Sunday, June 24, 2012

TVFP Introduces New Security Feature: The Invisible Font

Coming Soon: TVFP, responding to security concerns surrounding the kidnapping of Championship Typist and intrepid adventurer, the ever fragrant Mary Dowser, will be testing a the state of the art anti terrorist application for specialty Blogs.

(There is no new confirmed news regarding the whereabouts of the blossomy odoriferous Ms. Dowser. However there is a rumour that her kidnappers were not wearing clown masks but were actually employees of a Russian oil magnate. Stay tuned.)

Invisi- Font is the trademark name of a new font for sensitive data developed by technicians at the Parkdale Liberation Front’s Advanced Research Facility located at the back of the Rhino on Queen St. West.

According Commander Annie of the PLF, the genesis of the font was an observation of the response of the TTC to real concerns that terrorists might use the common garbage receptacles in the subways to create terror, death and immense suffering. The TTC, to combat the possibility of terror, death and immense suffering declined to remove the garbage receptacles. Instead they switched to see-thru garbage bags. Of course, it’s rush hour. You happen to glance at the waste receptacle and notice that next to the empty Tim Horton’s frosted latte cup there’s a package marked BOMB. You call it in and a catastrophe is averted.

As well in the invisible / transparency department, The Prime Minister and his army of trolls has embarked on a massive prison building project at a time when the crime rate is falling.  Why is the crime rate falling? Social spending. How do they plan to fill those prisons? Cut social spending. That is the transparency or if you like the invisible window through which the innovators over at the Parkdale Liberation Front look upon things.

Coming Soon from the Parkdale Liberation Front


‘If you can’t see it neither can anybody else’

The Parkdale Liberation Front

Dedicated to Radical Tinkering
Remarkable Solutions but Who’s Counting


Sunday, June 17, 2012



The unfailingly fragrant Mary Dowser has been kidnapped by unknown agents outside her 4 star hotel in Kiev. Witnesses say her companion was knocked to the ground and Ms. Dowser was tossed into a Mercedes sedan by two men wearing clown masks. The vehicle made a quick getaway down Alla Tarasova Street. To date no ransom demands have surfaced. TVFP will keep you posted as this drama unfolds.

Prior to her kidnapping Ms. Dowser filed the following  two dispatches with TVFP. She writes to us:

Dispatch # 1

Let’s imagine you and I have taken the train from Paris. There is one final question that must be asked. But first, we leave on a grey cold day in June from Gare de Nord. We find ourselves on opposite sides of a compartment. I smell of Marlboros. I am half asleep reeking of German beer and cognac after a grand send off at the Brassierie de Ile du Saint Louis from my comrades and associates. You seem a little disdainful of my appearance. I manage a bleak smile. You retreat behind a newspaper. I scratch around in my bag for an ibuprofen. I fall asleep. When I wake up I find that you are resting with your head against the window nestled in a rolled up Burberry. You have taken off your unfashionable shoes. In fact I cannot help but notice that everything about you is unfashionable. You are snoring ever so gently. It is night. I look at my reflection in the window. Gaunt, haunted, melancholy visage. You stir and then suddenly your eyes open and you sit up quickly and we find ourselves looking into each other’s eyes. Pardon, je m’excuse, I say and look away. You give me a searching look and then reach in your suit coat pocket a take out a pack of Gauloises. L’exterior, mademoiselle, you say and tilt your head towards the sliding door of our compartment. This is where it happens, as cold moon light surrenders everything to the fierce dawn.

Dispatch #2

Mary Dowser on Euro 2012: A Fut-bol Tournament with Some History

My companion and I have made it to Kiev. Our four star accommodation is disgusting. The towels are dirty. The hotel staff smell of booze and marijuana. In the morning there was a pool of vomit outside our door. It was still there when we returned from breakfast. The people here are brutish. Neo Nazi Skinhead rule the streets.

What is also interesting about this fut-bol tournament is that at one time or another most of these nations were trying to kill each other or themselves. They were all pretty good at it. If they couldn't find a countryman to kill or a nearby country they went to Africa and killed Africans or Asia and killed anybody who didn't look like them.

As well as being a terrific fut-bol tournament Euro 2012 also features several countries that are in the midst of bailing out their incompetent greed driven bankers, politicians and business class. Ireland is bankrupt. Greece is bankrupt, except in Greece the bankers were the good guys. It was the petty bourgeois class who dodged their taxes and a government of sycophants who wouldn’t collect the taxes and cooked the books to get into the EU. Let’s see Spain is bankrupt. Portugal is almost bankrupt. Italy is on the verge. Oh and who’s running Europe right now? You guessed it, the guys who coined the phrase: Arbeit Macht Frei.

A note to my friends in Parkdale. My companion, a shy, affable Irishman from Dublin, who speaks perfect French, is Samuel Beckett. He is currently working on a French / Celtic fusion cookbook with the working title PLUS CA CHANGE / plus c'est la même chose / Potato Recipes for Every Occasion. His opinion of the Euro fut-bol tournament is that it is a parable. A house in the neighbourhood is on fire and instead of putting out the fire that will soon engulf them the neighbours are all glued to the televisions in search of glory, some, any proof that their petty, selfish lives have meaning when the true meaning of life and success is the neighbourhood. He also told me this charming joke which I now pass along to you.


An Irishman comes home and finds his wife in bed with an EU bureaucrat. The Irishman goes to the closet and takes out a revolver and points it at his head. His wife breaks out laughing. The Irishman glares at her and shouts, don’t laugh, you’re next.

