Legally Binding?

I have to go and find some sort of tax form, or tax exemption form, or something. 

Whatever it is, it will likely involve me walking to many wrong buildings before finding the right one. 

Anyway. Who cares about that.

I've been doing some thinking lately. 

I went out in the woods behind The Beaver Plaza, and meditated on the afterlife. 

'Til da b'ys came out to smoke a draw, and then they kicked me out of it. 

But before they showed, I decided how I want to go about dealing with my...physical remains. 

First. I want my brain kept in a jar, like they did with Hitler.  

Just in case they later figure out how to do things with brains in jars...

Until then, I just need someone to hang onto it.

Butler can do it, I guess. 

He's good at being particular about shit. 

I can see him now:

"Don't put your drink there! 

Cause you'll knock it over and then Warford's brain'll be all fuckin' sticky!"

That's the kinda body guard I'm going to want. 

I'll donate my other organs. 

But I think that they should be earned, rather than going to the highest bidder. 
For example, I can donate my eyes. 

But I think the person that gets them should have to best the other applicants. 

I don't care how. 
A game of darts, or something. 

As for my charming cadaver.

I'd like to be cremated. 

Then I want Sarah Turpin to take my ashes. 

In a meager container.

Like the Smarties Minis containers da b'ys used to use to keep their rollies in. 

And I want her to take me to a hotel somewhere. 

Rent a room. 

And dump my ashes on the floor. 

That way, the housekeeper will come in the next day to turn down the room. 

He or she will see me laying there, and say, "Filthy motherfuckers."

Then they'll vacuum me. 

And we can wait and see where I'll end up.

I hope someone gets that

Last night da missus and I watched people play music in a church.
Then I left her at the altar and met up with Peter and Shandera.
Ain't that always the way?

Otherwise, I'm done my exams and in my pajamas.
I'm often hungry because my house is devoid of food.
Besides that, I'm a happy man.
For a couple of weeks.
Now is the time to invite me to your parties.

They came up with a spin class.
But I say that you don't need a class.
You know how it is with spin;
It's just like riding a stationary bike...

"So the bear wiped his ass with the rabbit."

Morning.
I'm preparing to cram for an exam in what the Spanish call:
Des All-Nighter.
Not because my exam tomorrow will be that difficult.
Simply because I don't sleep the evening before exams anyway.
Why not put my worsening affliction to use?
Like the people with rickets who beg for change.

You know what I like about the Charmin company?
They managed to take the expression, "Hey, does a bear shit in the woods?" and turn it into an ad campaign.

Junk Post

Even the most anal of people have a junk drawer.
Granted, anal people have organized junk drawers, which sort of goes against the whole concept.
But it's not as though anal people exist on the same plane as us anyway.
Speaking of which, my junk drawer (more of a junk compartment) is due for a cleaning.
I intend to do this over the next few days.
And when I do, I have decided to itemize its entire contents.
Just to send the anal bozos reeling.
Upon initial examination, the compartment contains, minimally, at least one chicken bone.
I have absolutely no idea how it got in there.
I don't even have any guesses.
But it's there.
Along with who knows how much dated pornography?
Stay nearby.

The Most of Christmas Past

So, I finally bought a plant.
This happened two or three weeks ago now.
Made a trip to Home Depot with the missus and picked out a nice little ivy.
I think it's ivy. The tag said ivy, with another word in parenthesis.
We tried to look up the name, but were wholly unsuccessful.
I care not.
Whatever it was before, the plant is now a Warford.
I named it Huey.
It looks like a Huey if you get close enough to it.
I'd take a picture of it for all of you, but that would involve finding my camera.
Finding batteries for the camera.
And then remembering what it was that I wanted to take a picture of.
It's all a little bit too much for me right now.
Cause I'm in the middle of exams.
Talk about exercises I'm vehemently opposed to.
Ditto for 'squats.'
I don't care for the name of that exercise, by the way.
To me it's perverse.

