Monday, November 30, 2009

The Baron's Thriller Novel : Part 2

Zurich, Switzerland:

Roy Gimbel was slouched as far down in his chair as he could possibly go without being completely horizontal. He was seated at the head of a large oval conference table made of some dark colored, glistening wood. A short roundish man was extolling the virtues of the latest Gimbel company product with feigned enthusiasm and too many hand gestures.

Roy yawned and continued doodling in his ledger.

"..and that is why Gimbel's new lineup will shock, literally shock our competitors."

The portly man had actually thrashed like he was being tasered to emphasize his point.

Roy sighed heavily and interjected.

"That'll do for now Chris, have a seat."

"There's a few more slides sir...."

"I get the picture. That'll do."

The man scowled slightly and sat down.

Roy struggled to an upright position, stood and began pacing the head of the table. He was an athletic man with a strong resemblance to Don Draper from Mad Men, or whatever the hell young people are into these days. Roy's eyes were a bottomless black, framed by heavy brows and a shock of close cropped brown hair. His body was lean, but not overly muscular in the manner of someone who exercises for fun rather than to stay in shape.

There was something about his demeanor and gait that seemed to exude an air of being able to deftly scramble around a handful of European cities while being constantly shot at, and this was what the women of his life found most alluring.

Roy came to a stop, and gripped the high back of his chair shooting an icy gaze over the collected executives.

"Gimble's is a proud company with a dedicated customer base and a product that people can't do without. We don't need to constantly challenge the status quo, rather we should be reinforcing it."

The gathered board members and sales managers looked slightly perturbed.

"Listen folks, I'm not saying we forget about progress and keep selling the exact same products forever. We just need to be cautious and implement changes gradually over time so as not spook our loyal customers."

"Mr. Gimbel, we just want to make sure that your company isn't left in the dust when Feminara delivers on the omni-brief."

Roy gripped the bridge of his nose and sighed in exasperation.

"Bob, I don't care what your market research shows, women are not going to want to wear panties with a built in tampon. Gimbel's sells the highest quality bras and feminine hygiene products and we're not about to be usurped by lady's diapers."

Gimbel corp had been in the business for nearly 50 years, back to the days when tampons were called shame-plugs and bras were pointy cones made of starched linen. Roy's father, Robert had summed up their business model with a simple sentence:

"The only thing on Gimbel corp's mind is jugs and plugs boys, jugs and plugs."

Now as Roy sat in the lavish boardroom of their European headquarters in Zurich he was dismayed by what he saw.

Chris wanted to revolutionize the way women related to their undercarriage....by introducing chemically treated panties that changed color at the slightest hint of blood.

Bob was a strong proponent of the omni-rect brassier, an underwire cup with built in erect nipples in a variety of sizes.

The CFO, Elias, didn't give a shit what the company sold so long as they turned a profit.

It was hopeless. This trip had been a waste. Roy could have stayed at home trolling the clubs of New York city for vulnerable young actresses and university students. Instead he was trapped in fucking Switzerland like some douche-bag backpacker with a scruffy beard and a Phish t-shirt.

"This meeting is over. We'll reconvene in 4 weeks time. By then I want to see some solid ideas for products that women will actually want to wear or shove in themselves. Dismissed."

His father was right, the company was in dire trouble. Gimbel corp needed a top to bottom restructuring and an influx of young talent if it had any hope of survival. Of course, women would always need to support their breasts, except the filthy hippies, and they needed something to stanch the monthly curse, except the filthy hippies, but Roy was worried nonetheless. There were breakthroughs happening every day in the fields of period prevention and hooter modification. It was only a matter of time before science murdered auntie flow and created a superior milk bar which was perky enough that it no longer needed support at all.

