Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Holy farts, what excrement was THAT?

Apologies, dear readers, for not having updated sooner. I had planned on relating my latest escapades last week, but have instead spent the past few days in a stupor over an atrocity that the tele-vision world somehow sees fit to call entertainment.

I speak, of course, of that phenomenon-among-the-retarded known as "American Idol", the "finale" of which was tele-vised a few days ago. To sum up my feelings regarding this amateur vomit-a-thon, if the very concept of entertainment had been aborted before it were hatched, and then that abortion defecated onto the carpet, and if said feces were particularly runny, they may actually be capable of farting out something approximating "American Idol."

To heap tastelessness upon tastelessness, the ostensible winner of this glorified piss festival was none other than some 42-year-old autistic man who kept calling out to his "Soul Patrol" in a manner reminiscent of the obscene wailings of Katharine Hepburn's first-born son Douglas, who met as untimely a demise as a full-grown-yet-not-potty-trained imbecile can (incidentally, I won the "How Will Douglas Die" pool that was so in vogue among the Hollywood elite at the time by guessing that it would somehow involve two boats and a graham cracker).

The greatest ignmony, of course, was that this gray-topped moron somehow managed to defeat the marginally more buxom young lady who opposed him, in spite of the obvious fact that she had a set of breasts the likes of which precipitated the fall of Rome so many centuries ago.

Truthfully, if this "Taylor" mongoloid is the sort of fellow that Americans back, then I am truly blessed to find myself on foreign soil. Or I would be blessed, were it not for the fact that I am currently in the northern assbucket known as Canada. I will write more at a later date. For now, the decline in America's values, which sees mental deficiency as somehow superior to glorious knockers (and I thought Jimmy Stewart's execrable tard love-in "Harvey" was a coup for the addle-pated!) has left me to disgusted and disillusioned to continue.

Very disappointed in you all,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

Saturday, May 06, 2006

Canada remains the dog's balls

While some of you have returned to absorb my wise words, very few of you have come to my aid with funds to help me escape this vast northern wasteland. If you have never been here, first count your blessings, then read on for a brief synopsis.

Canada is much like New Jersey, except that the people seem to be happy to be here and are less prone to defecating in the streets. The entire country smells nonetheless of feces of the sort that typically escapes one's bowels after six straight days of drinking wood grain alcohol. The nation's primary import would appear to be the letter U, as these half-educated miscreants seem intent on slipping the letter in the middle of perfectly normal words: colour, flavour, honour. The whole practice seems somewhat homosexual (homousexual for you rat bastard Canadians reading this), and not in the positive, to-each-his-own sense. Honestly, if there is a Canadian out there who would like to explain this predilection you have with the letter U, please enlighten me. I realize that your nation was a British colony until about last November, but to dwell on this fact is patently ludicrous. Besides, who in the name of Noah's farts wishes to be British anymore?

In any case, here is my latest update. I was apparently spotted by one of Canada's police officers using my ornithologists' binoculars for their unintended but wholly more interesting purpose and was forced to spend a night in lock-up. Upon my release, I vowed to hie from this land, back to the coddling bosom and milk-giving teat of Mother America. To my chagrin, it is difficult to so much as walk across the border when one is bereft of identification. Undaunted to that point, I decided to find a spot where I could safely cross over without dealing with the oatmeal-jawed ninnies at "customs" and set out on a hike across the border. Ye cats, was I surprised to discover that the entire border was blocked of by a 43-foot-high fence made of electrified cobras!A deadlier barrier I have never seen, so I returned, tail between legs, to the misery that is Toronto... or so I thought!

When I stumbled across a city, I assumed it must have been the same one from whence I departed. After all, how many people could possibly CHOOSE to live in this land? No more than one city's worth, would that these people were at all sane. However, I found that the landmarks were all different, and to make matters worse, the natives were all speaking some sort of delirious bafflegab. I've no idea where I am at present, but am heartened by this city's naked-women-establishment-on-every-corner policy.

I would write more, but there are currently hundreds of nude young vixens awaiting the hungry leers of one Clark Motherfucking Gable.

Soon to be erect,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

Monday, May 01, 2006

What in the name of Satan's cock?!?

Apparently, my "blog" no longer wishes to publish. I blame this entirely on the draconian rules here in mule-sodomizing Canada.

Can a Clark Motherfucking Gable not speak his mind in this god-forsaken land? O, to be back in America, where freedom of expression is abundant, as shown by our noble media.

Rest assured that I will not be silenced!

With much determination,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

Clark Motherfucking... Ornithologist?!?