Follow the links on my website and purchase this eBook of terrific short stories

Sunday, June 10, 2012

Radical Golf for Beginners

The Parkdale Liberation Front’s Radical Golf for Beginners
Jean Paul Sartre, the famous existential philosopher and Kermit the Frog look-a-like once said: Hell is other people. For the golf enthusiast: Hell is other golfers.

One of the most prevalent obstacles to enjoyment of golf is slow play. Lorne Rubenstein, the golf guy over at the Globe and Mail has written eloquently on this nastiness.

Not so long ago we played a round at a public course. Ahead of us were foursome, only one of whom appeared to have learned the game. We thought, we’ll just play through. It didn’t happen because the group ahead of us picked and dropped errant balls on the fairway. They played a game that matched their abilities. I bet they had a fair amount of enjoyment in their round. Kudos to them.

Jack Nicklaus has a radical idea: stop building eighteen hole golf courses. Instead build twelve hole courses. There is some historical basis for this. After the battle of the Plains of Abraham beneath the walls of Quebec City the British turned the field into an eleven hole golf course. We think the idea has merit. It takes up less space, costs less to maintain, has less impact on the environment and takes less time to play. That is providing you don’t have to deal with the menace of slow players.

A nine hole round is a nice way to spend a couple of hours. We like to play nine as it fits in with our busy schedule, that is unless we run into slow play. Nine or eighteen though you need to prepare yourself before venturing into the murky world of gold merchandising. After all you are going to need some clubs and balls, a golf glove, a bag to cart everything around in. Not to mention shoes, pants, matching tops and hats and so on. Remember golf is a multi-billion dollar exercise in commodity fetishism.

What do you really need to play a game of golf? We advocate the use of four to five clubs at most. A fairway wood, a hybrid or rescue club, a mid range iron, a gap wedge and a putter. You will become more familiar with your clubs more quickly to fewer you have to learn to hit. You need a glove. You don't need shoes. A good pair of sneakers will do.

We advocate that you take some lessons from a CPGA pro. These men and women will give you a solid framework to help you master a simple swing that will put the ball in the fairway, on the green and in the hole.

But is it enough. Well think of it this way. The golf industry has managed to brainwash us pretty well. You have to play eighteen holes. You have to have twelve or fifteen clubs in your bag.  You have to dress the part. You have to carry a scorecard. You have to  .  .  .  .  Well no you don’t.

Let’s say the object of the game isn’t win but to enjoy shot making. As anybody knows who has ever played the game a perfect shot is its own reward. Each hole is an adventure. You begin with your fairway wood off the tee. You don’t hit it far but you hit it reasonably straight. The main thing is that you are in the fairway or the first cut of rough. Now you hit your middle iron. Chances are using the middle iron again or your gap wedge you next shot will put you on the green. Then you are one putting for par, two putting for bogie.

For the beginning golfer who wants to keep score achieving a round of bogie golf is an awesome achievement.

But who says you have to keep score. We don’t. If you don't keep score is it still a game?

Robin Williams on the History of Golf. Warning to children this link contains the words fuck, fucking and fucked up. 

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Sunday, June 3, 2012

The Limerick

In the opinion of no less an authority than George Bernard Shaw, a Limerick is innately obscene. A Limerick that isn’t properly rude isn’t really a Limerick.

The limerick packs laughs anatomical
In space that is quite economical.
But the good ones I've seen
So seldom are clean
And the clean ones so seldom are comical.

With that in mind TVFP has gathered together a few of our favourites for your enjoyment. Parental warning: you may want to ask the children to go and smoke their pot in the other room.

The limerick’s callous and crude
It’s morals distressingly lewd
It’s not worth the reading
By persons of breeding
It’s designed for us vulgar and rude

From what we can tell Limericks, with some notable exceptions, were written by the dispossessed. The writers were almost always men. Often as not the object of their deprecations were minorities, mostly women and homosexuals.  Most of these limericks are anything but funny, but rather reflect times of poverty and in some cases genocide by starvation, a soaring infant mortality rate, class and gender conflict, war and political frustration.

Having said that we find it difficult to dismiss the Limerick on grounds of political and social correctness. The Limerick would only laugh at us and would write a scathing five liner about the size of our penis or would endeavor to insert some article of commodity fetishism in our anus. The Limerick by its nature is defiant of any attempt to cleanse its anarchic soul. In truth that is why at we at TVFP are so fond of it.
Some of these limericks have been adapted by TVFP to reflect modern concerns. The rest are what they are.

Some time back there was a bombshell
Light Rail Transit might start to do well
Now that could cost loads
To the selfish who build the roads
So they brought in an exhaust hole from hell

Have the treasures of our land in thrall
Any chance of survival at all
With a dope like Kent to trust
It looks like a bust
And the Harper we know is a know-it-all

The thing about ‘Back to Basics’
And similar high moral tricks
Is they’re bound to backfire
When your Conservative choir
Have all got their brains in their dicks

A mathematician named Hall
Has a hexahedronical ball
And the cube of its weight
Times his pecker plus eight
Is his cell number – give him a call

There once was a young lady with such graces
That her curves cried out for embraces
You look, said McGee
Like a million to me
Invested in all the right places

An astronomer, pious but odd
To be honest a dirty old sod
Who’d searched for a sign
Of the presence divine
Cried, I’ve just found Uranus, dear God

Her husband is in the Hussars
A colonel all covered in scars
But it isn’t his weals
For which nightly she feels
But the privates he lost in the wars

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