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"I Think, Therefore I Ant."
December 23
Avery's Campaign Journal 2005
Ordinary citizens are clamouring for a bold and visionary Prime Minister who
will lead them to better times in this new and challenging century... Others
want Avery Ant to run.
Canadian Election Insanity
Today:
Severe
(Check Back For Daily Updates)
Adventures in Martini Land
The 3
Wise Guys had yet another busy day looking for support in all the wrong
places... That's more of a fashion statement then political analysis, but hey,
it's only a couple of days to Christmas and I'm drunk out of my face.
I'm kidding. I'm more stoned than drunk.
Hah! I'm joking. Okay, where were we..? Oh right, fashion... No, sorry...
Canadian politics. Wow... Not even close! Anyway....
The Great Martini is, last I checked, still searching for an elusive apology
from Harpo. Go boy! I’m sure he’ll leave no stone unturned in his quest.
Poor, easily miffed and ready to swing Paul, he's touchy these days, isn't he?
He was still in a tizzy about Harper's
suggestion the Liberals want the Parti Quebecois to win power in the province so
the Grits can take up the charge of saving the country.
(For those who don't speak Canadian, I'll translate this for you at a later
date to be announced.)
"When you hear that kind of thing,” the Primo Minister said in reference to
Harpo’s day old comments, “you begin to understand why Canadians are turned off
politics.”
When it was suggested that Liberal corruption might also be a reason Canadians
are turned off politics, The Great Martini pointed up to the sky, yelled out,
“Look! Attacking aliens!” and when everyone looked up, attempted to bolt. But
because he’s kind of old and out of shape, he didn’t get very far.
Huffing and puffing, Martini then said that Bloc Head Duceppe had formed a
marriage of convenience with Harpo to undercut Federal Fibs in Quebec. He
followed this up by singing a rather rousing version of “Froggy Went a Courting”
and then, with magnifying glass in hand, ala Sherlock Holmes, once again
began searching for his apology.
Harpo is of course completely unmoved by Martini’s great search and has no
intention of helping him find it, ie: apologizing.
”Look,” he bellowed, “I don’t go around demanding apologies and I certainly
don’t give them… to anyone. That’s what it takes to be a successful
politician. In fact, let me tell you what it takes to be a successful
politician. Break out your pencils, boys… Being
a successful politician means going to work with an air of confidence and
leaving with a sense of accomplishment. It means attention to detail and people
skills. It means wearing turtleneck sweaters and giving a 110% even though the
only thing I can say about most people is that they give me a headache.
And I'm talking about a headache that would kill a mammal five times my body
weight. Being a successful politician means smiling. Smiling, smiling, smiling,
damn it!!! It means not openly scowling at homosexuals, welfare bums,
atheist heathens, pro-choicers, and immigrants. It also meant keeping up
appearances and leaving my honest and personal opinions at home with my wife…
where they both belong.”
Naïve Dreamer Party leader Jack “Sound Blight” was in Yellowknife. "I lost the
coin toss at the last debate and tradition states that the loser has to spend a
day in Yellowknife," Layton admitted. Luckily for Yellowknife, no one seemed to
notice he was there. In fact, according to NDP strategists, Mr. Layton can go
just about anywhere unnoticed.
Will Jack go back? Has there been NDP vote tampering thousands of miles, or
possibly hundreds of kilometres away, in
sinful Toronto? Tune in tomorrow, same NDP time and channel.
As for my Bloc Head buddy, Duceppe… Well, he continues to have the best hair of
the four of them.
Season’s Greetings from Avery Ant
Holiday
Link-O-Ramas 2 Headed Merkin
Scariest Santa Ever!
Now you can stay inside and
Build Your Own Snowman
Only
2
Shopping Days Left Until Xmas!
Your Horoscope
Aries:
You have the temperament of neutered poodle and the
testicles of a neutered poodle.
Taurus: You
will continue to view cabbage as a European vegetable of the mustard
family, having a globose head consisting of a short stem and tightly overlapping
green to purplish leaves. You will also continue to be called a cabbage by those
who know you.
Gemini: A recent attempt to be more disciplined has you buying all kinds
of bondage gear. By the way, you look kind of silly in that mask.
Cancer: You confuse your sense of humour with your sense of entitlement.
