Alright, fuckers, listen up. Uncle Ben here, and I am sick of your stupid goddamn bullshit. Word on the street is that you’re not buying my rice the way you used to. Well, fuck you. For years I played the nice old man, the friendly southern gentleman who brought you delicious long grains. You liked me, I liked you, you bought rice, I made scratch, everything was just fan-fucking-tastic. But apparently that’s not good enough for you whiny little bitches anymore, so I guess it’s time for some real talk.

Let me just straight up ask what the matter with you dickbags is. Huh? You don’t have time for my rice anymore because you’re too busy stuffing your fat fucking faces with fast food? You want to have a fucking heart attack before you turn 40? My rice has got nutrients, or some shit like that. You dumb cunts won’t get any of that crap in your McDonald’s burgers. What are you, retarded?

Or maybe you’re just bored of my rice. Is that it? Well boo-fucking-hoo. I’m bored of Aunt Jemima, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop screwing her brains out. Listen to me, you stupid bastards—rice has been a staple of civilisation for thousands of fucking years. Empires have risen and fallen on this shit. You don’t get to just come along and say you’re done with it. What kind of arrogant pricks do you think you are? Fuck you.

And don’t even fucking suggest that you’re buying another brand. I know you dipshits are so fucking dumb that you’ll fall for anything a commercial says, but if I find out you fuckers are buying Rice-A-Roni behind my back I’m going to come to your house and beat you to death with my big black cock. Go ahead, lock your doors. I’ll fuck them off their goddamn hinges with my hate boner.

And nobody better fucking tell me that I’m not keeping in touch with the modern consumer. Why do you think I made those stupid as shit “ready before you are” commercials, with bitches bouncing around in their fucking bras? I sell rice, I’m not a goddamn pornographer. But I knew you fucking Neanderthals can’t focus on anything that doesn’t have a nice pair of titties, so I stopped with the wholesome family ads and gave you fucking softcore porn. And what do I get as thanks from you perverts? Nothing. Fucking nothing. “Thanks for the free boners, we’ll stick them in our Chef Boyardee!”  Well fuck Chef Boyardee, and fuck you, too.

I’ve had it up to here with you cocksuckers. But Uncle Ben’s got bills to pay, so I’m going to throw you a bone you pieces of shit don’t deserve. It is my tremendous fucking pleasure to announce a brand new product featuring every idiotic feature you moronic douchebags could possibly want. You want fast? Every bag of Uncle Ben’s Insta-Rice for Assholes comes with a stick of thermite that will cook your rice quicker than you can disappoint your lover. That’s for you lazy fucks who think food made with a microwave is haute fucking cuisine. You want modern taste? There’s so much butter and salt in Insta-Rice for Assholes I’m not even legally allowed to call it rice. But I’m going to anyway, because what the fuck’s the government going to do about it? I’m Uncle Fucking Ben.

You want an easy meal plan? A bag of Insta-Rice will feed a family of four for a fucking week. That’s about three days for you, you fat fuck. You want tacky advertising? Every bag includes a collectable “Ladies of the Rice” card that will keep you warm through the lonely nights you’ll spend shovelling this shit down your big fucking food hole. Jesus, you people make me sick. But fuck it, my dick’s hard just thinking about how much of this crap you’re going to buy.

So there you go. Uncle Ben’s back, bitches, and you better pick up what he’s putting down. Because if I hear from my accountants that you assholes are disappointing me again, I ain’t going to play nice no more. I am a goddamn American icon, and I will burn your fucking homes to the ground and salt the fucking Earth beneath them before I let you dipshits stop buying my rice. Now get your fat asses to the grocery store. Tell ‘em Ben sent you. They’ll know what to do.

Dear [redacted],

Yes, it is weird that we’re getting snow at this time of year. I couldn’t agree more. Yes, I too was hoping to enjoy some warm weather this weekend. I’m sorry to hear about what the frost will do to the garden you just planted. I’m sorry your hiking plans are shot. I’m sorry for everything.

But can I ask you something? Do you honestly believe that you’re the first person today to point out to me how crazy the weather is? I realise that small talk is repetitive by its very nature, and that there are only so many topics one can safely discuss with a casual acquaintance. But in the past 24 hours more people have told me that they can’t believe our city’s weather than people have told me they love me in my entire life. I assume your experience is similar. So how could you, at the late hour at which we spoke, believe that you were the first person to share this thought with me? How could you think that until that moment I was ignorant as to the state of the weather, that I would be more likely to perform a rain dance for the gods than check a weather report? Don’t be disingenuous. You are wiser than that.