To dwell on seasons that I'm vehemently opposed to, it's winter now.
There's snow on the ground.
It's falling from the sky.
It's winter.
My mother and I have few things in common, but we both think winter is horseshit.
No matter how many we experience.
A Newfoundland winter is something that you simply cannot adjust to.
Who can adjust to being damp for seven months straight?
You know that stinging pain that you get in your ears when you walk in the wind for too long?
There's no getting used to that.
A pox on this place.
Some people actually prefer winter to other seasons.
Sick motherfuckers.
I think that if you legitimately enjoy winter, you should be legally required to shovel my driveway.
Maybe after this coalition (whatever the hell that is) business is over, we can get that into the legislature.

Did you know that there's a snack called Fiddle Faddle?
If you want to give her that special something this year...
"We Fiddle Faddle'd under the tree all night long."

So, I know what you're wondering:
"If I sell my old shuffle, can I afford a touch?"
No, you can't.
Besides, you should be wondering what it is that I want for Christmas.
Shirts and ties.
Well, it's not what I really want.
But it is what my future occupation dictates that I should want.
What I really want (and I know I've been over this) is a paintball gun.
Some paintballs.
And my youth back.
If I get what I want for Christmas, there are some things that I'm going to do differently.
First of all, if I relive my youth-no CLB.
No swim team (what a waste of my time. Have you seen me swim?).
Besides, swim team put me into contact with Sarah Turpin.
And now I can't get clear of her.
Finally, I think I'd grow my hair out in junior high, instead of waiting until university.
I think I could have been getting handjobs earlier, and more frequently.
Another item on everyone's wish list.

"One!...Two!...Three!..."

I'm kneeling on a kneeler.
I feel pious.
And uncomfortable.

Well, I just endured three weeks in a 5-day period.
Sarah Turpin is mad at me.
Tina Turner won't write me back.
It has been trying. That's all I can say.
It has been trying.

I ran into a maple tree once, did I ever tell you about that?
It was in Adam Powell's yard. We were playing tag.
I was 'it.'
I was always 'it.'
I hated being 'it.'
Because I was inferior to everyone.
Which caused me to do things like run head-on into trees.
Precisely what I did on this day when Justin Oates weaved out of the way.
I looked ridiculous because of the bump.
Adam's mom told me to stay awake because I might have a concussion.
And then I suppose she fed me something.
The boys stood around and taunted me until it was time for them to go home.
Then Adam taunted me. Until he fell asleep.
The same group also tricked me into eating dog food once.
I thought they were mints.
Because I was told that they were mints.
Dog food tastes awful.
No wonder they're always after our sausage links.
After I spit out the (second) piece, they laughed and laughed.
Like I said, I was always 'it.'
Especially when we weren't playing anything.

Put in my Place

I bought a Woody Allen book.
My justification being:
People say I look like him. I may as well study him.
I have learned from buying a Woody Allen book that I am too stupid to read Woody Allen.
I'm sure that he wouldn't be surprised.

Old dog. New licks.

If you think crows in the yard is a bad omen.
I speant the entire day with Sarah Turpin.
I slept during some of it, sure.
But I dreamt of her during that time.
It was a raw deal. Today was a raw deal.
School garbage is coming to its inevitable crescendo, during which I eat less.
And sweat more.
When it is all said and done I plan to either learn the accordian, or learn that I'm just not cut out to learn anything new.
Neither result would surprise me these days.

I learned this week that it is incredibly refreshing to curse in front of a baby.
The mother was eating pizza while the baby was near her...her teet.
And I asked her if she often got crumbs on her baby.
I'm wondering if that's bad for them.
Because I'm sure that my babies will be full of crumbs.
Especially when they're jammed between the seat cushions for a couple of days.

