Comment Corner

STEVEN TRUSCOTT FUCKING DID IT

Obviously, the murder of Lynne Harper took place before I was born. Had I been alive at the time, I would have instantly traveled to Clinton, Ontario, kicked the living snot out of Truscott 30 seconds before he perched Lynn Harper on his handlebars and drove her off to rape and kill her.

In recent years, especially this past summer, the belief of our public against Truscott’s conviction has grown while belief in the decision made by two, count ‘em two courts, including the Supreme Court, has simply been thrown by the wayside in favour of a paranoid delusion that a miscarriage of justice occurred.

Frankly, Truscott fucking did it. In this article, we’ll explore the facts and fallacies which surround the case and come away true believers that the only miscarriage of justice which occurred is that Steven Truscott isn’t getting raped in the ass anymore.

BEFORE THE MURDER

It’s interesting to note certain things from Truscott’s own book, the Steven Truscott Story, in comparison with what the Crown adduced at trial. Rather than believe the ill-deserved hype and public apology from Michael Bryant, look closely at the actual case and discover the evidence which chillingly shows Truscott as murderer.

1. Truscott admits to being with Harper

Amazingly enough, this can often be overlooked. Truscott was with Harper the night she was killed. He says it, witnesses say it, it’s never been disputed.

2. Truscott has never denied killing Lynne Harper

Through out all of Truscott’s testimony, public statements and even his own damn book, Truscott’s never even made the following simple denial: I didn’t kill Lynne Harper. He’s made the claim that he’s innocent. Well, whoopty-fucking-doo! Saying you’re innocent isn’t the same as claiming you didn’t do whatever the crime is, it’s saying you haven’t been convicted of a crime. Ask y...

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Folks, I simply couldn't make the analysis thing work. It ended up looking like a pack of gibbleretarded kids mashed their overgrown foreheads into the keyboard for a minute before their teacher-wrangler popped by to enter in "John Tory", "who thought Jesus would be a good candidate" or "Howard Hampton? More like Howard HUMPTON" just to give it the political flavouring it needed.

Instead, all that needs to be said about the election can be found in the forums, unless you're RUEZ, and then you're just getting it all wrong.

So, I decided to review a show for which the previews could massive throbbing bus-cock to a team of gay banjo players: Bionic Woman.

BIONIC WOMAN: THE REVIEW



The previews had it all. A recreation of the Bionic Woman, a trashy sci-fi jiggle-fest from the 70's, molded into the gritty, realistic fare we've come to expect from rebooted series in the 2000's, like Batman Begins, Casino Royale or Battlestar Galactica. The new Bionic Woman was hot too. Damn hot. Like Britney Spears hot but before she resorted to her genetic trailer-trash self and had to keep shaving off her pubes to prevent the scabies from finding food.

In I tuned three weeks ago to watch the brand new adventures of the Jamie Sommers, Bionic Woman.

HERE WE GO

The show introduced the characters in a rather ham-fisted way. That is, the characters came across exactly as they seemed to have been pitched during the series development.

WRITER1: We need to have Sommers be smart so it's plausible she can survive all the adventures we're going to cleverly write, but also in a job that she would freely leave to choose to work for the Bionic people because it's beneath her, but also an explanation why she's IN the shitty job despite being brilliant.
WRITER2: BAM! Harvard accepted but...

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I started off actually trying to do a realistic analysis of what happened in the Ontario election. Then I started typing Ontario eRection and from there, I called John Tory a butterfucker a bunch of times before insinuating that based on Howard Hampton's blotchy face during his concession speech, he has Hep C.

What type of analysis will it be? Also, Thor, gay god?

Folks, some of you may be keen to travel back in time to look at October 2006 and a little article the Comment Corner had entitled "Hosting Thanksgiving" or something.

Well, there's a little tread left on those tires as I lazily thrust my own work forward twice with this little recycled gem on this, Thanksgiving Weekend. I made a few changes so, it's just like a brand new read!

There comes a time in every person's life where they go stark raving fucking batshit insane and decide to host a Thanksgiving Dinner. Any psychologist will tell you that it is much more rational to pound wooden stakes into the ground and leap, gloriously, belly-first from your rooftop and impale yourself on them than it is to host one of these things. It is an easier task to land an entire 747 on the forehead of that dick who cut me off yesterday than it is to accurately get a read on the assortment of pies you need for dessert. There would be a nobler effort in firing a load of finishing nails out of a cannon at cancer patients than figuring out seating arrangements for the current crop of which asshole relative can't stand to be seated next to which drunken bitch.

The Prep

Cooks in the know call it prep or prepping. Only ignorant fools call it preperation. The spirit of the turkey which rests in your fridge listens specifically for the use of the word prep or preparation. If it hears the former, it may safely travel to the land of wind and dust. If it hears preparation, it knows you're a novice and will take a phantom poop in your stuffing. You may not taste it, but the turkey spirit knows you ate it. So, to avoid ghostly boom-booms in your food, always use the word prep. Even Marilyn Fucking Dennis uses prep and she looks like she's getting ready to travel to LA and eat Rachel Ray (who also uses prep) and absorb her youthful energy to smooth back the large moon-trench like wrinkles which now map her face.

Assemble all of your materials....

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Folks, fuck. There are a few things on this green earth that really get my piss steaming to a boil. I mean, so hot that I scald my dick when I take a big leak right out the window. One time, I pissed flaming hot piss that was so scorching, the stream caught flame and exploded. I hit 88 miles per hour, flew back in time and won World War II with the stealth fighter I invented. Take that Philadelphia Experiment II!

Honest to Christ, there are some things out there than can instantly ruin a good mood with their powerful bullshit. I don't mean some asshole firing legless dogs out of a cannon at children swimming, nor do I mean drop kicking grandma in her box. I mean motherfucking Clubber Lang rage.

GETTING MONEY BACK AT THE TIM HORTON'S DRIVE THRU

It'll suffice to say that I've got money. And that money often times takes the form of a $20 bill or so. I understand that people who work Tim Horton's drive-thrus are slightly less retarded than assholes who brag about having an MP3 player in their goddamn car. Woo. Don't bother showing me, I'll just catch the clips of your city-wide ticker-tape parade celebrating you. So, keeping in mind the well-meaning but idiotic mess I'm about to encounter when I pick up my coffee, I try hard to have change ready. But sometimes, all I've got is a $20 and all I'm buying is a large. This means I'm getting change back. Bills and coins.

All the fucking time the person hands me my bills first, so I now have two choices. I can either try and put the bills down somewhere in my car, at which point the stupid bitch who's not paying attention to what she's doing can drop the coin portion all over that greasy no-man's land in between my car and the window without me having a chance, OR I can try and somehow awkwardly cup the bills to form this pocket to cradle the coins back to my car, which doesn't work because they're bills, not a goddamn cup, and they spill all over that same fucking no-man's land....

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