Aren’t you sick of it, too? Aren’t you tired of making the same banal observations, faking the same shock at late snow coming to a city that always gets late snow, a city you’ve lived in for your entire life? Don’t you want to just scream at the thought of having to agree that yes, you too are tired of the cold? When we talk about the weather it’s as though we are two amnesiacs teaching each other about the world we live in. But it is a charade, and you know that as well as I. Our act fools no man, lest of all ourselves. To pretend otherwise is to deny reality, to deny reason. It is an affront to our intelligence, our humanity.

Wouldn’t you rather talk about something else? Anything else? Wouldn’t you like to tell me about your hopes and dreams, your goals in life? Tell me why you think the latest popular movie is overrated. Share your thoughts on the designated hitter rule. Give your opinion of Albert Camus and Samuel Beckett, of Kim Kardashian and Kayne West. Speak to me of your greatest fears, the terrors that cause you to wake in the dead of night in a cold sweat. Or speak of the little doubts that gnaw away at your soul, keeping you awake in the early hours, wondering if your life has all gone terribly wrong.

We can do more than talk small, you and I. We can converse! We can turn the elevator into a parlour, the bus stop into a salon. We can take one of the many drudgeries of our daily lives and elevate it to a higher plane, transform it into a chance to broaden our minds and enrich our lives. We can learn, about each other and ourselves. We can live!

Let us never discuss the weather again, my friend. Until a hurricane comes to our door or the very ground itself shakes, let us not offer comment on the triviality that we both know the weather is. Let us discuss the subjects we want, let us say what we want, and damn the society that frowns on our breach of small talk etiquette. Let us tear down the rules that hold our tongues, and build anew a greater law!

Because if I hear one more person tell me that they can’t believe it’s going to snow tomorrow, “but that’s just our weird Canadian weather for you!” I will coldcock them right in the fucking face. I don’t want that person to be you, friend.

Sincerely,

-Mark

Elven Tax Lawyer

Bob Lannister

Maxwell’s Demon

Walter Bascom

My Little Zebroid

One of those Hobbits That Just Chills Out at Home

Tom Brady

Guy with Practical Weapon

The Ambulatory Deceased

Amusement of Chairs Monarchs Sit In

Professor What

Emprise O’clock

Mutual Force Descending 

Unexceptional Exhibition

Be Incredulous of the Harlot in Residence 12

So You’re Under the Impression You Can Cavort

Crossbowman

To say that the season premiere of Game of Thrones was hotly anticipated would be an understatement. Lesser shows would have been content to coast on their popularity, but the producers of Game of Thrones took bold creative risks, and I believe they paid off. Many of you will disagree, and I understand where you’re coming from. Some of the changes don’t sit well with me, either. But in the end I think they’re building a formula that will make this show even stronger than it already was, and once the kinks get worked out we’ll have a true television classic on our hands. With that in mind, let’s delve into some specifics.

Obviously our discussion has to start with the musical numbers. Joffrey’s opening number, “It’s Nice to be King,” sharply divided viewers. I can’t say I was a fan of it—it started off fine, but the two and a half minute beatboxing solo really strained the limits of credibility, as Joffrey is clearly too sheltered to be aware of street culture and its methods of expression. But the episode redeemed itself with “What Do You Do with a Problem like White Walkers?” The choreography was simply brilliant—seeing dozens and dozens of wildlings spinning in unison from high above more than justified the cost of a helicopter crew. And I believe “We’re Dragons, Yo” spoke for itself.

Next, the new characters. This season, like the last, has promised a constantly expanding cast, and the debut gave us a good taste of what’s to come. Fan favourites the Reeds finally made their appearance, as did the Stones, the Smiths and the Smuffleufuguses. More controversial is the inclusion of Allen Snow, the wandering Beat Bard. Some people love him and his poetic reflections on the confusion and terror of his generation, while others feel he slows down the pacing. I’m generally not a fan, but “Direwolf’s Howl” is a thing of beauty, and I can’t wait for it to be read in full in a future two part episode.