Fondest greetings,

Many of you may recall that in my last post, I devised a scheme to wend my way into the ranks of the Canadian homeless in hopes of finding a way to destroy their army from within, much like Odysseus' idea of attacking the walled city of Troy from within by hiding in the anus of a horse (I was never one for history, but it seems an altogether too messy and depraved plan even for a Greek). My plan, however, went awry when I found that after four or five minutes surrounded by vagrants, I was forced through the vagaries of common decency to dispatch them to whatever circle of hell is reserved for such derelicts. I then dumped them in Toronto's Don River, the only body of water on this earth that would actually become cleaner with the addition of hobos.

With precious little to do after my research project ended sooner than anticipated, I have taken up a hobby: bird-watching.

You would be correct in assuming that this is a particularly un-Gablelike pastime, as it rarely involved the fervid sexing of barely legal teen girls. Practitioners of this particular avocation, in fact, are mostly male, obese, and bearded. There are a few women who also bird-watch, but they are largely indistinguishable from the men, being rather portly and most of them sporting champion-caliber beards of their own. Nonetheless, the mostly ignoble pursuit of watching these flying crap factories through binoculars has one perk: some of these birds have truly splendid names!

Most of you will have heard of the more common among them. There are, however, some about which only the seasoned bird-watcher (a demographic of which I am now a part) knows. Here is an abridged list of the birds that I have come across to date:

- The booby
- The tit
- The cock
- The wattled crane (of the genus bugeranus)
- The woodpecker
- The fruiteater
- The vaginal warble-grouse
- The Australian dongsucker
- The one-testicle-too-large-lopsided-flying wren
- The red-breasted gynecological disaster resulting in a pus-filled infection (very aptly named, I might add)
- The man who has swallowed so much of his own semen that when he farts on the vagina of his wife, his wife becomes pregnant with triplets

A brief confession, here and now: I have yet to see any of the aforementioned birds. I in fact came across them during various Google searches, only some of which were related to birds. Truth be told, friends, I have joined a roving band of ornithologists solely because they offered to furnish me with a set of binoculars, through which I have seen many naked Canadian women through their apartment windows.

I doubt that I am the first or only of our crew to engage in such activities, given that most of the men have likely not seen a vagina with or without the aid of their six-inch-thick spectacles and few if any of the women would be able to see their own over their copious paunches. Truly, it is a depressing group with which I have begun associating, but as Canada's national motto states, "Life in Canada is atrocious, and shitfucked if you don't have to do whatever you can to while away the hours until you are cradled in the welcoming bosom of death."

Forever,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

Thursday, April 27, 2006

Still in asshole Canada!

Good day,

It appears that the hurt and hard feelings over my lengthy departure have yet to abate. It has been four days since my entreaty for bus fare out of the shitpit in which I am currently stranded, and nary a single response.

Not much has happened since last I wrote, which is not surprising given that I am in desolate Canada. One unforeseen disadvantage to my exile to this land is that I have yet to find appropriate shelter and have forced myself to sleep under various bridges and trestles. Some of you may note the irony that I should now find myself homeless given my views toward those who the more euphemistic of you refer to as the "less fortunate." Should any of you feel the need to point this out, you will be met with a swift kick to the kidney region. My greatest weakness - homelessness - is also my greatest strength in that I am now perfectly nomadic and can travel anywhere I choose to deliver sound beatings to you smug irony-pointers-out.

A lesser man might despair over the plight in which I find myself. Given my enterprising spirit, however, I have decided to use this scenario to my benefit, my infiltrating the ranks of Canadian vagrants to find where they hide in the evenings. Beyond simply providing me with a pastime in this barren, ennui-inducing wasteland, it could prove a valuable sociological experiment that I might use whenever the old bloodlust begins percolating.

A few "Fun* Facts" that I have learned about Canada since my arrival:

• Canada is the missionary sex capital of the world (which, in terms of pure enjoyment, is akin to being the carob powder capital of Chocolateland)

• Canadian women are as loose and easy as their overprotective husbands are susceptible to ether (and given my potency, do expect to see several hundred mustachioed baby Gablets eating bacon-and-doughnut-flavored formula in nine months or so)

• Alcohol is not available in corner stores in Canada. Mescaline, however, can be had if you know the correct "password" to drop on the clerks (hint: the password is "Canada")

• Canadians are a wholly uninventive lot when it comes to devising passwords

• Canadian toddlers who create a public scene take on average two more kicks with a steel-toed boot to kill than publicly-crying American toddlers

• The only crime punishable by death in heathen Canada is worshipping the Christian God

* Note the asterisk, used because Canada is, as a rule, not fun.

