Cold Call

November 30, 2006 at 2:14 am (Uncategorized)

Alright people, I’ll come clean with you. If you don’t want to talk to me anymore, I’ll understand. I just can’t live with this horrible secret anymore. I’ll hang on to the secrets I have about prostitutes, drug use, strange emergency room visits and tender moments with farm animals. But this one… this one is eating me up.

outrage.jpgI used to be a telemarketer. There, I’ve said it. You may start throwing rotted fruit or feces (Weasel) now.

My fling with over-the-phone sales lasted just a few weeks and I was absolutely horrible at it. There was nothing high pressure about my high pressure pitch. I would typically begin robustly enough, but midway through the speech, I’d start apologizing for the intrustion, agreeing that it was rude and offering never to call again. This before the person on the other end of the line even declined the offer.

I sold magazine subscriptions or some shit like that. Although as far as I recall, I don’t think I sold a single one. I collected a small check for my efforts, endured a windy speech from the sales manager about how I might have the right stuff if I just worked on my delivery, and beat feet to a bar to wash away my shame. I’ve been washing ever since.

As far as I’m concerned, the better a person is at sales, the more loathsome he becomes. I always want to be rude to those guys but I can never pull it off. Except for that one time, when an aluminum siding salesman called while I was having a tender moment with a farm animal. Boy, I let THAT guy have it.

Here’s a classic case of telemarketer revenge. It’s safe for work and absolutely brilliant. Resume feces flinging.


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All apologies

November 29, 2006 at 12:55 am (Uncategorized)

geico_cavemen.jpgThe Geico cavemen are very enlightened about their heritage. They are also cultured, well dressed and Epicurean in their tastes. We see them dining with the Geico brass, doing talk shows to augment their complaints of prejudice and traveling to presumably exotic vacations. We’ve come to love these Neanderthals because we perceive them as underdogs trying to overcome ostracization and bigotry.

With that being said, one question has always nagged me. Do you think these much maligned primitives are gay? Or just meterosexuals without the hair maintenance?

The apology

The airport

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November 28, 2006 at 2:10 am (Uncategorized)

pam_tommylee.jpgOkay, who among you has seen the now passe Pam Anderson-Tommy Lee porn tape? Show of hands… Just put your hands up if you’ve seen the video clip. Come on people…

Friggin liars.

You’ve watched it and you’ll probably watch it again. The boat? The cigarettes and doobies? Tommy Lee’s alleged penis? All coming back to you now? Yes, you’ve watched it. You filthy, filthy bunch.

That Kid Rock is a dazzling looking fella, too. I know we’re all waiting with restrained arousal for THAT video to emerge. Wait, did one emerge already?

Anyway, a toast to Pamela and her newly single floatation devices. Too big? Just right? Don’t care one way or another?

Friggin liars.

LOS ANGELES—Pamela Anderson and Kid Rock each filed divorce papers yesterday seeking to end their marriage of less than four months. Anderson’s representative would not comment on the reason or any particulars of the divorce. Anderson and Rock, whose real name is Robert Ritchie, each cited “irreconcilable differences” in their divorce filings in Los Angeles County Superior Court. “Yes, it’s true,” Anderson wrote in a brief statement on her website. “Unfortunately impossible.” A message left with Ritchie’s attorney wasn’t immediately returned. The relationship between Anderson, 39, and Ritchie, 35, has been a turbulent one since they became engaged in 2002. They broke up the following year, but later reunited and held several wedding ceremonies over the summer.

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Crawl away and die

November 27, 2006 at 12:23 am (Uncategorized)

poe.jpgWhen I was a kid, I wrote a story about a man who went into his tiny attic to look at old photos and then croaked up there. His family searched for days but never did look in the little known crawl space above the ceiling. And over weeks and then months and then years, life went on below while the lost man succumbed to the ravages of a lonely death. The dead man’s stuff was moved out, a new family moved in and on and on it went. Until the goo of decomposition started dripping through the ceiling tiles.

I was a weird child.

When Lewiston teenager Scott Croteau vanished back in 1995, I was on that story around the clock. One night, I dreamed, with the kind of vivid detail typically missing in dreams, that he was hanging in the attic of his home. Jolted, I called an investigator and asked if they’d checked up there. They had. No body was found.

I’m kind of a weird adult, too.

