May 21, 2004
Rick's Stag Part Two: FS Omerta

Before starting, let's have a quick word about good fake stag etiquette.

The key to a good fake stag is maintaining that the stag is real, above all else. As was mentioned yesterday, intentional abuse of this rule will result in a summary face-punching, administered either by myself, Uncle Pat, or whoever happens to be standing nearby and has not broken THE CODE OF SILENCE. This code of silence is sometimes known as OMERTA, or in the case of a fake stag, FS Omerta.

If the face-punching is administered by a woman (see below), consider yourself lucky. If it's Uncle Pat, you will be unhappy, and if it is myself, you will still be laughing and thinking you're clever when you are suddenly and horrifically blind-sided and kneed in the balls for good measure. As pathetic as you look and feel, no one will pity you.

Another point to consider when contemplating FS Omerta, is the tendency for people to over-exaggerate. A quick way to get the waitress thinking that maybe Rick didn't ever really exist is to put unquantifiable characteristics onto him. For example, it is unwise to say that Rick played for the NY Rangers, that he once sodomized a dwarf woman, that he beat Garry Kasparov in a game of checkers or that he has a third nipple which lactates when rubbed with a lemon. None of these things really happen, (except rammsteining the dwarf woman), but it is easy for the average person to start embellishing their relationship with Rick and unintentionally break the Code of Silence. As it stands, Rick is an entirely believable person. He has to stay believable, or the gig will be up, and we will all look like enormous losers who had to plan a fake stag in order to have a social life. In short, stick to the script.

If you are feeling artistic, here are some duster guidelines:

Cow tipping is believable.
Shaving cows is not believable.

Getting into a street-fight with Rick is believable.
You winning a street-fight with anyone is not believable.

Being in a grade nine wrestling class with Rick is believable.
Jello wrestling in Sumatra is not.

Engaging in a threesome is believable.
You engaging in a threesome is not believable.

For those actually contemplating showing up at Rick's Stag, I present the following facts:


Rick's nick-name is G-Man (short for Guðmundsdóttir) .

Rick's Stag will begin at 6 pm at Zu Mingus, unless it is unavailable.

The Stag Party will leave Zu Mingus at 8 pm and head to O'Byrnes, where it will not leave until the dogs or the riot police are forced to enter.

Some members of the stag party will be in costume. Viking hats are the order of the day, considering Rick's Icelandic heritage.

Women are invited, but in keeping with the Great Lying, they were invited ONLY after Rick passed out.

Rick's wife has put on a few pounds since college, but she is not 'two and a half, three bucks, easy'. She might have gained twenty or thirty. Remember. Do not unintentionally risk breaking the FS omerta.

Rick's wife was a bit of a slut, yet, but not everyone drilled her. Rick is ok with this, likely because of his Icelandic heritage. In Iceland, women are refreshingly liberal with their sexual behaviour. Seriously. You can book yourself a tour.

And with that said, here's to the G-Man.

May 20, 2004
Rick's Stag

To those with nothing better to do:

This Friday evening we will be celebrating Rick's impending marriage by staging an out-of-control stag party, possibly at Zu Mingus, The Elephant and Castle and The Ballet. Rick's best man has really dropped the ball on this party, so it is left to the rest of us to put something memorable together, or at least drink a dozen Irish Car Bombs apiece and conduct a group vomit somewhere on 99th Street. The last stag party I attended, I was wearing a nun's habit. It is something I am willing to repeat.

Many of you are thinking, who is Rick, and why is his stag this Friday?

The first answer is: tuck in your habit, shut the fuck up, and drink your tequila, bitch.

The second answer is: Rick is a fraud. He does not exist. However, if you ever repeat that fact, you will be punched in the face. The first rule of a fake stag is that there is no fake stag. The second rule, ditto. The trick to pulling off a convincing stag party without a groom is to believe that a groom does exist, and simply isn't present. The rationale for this fake stag party is that preferential treatment and a patio will be given to a stag party, under the illusion that we will be willing to spend a lot of money and tip big. The key word in that sentence is 'illusion'. The whole deal is essentially an eight hour screw job run on the best E-Ville has to offer, giving us an opportunity to make royal jackasses out of ourselves, and not face the consequences. So in order to pull this off convincingly, I am laying down the following notes on Rick's biography and the reason why Rick isn't at the stag (also known as the Great Lying).