Roy sighed heavily, closed his ledger and made for the door. He stepped into the dimly lit hallway and strode purposefully to the private elevator at the end of the corridor. This was his father's private lift and it could only be activated by finger-print and iris scan. It stopped on 3 floors within the Gimbel complex. The garage where his father's vintage Dodge Shadow was parked, the executive floor where Roy was now, and Robert's private office on the observation deck.

Roy quickly swiped his finger tip across the flat reader plate and stood motionless as a tiny camera scanned his eye. The machine emitted a soft tone and the doors opened.

The elevator smelled terrible, like someone had cut a huge fart right before getting off. Roy wasn't all that surprised. After all, his father was pushing 80 years old at this point and he couldn't control his bodily functions as well as he once had. The old man had probably tooted his way from the parking garage on up to his office.

Roy pressed a large, brushed steel plate. It was unlabeled, but there were only three options after all.

The elevator whirred slightly and then ascended with impressive speed. Roy barely had time to lament the heinous fart hanging thickly in the air by the time he reached Robert's office.

The doors slid open slowly unveiling a scene of pure carnage. Roy gasped involuntarily as he beheld the crumpled form of his father, soaked in red metallic smelling foam and gripping the pommel of his sword cane in a blanched fist.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Monday, November 23, 2009

The Baron's Thriller Novel : Part 1

The Baron has read a few thrillers in his day and has begun to notice certain commonalities that seem to span all modern examples. As such, The Baron is pretty sure that he could write his own more awesome thriller with very little effort. This will be an ongoing experiment.

The Baron presents:

The Copenhagen Corollary:

Chapter 1:

Vienna: 3:35Am

Phinneus Corkwald limped painfully down the darkened cobblestone street of an ancient ward of an ancient city. His breath hung heavily in the frozen air, tinged with copious molecules of ethanol. The sweet smell drifted back in his wrinkled face and he snorted it away.

Phineus had spent the evening swilling martini's, vodka shots and gimlets all the while feverishly stroking his member in a vain attempt to achieve erection. He had intended on bagging the plumpest, palest escort he could get his hands on but had failed miserably.

Successful coitus required that his gear was in working order and at 85 years old, getting "Little Phin" rolling was like trying to rip starting a diesel lawnmower in January. Needless to say, his desires had gone unfulfilled for the second night in a row and Phineus was now enraged and nearly 6 sheets to the wind.

The old man emitted a long hissing burp so thick he could almost chew it and grunted in frustration at the cold moon illuminating the paving stones. It was a typical February night in Austria (probably) and the old man's bones ached from the wet cold almost as much as his bone ached for the warm wet.

"Fucking viagra my ass" he hissed, flinging a handful of blue tablets. They skittered along the frozen surface of the snow pack and slid off into the distance like tiny hockey pucks.

Just then Phineus felt a cold prickling on the back of his neck, a feeling he had been trained to appreciate and to heed. Someone was following him. That in and of itself was not unusual, after all this was a crowded European metropolis. Drunks and students were everywhere and it was nearly impossible to walk 3 feet without bumping into one or the other.

But this was different. The presence the old man felt had sinister intent, was trying to conceal its presence. The man, he was sure it was a man, was making every effort to muffle his footsteps, but the pavers and frozen slush made this near impossible.

Phineus' calculating, reptilian mind devised a plan nearly instantaneously. He pretended to be drunker than he was, staggering slightly and splaying his arms wide for balance. He stopped to check the time, examining the right arm first then the left, then his pockets. Without betraying even the slightest suspicion, the old man slipped his leathery palm over the butt of the 40 caliber Glock resting in his interior jacket pocket. He hoped the stalker had not noticed. The next few moments would determine whether he lived or died.

Phineus coughed placed his left hand on his knee as if overcome and then spun around on his heel with the speed of a snake. Halfway round he was already depressing the trigger, the man would have no time to react, let alone draw his own weapon.

With a sharp crack the pistol shot seemed to tear the very night itself as it peeled down the alleyway and was muffled by the snow.