That is all for now, friends. If you have considered sending donations to spring me from this prison of a wastelang, please make haste!

As always,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

Sunday, April 23, 2006

Welcome back, Clark!

Greetings!

I hope the world has treated you all as well as you deserve over the course of my lengthy hiatus. What you have done in the time since I went missing is anyone's guess, though I would wager it had much to do with weeping, sobbing and gnashing of teeth over the loss of your interweb moral compass (which is to say, yours truly).

O, what a whirlwind couple of months it has been! Firstly, I was forced to deal with computer issues, as mentioned in my last post. When my own efforts to remedy the situation with a hammer and chisel (and, full disclosure, one-and-a-half quarts of vodka) failed, I was forced to bring all 78 bits and pieces of what remained of my console to the Russian ogres at the computer repair shop. There, I left the prized piece of machinery upon which I write the manifesto that is this blog in their grimy, soviet hands.

Upon returning home, my nostrils were assailed by an odor the likes of which I had never encountered in by 105 years on this earth. The stench of rotting vagrant had become far too much to bear. Let me assure you, if you think these parasites befoul the very air we breathe in life, their fetid stench is magnified a hundredfold when coupled with the aid of rot and maggotry. Dried urine is malodorous, but the reek of rotting urine can waft through the sturdiest of oaken floorboards and disrupt the sleep of the best of men.

Unfortunately, such was my haste in departing my home that I neglected to cover my trail and the authorities quickly uncovered my assemblage of derelicts. They promptly began a manhunt, as though what I had done was more criminal than public service, no aficionados of artistry, they. Needless to say, it was integral that I left Los Angeles pronto, and so I lit out in back of an 18-wheeled truck destined for parts unknown.

Well, friends, it is often said that no man is an island. Here, I would like to extrapolate and carry that popular maxim to its logical conclusion: no man is an island the likes of which could find itself in the back of a truck loaded with industrial-strength solvents and not be tempted to inhale some of the choicer types to rid his olfactory senses of the stench of rotted homeless. Long story short, when I awoke from the stupor induced by those very solvents, I was in Toronto, in cold, godless Canada!

So here I sit, in a dank interweb cafe, with cold rain beating down on the heathen Canadians outside, surrounded by Inuits and hairy-pitted women, and I am faced with a dilemma: how to leave this cesspoll of a nation, where there is nothing with which a rakish gadabout can bide his precious time.

It is here that I, tail firmly between my legs, must ask a favor. Believe you me when I say that I ask with no small shame. A Hollywood legend reduced to begging is a sad sight, to be sure, but can any of you loyal readers spare bus fare out of Canada? I will gladly accept fare for anywhere in the continental United States, with the exception of upstate New York, which is a shitpile of a different color, or Wisconsin, where there are various warrants for my arrest.

Please send bus fare to:

Clark Motherfucking Gable
Piss-shitting Canada

Graciously,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Living in the 21st Century is a Fool's Game!

Well, friends, tragic thought it may be to report this, I may be in absentia for a time. It appears that my computer machine, the portal through which you have managed a glimpse into my life of late, is hell-bent on giving up the ghost. Hopefully, this will not be a long-term dilemma, but as I am tragically unversed in the ways of modern electro-devices, I have no way of knowing how long the proper repairs might take.

I contemplated posting regularly from an interweb cafe, but I am in one now and I must say that this nerdhaven is more than man or beat should ever be forced to bear.

In sooth, this is the second interweb cafe I have visited today, and both were tainted by the same pungent odor of unwashed flab coupled with residual stench left over from the various inhabitants' mothers' basements.

The first such establishment I patronized was by far the cleanest I could find, and being as I refuse to associate with vagrants and their ilk save to cause them grievous bodily harm, seemed the most in line with mine own sensibilities.

O, how I erred in making that judgment! The sweaty-pitted troglodyte manning the front desk assigned me a computer, upon which I promptly downloaded some barely legal porn and whipped out my glistening Gabledong. This seemed to alarm said trog (and an alarming sight it is, though the social retard in question seemed more disturbed and dismayed than awed at its magnificence) and he asked - nay, told - me to vacate the premises immediately. Me! Clark Motherfucking Gable!

I ask you, what is the point of the interweb if not to track down the most delectable barely legal teens the world has to offer and tug one's rope? Information?!? Ha! Clark Motherfucking Gable knows more about everything in the world than any the interweb could ever dream! Need I remind you that I am 105 years old whereas the charlatan science known as computery has been around for a mere few decades?

