It's butterly friggin' brilliant!

Gourmet chefs! Working up a sweat to earn another Michelin star for your restaurant? Too busy sculpting carrots and flambéing guinea pigs to tackle that pile of unbuttered bread? Banish your kitchen nightmares with this handy Sticky Butter Butter Stick!

Top shouting chef Gordon Ramsay would probably be even more successful if he had this powerful grease gadget in his f*#*ing kitchen!

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*Collect the whole range of great kitchen accessories including Ketchup Rifle, Spray Can Jam and Lard Pen!


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Geoff Brown: A mystery. An enigma. A sandwich eater.

A seat. A ferry. A mystery.
An unknown scribe carves a strange message into the plastic seat of the Halifax to Dartmouth ferry, and disappears back into the shadows.

Who? What? Why?

“Geoff Brown eats sandwiches”.
Who left the message? What could it mean? Would Tom Hanks be interested in starring in the movie adaptation? I decided to investigate.

1. Who was Geoff Brown?
I asked around my fellow ferry passengers, but no-one knew of this man. I spotted an overweight, scruffy-looking guy eating a sandwich on the upper deck. “I am not Geoff Brown,” he declared. “Please go away, you are spoiling my lunch.” This investigation was going to be harder than I thought.

There was only one thing for it; summon the God of information, Google. In its wisdom, it responded that Geoff Brown could be a website developer, a snowboard instructor or a stand-up comedian. None of them fitted the profile of a mysterious cross-ferry sandwich muncher. Google, you let me down!

I called the local police to ask if they could check their records. The police lady on the other end of the phone wasn’t very helpful. She just kept repeating “Look madam, is this an emergency or not?” How the hell was I supposed to know? Supposing Geoff Brown was stealing baked goods from Halifax-area cafes, and consuming the evidence on the ferry ride home? This message could be a cry for help from an out-of-control ciabatta criminal, like those serial killers who leave calling cards on their victims’ corpses. Honesty, I try to help the police, and all I get is abuse…

2. What was significant about the eating of the sandwiches?
The identity of Geoff Brown, be he friend or foe, remained a mystery. In the interests of wild speculation, could the next part of the message provide any clues to his identity… and what was so great about these ruddy sandwiches?

Like the idiot who scrawled “TIGGY IS GHEY” on my office’s washroom wall, perhaps the graffiti artist was trying to spread nasty rumours about poor Mr. Brown. But why would his love of sandwiches be such a shameful secret?

Just shut the fuck up about the sandwiches, alright?Maybe Geoff Brown was a kung-fu wrestling smackdown champ. Rather than gorging on raw meat and tree trunks for lunch, he secretly consumed delicate cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off. For a guy who spent his days grappling with sweaty semi-naked men, any claim of effeminacy would be pretty hurtful. Maybe his opponent was conducting a dirty-tricks campaign of psychological torture… by scrawling insults on a ferry seat. Well I don’t frigging know, wrestlers are a strange bunch.

Then I had a breakthrough-supposing the message was incomplete? Perhaps the scribe was caught in the act, and thrown overboard before he could finish his carving. This opened up lots of new possibilities. Maybe it was supposed to read “Geoff Brown eats sandwiches from Tubby Jack’s Sandwich Shack! Try their Beef & Bacon Mega-Sub today!” So the graffiti was nothing more than a cunning advertising campaign? Or perhaps it was one of those stupid subliminal ads, which never actually tell you what it is you’re supposed to be buying.
I think Tubby Jack should ask the ad agency for a refund, to be honest.

3. Why was I spending so much time thinking about this?
Well, aren’t you wondering now?

Despite my thorough investigation, the mystery of Geoff Brown and his sandwich fetish remains unsolved. The scribe will take the secret to his grave, Geoff Brown will continue to consume/steal/advertise his beloved lunchtime treat, and Tom Hanks hasn’t returned any of my phone calls.

I think I might take the bus in future.


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The Lunenburg County Bugler’s top columnist shakes his fist and rants about all the things that would get him fired if he wrote about it in the Lunenburg County Bugler.

