Flash Flude

Doesn't 'flood' look as though it should be pronounced 'flude'?
...It doesn't?
Whatever. I'm not changing it.
My dad says 'matt-rass' instead of mattress.

He Shouts Back

This is for any doubters that are still out there:
Alright. It's boxing day. We are loaded. We are in Kelly's Landing.
For this is tradition.
We always get an apple at the bottom of our stocking on Christmas day. Because our parents received apples in their stockings, and at that time it was a big deal.
Then we have to place them on our heads as our parents throw beer bottles at us.
Empties, mind you.
'William Tell' mom calls it.
Dad doesn't speak when we are in the room.
So I'm not sure what he refers to it as.
So, we have two Christmas traditions.
And now you know.
Anyway, I'm spotlight stealing.
Kelly's. Everyone's drunk.
It's the middle of a bar. I'm shouting to speak with him.
I'm not altering a word of this, I swear.
Me: "Do you know how much beer is?"
Bussey: "No, but I know who Howard Hesseman is."
Me: "What?"
Bussey: "He was on Head of the Class. And WKRP in Cincinnati. He was Dr. Johnny Fever."
So, I immediately tell Peter.
Me: "...and then he says, 'No, but I know who Howard Hesseman is.'"
Peter: "Who?"
Bussey: "Dr. Johnny Fever?"

The Snug & The Restless

I am wearing two variations of plaid.
I have no idea how much I slept last night.
A maximum of seven hours, but I believe it may have been far less than that amount.
I have sleeping issues.
I don't do well with heights, either.
Colin woke me to shovel.
Contemplate for a moment the experience of being (violently) shaken awake so that you can immediately lift amounts of snow with an over-exagerated plastic spoon.
With a wooden handle.
How good could this day possibly be?
Marie is in town.
So, possibly quite good.
If she's on.
I'm not on.
Because I have no idea how much I slept last night.

Far From the Tree

And I wonder where the sarcasm comes from...
My mother said this during lunch:
"Everything's regulated to death these days; you can't even beat your children anymore."
I immediately write this down.
My mother asks what I'm writing and I tell her.
Then she says, "Don't tell anyone I said that, they'll think I beat you. I probably should have, but I never."
This is just one day after being back in the house with them.
Who knows how many more gems of widom they'll bestow before New Year's?

Commanding Miracles

It's like the parents are the peasantry.
And their kids are mighty warlords who eat the flesh of others.
Why else would one be so afraid of the other?
I do bask in my cynicism from time to time, sure, but try this out:
I'm in Starbucks.
I'm sitting in this cultural trend when I hear a commotion, stage left. I look.
There's a little girl - she's maybe four.
And she's on the floor, sitting in the entrance of the building.
Right in front of the security beacon things ('He took a french press, get him!').
She's saying in her kid-pissy voice (you know how they get), "No! I'm not ready to go yet!"
Guess she wanted another grande vanilla chai latte (I can't make the little hat over the 'e').
Which I can understand; I can never have just one either.
And the mother is hunched down to the kid's level, and she's reasoning with her.
"But it's time to go," and these sorts of witticisms.
So, now there are two people blocking the doorway.
One who is socially permitted to be irrational, and another who must be a dental assistant.
Ouch. Below the belt.
Apologies to any dental assistants who are reading this.
And are able to keep up.
I see scenes like this and I wish that all mothers were like my mother.
The kid weighs 35 pounds.
Why are you holding up traffic?
If this was me when I was four, my mother would have leaned real close to me and said, ever so softly, "You get up off of that floor, now."
She didn't need to shout.
She sure as fuck didn't reason.
She didn't negotiate.
And if she said that in her tone, it was psychologically equivalent to taking a switchblade and lightly grazing it over my cheek.
Parents are such gutless turds these days.