Sitcom like hilarity and selfishness abound.
Leo: See below.
Virgo: See below (keep looking).
Libra: You will read this horoscope. I know, I know… all that for this.
Scorpio: Over-analyzing your problems is a hazardous activity. Facing
them straight on will give you the willies. Denying they exist and drinking
straight from a bottle of scotch will make you feel warm and happy inside. The
choice is yours
Sagittarius: You may have a list as long as your arm of “things to be
done” but if you start them today, or tomorrow for that matter, you won’t get
very far, in fact, there’s really no point in doing them at all.
Capricorn: See above ‘cause the same goes for you and your little dog.
Aquarius: Various developments have placed you under considerable
pressure. The solution? Take it out on loved ones.
Pisces: Pick any of the horoscopes above and make it yours.
This Week's 10 Fun Search Terms for
Avery Ant
The following are this week’s favorite 10 search queries
people used to get to www.averyant.com
(really!)
rudolph the red
nosed homo
what was rudolph's punishment for his red nose?
deeper meaning of rudolph the red nosed reindeer
truth about rudolph the red nosed reindeer
gay rudolph the red nosed reindeer
rudolph the homo reindeer
rudolph the red nosed homo reindeer
is rudolph the reindeer gay?
lord avery
hungarian ghoulish
Have a Bill O’Reilly Christmas
All
Songs by Bilious O’Reilly
Pagans Roasting On An Open Fire
The Liberals Were Hung By The Chimney With Care
Rudolph The Red Nosed Homo
I Spit On The Turkey’s Left Wing
White Christmas At The O'Reilly House
Put A Little Holiday In Your Heart, You Totalitarian, Anti-Christian Fags
Deck The Halls With Bleeding Heart Pinheads
Let It Snow (And Rain Bombs On Iraq)
Okay, shut up and
listen. This Christmas CD of mine is not only my
personal battle against all those
totalitarian, anti-Christian forces who are waging a war on
Christmas… It’s also a chance to cash in on the season – which, let’s face it,
is what Christmas is really all about.
You know, I
have a memory of me sitting on my stairs in my Levittown house and looking at
the Christmas tree about 5:30 in the morning. I stared at that Christmas tree
and I thought to myself, “Gosh, if Santa were to come down the chimney right
now, I could legally shoot him.” Yes, Christmas was a magical time for me as a
child. I loved everything about Christmas. The tinsel, the presents, the… uh,
tree, and what the hell, even the baby Jesus... And this is from a guy who
really hates kids!
I am not going to
let oppressive, hohohophobic forces in this country diminish and denigrate the
holiday and the subsequent sales of this CD. You try and take Christmas from
me, and I'll cut you.
That said, I sure
hope you enjoy the 8 instant classic tracks on this CD and “Have a Bill O’Reilly
Christmas.”
Bill O’Reilly
Vibrating Fox News Jockey 2005
Cover photo:
Some Unfortunate Photographer © 2005 Fox Merkin
Records
PRETTIGE KERSTDAGEN
Flemish
Translation: Prettige Kerstdagen: “I
Am Nothing But A Poorly Groomed Human Chia Pet.”
Coversh photgosh: Odin Valhalla © 1958 Vooshstankish
Yumping Yiminy Existential Phlegm Records
A Home Wreckers Christmas
Xmas
Songs by Holiday Harlots and Seasonal Tarts
Includes such classics as: Watch Me Go – I’m Mrs. Mistletoe, Do The
Santa, and Ho, Ho, Ho (The 3 Prostitutes Song).
Cover photo: Yousuf Karsh.
© 1967 Sweet Cuckold Records
happy
holi-dee lenny dee
 Not so merry
holiday songs caterwauled by me, lenny dee
Oh crap, is it Christmas
already? Guess that means it’s time to pull out the old smelly Santa suit, clean
the dog’s ears and sing until I make the kids cry tears of blood. I hope you
enjoy my Christmas album. It’s basically me weeping and drunkenly moaning out
standard Christmas Carols. God, I’m so alone. Thank Christ for my dogs… At
least I’ve got something to eat. You know, should my situation get really
desperate. Anything could happen, I guess. But remember, like the song says:
We need a little Christmas... And I really need to get laid.
lenny dee 1961
cover photo:
lenny’s mom © 1961 christmas bell hell records
The Donner Party
When I came too, I
found myself in a small Peruvian hospital. I don’t know if there are large
Peruvian hospitals, but I assume that there must be. The doctors told me that I
was lucky to be alive -- that the frostbite and exposure had nearly killed me,
and that while I would eventually be able to walk, my back legs were
irreversibly damaged and I would certainly never fly again. Those were the
happiest words I could have heard.