When I was at Ascension, I sometimes received special treatment.
I'll admit it.
For example:
When I sat in on my first Chemistry class ever, Mr. Clarke-
a man I had never met before-
said my name in role call, and then said "Alright Mr. Warford, I've got a seat right up front for you."
I received the exact same treatment in Mr. Keefe's first Physics class.
The question is, did they do this because they liked dad?
Or because they disliked him?
You know why I never started smoking while I was in school?
Because my brothers had eyes everywhere.
Being the youngest in a home-grown legacy has very few 'up' sides.

Jellybeans

Here's a fun idea:
You know those songs that you share with a girlfriend?
Boyfriend?
Group of European travelers that you fooled around with while drunk on Tequilla in Cancun?
The songs that immediately make you think of them?
Take all of those songs from all of your relationships.
Put them on a mixtape (or CD. You kids are into CDs these days).
Write on it, in magic marker:
MISTAKES I'VE MADE.
Then listen to them alone in your bedroom in the dark.
Accompany the activity with Scotch, if you think it will help.
It has helped countless others.

Da missus and I are sitting in Ches's.
At 1 a.m. on a Saturday (I think).
While we're waiting for our feeds, I turn to her and I say:
"It's over."
And she says, "No it's not."

I'd like to play a game of ice hockey before I die.
A slow-paced one.
Twenty bucks says that after someone helps me into all of my padding I'll have to go to the bathroom.

While I have them seated around me under the oak tree, I'll tell them:
"Things are different now than they were when I was your age, little ones.
When I was a kid, the red light next to the TV's power button meant it was 'On.'
Now it means that the TV is 'Off.' But these days people don't say 'Off.'
They say 'Standby.'"
But none of them will be listening.
Because they're the generation borne of the 'TV generation.'
Which, on the whole, makes them very inattentive.
Especially to old people.

Still Got It

One of the members of Platinum Blonde died today.
Platinum Blonde fans around the planet have donned black pirate shirts.
I happened upon a memorial earlier today in my travels.
It was a sad sight.
The stench of hairspray was overpowering.

You had to be there.
Let me point that out first.
But I'm in the CMC (Education library) yesterday.
While Turpin was reapplying her eyebrows.
Sometimes the glue gives way when she sweats a lot.
Anyway.
I see a girl from my observation day school.
I didn't attend on Friday.
So, I thought I'd ask her how the day went.
If there were any school shootings, or other occaisons of interest.
Turpin gets back (right brow askew) and I tell her the situation.
Then I approach the girl and start with, "Hi-"
And she says, "Hello" politely and walks away.
You had to see it.
But she gave me the brush-off like I was handing out hooker fliers.
Or coupons for a fried chicken place.
We were in the car before I had stopped laughing.
At myself.

Some Shockin' Good

Well, at least I've eaten.
This education mumbo jumbo has kept me effectively downtrodden since Sunday.
How bad has it been?
I woke up this morning saying the word 'fuck.'
Before I'd even opened my eyes.
The alarm went off and I just said it semi-conciously.
Like Pavlov's cracky.
It's not over yet.
But my capacity to care is dwindling forthwith.
I'm just biding my time 'til the next mixer.
Which I'm going to attend.
And I'm going to get piss-wasted.
Because I think I can really stir up these doe-eyed collegues of mine.
After a few white wine spritzers.
We should just start calling mixers what they really are:
Sexers.
Is that only funny to me?

In other mentoring, I've been e-mail fencing with Pete Soucy lately.
Don't let his frail appearance fool you; he's quite the firecracker.
Aren't these wicked?
Note: the kids' costumes in the Halowe'en picture.

An Arrr!gument

Alright.
Now, I know that this isn't something that I should glamorize.
They don't necessarily deserve to be applauded for their crimes.
Unlike, say, the Mafia.
But for some reason I find it refreshing that pirates still exist.
And they're still boarding ships and pillaging swag.
Sure, they use machine pistols these days, and they probably all have their limbs.
Instead of wooden appendages.
But, for the most part, and you'll have to agree, pirates are keeping it real.
If that expression even means anything.
How long has it been since mercantile shipping?
Trade routes, and sloops, and spices that cost a fortune and all of that?
Five centuries? More?
And yet, pirates have kept up with the times.
That says a lot about a criminal entity, I think.
It's not like bootleggers kept going after prohibition.
"Oh, people can buy booze again? Well, we had a good run."
Why didn't one bootlegger pipe up and say, "What if we bought beer for minors?"
That kinda thing.
But pirates. They sat around with their various parrots, and they discussed.

