Kiss.

In days of yore, the action of planting ones lips against anything.

First popularized by Georgie Porgie as an effectual and brutal torture technique (see girls), the kiss has since undergone major renovations. An elusive and controversial figure, its capacity to shape-shift has undoubtedly earned it a place among such legendary creatures as werewolves, ladyhawks, and maggotguys…


-For a kiss is both a meeting of lips and a chocolate treat; a ray of sunshine and a rock band made up of superhuman mimes.

-When implemented by the French, the tongue makes a hearty and generally overconfident appearance.


-When dispatched from a rose, according to Grammy Award Winning artist Seal, strangeness suddenly becomes a direct function of more.

-If coupled with telling, the kiss becomes act of treachery, as exemplified by the overly ambitious breakfast treat Eggs Benedict (and its mentally slower distant cousin, Chorizo con Arnold).


-And on the subject of breakfast items, a request for a kiss with specific overtones to grits is generally considered to be an insult. The only exception is Kansas City, where the term Kiss! My! Grits! has come to replace the almost ubiquitous racing term: Ready! Set! Grits!

-Interestingly enough, despite its many forms and uses, we at British Balls have discovered an undeniable, pure, polar opposite to a kiss. This antonym, interestingly enough, turns out to be Ex-Secretary of State, Dr. Henry Kissinger. However, the very presence of the word kiss within the confines of kiss’s polar opposite has led to some interesting theories; best summarized by Dr. Eric Idle, available by clicking the following link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fYDo9BIeNHg

Oh, and don't ever say Boochie Smoochies.

For real, just... just don't.

Buck.

We at British Balls don’t mean to be alarmists, but the various interpretations of Buck could easily mutilate your entire family. To help prepare for the inevitable, we offer the following:


Buck – Greenback. Bone. Skin. Dollar-dollar-bill, y’all. Representation of something worth something determined by powers beyond our control. Also, folding it in a variety of ways will give indisputable proof that Nicholas Cage was behind the attacks of September 11th, 2001.


Buck – A male deer. Kill one and put its head on your wall. It proves something.





Buck – As in Buck Rogers. Kill one and put its head on your wall. It proves something.


Buck – It stops here. Seriously, we can’t get this thing moving… Yeah, we checked the transmission, got an oil change just the other day… OK… OK… You can fix it when…? Damn it… No, don’t worry about it… No. I guess I’ll call my mom… yeah… Hello...? Hello, mom…? Yeah, it’s us, British Balls… No… No, we’re fine, we’re… well, did you look in the cabinet…? The left cabinet, mom, where else would you have left the syrup... I guess… No, dad’s still doing that thing. Turnips, last time I checked… No… No… Look, mom, We have to go. We have a date… No nobody you know… Well, he’s a Ghostbuster… Yes… Those guys from TV… Yes… Yes, mom, we’ll kill one and put its head on our wall… Yeah, mom, we know. Proof.

Buck – A buddy from work.

We all have one… this just happens to be ours.

.

Buck – Kill someone and put their head on your wall.

Debate.

What you put on de hook so you can catch de fish.




...well, they can't all be good.

you've got to expect that from time to time.

now go away.

Sucker.

There’s a sucker born every minute.

This phrase was first attributed to PT Barnum, best known for founding Barnum College, an all-female school on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Coincidently, he then went on to create a company specializing in non-prescription, black rimmed glasses, thus proving the unholy alliance between Big Circus and Big Eyewear.

But to be fair, PT Barnum never used the oft quoted colloquialism (everything else we just lied about was the absolute, unabashed, honest to God truth).

However, the time frame - circa mid-1800s - is pure, speculative gold.

And as a result, we must adjust for inflation.

A sucker born every minute…? We here at British Balls, are not so sure.




By simple misuse of the quadratic equation, one can clearly see that, these days, the ratio is far closer to fifty suckers born to every minute experienced. And furthermore, if you take into account that there are 250 people born every minute, a stark, frightening, and dangerously gullible scenario begins to play out.





…One fifth of the minute-to-minute population is, in fact, a sucker.

Yes, the implications are horrifying.

Here you were, innocently walking aisles of Wal-Mart, marveling at your choice of a post-toast warming machine, twelve-pack of unbreakable ‘tato-skinners, and jar of invisible trilobite juice, all for less than $31.67… And suddenly, it hits you: Someone you know or love might very well, despite all evidence to the contrary, be a sucker.

But what can one man do when besieged by suckers at all angles?

The answer is simple:







We GA-RON-TEE it!







...GA-RON!

Movie.

This is why society makes those of us at British Balls vomit.