Speaking of direwolves, let’s talk about what the established characters were up to. Ghost, of course, is as badass as ever, but let’s not forget about Detective McGruff, The Talking Direwolf that Solves Mysteries. I know McGruff is unpopular among viewers who haven’t read the books, and I don’t blame them—his story starts slow. But it finally picks up this season, as McGruff confronts the elusive Hexagon Killer and discovers that Old Man Lannister knows more about the haunted mill than he claims. So look forward to that.

The other major characters, however, were a bit of a let down. Daenerys was as boring as ever, Tyrion’s screen time was limited and Prince Augustine had to do yet another wacky task to prove his worth to the King’s Landing branch of Kappa Kappa Phi. Not only is this plot point getting repetitive, it’s out of character—would a man who wants to finish at the top of his medical class be that concerned with what a frat thought of him?

But with this many characters being juggled, it’s inevitable that not every story will work. Let’s just hope that next episode, where most of the cast will convene at the 197^th Annual Westeros’ Fashion Show and Gala, will give everyone a chance to shine.

Now if I can get serious for a moment, I’d like to discuss gender politics. Game of Thrones has had an uneasy relationship with gender—it has strong, well written female characters, but it also has a tendency to give us gratuitous sex scenes that are just embarrassing to watch. The “sexposition” is especially painful, as it’s insulting for HBO to think that we won’t pay attention to important plot details unless they’re delivered with a backdrop of lesbian sex.

That’s why I have mixed emotions about this season’s sexposition. I’m glad the show finally took a break from unnecessary female nudity, but I’m not sure if replacing it with a man explaining the socioeconomic ramifications of the war on the lower class while committing bestiality was the way to go. Yes, I’m aware that a fantasy world set in a more primitive time would have different social standards than us, but I still think this would be frowned upon. Although I do have to admit that I shed a few tears when the horse died.

But these are minor quibbles in what was otherwise an excellent start to what should be an excellent season. I hope you’re as excited as I am to witness Tyrion deal with his fall from power, the Lannister/Stark conflict reach its climax and Jon attempt to win the big game so the Night’s Watch can keep their community centre. The only part of this episode that I didn’t understand was the replacement of the credits with news footage of 9/11, but I’m sure that will be explained in due time. Winter is coming, folks, so get like Zombie Ned Stark did in the preview for next week and dance the cold away!

Oh, hello. I didn’t see you there. Your webcam must be off! Haha, I’m just kidding. Welcome to Rushin’ Forward, the official blog of the Kickstarter that wants to bring knitted replicas of early 19^th century Russian gynaecological equipment to Etsy!

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Seriously? Etsy doesn’t already have kitted replicas of early 19^th century Russian gynaecological equipment?” I know; it’s crazy. When I first discovered this glaring omission, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I knew that if I didn’t fill this void (no pun intended!) someone else would… but would they do it right? I couldn’t take that risk, and that’s how the dream began.

I know what you’re thinking now. “Why a Kickstarter?” “Do you really need 50,000 dollars to start an Etsy store?” “How can one man possibly satisfy the demands of the kitted replicas of early 19^th century Russian gynaecological equipment market?” No, I’m not psychic! These are some of the questions the creation of my Kickstarter prompted, so I created this blog to answer them. Rushin’ Forward is also the place to be for updates on the campaign and, if we hit our third stretch goal, previews of what the store will have for sale!

First things first—yes, I do need 50,000 dollars. Sure, you could go to any craft fair and find kitted replicas of early 19^th century Russian gynaecological equipment for a few bucks a pop, but are those replicas knitted with only the finest imported Peruvian llama hair? Are they painstakingly compared to the real deal to ensure perfect accuracy? Do they come with a one year warranty and a certificate of authenticity? I thought not.

In the interest of full disclosure, I admit that a portion of the money will be going towards my living expenses. Allow me to explain why this is necessary. Every moment I spend making, nay, giving birth to kitted replicas of early 19^th century Russian gynaecological equipment is a moment I can’t spend making wax replicas of antebellum American farming equipment. And that’s what pays the bills.

Don’t get me wrong—I pour blood, sweat and tears into my wax replicas of antebellum American farming equipment. It’s a labour of love. But I don’t feel called to them the way I feel called to kitted replicas of early 19^th century Russian gynaecological equipment. But it’s going to take time for the latter to turn a profit, and that’s why I’m humbly asking for your help. I promise that when my Etsy store starts making money, I will give back every penny spent on living expenses to a scholarship I’m establishing for art students who want to specialise in making their very own kitted replicas of early 19^th century Russian gynaecological equipment and/or wax replicas of antebellum American farming equipment and/or stainless steel replicas of the novelty party hats of Cold War Europe. I take, but I also give. Give to me, and I will give not only to you, but to the future.