Pirate 1: Well, we're in a bit of a slump. Swashbuckling is down considerably.
Pirate 2: This is cause of that friggin' Internet! Everyone's trading with that now.
Pirate 3: And airplanes! They're using airplanes.
Pirate 1: Well, people still take cruises.

That's business sense.
That's integrity.

Set! ...Set?

You know how you spot the gym teacher?
When a volleyball hits the wall two inches from their head, they don't even look up.
Another observation day down, another path of molested children.
That's a joke.
So was the day.
I did some photocopying during a prep period and then I watched a volleyball lesson.
Three times in a row.
I could do an underhand serve for you no sweat.
Bump passes? Don't even worry about it.
You bend your knees to absorb the shock.
I don't have any advice for volleys, though.
That's next week's class, I guess.

Just Read It

http://ca.news.yahoo.com/s/capress/081112/health/health_britain_sperm_shortage

Wankers.

Swing

Say what you will about my unsettling addiction to the game.
It's got a soundtrack with some bop.
Roy Brown.
Imagine if this guy had been recorded at a time when it wasn't
1940-whatever.

Pretty Tied Up

Holy My Michelle, b'ys.

They're releasing Chinese Democracy.

Will the tour involve Buckethead on top of a piano?

Only time will tell.

What A Way To Go

Everyone is getting off of the bus eventually.
That is, everyone's gonna die sometime...somehow.
This man's going to fall down his basement steps on his way to get some syrup from the pantry.
He's going to trip over the cat.
The cat's name is Trousers.
He'll haunt the cat.
This woman is going to fall off of a clift while skiing for the first time.
And her last words will be: "I think I'm off the trail."
But imagine dying because you went to an AC/DC concert.
I mean, I know Thunderstruck was a corker.
But goddamn.
...and Ticketmaster seals your doom...
As for me?
I'll probably be the first non-cartoon individual to have an anvil fall on my head.
Or, it'll be a platypus sting.

Odd Man Out

My friends-my penis friends, that is-they think that I'm different on purpose.
That I just look at what they're doing and then I do the opposite.
To, y'know, stand out.
I don't need to put in effort to stand out.
My gap-toothed, hee-haw appearance gurantees that.
When I'm the guy on the flight who spills his shot-sized cup of coffee on his lap.
While the plane's still over the island.
I don't need to work at it. I stand out whether I like it or not.
I like it.
But still.
I don't avoid Wal-Mart because it's trendy to avoid Wal-Mart.
I avoid Wal-Mart because when I walk in there my brain immediately begins slamming itself against the wall of my skull.
Until I leave.
Because it's trying to escape.
It's a breeding ground for people who wear black jogging pants to 'dress up.'
Who communicate with their families by shouting obscenities.
I don't give a fuck if I'm saving 85 cents on orange juice if I have to buy it in that environment.

We did Cora's last monthish.
I showed up last.
Cause I'm always late.
I am punctuality's anti-Christ.
My penis friends are right on that one. No arguments here.
Anyway, I show up last.
They're already seated.
And all of 'em. Missuses. All of 'em.
They start laughing as soon as they look at me.
And I don't know why.
Turns out it's because I looked so gross.
Which is why I ran into my ex-girlfriend's entire family during the same breakfast.
Existence isn't a treat for me.
But at least there's fresh fruit.

Don't get me wrong.
I'm just whinging, as the Australians say.
I wouldn't trade 'em for all of the gold in Ja Rule's mouth.

Skin Ticket

I am a learning disability.

