada under a Shroud from Turin

All those who dreamed of savouring a repeat of Canada's Men's hockey gold medal performance at the Salt Lake City games in 2002 should have realized early on that our hopes were in dire jeopardy this time around.

While we sent some of the best Canadian players to the current Olympics, it was obvious that we did not send our best team. The plays weren't clicking, there were a huge number of give-aways and our goal production was nothing short of embarassing.

They'll be a lot of second guessing about player selection, and I want to get my two cents worth in. Magic is an elusive quality - something that was abundant four years ago but in very short supply this time around. And when magic fails, you've got to fall back on discipline and practice. Just by picking great hockey players in no way guarantees either.

If possible, we should enlist entire lines, both offensive and defensive. This way our men's hockey emissaries will be more of a cohesive team, rather than a national disgrace.

Gretzky - realize that Team Canada contains two words, one of which is team.

And if I had any html skills whatsover, I would frame this post with heavy black crepe.

Team Canada 2006, R.I.P.

Tobacco Brown Shirts

Okay. I admit smoking is bad for me and I really should give it up for real some day soon. And, honestly, I don't mind too much going outside the bar for a smoke - rather than a three-quarter pack on the average drinking night I only smoke three or four.

Okay. But what makes me want to stage a smoke-in, with Gitanes or Gauloises, is the holier-than-thou attitude of some people. I mean, here I am in a hotel, in my own room, in my own designated-smoking room, with my door closed, and the twat in the room next door sticks her head in and says my smoking is bothering her.

Okay. So being conscientious I open my window - it's -24C with a windchill of -39 - put on my parka and continue to hammer away at my keyboard. So I go out for a cup of coffee, meet up with her in the kitchen, and she has the fucking nerve to tell me she still smells smoke in the hallway!

I am not vindictive, but I really want some sweet revenge on this cunt. Any suggestions?

Life in a Dry Town

Some of you may have noticed I seem preoccupied with alcohol. I want to set the record straight: I don't have a drinking problem, but I do have a BIG not drinking problem.

I my village, there is no bar, pub, licensed restaurant, etc. To travel to the nearest village with a bar involves not only a plane flight (begins to tremble), but a fare of over $1,000 CDN.

In the good old days, we used to be able to air freight up beer and other alcoholic beverages, and we didn't complain much about paying $10/kg freight charges. Especially since the Societe des Alcools du Quebec sells something called Alcool, a hefty liquor boasting 94% alcohol by volume.

All was well until the mayor of this town, in his evangelical-deranged fervour, determined that no one could order more than $75 per month of alcohol, and managed to get the suppliers and the police to agree to this. Now $75 will not even get me a 26 oz bottle of 20-year old Bowmore, so I'm right fucked.

The only people happy about this are the bootleggers (one of which is the son of the mayor) who charge $100 for a mickey of diluted vodka.

When the glorious revolution comes . . . . .

Gotta Fly

My job takes me out of town frequently. Unfortunately, at least as far as I'm concerned, it means getting on an airplane.

Over the past two decades I have developed a region-wide reputation as a white-knuckle flier, and to be truthful, I almost always carry some Vodka in a water bottle for those moments of extreme panic.

Today, however, NO BOOZE. It's been dry here for about two weeks and I have to mount the steps of a pitifully small Twatter (Twin Otter) and endure extremee heeby-jeebies for two hours. And what freaks me out more is that I have to turn around again and fly back home in four days' time.

Tune in later for an update.

What is a Canadian?

The Wrath of Dawn had a recent post pondering the eternal question of what exactly is a Canadian. Many sociologists, philosophers, novelists, poets and politicians have made a very good living ruminating over the same issue, and I can report without fear of contradiction that in Canada's 139 years of existence, no one has yet to come up with a definitive answer.

Me, I've lived here all my life, eh, and I still haven't figured it out, even after having lived in Newfoundland, Quebec, Ontario and Alberta. All I know is that I was an Easterner when living in Alberta, a mainlander when I was in Newfoundland and now I'm an anglo in a largely francophone Quebec. Actually, right now I'm a Qallunaq in a part of Quebec where 92% of the population is Inuit.

So not fitting in is something that I'm very used to. As well as not knowing what I am.

In that post Wrath of Dawn had a link to an mp3 of the famous "Joe Canadian" beer ad, which was an attempt to define us. This, of course, spawned many regional parodies. So without further ado, I direct you to this site for some aural takes on the Canadian existence. In particular, check out "I am Newfie", "I am Albertan" and "I am French Canadian", which has the immortal lines "And I do believe Club Super Sexe is an appropriate place for my wife and me to celebrate our anniversaire - what the hell, she goes on at 10 anyways".