The crash happened
on Christmas Eve. We were flying over the Andes on our way to South America. I
don’t even know why we were bothering to go there. As far as I’m concerned there
are not enough “good” children in South America to warrant the trip. Don’t get
me wrong, I’m not saying that all the children of South America are up to some
type of nastiness, and anyway, that isn’t my call. Mr. C. made those decisions
and, to his credit, he managed to find some good in just about everyone.
How I wish I could
tell you that the weather was to blame. Or that there was some technical glitch
that caused us to plummet into the mountains, but as is often the case in these
types of accidents, the catastrophe could easily have been avoided. We were at
about 15 thousand feet, lower than I would have liked, when a sharp tail wind
spun the sleigh wildly to the port side. Normally, we would have made the
necessary adjustments in order to get us back on line; Santa is really just
along for the ride, but for some inexplicable reason he jerked hard on the
reigns. There was a lot of confusion after that; I bumped into Comet who
collided with Vixen who rammed Dasher in the rump with his large rack of
antlers. It was all over in a flash.
We were spiralling
out of control when we hit the side of the mountain. I don’t even remember the
impact, I just recall waking up in a snowdrift and seeing the carnage. The
presents were scattered most everywhere, with wrapping paper singed and bows
floating in the air. The sleigh was almost unrecognizable -- just a hunk of
twisted metal, and next to it, Santa’s bright, blood red cap. The other
reindeer were splayed in the snow, whether they were unconscious or dead, I
couldn’t be sure.
I don’t know what
would have happened to us if Santa hadn’t appeared, stumbling up from behind a
precipice, his forehead gashed and bloodied, but with a grin fixed on his face
in jolly determination. It was as much his presence of mind that saved us, as
it was his panic behind the reigns that had condemned us. He gathered the
reindeer up and got us to huddle under the wreckage of the sleigh to shelter
ourselves from the wind and cold. We lay there all night -- shivering, bleeding
and praying. All night long he told us that we would be fine, that we would
survive.
Christmas morning
brought a clearing in the sky. The sun shed a new light on just how desperate
our situation was. Blitzen was dead. He had spent Christmas Eve bleeding
internally and had died in his sleep. Dasher, Vixen and Comet were battered,
banged and bruised. Rudolph was suffering from head injuries and multiple
fractures and the rest of us weren’t faring much better. Our injuries, combined
with the state of the sleigh, ruled out any chance of flying back. The only one
who looked at all healthy, was Santa. The gash in his forehead was a lot deeper
than it had appeared the previous night and the sight of the dried and caked
blood in his shock of white hair was a little unsettling, but his ruddy
complexion and twinkley eyes remained. Santa calmed us all down. He cried
openly for Blitzen, it was a “Christmas mourning” he told us. He then reminded
us of our duty, of the children worldwide that counted on us and who were
probably at this very minute praying for our safe return. We would have to
remain strong. Santa was convinced that help would arrive within the day.
Blitzen would be given a heroes funeral. Christmas would live on. Santa’s
famed jollosity buoyed our spirits and comforted us all. I honestly believed
that as long as we were in his charge, we would come to no further harm.
By Boxing Day, a
few of the reindeer were beginning to suspect that Santa was stringing them a
line. That night while Santa slept, Dancer and Prancer began whispering that
Santa was responsible for Blitzen’s death. I didn’t know what to say, this type
of talk was treasonous and I had never heard a harsh word spoken against Santa
and, like the others, was shocked. We dismissed Dancer and Prancer’s attack as
nothing more than grief, but I had a feeling that a once unbreachable loyalty
had been compromised.