I don't know what beers go with what beer companies.
Okay.
You happy?
I said it.
I have no idea who brews India, and who brews Black Horse.
However, though my patriotism is damned already, it goes beyond that.
Coors. Whatever.
I don't know.
Are you happy, hot bartender waitresses?
I fucking hate it when I go to order a beer and then they don't even say that they don't have it.
They just shout "We only have Molson products!" over the din of people trying to have sex with one another.
"Canadian, then."
If it's Molson, it's Canadian. If it's Labbatt's, it's Blue.
I hate both of them.
There are times when not being cool can be very debilitating.
Like when Max King plays November Rain* at the dance, and you have no one to sidle up with.
You wanna dance with the heartthrob for that one.
Cause it's ten minutes long.
That's not a Jennifer Clarke.
That's a Dana Puddicombe.
But that's another humiliating story.
(Still being told).

*I already linked November Rain in another post. This is another G 'n R classic.
And I didn't want to link Paradise by the Dashboard Light.

Mr. Warford is a Fraud

Dump the body in the dumpster behind Burger King.
It's Friday.

So, as I have hinted, I had an observation day on Wednesday of this week.
I got to go to a shop class.
I listened to a chapter of The Outsiders.
Though I have to say, it's just not the same if Harold Stanford isn't reading it to you.
For those lucky few who know Harold Stanford, imagine his voice saying:
"Stay gold, Ponyboy."
Kirk and I still talk about it.
H'anyway.
I'm trying to get used to calling teaching peers as 'sir' or 'miss.'
It's an adjustment.
These people are, for that day, your co-workers.
You know their first names.
Or, at least, you know that they have first names.
But as soon as you leave that staff room you have to say, "Hello sir."
Or, "You got some ass on ya, miss."
Now I'm being called 'sir.'
Or Mr. Warford.
It feels out of place.
Like I'm at the bank all day long.

"Tater, come ta Nan."

She: I'd say you're pretty virile for 26.
Me: Would you?
She: Well, you keep up with me.
Me: I get so winded...
She: I didn't say you were in shape.

She enjoys having cats placed on her head.
Literally.
She's asked me to do this for her on several occasions.
There's a long list of things that cats don't want to do for the benefit of humans.
This is just another one.
You should hear the way she talks to them.

She has a habit of saying the funniest things when I least expect it.
You should drive her through Island Cove sometime.
"Holy fuck! That yard has a horse in it!"
"Oh my god! What was that?! It looked like a field of rabbits back on buddy's lawn.
Or gerbils. They looked like they may have been gerbils."
So, we drove back down Bishop's Cove Shore, and we're all looking for the yard.
With the gerbilery in it.
"Oh, it was just cats," she muttered as we passed by.
Two of them. Two cats.
Colin said, "I'll tell ya one t'ing, a woodsman yer not."

Last night I wanted to pick up her Wendy's potato for her.
So that she could shower.
Allowing us time to catch the opening of Law & Order.
Me: So, ask him for the sour cream and chives, and you don't want anything else?
She: Yeah. They only have two kinds of potatoes; sour cream and chives, or theatre cheese and dodgy fuckin' bacon.

Kloreroe

In my first 'teaching English' class, I said that I was in the faculty because my mom made me apply.
Which is more or less true.
But, when I'm in doubt, and I think that I should maybe run off to some other province.
For some other exploit (dentistry, for example), I remind myself of what I said to myself when I brought in the application:
'Hey, if I teach for 30 years, at least the job will never be boring.'
More proof:
Tech education class. They're doing an animation thing in Paint.

Some random kid: Would it be inappropriate to do an animation with the Ku Klux Klan?
Teacher: Yes. Absolutely.

And I'm biting the insides of my face, I'm trying so hard not to laugh.
It's not just that this kid is saying this that's flooring me.
It's 9a.m.
If a kid is asking you that before recess, who knows what else the day might bring?

Bees Attack Stars!