A cruel sneer spread over Phineus's face as he watched the man crumple and fall. The bullet had pierced his chest and no doubt ruptured his heart just as he had intended. An amateur to be sure, the man's hands were still in his pockets. Perhaps he was just a common pick-pocket, grifter or scumbag?

Regardless, Phineus had to make sure the man was really dead. Decades of training and indoctrination came rushing back and he quickly shuffled to where the would be assassin had fallen. Phineus kept his pistol drawn and held at arm's length with an unwavering steadiness that seemed to defy his age.

"Now then, who would be so stupid as to send a whelp against me?" The old man half whispered as he closed the final few feet between himself and the corpse.

"Oh my poor young.....what the shit!"

The man was no assassin! Rather he was a young, drunken idiot, American by the looks of him. His jacket was covered in beer scented vomit...and now blood as well. This was not the presence Phineus had felt earlier. This clod could no more get the drop on the old man than he could pleasure a woman or ride a horse side-saddle.

At that moment a searing dread swept through Phineus. He had been tricked, had let down his guard, and now he was going to die.

A shadow lunged from the alley and pinioned Phineus with a single lightning quick movement. His arthritic shoulders groaned in protest as the stalker wrenched them backwards. A sharp pain swept through his ass and he howled in anger.

"Gah fuck, not like th..!" Phineus' words were overcome by a terrible gurgling sound as veritable geysers of red foam shot from his mouth, nose, eyes, weiner and butthole.

The iron grip released and he sank to the ground, dreaming of huge, saggy boobs that would never be his..

Friday, November 20, 2009

The Baron in Brief: Cars The Baron Can't Believe Anyone Buys

Today's victim is.......the 1998 Cadillac Catera.

Good, koala bear stabbing christ, what in th
e fuck was Cadillac thinking on this one.

The Catera represents the trifecta of backwards decision making in the automotive industry.


1. Horrible design: Cadillacs are supposed to be nice right? So why does this thing look like a chevy lumina euro edition with a different logo slapped on it? The Baron is pretty sure an exotic retardation virus was sweeping through GM when they approved this eye-sore.

2. Horrible name: Just what the fuck is a catera? Is that supposed to be cute or something? Seriously this name sounds like something that grows on your eyes when you're in the jungle for too long.

A quick web definition search reveals:

The Cadillac Catera was a mid-sized automobile that was largely a rebadged version of the Opel Omega MV6 made in Rüsselsheim, Germany.

and

A badass Cadillac mook car.

The Baron has no idea what a mook even is! (Seems to have been taken from Caribbean English, in which it is (was) used to refer to a gullible person). But an Opel?!! A fucking OPEL!!!!????

3. Just a godawful attempt to get younger people to drive caddies. At this point there was no rapper / rapper-wannabe market for escalades because there were no escalades. Hard to picture some west coast thug 'rolling dirty" in this POS.

There just so happens to be a 1998 catera up for 6000$ at a used car place near Boston. It has 58,000 miles and was garaged. However, don't get too excited. Even the most retarded person will only drive a catera for 10 miles before they abandon it on the side of the road. That means that this car has had 5800 different owners, or has been towed for 57,990 miles. Buyer beware indeed!

Thursday, November 19, 2009

The Simultaneous Death of Two of The Baron's Favorite Daily Sights

It is with a heavy heart that The Baron would like to report the death of two of the most beloved features of his daily walk to work.

RIP : Vomity, the unnaturally persistent vomit stain.

Back in mid July, The Baron was surprised and delighted to find an enormous puddle of maroon vomit on the sidewalk on his route to work. The color and the intensity of the stain made a strong impression on The Baron and seemed to speak to the fragility and beauty of life. The next day a strong downpour swept through the metro area and The Baron feared that Vomity had lived up to its ephemeral goals and like a sand castle been lost to the ebb of time.