Double Axe Handle or Don't Try This At Home

I helped Shandera move on Saturday.
Myself and Peter Russell.
This equals a conglomeration of dufuses who have known one another for too long.
I have seen Peter Russell's penis on multiple occasions.
Robert's as well.
Knowing men for the better part of your life does, however, afford certain oppurtunities.
So, it is still early on in the moving process.
A great deal of time before dismantling the hide-a-bed.
Robert is busying himself with something.
Peter and I are standing about, awaiting command.
Peter picks up a metal folding chair.
The sort that they use in wrestling matches on the television screen.
You get me? Okay.
Now, Peter's holding this chair.
And I'm watching him, discreetely, from the corner of my eye.
You have to watch Peter because who knows what he may do.
How do you think I've seen his penis so many times?
Anyway, he's holding the chair at arm's length in front of him, a leg in each hand.
This is where our knowing one another comes into play.
I know what he's going to do before he does it.
I continue to watch.
He scrutinizes the chair.
He hefts it in his hands, empirically judging the weight of it.
Then he hits himself in the face with it.
Now, his intention is to hit his brow, which is firm and resilient.
However, he accidently hits the bridge of his nose.
He then immediately doubles over, while holding both hands to his nasal cavity.
For the mother hens who say that wrestling is poor viewing for children, this is a point for their side.

A Slash in the Pan

I'm watching videos of November Rain performed live by Guns 'n Roses some ten years ago.
Simply because the mood struck me.
It hasn't struck you?
Perhaps you're not dwelling on the girls of your junior high dance days often enough.
Whassthat?
The girls would never dance with you during your junior high dance days?
Me neither.
But that song has like...three kickass solos in it.

Here's the clip. 
And yes, Slash climbs onto the piano in this one.

Conception Contention

When you own your own house, you have to collect items that you would never otherwise search for.
I went with Robert to Canadian Tire today.
Robert has a new house. And a new Black Lab (the bastard).
He had to buy the following items:

• a clothes dryer hose clamp
• smoke detectors
• a doorknob (with deadbolt)
• a basic phone for the kitchen
• little brackety hooks for hanging pictures

The idea that I may have to go shopping for the same items some day makes me want to live off of the land.
Then again, perhaps it's worth it for the sake of having a dog.
They say childbirth is a miracle.
That's the thing these days.
You have sex a few times.
Sperm swims to the egg, there. Well, I'm sure you all had Mr. Galloway's pop-up sex book to teach you these things as I did in grade six.
You've been on safari.
I don't need to tell you.
So, the sperm gets to the egg.
Missionary. Magical.
Incubation.
You rush to the hospital, shoot out a miracle, (probably) tack a stupid name onto it, and bring it home.
I'm into starting families.
'What a bitter slut, he is.'
No, I get it. I'll be tacking stupid names to little bald children myself.
But a miracle?
Come on.
Have you seen March of the Penguins?
I tried finding another animal, by the way.
So as to make this argument less mainstream.
I searched for gazelle reproduction. Whale shark. Storks (because of the fun duality between stork and human babies). Rabbits.
I had trouble finding anything concrete.
Mostly I found scientific periodicals.
I'm not dedicated enough to you people to read scientific periodicals - let's just get that out in the open.
So, here we are:
Male Emperor Penguins.
Travel for 90 kilometers in -40 degree weather.
Have you seen a penguin move around? Do you have any idea how long that would take?
They search out a female penguin that they're into.
They bone. Missionary.
Incubate.
Toss out an egg a few months later. The mother is so taxed from the delivery she immediately has to enter the sea to eat.
She won't see her wee chick for an entire season, and will then have to pinpoint her offspring amongst a whole Chili Pepper's concert worth of penguins.
The male has to hike back with the egg in his little pouch, until it hatches 65 days later.
He can't eat the entire time, by the way.
And between the two parents there isn't a single thumb.
We use drugs.
Stirrups.
Surgical implements.
The mother is coached, months prior, on how to inhale and exhale at showtime.
There is a team dedicated to the big moment.
There is a person designated to hold a warm, soft blanket to immediately wrap the baby in as soon as the infant is massaged out of the mother.
If that's a miracle, penguins are messiahs of a whole other caliber.

Standup Washout

Never watch this film.
And for future reference, if you pick up a stand-up DVD that you might consider watching, and it's from 15 years ago, and none of the names are familiar, put it down.
The names are unfamiliar because these men are all drunk in a ditch somewhere.