So here I sit in my second interweb cafe of a day, and though I doubt in looking at the buffoons at the neighboring computer machine stations that they would object to my exposed genitalia (indeed, some would probably not even know what it is, as I doubt they recognize much of anything that does not come equipped with a keyboard and blinking lights), I would not subject "Li'l Clark" to such horrors. Firstly, I would hate for it to become infested with whatever ticks and chiggers lurk on the corpulence of these lonely and pathetic behemoths and secondly, the scent of rotted bacon, of which I swear at least one of these hippopotami must consist entirely, would be enough to send even my brave exlporer into hiding.

Fear not, however. I have already made arrangements to have the place flooded with gasoline and lit afire the moment I leave and barricade the door behind me.

Soonly,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!

Monday, February 20, 2006

I'm number one!! I'm number one!!

Dearest fans of Clark Motherfucking Gable,

I am pleased to draw your attention to the following link:

http://channels.netscape.com/celebrity/package.jsp?name=fte/bestmoviekisses/bestmoviekisses&floc=wn-ns

It shows, as many have long posited, that Clark Motherfucking Gable is the single best kisser in the history of Hollywood and, as film stars are just like normal humans but far better, quite likely the world. Should the link be broken by the time you read this post, I will reprint the top ten film kisses below:

1. Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh in "Gone With the Wind"
2. Omar Sharif and Julie Christie in "Doctor Zhivago"
3. Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman at the end of "Casablanca"
4. Humphrey Bogart and Audrey Hepburn in "Sabrina"
5. Rock Hudson and Doris Day in "Pillow Talk"
6. Molly Ringwald and Michael Schoeffling in "Sixteen Candles"
7. Elizabeth Taylor and Montgomery Clift in "A Place in the Sun"
8. Molly Ringwald and Judd Nelson' in "The Breakfast Club"
9. Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds in "Singin' in the Rain"
10. Winona Ryder and Ethan Hawke in "Reality Bites"

A few minor points about the famous kiss in question must be brought to light, in spite of the myriad protestations from the estate of Vivien Leigh. First, it must be pointed out that any credit for the title of greatest kiss should fall clearly in the lap of Clark Motherfucking Gable. Vivien kissed, quite frankly, like a nine-year-old boy (a claim I first made before ever having kissed a nine-year-old boy but one that, purely in the interest of science, I verified on more than one occasion thereafter).

Second, and this one is difficult to explain, Vivien Leigh's lips tasted remarkably like fish, and I would swear during my more lucid, less mescaline-fueled moments on set, that they actually had scales as well. It was all I could do not to vomit in her mouth when she leaned in to kiss me. In truth, I did not always succeed in withholding the percolating bile and vomit, expelling the contents of my stomach onto her face take after take after take. Finally, I retreated to my trailer and coated my lips in peanut butter before returning to the set and firmly locking lips with the stench-lipped gorgon.

Few knew that Vivien was so deathly allergic to peanut butter - I plead the fifth - and we were forced to wrap shooting for the day while she was rushed off to hospital.

I visited her that night, ostensibly to apologize and ask forgiveness, but in sooth to slip a mild sedative into her intravenous medication and laminate her mouth in a fine plastic. My ruse worked, and the next day we filmed the greatest kiss since the kiss was first invented between two Frenchmen in a hot air balloon who were forced to find other ways to amuse themselves when the zippers on their pantaloons stuck.

In any case, since that time I have never travelled anywhere without a coating of smooth peanut butter on my lips, a habit which gave rise to many fallacious rumours about Clark Motherfucking Gable having halitosis, the likes of which I hope this tale will serve to dispel.

Before I leave you on this day, I would like to offer some salient observations about some of the other kisses on the Top 10 list.

• Humphrey Bogart makes this list twice, which should come as no surprise to anyone who knew of his trade secrets. Ever the method actor, he infused passion into his kisses by inserting his penis into his corresponding leading lady as the take was being filmed.

• Gene Kelly, it is often said, worked up the requisite zeal in kissing Debbie Reynolds by thinking of none other than Clark Motherfucking Gable! Such reverie would hardly be the case now, as Debbie Reynolds is mannish enough in her appearance to please even Gene Kelly.

• Molly Ringwald also makes this list twice, largely because any time she kisses on screen, it means that her mouth is otherwise occupied and she is forced to shut the shitfuck up. Honestly, who ever thought that this carp-mouthed automaton would make for a good leading lady?

• I would not allow Ethan Hawke to kiss so much as my shit. Were he to try, I would offer a quick karate chop to his trachea and then toss him a few dollars which he would hopefully use to purchase some real facial hair.

• The other kisses on the list were all utter cowshit.

With many peanut butter kisses,
Clark Motherfucking Gable!