When you clean out a closet, putter in your basement, or check for lost items underneath the bed, do you wonder how confusing it would be for people if you dropped dead on the spot? Not to mention that time you allowed yourself to be bound to a bed while dressed as Little Red Riding Hood and then your date stole your wallet and ran off.

In the category of “I’m Surprised it Doesn’t Happen More Often,” here’s a good little story about death’s sharp sense of humor. Heed it well, my friends, and think twice before you crawl into a closet to give yourself an enema.

NEW PORT RICHEY, Fla. (AP) – A woman’s body was found wedged upside-down behind a bookcase in the home she shared with relatives who had spent nearly two weeks looking for her.

A spokesman for the Pasco County Sheriff’s Office said Mariesa Weber’s death was not suspicious. Family members said they believe she fell over as she tried to adjust the plug of a television behind the bookshelf.

Weber, 38, returned home Oct. 28 and greeted her mother, then wasn’t seen again. Her family thought she had been kidnapped and contacted authorities. Family members scoured her room for clues but found nothing, though they did notice a strange smell.

On Nov. 9, Weber’s sister went into her bedroom and looked behind a bookcase, where she saw the woman’s foot. Using a flashlight the family saw Weber was wedged upside-down behind the unit.

“I’m sleeping in the same house as her for 11 days, looking for her,” her mother, Connie Weber, told the St. Petersburg Times. “And she’s right in the bedroom.”

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Nadine’s Christmas tale: “Out” in the Cold

November 26, 2006 at 12:53 am (Uncategorized)

“Frosty the Snowman is a fairytale they say. He was made of snow but the children know… he’ll be back again someday”. Back again, and quite the “fairy” tale indeed, shown here in this telling moment.


It has been rumored for years that the man with the jolly happy soul has been having a secret affair with another man. Seen here in a rare moment, Frosty is captured as he hangs his head and attempts to shun the camera when caught in a dispute with none other than Raggedy Ann and Andy.

Reports say he and Andy were out enjoying a stroll when Raggedy Ann stumbled upon them holding hands and sharing intimate kisses. Frosty appears to be walking away as Raggedy Ann tries to confront Raggedy Andy, as can be seen in the background. Andy, however, refused to discuss the matter with his wife among the quickly gathering onlookers and turned away from her.

No comment has yet been made by any of the party’s involved, as Frosty was last seen hopping into a freezer truck while Raggedy Ann and Andy sped off separately in their matchbox cars.

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Mark LaFlamme’s guide to shopping alternatives

November 24, 2006 at 9:38 pm (Uncategorized)


shopping-cart.jpgHa! No, I kid. Surely there are plenty of things to do if you’re avoiding the stores today. Unfortunately, none of them involve actually leaving your home. Go outside, and you’re bound to get mowed over in one form or another. You’ll be run down by a speeding minivan driven by a woman who looks like a crankhead on cappucino with her finger in a light socket. You’ll be trampled by a large woman with bouncing breasts and serated elbows as she hoofs her way to the mall. You’ll be run over by the train you voluntarily hurled yourself in front of because that traffic jam was lasting longer than childbirth.

Where holiday season shopping is concerned, the stereotypes are dead on. If I have to go to a department store or mall, I secretly wish the place was occupied by the flesh-eating zombies from Dawn of the Dead rather than the hip-checking, aisle-cramming, desperation-smelling hordes of professional looters.

I shan’t go on and on about it, because love and loathing of the post-Thanksgiving crunch has been expressed in every way. I just wanted to list these helpful alternatives for those of you trying to stay out of the sweaty orgy of merchandise and shopping carts. There has got to be more to do than to sit back and wait for arousing details of the first cat fight between soccer moms at JC Penney. And there is:


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Chronic four twenty

November 24, 2006 at 1:53 am (Uncategorized)

chong3.jpgAh, weed. It’s been so long since I resided in the pot milieu, I’ve forgotten most of the cultural nuance. Back then, if you wanted a doobie, you’d hunt down any of a number of people who always had some on hand. Many of these people were 35-year-old guys who still lived with their moms. Others were teenagers who stayed in school only because most of their clientele was there.

As I remember it, you could do one of several things. You could simply buy a joint and complaint if the tightwad rolled something not adequate to pick your teeth with. “Hey, what’s with the pinrod?” You’d ejaculate. “Roll me one of them fatties you’re always rolling for Clyde!”