In 1927, Warner Brothers released The Jazz Singer, staring Al Jolson as the aforementioned singer of jazz. It’s the story of a young performer coming to terms with his Jewish heritage by taking the morally repugnant high ground of putting on blackface. As far as historical significance goes, it was the first film to incorporate synchronized sound, as would later be witnessed in such modern classics as Citizen Kane, The Day The Earth Stood Still, Tokyo Story, Brazil, and of course, Tango & Cash.

And so, the world was introduced to the talkies.

Get it? They talk, so they are talkies.

Not walkies, or gawkies, or cousin balkies… oh my, that would have been ridiculous.


So ridiculous, that we now scorn the thought of even implementing the term talkies as anything other than irony. How marvelously quaint it all seems. That motion pictures, once known as movies, were then, eventually referred to as talkies. Yes, we have crawled out from our primordial stink, freed ourselves from such archaic terms, only to come right back around and refer to them as…

…that’s right, you high-and-mighty sons of bitches.

Movies.

Movies, you goddamn, snuff-snorting, powdered-wig luddites.

We scoff at the notion that people were once amazed that movies could talk. We take for granted the genius of Kevin Smith's outdated banter, or the fresh dialogue courtesy of the fifty-eight movies released by Judd Apitow every thirty minutes or so. And yet, even as Keanu Reeves flies through the matrix, and Tom Hanks candy-coats the atrocities of the American Century by shaking hands with that old mischief maker, Richard Nixon, we still insist on reverting back to a time when it was hot snot to watch a thirty second, stop-motion clip of a rocket ship piercing the eyeball of an ornery, hideously disfigured moon-face.


Why not go back to calling cheese barf-milk, addressing peep shows as hag-portals, or measuring external hard drives in quantities of giga-rocks?

As I write this, America is well on its way to possibly electing Barack Obama to the highest office of the land, and yet, the term movie is still thrown about as though black and white film never came to known as Colored. And then just Black. And after that, African-American. And after that, Digitized.

You all disgust us. You are all, essentially, racists.

But don’t ever change those little things we love about you.

Wolf.

Wolf Blitzer was born in Buffalo, New York on March 22, 1949, and since then, very little has changed.

Are we at British Balls presumptuous in saying such a thing?


Great balls of fire, yes.

Of course things have kind of changed since he was born into this world: wide eyed and in desperate need of love, ready to accept whatever people told him without any urge to discover for himself what lay behind the empty lessons , contrived rhetoric, ad hoc explanations, and Republican spin doctors.

Having earned his name in journalism from the brothers at Alpha Epsilon Pi, British Balls has gone on to combine other facets of his life with total disregard for research and intellectual curiosity. For example, did you know that Wolf Blitzer was single handedly responsible for the ten plagues of Egypt as well as the career of Marc Jefferies, front man for the Brit-Punk band, The Plague?

Neither did we!

But unnamed sources within my head have informed me that informers within the inner circle of my imagination now have alleged evidence that Wolf Blitzer is actually the one writing this piece right now; even as I watch the words pour from my fingers and can, with a simple bout of Socratic dialogue, prove that it is, sadly, me who is responsible for the invasion of Iraq.

Yes, we at British Balls salute this man. All that we write upon these pages comes live and direct from his lessons in journalistic excellence. We look at the facts, then let a string-heavy montage wreak havoc on our fragile little brains. We then copy down facts, do a little dance, grow a beard, and make a bold and decisive move to resist all urge to analyze or question anything on the teleprompter.

On a more hilarious note, Wolf is now the dapper, well-meaning host of CNN’s Jerry Bruckheimeresque The Situation Room.



...On a more disgusting note, Wolf Blitzer is a graying, 70's vagina.



Do the hustle!

Sandwich.

We’ve all heard the rumors. We’ve all noticed the bold print, splashed over the tabloids like water on Jennifer Beals. The damning photographs, telephoto lenses zeroing in on what is, to be perfectly fair, nobody’s business. Some of us even tuned into the VH1 special: BEHIND THE FIXINS.


British Balls would like to set a few things straight on the subject.


- John Montagu does not own exclusive rights, nor is he in any way responsible for the creation of sandwich. Despite the fact that this Eighteenth Century English aristocrat was one of the first to discover sandwich, it was only due to his love of cribbage. The truth is, sandwich had been playing gigs for centuries previous. Frequently at the recently defunct CBGB, often serving as opening act for the Haggadah. Though unleavened and opting for a more Indy-Rock sound (as opposed to their later, more “Clubby” hits), sandwich had little relation to the First Lord of The Admiralty who later went on to be the 4th Earl of said lunchtime classic.