Amazingly, Vomity survived this assault by that bitch nature, and would endure many more insults over the coming months. Vomity managed to stay vivid red through into September and had only begun to fade by the beginning of October. This morning The Baron nearly skipped up the sidewalk with anticipation of greeting his old friend and was brought to his knees with anguish when he realized that Vomity..........was gone.

RIP : Gully, the seagull carcass.

Imagine The Baron's unbearable grief when he discovered that Vomity's younger sibling, Gully had disappeared in the same hellish evening.

Gully came on the scene more recently as a freshly dead seagull carcass atop a mulch bed mere yards from Vomity. The Baron could never tell how Gully came to be, but suspects he ate some sort of stupid shit, like a plastic bag or a bunch of used condoms. Whatever beautiful forces conspired to place Gully in The Baron's path will never be known.

This morning, fresh off the heart-crushing sorrow of Vomity's transcendence, The Baron looked hopefully to the mulch bed on which Gully had rested so elegantly for some 3 months, only to discover a loose mound and some gull feet sticking out of the ground.

What cruel messenger from the depths of Hades doth managed to bury fair Gully?! Oh the torment! Lo the fiery daggers that do stab at The Baron's fragile heart! If only The Baron t'were permitted to comprehend the evolution of these paired master works it t'would truly be an importune life he lived!

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Things The Baron Hates : The Scumbag Hero

Y'all know the type of person The Baron is speaking of. He / she is the assmaster who leaps into action whenever a minor emergency presents itself. They don't even have to be directly involved as long as they can be the first person to let everyone else know about it. These fuckbags actually look forward to the car accident / small fire / CNN catastrophe so that they can reveal their true colors.

These insufferable douchebags love to bark orders at everyone else and quote erroneous medical / disaster response / law enforcement information that they saw on TV. In most cases they will interfere with real ex
perts because they don't want to be excluded from the glory.

And that my friends is what this is really all about. The glory. The Scumbag Hero is a miserable wretch who has made mistake after mistake in planning their life. They derive no satisfaction from their own pathetic sphere and so relish the opportunity to seem important if only for a little while.

Tragically, for those directly involved with the emergency the SH is almost invariably, extremely stupid and will often make a bad situation worse.

Having a heart attack? They'll give you the Heimlich and rupture a lung in the process.

Stroke? They'll have you lay down on the floor and raise your legs while they go an get some cold compresses.

Broken spine? They'll wrench you into a firefighter's carry and roughly deposit you on the grass rendering you permanently incontinent.

So the next time you're engulfed in flames and that mouth breathing idiot who loves fire drills starts running over, do yourself a favor jump out the window so that the experts get first crack at you. Because trust The Baron, he was just going to whack you with a broomstick a bunch of times.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Monday, November 16, 2009

Things The Baron Hates : Fuckles Who Walk on the Wrong Side of the Sidewalk

Got a great, slowly smoldering kind of "The Baron Hates" for you today; the wrong side sidewalk walker. What a mouthful of monkey bust the end of that sentence was eh?

The perpetrator is invariably an old Asian woman or a girl who is decent, but not as hot as she thinks she is and is jabbering incoherently into a cell phone, possibly while listening to an ipod.

These assmasters break the cardinal rule of traffic flow (stay on the right side of the fucking road) on a daily basis and they don't even care. They think:

"I can walk where ever I want! This isn't the street it's a sidewalk."

Well, they're wrong! As wrong as an Armenian man with a testosterone producing tumor who thinks he doesn't need to shave the crap out of his ass hair.

The rules of traffic apply to every part of every day.

Driving a car? Stay on the right side of the road dickass.

Walking? Stay on the right side of the sidewalk fucknuts.

Doing somersaults into the women's room wearing nothing but a cape? Stay on the right side of the sticky, somewhat bleachy smelling tiles.

The Baron thinks that people should be arrested and tazered right in the butthole for violating this sacred trust between commuters.