Or you could buy a joint and smoke it with him but only if he filled his bowl a few times and smoked that with you. We called that matching. Or you could buy a nickel or dime bag, roll your own damn doobs and sell off some of the product. Or you could trade that really cool roach clip you got at the Skowhegan Fair for that half smoked rod he had in his ash tray. Or you could split your six pack with him if he smoked bowls full with you until all the beer was gone. Or you could have a really bad experience with the shit, shrink significantly and swear of Mary Jane altogether. You could turn to booze exclusively. The bartering system isn’t so cool, but the product can be had on any city block and you don’t have to know calculus to buy it.

And that’s that. One piss poor and very long segue. And here’s a story about the most gigantahuge pinhole burns in the recorded history of pot.

AMSTERDAM, Netherlands (Reuters) — A plan to roll and smoke the world’s largest joint was cancelled at short notice in Amsterdam when the organizers realized they could be breaking the law.

“We have now read the small print and realize there could be problems,” Thijs Verheij, one of the organizers, was quoted as saying by ANP news agency after consulting Dutch drugs laws.

The group had wanted to roll a 1.5-meter long pure-weed joint, stuffed with 500 grams of marijuana and containing no tobacco, and smoke it in a bar. It had initially thought the attempt would be legal if 100 people each brought along the five grams of the drug tolerated by Dutch authorities for personal use.

“Unfortunately it looks like this will not be possible,” Verheij said. The attempt had been planned for Wednesday.

A police spokesman said: “We would definitely have investigated this. If you make a single joint with half a kilo of cannabis in it, it would cross the line.”

Verheij said the group had hoped to beat a record set with a joint containing 100 grams of marijuana.

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Succulent breasts

November 23, 2006 at 1:52 am (Uncategorized)

Let’s face it. Ever since we were five years old, we’ve giggled every time someone utters the word “breasts” around the Thanksgiving Day table. That they mean it in a culinary way doesn’t matter at all. Everytime Uncle Joe smacks his lips and asks Aunt Mavis for some of that breast meat, we titter like children and elbow our equally deviant kin.

God bless us. The term “white meat” is funny in a distantly racist way, and “thighs” are good for at least a snort. I’ve always found “yams” a curiously funny word too, like something a street raw gumshoe would say when referring to his delectable sidekicks mammaries.

But enough. I give you a photo presented by AO and in fact one taken in her home just last night. Somewhere deep inside of us, didn’t we always suspect that this is the kind of thing that goes on in her household?


When she’s not drowning squirrels in the backyard pool or saving me from horrific traffic accidents, she’s at home dressing up barnyard fowls in her own lingerie and somehow, I’m not even a little shocked. And she doesn’t mess around: after sending along this mouth watering photo, she told me that the bra and panties are high end garments from Paris. Hey, anything less would make that bird look like a whore.

Have a great bird day everybody, whether it’s a day about thankfulness, spirituality or just stuffing your maw. Feel free to pass along any embarassments that may arise. You know how we love those.

Incidentally, if you find yourself sexually aroused by the above photo, for God’s sake, stay away from Aunt Mavis for the rest of the day and then get yourself some help. I know what I’m talking about too because, man… I just can’t stop looking at it.

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November 22, 2006 at 1:59 am (Uncategorized)

I hate getting columns spiked. Oh sure, sometimes it’s warranted, like the time I wrote about what a worthless rag the Twin Cities Times is. Or the time I accused Lewiston city leaders of covering up the depth of the crack problem. This time though, it was a simple, reflective piece on the transitional phase of a young person’s life marked by beer in a barrel. The newspaper’s argument was that the column encourages underage drinking. My argument was that young people don’t give a crap what I write. They’re sure as hell not going to base their life decisions on it. If they were that impressionable, I’d write to area young people and have them send me their parents credit cards.

I lost this battle, though, and it’s probably just sour grapes that compels me to post the column here. If I’d known it was going to get shot down, I would have put dirty words in it. But anyway. You’ve already suffered through an abridged version of this. Just looking for a ruling here: too drinker friendly for a family newspaper?