In a brief, yet ghoulishly relevant digression, let it not be forgotten that Montagu’s brief stint as Postmaster General did little to aid in his bid to take credit for The Message, now scientifically proven to be the work of Grandmaster Flash.


- While several of ingredients went on to form various other groups, (hero, hoagie, grinder, and most notably, wrap) they were only able to do so with the royalties procured from their original collaboration with sandwich.


- On a similar note, rumors that wrap intends to buy out the exclusive rights to sandwich’s entire library are completely untrue. Tantalizing news, to be sure. Downright stupid, some might say. However, the ironic truth is that wrap (often confused with burrito, due to similar style, structure, and penchant for b-minor augmented power chords) has little chance of overturning the Worcester ruling of Panera Bread Co. v. Qdoba Mexican Grill.


As Judge Jeffrey A. Locke wrote in his ruling: "A sandwich is not commonly understood to include burritos, tacos, and quesadillas, which are typically made with a single tortilla and stuffed with a choice filling of meat, rice, and beans."

His stark, almost apocalyptic ruling served not only to uphold the tradition of church/state separation, but also came as a welcomed reminder of why he chose to pursue law in the first place (as opposed to a less absurd career choice, such as Cornbread Annihilator, Senior Vice President in Charge of Cuddling, or Batman).


- And, finally, Ruben Blades, well-respected Latin Jazz musician and crutch of Liberal-Leaning losers, is NOT a deliciously mouthwatering combination of corned beef, sauerkraut, Swiss cheese, Thousand Islands and rye. However, recent cannibals have confirmed that he is a deliciously mouthwatering combination of “skin, bones, muscles, intestines and other things the voices in my head demand that I eat… And Siembera is a damn good album, I don’t care how trendy or demonically carnivorous it may seem.”


… Arthur Dent was contacted for comment at his offices on the planet of Lamuella. Apparently, the Hitchhiker’s Guide was taken over by Vogons, and he had no time to comment.

To the left, to the left...

Freedom Train

What do you get when you cross a ton of red-hot flaming coals with chunk-light tuna and the undying quest for emancipation? By God, the answer just is isn't simple. Not only is it not simple, but it's just not possible. Over a pot of tea, four of your very own British Balls staff were trying with all their might to summon the answer to this most ancient of enigmas. In the end, all that could be done was to form a band. And so this brave foursome, The British Four as they are now known world-wide, could only then write a song about this very question. That song is Freedom Train.

And so without further ado, we bring you Freedom Train.

Chicks.

Chicks are pretty easy - oh wait - not like that - I just mean easy to handle, but not man-handle, I just mean get along with companionably, but not in a f*buddy sense...whew...This is exactly the problem with chicks. No matter what you say, it will come back to haunt you.

For example, everyone knows the cardinal rule to keeping your lady happy is to not call her fat, so when you innocently show up to her house with fat free Triscuits (because you prefer them) and fat free spray cheese (because what's more fun than that) and the new Wii Fit game (because you are a nerd), she suddenly thinks you think she's a cow. The fact that you also picked up a year supply of pills to prevent her from absorbing fat and scheduled her for a gastric bypass is irrelevant.

I hear you fellas, its a tough world for you. What? A guy can't buy his woman Hooked-on-Phonics to express his undying appreciation for her impeccable reading skills? A guy can't call his old lady a slut to acknowledge her mastery of the age old art of flirtation? In the words of the wisest man I know you are "just tryin' to live!"

Word.

Words are but wind… So wrote William Shakespeare. Or so transcribed William Shakespeare. Or so someone else wrote, right about the time William Shakespeare was plotting to take all the credit for it.

Point being, said line is from the Comedy of Errors, Shakespeare’s alleged first play.


In other news, Shakespeare is the prime poet to quote when the need arises to base the baseless in some sort of intellectual context. From direct-to-video hits such as Hammerhead, to cult classics such as Nightmare on Elm Street, to vaguely Shakespearean films such as Kennith Branagh’s Hamlet; Shakespeare can always find a way to express the infinitely complex in a matter of a few indecipherable phrases. All with the mere use of a few well placed words.

After all, words are but wind.

For, while someone may put forth the premise that, my momma’s so fat, her type-two diabetes has type-two diabetes, I could easily end all discussion by stating:

No, she’s not.

My mother, in fact, is well within her weight class, Your Honor.

And so, such words become meaningless. Fade into a meaningless existence amongst an endless list of such insults, or anything reported by the press to frighten us into dry-humping that ass-hole with his own show… you know the one.

Language has also been described, most recently by me in this sentence, as a virus from outer space.

“Virus?” you may ask… “Goodness gracious, great balls of fire!”

To which I would be forced to reply, “Precisely.”