So the next time you see a tottering old lady hugging the wrong side of the walkway, don't even bother asking whether she has a balance problem and lower your shoulder into her solar plexus, it's the American thing to do.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

The Baron is Swamped Word of the Day : Frotteurism

This is one of The Baron's all time favorite words and the scourge of the Boston public transit system.

Frotteurism refers to a paraphilic interest in rubbing, usually one's pelvis or erect penis, against a non-consenting person for sexual gratification. It may involve touching any part of the body including the genital area. A person who practices frotteurism is known as a frotteur. The majority of frotteurs are male and the majority of victims are female although female on male, female on female, and male on male frotteurs exist. This activity is often done in circumstances where the victim cannot easily respond, in a public place such as a crowded train or concert.

The Baron is pretty sure that this word is an onomatopoeia but he can't quite nail down the sound it would make. Probably something like taut corduroy rubbing on a coarse grit sandpaper....

Monday, November 9, 2009

Things The Baron Hates : Social Smokers

There are few more pathetic creatures on this earth than the social smoker.

The Baron is positive you've met one. The conversation usually goes something like this:

you: ....yeah I think smoking is pretty gross, especially when chicks do it.....unless it's my hog.

Le deuce: Me too, except I really like to smoke at parties.

you: Why the fuck would you do that, are you retarded or something?

Le deuce: Naw man, I just like to smoke with other people, not by myself.

you: Goddamn!! You might be the biggest flap of camel scrotum I've ever met!


Here's the problem. When a person says "I'm a social smoker" or "I only smoke at parties", what they mean is "I've been so subconsciously dominated by tobacco advertising and traditional media portrayal of smoking and related products that my feeble mind has been completely co opted and I can barely keep control of my own sphincters due to my woefully pathetic mental faculties."

For you see gentle reader, the social smoker truly believes that sucking on a smoldering wad of dry leaves somehow makes them cool and anti-establishment. They still behave like they're in middle school if only in a single vice and they're unaware that their notions of superiority were entirely fabricated by a team of ad-men who have covertly fisted their brains into submission.

Social smokers think they're making a statement. They think they're resisting authority. They think they're proving their edgy originality to their friends. In actuality, they're proving how completely they've allowed the media to jam it's throbbing, crusty, crab-infested wang into the deepest sulci of their simpering brains.

At least real smokers do it because it makes them feel good.

Also, hipsters who are social smokers are the epitome of what is wrong with the universe and a compelling case for its immediate destruction.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

World's Greatest Product / Christmas Gift for the Discerning The Baron Fan

Chop, slice, stab and slash with ferocity you won't get from other knives! Others charge hundreds more for quality like this!

HOLY SHIT!!! Could that be the best tagline of any advertisement ever? The Baron thinks it is, and that's why he wants a Hobo-Hacker for every day tasks like chopping jive turkeys and slashing at vagrants.

This knife looks like it could take down a super-tramp and The Baron knows from experience that they're nearly immortal.

Allow The Baron to highlight some key phrases from the description:

When you're out in the wild, you never know what circumstances you'll find yourself in. That's why you should always take along this warrior hatchet knife. It's unique 8.25" blade combines the chopping power of a hatchet with the slicing power of a knife to get you out of even the toughest jams. Features a razor-sharp 420 stainless steel blade and individual finger-ring knuckle guard. Includes protective sheath and Zachary Crockett® collector's certificate of authenticity.

Holy fucking cow! This knife might be the ultimate red-neck accessory. But let's be serious. What kind of son of the soil is going to use this on a bear out in the wild? More than likely cousin Merl is going to end up with a nasty gash after a night of chugging Early Times and Natty Ice out in the above ground pool. However, The Baron bets that would make a hell of a story to impress the lady-scumbags down at the drag race / swimmin' hole.

The Baron will give one rapeosaurus egg to anyone who can figure out how to attach it to the end of a Victorian style umbrella so that The Baron can slash, hack and chop scumbags at a respectable and gentlemanly distance.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009