The Great Lying

Rick is a fun, sensitive guy who used to party hard and play a lot of hockey, but has sobered up with age and can't much handle his alcohol these days. He's pretty whipped by his wife-to-be, and the last time any of us can remember drinking with him was two years ago at that camping trip in Sylvan. So when he showed up at his stag at Zu Mingus and drank twenty-one shots in forty-five minutes, he was so shitfaced that he nearly went comatose, reviving only to cry out for his fiancee and kick his best man in the face. The best man took him home, and we haven't seen either one since. We are hoping to hear good news from him (Trent) soon, but the clock is ticking. Rudderless, loaded up, and hell-bent on destruction of property, the stag party has vowed not to let the absence of a groom spoil the evening.

The Bio

Born to Icelandic immigrants, Rick was born and raised in Drumheller, before moving to Calgary at the age of twelve. Ever since that time, he's been a proud Calgary Flames fan, which most of us were compelled to ridicule him for, even when he moved up to E-Ville a few years later. In fact, the only thing that made him happier than getting married was knowing that the Flames made it to the Stanley Cup playoffs.

Rick met his wife through Lillibuen, who used to go out with her for a bit back in high school. She was a big hockey fan, and used to suck a lot of hockey cock, but Rick never let her reputation bother him. He's a relaxed, easy-going kind of guy who used to love drinking Keith's Pale Ale, Guinness and maybe shoot some sambuca once in awhile. He wasn't a hard drinker, but he could hang in there for a long night of it, and more than once, we were the last two pumping suds from the keg and walking home as the sun rose. He caught a bit of his dad's accent when he was drunk, and it was a real fucking something to hear that sing-song speech ring off the summer air.

Rick played defence and had a helluva slapshot, and might have made the NHL if it weren't for his knee. As it was, he played in college, and enjoyed that, and used to drive the mascot around in his orange Ford (known as the Tangerine), which he loved. When he graduated, he went right to work for his dad as a management / union liason, and someday, he'll probably take over the plant. He's good at his job, because of his innate likability - he gets along with the white collar and the blue collar, and most everyone respects him, even though at least three guys in the wedding party have looked down at his wife's head bobbing on their cocks at some point in their life. But that's in the past, and now that he's made an honest woman out of her, and she's made an honest man out of him, I'm sure we'll be hearing the pitter-patter of little feet in their hallways soon enough. So here's to Rick.

The Bitter Details

Full Name: Richard (Rick) Guðmundsdóttir
Height: 6'3''
Weight: 210 pounds
Shoots: Right
Age: 27
Favourite Hockey Team: Calgary Flames
Favourite Movies: Schindler's List, Castaway, The Cable Guy
Favourite Bands: Ben Harper, Ozzy(!), Guns n Roses, Sam Roberts, Dave Matthews
Wife's Name: Starts with the letter 'M'

The Point

The point is, Rick is our friend. Rick drank too much, and it is our duty as his friends to have the best goddamn stag party that this ass-backwards city has ever seen, whether he's there or not. Every shot will be dedicated to Rick. Phone calls will be made on cell phones to Rick. People will discuss Rick's hockey playing prowess. People will enthusastically mention the Flames and how happy Rick is about that. People will talk about literature and laugh about how much a guy like Rick liked to read Frank Herbert novels. People will talk lovingly of Iceland. People will dress up, people will pay homage to the man who isn't there, talking lovingly of him, mentioning him in their speech, in their hearts, in their memories and fondest wishes. Because in the end, this day is all about Rick, even though he's not around. Essentially, this is a good example of how religions get started.

Therefore: Everyone is invited to Rick's stag this Friday. Details will be released soon. Suggestions are welcome. Themes are encouraged. Costumes are not mandatory, but are also encouraged. The overarching rule, at this point, is that nothing is too stupid.

May 19, 2004
Rimbaud's Still Running Guns

Faster than one would like to admit, it all comes apart.