I just finished sticking a bunch of shit to my walls.
With that tacky adhesive gear that may replace scotch tape one day if it gets its act together.
It's a long shot, though; the Scotts don't go down easily.
The French, on the other hand...
But we're not talking global issues right now.
The stuff on my walls is a mish mash of mementos and used condoms that I have kept over the years.
Because, when not mocking old people or inhaling inhalants, I too can be wistful.

So, I watched Hey Rosetta! play music last night.
They look more like a Nova Scotian band than one of ours.
These days.
The bass player lost his glasses.
Not literally. Cosmetically.
Turpin and I watched the band for a while before we grew bored.
Then we watched the bassist (him again) make his bass-player faces.
And equated them to his having sex.
Because he was making fuck faces. Onstage.
I wonder if anyone has told him yet.
Hopefully his mom reads my blog.
Stars came on afterwards.
What a bunch of florist jerkoffs they are.
Throwing roses to the crowds, and rose petals when breaking into choruses.
Don't get me wrong; I dig the band.
But sometimes the stage antics of a group can really sour the milk, y'know?
Ever watch Thursday live?
Exactly.

Side note for all of you 7-foot tall, well-endowed assholes.
If you're at a concert. Or a play. Or one of those deals where people have orgies onstage.
If you're at one of those. You can look around and say to yourself,
"I'm easily the tallest person here."
So why are you standing in front of me?
And when you put your lightweight girlfriend on your shoulders?
Even better.
Next time I hope you drop her.

Half-Life

I'm not writing a bunch of stuff down for the likes of you people!
I'm kidding. You're a fine gaggle of readers.
This is me up for oxygen.
I've been sacrificing hygeine and sunlight for the sake of this game.
Though, from what the weather woman has been telling me, I'm not missing much.
You know the one.
With the gappy teeth and pleasant behind on channel 17?
I'm sure she has a lovely personality as well.
All weatherpeople do.
They're also great at making swooping, elaborate gestures with their arms.
Am I still talking about this?

I'm going to see Stars tonight.
Not the anvil-on-your-head kinda stars.
The band.
Shit!
My pie's burning.
I've got class anyway.
I might be back again later.
Maybe not (Fallout).

I Ain't Afraid Of No Gross

Dress up like a slutty nurse, cat, cop, devil (imp), angel, fairie, butterfly, lady bug or bumble bee.
It's Hallowe'en.
I don't have a costume.
I did have a few ideas that never came to fruition.
Unlike all of these ghoul, vampire motherfuckers that are out trick or treating tonight after school
I wanted to go as something that's actually scary.
Frightening.
So, I was going to dress up as grand economic decline.
But I was too lazy to make a line graph.
Then I thought I'd go as the general public.
But that's a costume with just too many elements.
I mean, do I dress up as the assholes who wear their sunglasses on the back of their heads?
Or the guys who drive Ford F250s and beat their wives?
Too many variables.
So, I might simplify.
I covered Mitch Hedberg at the Rose & Thistle last night.
And I wanted to straighten my hair for the occaison.
I made Turpin do it.
But we quickly realized it would take too long, and I was finding it too painful.
Among the many things that Turpin is not
(attractive; polite)
you can also add 'hairdresser' to the list.
But she did straighten half of it.
And left the other half as is.
Peter's blog might have pictures.
Anyway, she suggested I do the same thing tonight and go as 'fucking ugly.'
Unless I can find the old elephant costume, I may do that.
Listen to this, and then go put your pins and needles in your apples.

Trick or Cheap

You know what the shallow girls like about Hallowe'en, don't ya?
They can dress like prostitutes without fear of judgement from the other shallow girls.
That they hang out with.
Cause birds of a feather...
You know the rest.

My diet is becoming frightfully expensive and unhealthy.
Everything that I've eaten in the past week has been handed to me by someone wearing a visor.
Coupled by the occaisonal headset.