Sadly, as you may have seen on my Twitter feed, @KnitRepRussGynEquip, the Kickstarter is off to a slow start. So far we’re raised $12.50, and while I sincerely appreciate these early donations, we’ve got a long way to go. That’s why I started a Tumblr account to help promote the effort. To reiterate what was posted on it and the official Facebook page this morning, here’s what’s in it for you if you donate.

$1.00 – The personal satisfaction of helping an artistic dream take flight.

$5.00 – A non-personalised thank you email.

$20.00 – A personalised thank you email.

$50.00 – A shout out on this very blog!

$100.00 – A spot on the replica pre-order list.

$500.00 – A spot on the pre-order list, and your choice of wool colour!

$1000.00 – Exclusive first access to new replica models.

$5000.00 – A custom replica based on a piece of early 19^th century Russian gynaecological equipment in your collection!

$10,000.00 – Buy three replicas, get one free!

$25,000.00 – Buy two replicas, get one free!

$50,000.00 – “Brought to you by *your name here*” will be stitched onto every replica.

As you can see, your donations pay for themselves. But to sweeten the deal, for every dollar you donate you’ll receive a ticket for a raffle to win the very first replica I create! (Limited time offer, those who have already donated are not eligible.) It’s going to be a special one, folks, so cross your fingers. And remember—the more you donate, the better your chances!

As the inspirational Instagrams I shared with you this morning suggested, I’m feeling optimistic. But I can’t succeed without your help. And not just financially—every Facebook share, every retweet, every reddit post and YouTube video brings us a step closer to a world where you can buy kitted replicas of early 19^th century Russian gynaecological equipment for a reasonable fee, plus shipping and handling and modest convenience charges. That, my friends, is a world I want to live in. Do you?

P.S. Be sure to check out my Pinterest account!

TimeSplitters: In Search of Lost Time

Mario’s Republic

Anna of Green Hill Zone

Rayman: A Farewell to Arms

To Double Kill a Mockingbird

The Blind Assassin’s Creed

Midnight in the Garden of Good and Resident Evil

Fear and Loathing in New Vegas

Dante’s De Monarchia

To reach me by email, send a message to mehill@gmail.com.

To reach me by phone or text message, get to know me a little and I’ll give you my number.

To reach me by physical mail, email, phone or text me for my address. After mailing your letter, email, phone or text me a reminder to check my mailbox, along with a valid explanation as to why you’re using the postal system instead of email, phone or text. Any explanation containing the words “old-fashioned,” “quaint” or “personal” is not valid.

To reach me by fax, buy me a fax machine. If your first fax does not justify the usage of this medium instead of email, I will return the fax machine and spend the money on alcohol.

To reach me by smoke signal, find an elevated clearing with a nearby supply of wood that’s visible from my home. Be aware that if you are reported to the fire department, I will claim to not know you.

To reach me by telegram, steal telegram machines from a museum, learn Morse code and teach it to me, and grow an old-timey mustache suitable for a telegram operator.

To reach me by singing telegram, be prepared to receive a reply in the form of emotional and physical abuse.

To reach me by candygram, be aware that I prefer dark chocolate and/or caramel corn. While I still appreciate receiving other kinds of candygrams, I will not send a reply.

To reach me by messenger pigeon, purchase and train a messenger pigeon. Please note that in order to maintain effective two way communication, you will need to keep the pigeon’s nest at your home while feeding it at my home, or vice versa. You will be responsible for caring for the pigeon.

To reach me emotionally, become my close friend by bonding with me through common interests and shared experiences. After many years of adventure, stimulating conversation and good old fashioned hanging out, remind me of a distant but stirring memory of our friendship. This memory should involve either a wacky mishap, to make me reflect on my youth, a brush with death, to make me realise how important you are to me, or a time when I confessed something deeply personal to you, to show me how trustworthy you’ve been. A single, manly tear will roll down my cheek as I think about how valuable your friendship is, and our kinship will become even stronger.

To reach me physically, make out with me.

I make the healthy kind of Kraft Dinner.

The profanity I direct at video games is tasteful and restrained.

I understand over half the settings on my washer and dryer.