Fight Crime with Poetry

CNN reports that Apple Computers has buried a powerful anti-piracy weapon deep within its OSX operating system. Worried that someone will hack its code is such a way as to allow OSX to be run on a non-Apple Intel-powered computer, presumably without paying for it, Apple has embedded this verse deep in its code:

There once was a user who whined
His existing OS was so blind
He'd do better to pirate
An OS that ran great
But found his hardware declined.

Putting aside my penchant for literary criticism (meter and rhyme way off in Line 4!), I really like the idea of using verse to dissuade those who would from engaging in criminal activity. It is entirely feasible that poetry could be used as a crime-stopping tool for a wide range of illegal activities. Here are some ideas I think could work:

How about stopping terrorists with beat poetry:

I saw the best jihadis of your generation destroyed by the West
Detained, naked, in Guantanimo Bay
Peering hysterically through the Frost link fences
Thumbing brain-fevered through a wet Qu'ran.

What about reciting Anglo-Saxon epic poetry in the war against drugs:

Lo, we have heard &emsp in days gone by
Of the deeds of Limerick Lad &emsp and Doggerel Dude,
How they bravely busted &emsp grow-ops and meth-labs
Armed only with The Oxford &emsp Companion to English Literature.

Or preventing jay-walking with an appropriate Haiku:

Her body lies still
As a misty lake: road kill
On the boulevard.

Is this a great concept or WHAT?!!!

Lydia One - Polar Bear Nothing

Up here the news of the year so far is how a very petite Inuit mother fought off a polar bear which was showing great interest in her children. I know the woman, I know the town, but I can't say I recognize the bear from my wanderings.

The bear was not full grown (2-3 years old), but Lydia doesn't stand five feet in her stockings. She must have been outweighed in this match by a factor of three.

Just what makes a good bear go wrong? I blame global warming. It's been an unusually warm winter, and the sea ice around Ivujivik is very thin, not conducive at all to seal hunting. It's a well-known fact that polar bears usually come onto land when they're hungry. My fear is that these encounters are going to increase in frequency over the next decades. While I am 27/28ths human, I feel for the bear.

B is for Billy Bass

[Ed. note: this is yet another installment of Nanuk's Bestiary, our regular Friday feature for zoophiles].

Actually, two B's are for Billy Bass. More astute readers will also notice it has two "l"s and two "s"s. If you didn't happen to notice this, don't worry: be happy.

It is this writer's fervent hope that no one out there actually thinks there is such as thing as a "Billy Bass" in the natural world. Billy Sopranos and Billy Contraltos, yes, but the Billy Bass is merely the product of some marketeer who, tired of dog vomit and joy buzzers, found another means to inflict untold misery upon the unwashed masses.

But I bet none of you realize that, lurking 'neath its rubberized exterior, is what once was a real fish. And a bass to boot. They are all grown from hatchlings at a fish farm in North Dakota, and when they reach the prescribed 37.5 cm length, they're conked on the head, eviscerated, freeze-dried and dipped in vulcanized rubber. Then small actuators are attached to the existing musculature of the fish, giving it its patented flopping motion, and a miniature cassette player is discretely buried deep within its swimming bladder. Then all you need is a placque and some batteries and, voila, you have hours of misery twitching beneath your fingertips.

Some people like the Billy-Bass. Others don't. The most suitable habitat for a Billy Bass, IMHO, is in the home of someone you absolutely loathe.

An Elvis Presley version, consisting of a rock bass mounted on black velvet, had a short life before lawyers had it pulled. An operatic version is in the works, but they can't get the scales right.

Still can't hack the Billy-Bass? O yes you can!!

Wintertime Blues

For those of you who don't know, I live in a small isolated community some 800 miles from the North American road network. As a consequence, all our consumer goods are flown in on cargo planes. Bad weather, mechanical breakdowns and just the luck of the draw all factor in to whether you will receive your supplies from the south.

I have penned this ditty based on Eddie Cochrane's Summertime Blues. For the ultimate experience, I suggest you listen to the Blue Cheer version a couple of times first to get the soundtrack into your head karoake style.

Well I'm gonna raise my voice,
Well I'm gonna raise some Cain;
My booze supply is dwindling
And there ain't no cargo plane.
So I went to my friend
Who's got a bigger stash
He said "Too bad, Nanuk,
Unless you got some cash"

[Refrain:] Sometimes I wonder
What I'm a gonna do
'Cause there ain't no cure
For the Wintertime blues.

My mother-in-law told me,
My wife she told me too,
"If the planes ain't comin'
Ya gotta make home brew."
So I went to the store
To try to buy some yeast
But the whole supply's been bought out
By our fucking parish priest.

[Refrain]

One of these fine days
I'm gonna leave this land.
To where I can drink til dawn
Just like the Good Lord planned.
But for now I gotta ration
My precious spirit stocks.
And hope the local store keeps aftershave
In forty-ounce crocks.