For I know there are not, literally, great balls of fire currently practicing in my congressional district. At least not today. And were they to be, I would have to further question whether these were great! balls of fire, or if they were, pejoratively speaking, great (large, immense, brogdignagian) balls of fire!

Then again, the statement could be one of ironic detachment, accompanied by a slow shake of the head, as in:

Great… Balls of fire. They won their Supreme Court case, so now they’re marching.

But does it end merely at securing the use of the term great?

Great balls of fire, no.

Because now I must ask myself, in no uncertain terms, whether these balls are actual orbs of flaming debris, or whether they are simply testicles that took one to many nips from the gas tank. And if these balls do turn out to be of anatomical lore, perhaps they are not suffering from an exterior attack of Texan wildfires, but the inward burn of whatever disease I happened to give them. To wit, perhaps these testicles have been shooting craps (yes, wrap your head around this one, please) in Vegas, and they’ve rolled hard eight five consecutive times. Consequently, some passerby might note that those balls, are in fact, on fire tonight.

To which the call girl, draped on testicles’ left arm, might shout with glee: Goodness gracious, great balls of fire!

Either way, by the time I finish analyzing the statement, there’s no doubt I’ll glance around to find that Jerry Lee Lewis has already left the stage, taking with him the fourteen year old I had so hoped to read my poetry to.

…So, in summation, don’t trust a ball. It’s on fire. It will kill you.

Word to your mother.

Basketball.

As far as we can tell, a sport involving two hoops, an orange ball, Michael Jordan, and an armada of cartoon animals, all taking place in a distant universe, conveniently accessible via golf course.

Sources close to the president have frequently mentioned something about believing that one can fly.

Further research has revealed that “Basketball is my favorite sport. I like the way they dribble up and down the court.”

...Also, Bill Murray.

Balls.

Ah, yes. The brass ring. Let’s get to it, shall we?

Balls – If you are a professional athlete, balls are key. In fact, your ball-handling skills could make the very difference between being paid millions to play a sport you profess to love, and being paid millions to profess love for products that may or may not have any causal connection to the sport you profess to love. Remember: children can never have too much corn syrup, and you don’t really need your soul.

Domino, motherfucker!


Balls – Balls are ugly, ugly sacks that hang just below the penis. “Come now,” you must be saying. “Surely this cannot be!” Well, sorry, but that’s just the way it is. Take a quick look right now… No, not the man next to you on the train… no, not him, either… That’s right… that’s it, yes… the conductor.

Balls – Balls are ugly, ugly sacks that hover just above the penis in certain restaurants and five-star nightmares. Surf’s up!



Balls – If you are a well paid celebrity, influential politician, or ambiguously existing debutant, then it is ideal for you to attend balls. If you are pubic lice, it is also ideal for you to attend balls. While this may seem to preclude a syllogism comparing affluent society to pubic lice, we’re afraid to report that the opposite is, in fact, true… You have celebrities on your balls. Dip!




Tripping Balls – What they actually mean when they say “the critics are raving.” Hence, the late Gene Siskel’s incendiary analysis of Jean Renoir’s 1939 classic, La Règle du jeu: “Where the FUCK are my glowsticks!?”

British Balls – Bear in mind, we can only glean so much from the ancient texts, mystic carvings, and sedimentary samples we have managed to collect, but... As legend has it, this is a secret society whose diabolical rituals, cross-eyed shamans, vast wealth of knowledge and nearly godlike understanding of phase-state displacement, astro-projection, and pan-dimensional obfuscation has confounded physicists, archeologists, fortune hunters, and bass fishermen the world round… currently found at http://britishballs.blogspot.com/logspot.com/



Ball – Go on and have one… it’s all right.

Have a ball.

Hambone

Alright, I know what you're thinking. Hambone is a silly word. And yes, I will give you a certain latitude with that argument. However, make no mistake: Hambone is dead serious.

Now I'm not talkin about "Ham Bone", as in a Juba Dance, something that a good friend of ours may do. I'm not talkin the musical stylings that occur when old people and hip-hop collide. And I'm not talking soup. No, no my friends. This, good sirs and madams, is far more consequential.

This, is Hambone.

Post

Post.

A post is a thing that sits. No, wait. A Signpost tells the direction to... no, wait. I once knew a guy named Post Postelweight. I'm not sure if that's spelled correctly, but I really did know this guy. Posts are also entries on things called "Blogs". We'll get to that later.

So in review, a Post:

a) Sits.
b) Tells Direction.
c) Is the name of that Dude who used to date my ex-girlfriend. Fucking Post. He was a better drummer than me, too.
d) This thing that you are reading right now.