If anyone would like to drink their weight in cheap pilsner this weekend at one of the fine local establishments, please let me know. I should be available for some typical low-grade debauchery.

My biggest debate at this moment concerns the type of liquor I should get into. Caesars never fail to delight, double rum and cokes always provide a stiff shot of military camaraderie, and beer, that old friend that never lets you down, has been impressing me again, as of late. Tonight, though, and for the rest of the week, I think I'll stick to the red wine. And maybe a bottle of white, if it comes my way.

So there it is - to all the losers and cast-offs with nothing to do this weekend, to those too poor to go anywhere in this long weekend of need, for those who have too much work to do, but who can afford a single evening of rancid nachos, evil-eyed pool sharks, sweet cigarettes and an intoxicant of one's choosing, let us be human refuse together, if only for one night.

Yup. Friday night. We'll get drunk and shave our heads and talk about women and America and the eventual enslavement of the human race by our robot masters. Should be a hell of a time.

May 18, 2004
Embargo Nation

Fifty-five votes have been cast so far in the Tournament of Evil. Many more are expected. There are a couple of early front-runners, but when the international crowd gets in on this, it could all swing around according to the Bauhaus design tradition. Crazy germans and their penchant for ultra-clean type!

Forgot to mention the end date for the voting yesterday - why don't we say a week from now, after the long weekend (in Canada). That means, Tuesday midnight, May 25th. The one with the most votes at that point wins the Gasmask of Triumph.

My hope is that whoever wins the gasmask of triumph will put it on and pose for a scintillating photo shoot, wearing nothing but muted khakis and a firm smile. Unless the winner is a male, in which case, they should be riding a horse, and holding an axe.

While we're taking care of business - people have been inquiring about purchasing a copy of Nunt. I asked my publisher about it, and he said that it has been embargoed in regards to the general public, at least until July. I sort of looked at him cock-eyed when he said that. Apparently, embargoed means the book is 'prohibited from leaving port'. So you'll just have to hold on to your panties for now. But rest assured, we'll be hocking these fuckers down by the dock, soon enough.

If you haven't voted for a winner, shame on you. VOTE NOW!!! And make sure you make some comments. This is your chance to let these hard-working designers know how impressed you are by their work! Don't let them down, or the terrorists win!

May 17, 2004
Tourette's Tournament of Evil: The Time of Reckoning

Zygote Publishing and the Honourable Rev. Mingus Tourette are proud to announce that Tourette's Tournament of Evil: Round One has been an unequivocal success. Many, many contestants deigned to read the ungodly Nunto 14 and reach deep into their souls to create some hard-hitting interpretive digital artwork - all in the hopes of winning an incredibly expensive gasmask that may or may not work in time of chemical attack. In the end, we agonized to pick the best sixteen pieces of artwork, and we are ecstatic with the depth and intelligence of their design. But the best part of the contest is: it ain't over yet.

The time of reckoning is now upon us. It is time that you, gentle readers, may view the results of the tournament of evil, and decide who amongst the combatants is worthy to wear the Gas Mask of Triumph. Truly, we have reached the epoch of humanity.

For those who care about such things, the guide lines and user tips for the weighty responsibility of voting are:

• Please look at all pieces of artwork before voting. Please pick the one you really love.


• Artwork is presented at half size - if you would like to see the artwork in its full-sized glory, click on the link below the artwork and marvel at the full-sized work of genius.


• Some of the files are big. loading may take a second or two
.

• Please feel free to vote for yourself.


• Please feel free to email all of your friends to vote for yourself
.

• Please feel free to tell everyone you know in your design circle to vote for yourself. Or alert your local media, and get your town to vote for you. Remember, a gasmask is at stake here. It is time to call in the favours.


• If something fails to work, please inform me. Nobody said this circus wasn't flammable.
• There is a comment board specifically for the contest. Its use is encouraged. Say who you want to win, and why. Feel free to make pleas for an entry, especially if it's yours.
• Umm... the person with the most votes wins.
• And don't forget - this is for the gasmask. By god, this is serious. Treat this contest with the utmost respect.

Copyright © 2006 Mingus Tourette