[Refrain] x 2

Crypto Blogs

From time to time I click the "Next Blog" button on the Blogger Nav Bar, and usually I am directed to something like teenage diaries from Singapore or Malaysia, or right-of-KKK "patriot" shit, or angst-ridden feminist ruminations.

But more than once I've ended up at a site like this, or this, with linkage to equally incomprehensible blogs. This has me wondering if I'm on to something sinister and covert, or whether someone is just yanking my chain.

I've tried to analyze these sites and have come to the conclusion that they:

1. are not stream-of-consciousness writing - Joyce's Ulysses is stream-of-consciousness, and George Walker Bush has shown himself to be a master of "let 'er rip" oratory, but even the most meth-fried brain could not come up with this shit.
2. are not "cut-up" sentences, a la William Boroughs. Not even "cut-up" paragraphs. Simply too many capitals and not enough verbs.
3. may be some secret code of the latest al-Qaeda plotters. (Note to self: refrain from referencing al-Qaeda too frequently lest I get a knock on the door one of these days)
   
4. could be a contest with a substantial prize to whomever cracks the code

I've been sitting here all night with my WTF face on, and frankly I'm afraid it's got the better of me. Any other ideas?

The Valentine's Day Cynic

Long ago I learned I could never be right when buying my significant other any present. This has been doubly true concerning Valentine's Day presents, where my track record has been anything but stellar. Here's a short list of presents which have wet-farted right back into my face:

• an iron because she had recently trashed the previous one - iron your own fucking shirts!
  
• an embroidered sweater - don't you know I don't wear red?
  
• her favourite wine - what made you buy this shit?
  
• a (cheap, I admit it) diamond-encrusted heart pendant - who'd you fuck now?
• a vibrator - is it used, little man?
• a k.d. lang CD - right, like I want to listen to that dike tonight, eh? Why don't I phone my sister so she can join us.
  
• 13 long-stemmed roses - how original!

I even sent her on a diversionary shopping trip so I could secretly prepare a special romantic dinner (Steak Diane with homemade sherbet), but when she returned she told me she had just scoffed a couple of Big Macs and the smell of my cooking was making her sick.

I just can't win. And there's no pleasing her. So, I have resolved henceforth to buy her no gift that I couldn't use myself if she turned her nose up at it. Here's what I've thought of so far:

• 450-piece Mastercraft tool collection complete with chest - but I thought you said you couldn't find the screwdrivers to fix the sewing machine.
• new set of Ping golf clubs - ya know, hon, we really need to share a hobby
• membership in the Single-malt Scotch of the Month Club - you mean it wasn't you who keeps on finishing off my Laphroaig?
  
• jacuzzi - just think of the romantic moments I, erm, I mean we can have in it
• indoor gardening kit - Didn't you tell me this house needed more life? (at least I could start a grow-op with it)

And if all else fails,

• new rope for a clothes line - (c'mon guys - you should be getting good at this by now)

Any other ideas?

The Wind

North of the tree line there are (naturally enough) no trees to slow down the wind. So we get blasted on a perpetual basis. Not ocean breezes wafting through palm trees, not cooling zephyrs, not even winds strong enough to blow your unraked leaves onto the neighbour’s pristine lawn: in the Arctic we are talking about meteorological conditions that range from the simply intolerable to Judgment Day force.

I can fully appreciate why the ancient Greeks personified the winds. They are malevolent, daemonically-inspired forces of nature and I hate them. When the glorious revolution arrives I will make sure all the winds are the first to get lined up against the wall, made to appear in corporeal form and then mown down with extreme prejudice.

But being a man known for his sense of fair play and balanced journalism, and a bear interested in Marx/Engles dialectical materialistic analyses, I now present to you, dear reader, a list of the charges and rebuttals in the case of Nanuk vs. The Wind.

Wind Crimes:

1. Makes it very difficult to light your smokes unless you have one of those poncy peizo-electric lighters
2. Finds that gap between your collar and your neck and makes you feel like shit the next day
3. Makes the house rock and roll - just what you need on the morning after
4. Steals your baseball cap. Why I’m so hung up on this I’ll never know, but it just isn’t right
5. Spreads dirt and grit everywhere, especially in your teeth. Lesson: never smile.
6. Blow-back issue when pissing outside. Don’t believe that crap about turning your back to the wind when micturating – the turbulence is going to get you
7. You can’t threaten it, hit it, kick it, shoot at it – shit, you can’t even curse it properly since the wind runs away with your words
8. When the wind blows 50 knots, makes it too easy to walk to work, and very tedious to return home
9. Ties your hair in Gordian knots, especially when you haven’t shampooed for a few weeks
10. Nanuk’s equation: High winds = no airplanes = no cargo = no joy
11. My fucking neighbour and his wind chimes – enough said. My only hope is that they will drive him to madness faster than me
12. The ultimate indictment: reduces your satellite dish to a twisted tribute to the degree to which the wind hates me, and screws with the Internet feed

Mitigating Circumstances:

1. Disperses fart odors very rapidly
2. Blows snow over the dog shit you were too lazy to shovel up
3. The glee you experience when you see that one of your neighbours didn’t close up their shack and it blew up
4. What’s the word for jetsam caused by wind? – simply put, lots of other people’s goodies blown your way sometimes

So, dear readers, after carefully considering this case, please be my jurors. Weigh all the evidence and let me know your conclusion. Remember: nature is a bitch most of the time and needs to be chained and pimp-slapped.