Ring Ring! Ring Ring! Bugger Off! Bugger Off!I hate phone calls! Sometimes I pick up the phone and the first thing I hear is some guy chirping “Hi! How are you?” Not “Hello, Randy here!” or “Can I speak to Eddie McMayonnaise please?” like normal people do. He doesn’t even introduce himself. A stranger has called me to enquire about my well-being. Is he a stalker? I hope it isn’t that stinky guy that sat next to me on the bus yesterday. I was hoping my stalker would be female. Or at least use deodorant. Pah!

So I’ve got this nameless weirdo on the phone asking me how I am. I guess I’m supposed to be polite and say “Fine! And you?” and then we can finally get on with the conversation. Supposing I’m not fine? Or feeling sarcastic? Maybe I should say “I’m feeling really horny right now…” and see where that gets me. If the caller is the tax office or my new editor, even better.

Why don't they call me when I'm out?The phone always rings just as I’m sitting down to eat dinner, of course. The other night, I received one of those ghastly telemarketing calls. Some idiot who called himself “Jeff” but sounded more like “Sanjeev” started droning on about reward cards and overdrafts from some dodgy-sounding bank…

“We offer a fixed term low interest loan and sir we just need your date of birth and car registration number to set up an account right now sir and we also offer a high interest fixed savings account for your cat and we just need your social insurance number and a list of your freezer contents and sir we can set up this account now…”

Jeff/Sanjeev wouldn’t take no for an answer so I put the phone down on him. He called back five minutes later and continued his pitch as if nothing had happened! I put the phone down again. He called back again to enquire why I had put the phone down on him! What?

So I moved house. Ha!

Ohhhh I’m so angry! I’m off to tear down to a child’s treehouse. CYA!


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If It Moves, Tax It!

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Tax 'em! And double tax on the fluorescent ones!

Governments are always trying to think up sneaky ways to tax us. Here are some things that annoy me. I think they should be taxed more.

Crocs Tax
I nearly bought a pair of these hideous plastic things once. In theory Crocs are a good idea – you can get them wet and are perfect for the beach! Fortunately, my fashion sense beat back all rational thoughts and I managed to escape the store empty-handed. Phew!

Free Form Jazz Tax
Now I like a good tune as much as anyone. But free form jazz sounds like an orchestra being fed into a crushing machine. It confuses my brain and makes me cry. I sometimes think they play it in trendy furniture stores just to get rid of me.

Tax on the Phrase “Going Forward”
Next time your boss uses this phrase in a meeting, thump him. It’s for his own good. If your boss is a lady, don’t worry as ladies don’t say that sort of thing. If your boss is a lady and uses that phrase, she is really a man in disguise, so feel free to thump her/him. Then call the tax office and squeal.

Bad kitty! Evil kitty! Taxable kitty!Cat Tax
This umbrella tax covers Cat Poo Tax, Cat Piss Tax, Cat Ingesting Baby Sparrow Tax and I Only Bought A Cat So I Could Take Amusing Pictures Of It And Post Them On The Internet Tax.

Irritating Receptionist Voice Tax
“Good morning, TwatCorp – how can I direct your call?” squeaks that irritating high-pitched voice on the other end of the phone. Have you noticed how receptionists always sound slightly sarcastic? They don’t really want you to have a good day, TwatCorp can go suck it and it doesn’t matter who you want to speak to because they are going to cut you off in three seconds. All receptionists should be taxed out of existence and replaced with Steven Hawking.

Terrible TV Tax
Oh hang on, I think we already have that one. It’s called ‘Cable Subscription’.

Facebook Tax
Maybe not a popular tax, but if Facebook was taxed I may think twice about spending hours poking friends, sending pretend cocktails to people I don’t know and taking “What Colour Spacehopper Are You?” quizzes.
And as for Twitter…

I mean, really! Come on. I mean, not to come on, but...Tacky Fake Tits Tax
Ladies who show off their man-made mammaries because they think they look sexy should be slapped with a huge tax, or at least compensate the rest of us for visual tit trauma. You’d think boffins would come up with fake tit implants that actually look like real breasts. They spend enough time on the internet looking at them.

Are there any other products or services you would like to see a huge tax slapped on? (Please note: suggestions including Ginger Tax, Fat Arse Tax and Canadian Blog Tax may result in you being banned from Tiggyblog.)


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