Ah, the keg party. The topic of a recent editorial was kegs and gravel pits and man, it sent me spinning back into memories as hazy and unreliable as beer foam. The Pits in Waterville is where most of my adolescent unraveling began and I regret nothing. Almost nothing.
It was consistently two bucks a head regardless of whether you had a 15-gallon keg or a pony keg. The ubiquitous red cups fit so right in the hand whether you were a delicate flower or a manly man. There was usually some professional partier who had his own taps and that would save a few bucks. Of course, the guy with the taps drank free and if those taps disappeared, the entire party crowd would chip in to buy him another.
The keg party crowds were not without a code of decency.
There were almost never fights at these bashes on the beer-soaked sand of the gravel pit. What’s to fight about when you’re a young person surrounded by friends and in possession of a cup that never runs dry?
Conversely, we could count on the appearance of police. They would come with all the stealth of hippos carrying flashlights that bounced and bobbed their way to the circle of drinkers. Even those who were into their ninth or 10th cup of Natural Light had enough time to plot an escape.
The biggest guy at the party wrestled the keg with him as he ran and God bless that fellow. His name was Tony, or Gil, or Amos and he protected that barrel like a worker bee protecting the queen.
The cops would stick with the hunt for a while, but you got the feeling they were in it for amusement more than for matters of law and order. And there’s nothing like hunkering down with a cup full of beer while flashlights bob through the woods in search of the hooligans with their trail of beer foam. If you managed to hunker with a pretty lass you’d had your eye on, your night was made.
You were also blessed if you ended up in the same place as the keg when the farce of a foot chase was over. Usually, it was a squalid apartment or the garage at a nearby home and a smaller, more intimate party would continue. Drinking foamy beer into morning was guaranteed. Passionate conversation about lofty topics would increase with each new cup of beer drawn from the keg.
“So. You guys believe in God, or what?”
“I’ll tell you what I believe happens when we die …”
“I know this guy, right? And his mother died at home, right? Well, she had this rocking chair and a year after she died this guy heard it creaking in the middle of the night …”
“If there is a God, why do you think there’s, like, war and stuff?”
To the untrained ear, it sounds like nothing more than scattered thoughts fueled by barley and hops. But it’s the sound of ideologies and beliefs being developed in the expanding minds of young people. They learn plenty in the classroom, sure. But they absorb new information and form their own personalities and belief systems only when uninhibited and surrounded by the friends they trust.
It was odd how a keg party was advertised in a manner that spread across legions of young people but never reached the ears of intrusive adults. It was strictly word-of-mouth but it was as effective as any radio spot or television commercial.
“Keg at Scum Field tonight. Two bucks a head.”
“Right. Heard that in homeroom. Tony’s got a tap.”
And so, for the first time in our lives, we were experiencing tribal organization, fiscal responsibility and collective thought without the input of the adults who heretofore had guided us. We didn’t know it then, but the keg party was our first giant step from adolescence toward adulthood. And had we known it, we wouldn’t have given a damn.
And I know right now you’re shaking your head and getting out your poison pen to fire off a scathing letter to the editor. You think it’s reckless to reflect with fondness on the many joys of a party based around a barrel of beer.
The fact is, I could rail loudly on the evils of liquor in this space and it would not change the attitude of one young person. Remember all those educational presentations you sat through in high school? Remember how you went to a keg party at Sandy Bottom that very night?
Socializing goes on all of your life, but it will never be the same as those warm, summer nights out in the sand pits. Out there, you discovered your independence and formed, in an inexpressible way, a set of priorities that would shape your life. At the same time, you left the innocence of childhood soaking into the dirt below your feet.
The keg party is a passage from one place to another. It’s a topic as heady as any poorly poured cup of beer.
If I thought it could be done, I’d gather up the old crowd and try to get them out to the pits behind the armory. I went there recently and it looks a lot the same. I’ll bet Tony still has his taps, too.
But the magic of the keg party is lost on adults. They are tied up in adult things and too rigid in their opinions. The talk would turn to politics, the economy, the war in Iraq.
By and large, grownups suck the quiescent joy out of a party because they no longer possess flexibility and the sense of hedonistic whimsy. Like the beer left at the bottom of the barrel, the splendor of the keg party, for adults, has gone flat.

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Cast no stone

November 21, 2006 at 12:05 am (Uncategorized)

I hate Christmas shopping. And so you’re all getting a set of these this year. Hey, it was either this or a preserved tapeworm from the gullet of a crack whore.

From eBay:

160048356868.JPGA set of nearly used kidney stones. The stones are in excellent condition and can be used for medical experiments or a lucky charm. The stones came from my girlfriend’s Dads kidneys and caused him pain whilst they were rattling about in his body. He has now made a full recovery.
View Set of Kidney Stones New And Used Once Auction

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