Olympic Pornography

To: Jacques Rogge, president
International Olympic Committee

Sir:

We are now in the early stages of your five-ring circus, and we, the righteous minded, decry that filth masquerading as sport known as the double luge competition.

You doubt me?

First, we must all remember that the original Olympics (albeit not winter Olympics) were performed by naked men in the centuries before the coming of our Lord. And since it is common knowledge that the Greeks (especially the men) have a proclivity for posterior cavity penetration, and cavorted in such obviously unclean sports as wrestling all the while listening to poetry being recited, it is obvious that the Olympic Movement, since its inception, is only a cover for homosexual proselytization.

Secondly, this perversion has a number of aspects instantly recognized as homoerotic, to whit:

• the use of spandex clothing is a dead giveaway that all participants are sodomites
• the wearing of masks - a common practice of devotees of licentious behaviour
• the word luge itself comes from the French verb luger, to thrust forward with one's pelvis
• the frantic hand paddling of the "top" at the beginning of the run, as he is penetrated

I also find it telling that you have attempted to cover-up the true nature of this sport by having the IOC declare it "co-ed" since the Albertville games in 1992, but tell me, exactly how many women have been double-lugers in any Olympics since then? Right, exactly none! They know the true nature of this vile pasttime.

Finally, I have it on the best authority that the "bottom" can orgasm as many as three times in the half-minute it takes to complete the course. I have been told that the bumpiness of the iced track coupled with the thrill of speed creates this degree excitement and release. Sir, for shame!!!

Given that impressionable minds the world over are exposed to this debauchery, we insist you permanently ban the double luge competion as part of Olympic competition, and focus on more wholesome sports such as men's figure skating.

Pat Robertson, president
Decency in Competitive Sports

Scheduled Outage

This blog will remain idle from 13:54 EST until Sunday morning at the earliest.

I refuse to get into details - suffice it to say that I have a cross to "bear" tonight.

We will return to our regularly scheduled programming within 36 hours when I am once myself again.

A is for Anteater

Author's Note: This is the first in a series entitled Nanuk's Bestiary, wherein I take a crack at making a major contribution to the knowledge pool of mankind by sharing my amazing insights in the field of zoology.

ANTEATER - a four-footed insect-eating mammal whose habitat range stretches from Central America to the high Arctic of Canada and Greenland. It has an extensible tongue stretching up to 18 meters, and makes a characteristic "Zot" sound when capturing ants and termites, although the Ice anteater, the formiphagus hyperborean, makes more of a "Splush" sound due to the ejection of antifreeze to protect its tongue from sticking to the ice while foraging.

In the southern extremes of its range, anteaters are solitary and retiring creatures, but in northern climes they are gregarious and playful, often congregating in packs of 20 - 30 to increase the likelihood of finding snow ant colonies around polynyas and igloos.

The anteater figures predominately in the mythology of all indigenous peoples in its range. While the Aztecs and Mayans frequently portrayed this animal as a symbol of war or divine retribution, the Inuit of Greenland revere to this day the anteater as a harbinger of successful hunts and fertility. It figures greatly in throatsinging competitions, where the repetitive "splush, splush, splush" ingressive vocals provide a counterpoint to the mimetic sounds of other animals sought in the hunt.

Not to be confused with aunteater, a narrowly-focused sexual deviancy amongst primates.

Number 9, Number 9, Number 9 . . . .

Back in the day, I used to be the editor of a (very) modest trade magazine, and as the only writer on staff it befell me to write each and every article therein.

I had carefully honed my talents at procrastinating, staring at blank composition sheets day after day, until about 48 hours before the complete magazine had to be delivered to the typesetter, I would fiendishly start pounding the keys of the IBM Selectric, pulling all nighters alternating between vodka and coffee intravenous, and somehow miraculously I would pull it off. And reading back, apart from a few embarassments, what I considered shit at the time wasn't that half-bad.

I still have nightmares of that job, even though it was decades ago. The motif is still the same: we're going to press and I can't find a goddamn bit of copy. My boss is screaming as is my mind. Although I don't wake up with the cold sweats, I lie back in bed, have a puff on a smoke, and thank Christ I got out of that job alive and only somewhat mad.

So what the fuck am I doing starting a blog?

Can you take me back where I've been from?
Brother, can you take me back?