There is slightly more milk than beer in my fridge.

I know where the vacuum cleaner is, and have contemplated using it.

I watch the classy kind of pornography.

When I cry myself to sleep I make sure I’m not loud enough to wake my roommates.

Dear Dog,

I’ll be blunt. I don’t like you, and you have no opinion of me because you forget that I exist the moment I disappear from view or an unusually suspicious pinecone captures your attention. But for those scant few moments when I am extant in your reality, you don’t like me. I can tell from all the barking.

I understand that you feel compelled to bark, much as a cat is compelled to hunt or a bird is compelled to fly. It is in your nature to defend your backyard—your territory—from the threat of a potential intruder as he walks by. Do what you must to appease the primal instincts that lay deep within the recesses of your little doggy mind, driving you with a force so powerful that you cannot even begin to comprehend it. For we are all, man and beast both, slaves to nature. To begrudge you your barking would be to begrudge evolution itself, the very process that produced the man I am today. So bark away, my majestic friend, bark the bark that has echoed through thousands of years of proud canine history.

But you don’t need to bark for twenty fucking minutes.

I may live two houses down from you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hear you roaring like a hound of hell. My home has become a veritable prison, an echo chamber of madness where even the most mundane task is rendered impossible by your ceaseless braying. Walls and windows, earplugs and earphones… they are all powerless before you, because you are one loud fucking dog.

What are you even barking at? You see me go inside, and yet you keep at it as though I pose an imminent threat. Do you suspect that I’m playing the long con, attempting to lull you into a false sense of security before I strike? Or do you bark at monsters unseen, invisible evils that you believe my ill intents brings to your little empire? If so, allow me to set the record straight.

I am not planning to conquer your land. Your sad, scraggly backyard is of no interest to me. My strolls past you are not acts of aggression, reconnaissance, or psychological warfare. Nor am I a ghost pretending to vanish into my catacomb, only to invisibly return to pollute your land with my foul miasma. I am not a wizard weaving accursed magicks against you, nor a demon bent on claiming your property for my dark master. I am just a man, a man who wants to relax after a long day without your frenzied shouts pounding my sanity to dust.

Nor too are the others who pass you by evil creatures longing to bring you to your doom. I confess that I have not met the others who have drawn your ire, and thus cannot personally vouch for their character. But when I sit in my humble home, hearing you begin another half-hour session of baying mere minutes after I thought you had finally granted me respite, I find it hard to believe that anyone you bark at plots against you. Because if they plotted against you, they would have abandoned their elaborate machinations long ago and opted to simply cross your border, weapon aloft and war cry in their throat, so they could shut you the fuck up.

I do not consider myself a hater of animals. Quite the contrary—I like to think that I am an ally of beasts, a man more in touch with nature than most. But your endless snarling make me want to stop befriending your kind and invest in a chainsaw. Please, please, please stop.

I realise there is another possible explanation for your actions that I have only just now begun to consider. Perhaps you bark not out of defensive instinct, but out of a misguided desire for attention. Perhaps, having found yourself raised by a negligent trainer or mistreated by your master, you lash out in the hopes of doing something, anything, that will bring you the acknowledgment that you are a “good boy.” Given the appearance of your owner, who in the brief glimpses I have caught of him seems to be the product of incest, this would be a logical conclusion.

I understand your desire, for truly, what animal is more needing of praise than man? Oft have I “barked” at my parents, my friends, my would-be lovers, desperate for any sign of even the slightest accolade. In moments of weakness I have all but begged for a metaphorical belly rub, so well I understand your desires, if this is indeed your motivation. But I strive to conquer my destructive impulses, and so must you.

So if this is the case, I beseech you—be the better dog. Humans cannot choose many of their circumstances in life, and dogs find themselves even more pray to the whims of chance. But don’t sink down to your surroundings—rise above them! Demonstrate that a rose can bloom in the muck, that you can retain your humanity—your dogmanity—no matter the circumstances, and be the kind, gentle being that the most beloved of dogs are. Be Lassie, not Cerberus. Toto, not the Hound of the Baskervilles. End your assault on me and my eardrums, and I promise you that I will call you a good dog, even if no other man in this cruel and merciless world would say the same.

Or else I swear to God the next time you see me I will come as an invader, and I need no supernatural powers to destroy you. Chainsaw sales are coming, my canid friend. Chainsaw sales are coming.

Sincerely,

-Mark