Santa’s famed
jollosity began to subside by day four. We had eaten whatever chocolate and
fruits that had been on board and we were all feeling the pangs of hunger as
keenly as we did the cold. Santa had stopped offering encouraging words and had
become distant and weird. He frequently berated us for “poor performance in the
air” and would spend long periods of time staring at Blitzen’s corpse and
muttering and ho ho hoing to himself. Rudolph’s head injuries were now at a
critical stage and he was slipping in and out of a coma. Santa was particularly
rough on him. He called Rudolph a “beacon of plight” and claimed that the crash
was Christ’s punishment for his “unnatural and commercial obscenities.” Much to
the delight of Dancer and Prancer, Dasher and Vixen were extremely agitated now.
It appeared that whatever respect they had once held for Santa had been replaced
with a seething bitterness that is usually unknown to the gentle reindeer. And
yet, the four of them did nothing. They still feared the old man and recognized
that the rest of us still believed in, and trusted him.
Everything changed
on day nine. I had never seen Santa so wild-eyed and cruel. He sat for hours
singing the same two lines, over and over.
Rudolph you’re a bloody fright,
Why’d you kill us all that night?
When he was
conscious, Rudolph took the rhyming couplet badly. It was Santa that had taught
him not to be ashamed of his unnatural desire to bastardize certain traditions
of Xmas in the name of an extra buck. Santa’s inspirational, “Rudolph with your
nose so bright...” speech, on a rather snowy Christmas Eve, had won him his
acceptance with the rest of the crew. And now Rudolph was dying, his red nose
just a dim glow and Santa was sending him to his grave with taunts and a cruel
variation on that once inspirational speech.
Santa’s next move
shocked us all. As we fell into another evening of darkness and desperate
thought, Santa sat up and demanded that we all come to attention. The tone of
his voice was bleak and eerie. He avoided looking into our moist brown eyes
when he informed us that we would surely die if we did not do something to
combat the cold and hunger. In a grand and sweeping gesture, Santa thrust his
finger to the dead Blitzen. “There is our salvation!” he roared. I felt a cold
ring in my heart as I looked at my dead friend. Santa stomped over to Blitzen,
grabbed him by the neck and pulled him up to his bowl full of jelly for a
stomach. “Fur...for warmth. You rotten beasts are smothered in the stuff, but
look at me.” We all lowered our heads, Santa continued, “I’m so hungry, and no
offense bucks and does but reindeer is good eatin’. We don’t have any other
choice. If we are going to survive, we have to eat Blitzen and fashion me a
coat out of his hide. Ho ho ho!”
It was, and is, an
unspeakable act. But we did, each of us. We ate our friend, our colleague, our
brother. And our shame was compounded by Santa’s glee. To him this was just a
meal. There was no significance, none of the horror and sickening guilt that
plagued each of us reindeer. The only reason that he wanted us to eat as well
was because our complicity made his own actions less ghastly. There wasn’t one
among us now who didn’t despise the old bastard.
Santa was better
for a couple of days. With his appetite temporarily sated, he sat rubbing his
stomach while wrapped in Blitzen’s fur. Blitzen’s dead eyes stared out from his
head, now a hat sitting atop the old man’s crown. Those lifeless eyes gazed at
us vacantly, a symbol of our betrayal and a constant reminder of the atrocity we
had committed.
Things might not
have gone from bad to worse except for one thing; Rudolph was fairing poorly and
would surely be dead within the next day or two. Santa was eyeing him
longingly, but then again, he was also looking at Vixen with a new interest. I
was sure it was with a hunger of a more unnatural and unsavory nature. Santa
wasn’t worried by some of the reindeer’s hateful looks, Comet and Cupid were his
fiercest allies and obviously had both gone insane. They were blood hungry.
The feast of Rudolph had reawakened their primal instinct to kill, to taste
flesh. Rudolph continued to fade but neither they, nor Santa, seemed inclined
to wait for nature to take its course.
It all happened so
quickly. Our hunger got the better of us. It only made sense to eat him. I
remember the sensation that I felt when my mouth tore into that flesh, still
warm and alive...so unlike the bitter coldness of Blitzen. Santa fell to his
knees, a pathetic look for mercy in his eyes; I bit down on his neck. His oily
blood spurted into my mouth and tasted oh so warm and rich. We all fell on him,
gorging on his fat body, ripping the flesh from his bones while his screams,
sounding like the cry of a deranged caroler, filled the air.
Meet the
Clowns!
(to the top)
To read all the other very exciting editions of
"Avery's Daily Journal" visit
"Avery's Journal Archives"
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