I would very much like to speak with this man.
For saying things like:
"I don't even know what a yeast infection is. I saw it on the TV and it startled me. I figured I'd work it into my act somehow."
Choke on this:



You may have seen him before.
I love it when the Canadians are funny.
Makes me want to shop in Roots stores.

it's funny cause it's a song

Also last night.
Colin is channel surfing.
The AMC is showing some movie that involves Jack Nicholson in his underwear, as well as some other people.
We're trying to guess the actors because the film is quite old.
There's a woman wearing a bra.
Colin speculates, "I believe that's what's her name from All in the Family."
Now, I know he's referring to Sally Struthers.
I choose to pretend that I believe he is referring to Edith Bunker.
This is because I purposefully try to be difficult with my brothers sometimes.
It's a defense mechanism.
However, I despise the show, and therefore forget that her name is Edith Bunker.
Instead, I think that her name is Alice.
So, (to recap) Colin says, "I believe that's what's her name from All in the Family."
I say, "Alice?"
He says, "Alice...Alice? (dawns on him) Who the fuck is Alice?"
And we laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

We're Off to Flee the Blizzard

I just woke up.
I was awakened earlier by the sound of intense, pouring rain coupled with severe and terrifying wind.
Because this province is actually uninhabitable, but no one who lives here is willing to give up on it.
I'm thinking of working Newfoundland's abusive weather into 'the act'.
It's clicheed (I can't make the little hat over the 'e'), sure, but I feel compelled just the same.
When mothers are sending the children to school through second-story windows, all you can do is laugh.
For example, Colin and I are speaking to one another last night.
Shooting the whadya call it? Shit.
We've unintentionally left the weather network on.
I'm glancing it out of the corner of mine eye.
Now, the red screen of bad news has been flashing for the better part of the day.
This is always an unfortunate screen to see if you have any plans that involve going outside within the next few days.
So, the weatherman, who is muted, mind you, is waving his hands around our wee island's general area.
He's saying things.
There are low pressure systems being displayed behind him.
Then, this is what he does:
He goes off-screen.
He comes back, holding a meter stick
He points out a line three-qaurters of the way up the meter stick.
Then he points at the Avalon Peninsula.

It was the Irish, you see.
They came here first.
And they were running away from a place that was accustomed to hardship.
(Ireland).
And that's why we're all here.
It's also the reason why all Newfoundland cuisine involves boiling things in a big pot.

"This one's for all the ladies out there..."

This one's for two females.
One whom I want to sleep with (more often).
The other whom I want to shoot out of a canon (into a net).

I wanted to put this on your mixtape, but didn't.
Now I sorta wish I had.

"Do you hear what I hear?"

Turpin: I just want someone to like me for my tits.
Me: I like you for your tits.

Anyan everyone.
Viewing Turpin's blog, and seeing what a busy little animal trainer she has been, makes me feel guilty about not crooning over my own little blog faetus.
You heard me.
Also, the picture of me during my evening of being painted on by the stippers (you'll know the one) always makes me feel like I should be doing something productive with my life.

During our doomed comedy show, the dinner, specifically, Tim mentioned 'The Croup', which is an old person term I haven't heard in eons.
My nan always feared the croup, for all our sakes.

Maybe two weeks ago?
Colin and I are sitting in his room.
Me: "Shit, I think I turned on the shower and left it running."
Our bathtub drains extremely poorly because my hair is thick and obstructive.
Colin: "Well, go check."
Me: "No, no. Then I'd have to get up. Just turn down the TV and listen harder."

Another reason he's alright to live with:
"That's one thing I hates about being older; I don't drink as much as I'd like to."
He owns a hip flask. He intends to fill it with something this weekend.
Likely something with alcohol in it.

I'm thinking of immitating, as closely as I can manage, a cat falling asleep the next time I'm on stage.
Because I think it looks really funny.

Family Guy is crashing and burning. No one will watch it within a year or two.
I stopped watching it a while ago.
It's not funny, everybody.
As you start to accept it, everything just feels better.

Pillow Talk

I'm doing some comedy tonight for the staff of some gym.
Which is funny in and of itself.
I lived with a personal trainer for a few months.
Francis.
He took me to the Rimrock gym and taught me all sorts of lifting...drills? Whatever.
I never went back.
I couldn't lift things from my sides very well. I had to use the 3-ounce weights, or some such quantity.
The smallest ones.
The weights that look as though they were designed for a joke.
I'm a joke.
I've shaved a man's back before.
Francis'.

Francis was one of those guys who was crazy about having an impecable bed setup.
He'd stolen hundreds of dollars worth of hotel linens (closer to thousands, probably).
And he'd lay there, looking at the ceiling as I played video games on the other side of the armoires.
And out of nowhere he'd just say, "...My bed is wicked."
He didn't even require an answer from me.
He just had to say it.

Blind leading the Blind

Maybe it runs in the business...
After the show.
Tim and I are in the parking lot.
"It's a red Civic. I thought I parked around here."
"Is that it?"
"No, that one has a K-Rock sticker in the back. Mine doesn't have a K-Rock sticker."
We circle the parking lot.
Twice.
"Oh wait. This is it!"
It's the car I just mentioned.
I'm thinking to myself, "Oh God, don't tell me you're like it too."
"...There's no K-Rock sticker in the back window."
"Yeah, I guess not. I thought I saw one. Where do you live?"

"Is this thing-" "-Pussy! Har har har!" "...on?"

My dear readers. I've missed you. No bullshit.
But enough about you.
With only one exam remaining, to be written some days from now, in which I have the exam questions already, in a course being taught by a professor who loves me, I am back.
My sleeves are rolled up.
It's Friday night. I have nowhere in particular to be, and no one to cling to.
Let's do some blogging guys.
Right hard.
Okay. Show first. Let's do that.

And did I ever have a show a few weeks back. For you cronies scratching your ignorant craniums, here.

Animals. Fiends. This show was monkies throwing shit, I'm not kidding.
It was a blast, though. Traumatizing in its own right, but a blast.
George, Tim (another up-and-whatever doing Victory shows) and I are sitting at one of the tables.
In front of our fish n' chips.
There's a Kraft portion of tar tar sauce sitting next to my plate.
It's looking at me. And I'm looking at it.
The first free food that comedy has ever afforded me.
"I won't be able to eat much," I told George as we were setting up.
"Oh, sure you will."
I didn't eat much.
It was cool to sit around and just talk about comedy for the sake of talking about it.
Now, our group is about 25 or 30 old...dudes.
As we wait to get started, I become increasingly more and more aware of the amount of booze these men are putting back.
Tim's first. ...
...
Man.
George gets him up. Tim launches. The wheels sorta come off quickly, though.
These men don't want to listen to Tim talk about 5-second bacon.
And they let him know.
And Tim has some solid shit, too. These guys were just impatient.
This one portly bald fellow yells "Pussy!" after a comment Tim makes.
"You know what tastes good?" was what started it. Something like that.
Too crass for the children.
It was awful. Then all of the men guffaw, heartily. Then they all start yelling it.
It gets ugly in a very short amount of time.
George gets up again. Tim begins to regain some colour.
I know I'm fucked, at this point. I say so to Tim.
I have an insult prepped for the Pussy gentleman, an ounce of Gin, and my soul, and that's it.
Some of them were into it. I'll admit.
But these men were not interessted.
They wanted jokes about Jesus and Santa defiling nuns.
They didn't want my observations on drunk women hailing a cab. And I know this. But I go with it.
The wheels come off, regardless.
I decide myself to cut the set.
One man slurs that I should keep going.
"Keep goin' buddy, I'm listenin'!" He shouts. Turns over his shoulder. "Shut da fuck up, b'ys!"
I point at him and say, "You sir, are my favourite audience member."
I think he is.
Or he was.
Until he gets up on stage with me in order to take the microphone from my hand (gently, at least) and say, "Shut da fuck up" again.
Which didn't really help.
But it was charming, just the same.
The point?
The point is this: when I was done, I was as satisfied as I was before getting on stage. I was, at the very least, entertaining.
It was the best bomb of my life, by far.
George got a shirt.
We didn't.
I might ask George for his.

I'm not not writing. I'm just not writing.

Hang in there. Few more days. My steam is depleting.

Is 'Christmastime' one word? It should be.

Gimme a few more days, everyone.
Papers. Hard. I'll make up for this absence over Christmastime, when I have nothing better to do.