I'm to interview Stars today, for The Scope.
I don't know what to ask them.
I may ask the female Star to slow dance with me.
While I ask the male Star to 'butt out.'
It'll be fine.

I had an observation day again on Tuesday.
All my teacher did was frown and yell.
I had less fun than I did on Monday.
It wasn't a total bust, though:

"So, do you have ADD?"
"Yes!"
"Do you take Riddlin?"
"What the hell is Riddlin?"

Teacher: Someone name a restaurant.
Student 1: Ponderosa!
Teacher: No, a restaurant where you move in a buffet line to get your food.
Student 1: That's what Ponderosa is.
Student 2: Was.
Student 1: Was.

I'm legitimately phobia'd of bees, you know.
Anything that flies and stings, really.
As a kid, if I saw a bee, I would run in the opposite direction.
I have since stopped doing that.
Not because I'm not still terrified of bees.
But because I figure on a long enough timeline I'd flee a bee right into traffic.

Hungry Like the Wolf

I bought a clubhouse during lunch on my observation day.
I went to B & B Snacks. It was nearby.
I tried to link B & B, but they don't have a website.
Or I'm not searching well enough to find it.
"Try Altavista!"
Anyway, I was accosted by pre-pubescent 'hardcases' before my clubhouse was ready.
"Do you want to be a teacher?"
"I did," I said, "Until I had your class. Now I don't want to anymore."
"Can I sit wit' you?"
"Why not?"
"So, why do you have an afro?"
"Because it makes the ladies like me."
"No it doesn't."
"Sure it does. You like me."
"No I don't!"
"You asked to sit with me."
It was kinda fun.
It was like verbally fencing with people who aren't as smart as you all day long.
Well, I guess that's exactly what it was.
They warmed to me a great deal.
In the hallways the boys would stop and say, "You got wicked hair, man."
The girls would whisper loudly, "I like his hair."
Imagine if I'd grown it out when I was in grade seven.
The ass.
My son.
That age group doesn't appeal to me as much these days, though.
I like breasts (fully formed).
I like hips.
It's a shame, really.

Show at The Rose last night.
Wasn't bad.
I have a new joke about Big Tom that I've already fallen in love with.
Which is similar to my love for Big Tom's wife.
But there are subtle differences between the two.


It's the 80s again, you know.
Emo is the 80s again.
Look at what they're wearing.
The music doesn't sound similar.
But it's similar in that it'll be really embarassing to everyone involved given another eight years or so.
Think about it.
And it'll slowly dawn on you that Emo haircuts are just A Flock of Seagulls at a different angle.

Writing on the Wall

I'll tell you one of the things that I learned during my observation day:
All schools smell the same.
Have you noticed that?
Another thing I noticed:
If the government took the funding that goes into the acquisition of those posters.
Which they slather all over the walls.
You know the ones.

I AM CREATIVE AND AGILE, THEREFORE...

I HAVE A RESPONSABILITY NOT TO BEAT THE PISS OUT OF WEAKER KIDS

Or:

PERSAVERANCE

IT'S BETTER THAN BEING ADDICTED TO BLOW.

(picture of a woman rowing a boat in front of a sunset)

If the government took the funding that went into purchasing those posters.

And they put it into, oh, I don't know, anything else.

I bet the students would be better off.

I Got You, Babe

I wanted to work on an impersonation of Cher having an orgasm.

Just think about it for a minute.

...

But, like many failed singing sensations, I don't believe that I have the vocal range.

Only Have Eyes for You

We need more Blackberries.
The obnoxious kind that keeps you tethered to your job.
Not the berry.
There aren't enough Blackberry factories.
Because I think that if we produce enough, alongside the advent of the text message, we can eventually phase out eye contact.
Which is where we want to be, I think.
Eye contact is just something to distract us from Family Guy and that show with all of the midgets in it.
Oh, it won't be forgotten entirely.
It's something that will be patiently explained to sheep who go on heritage tours while they're vacationing.
Graduated arts students can explain it to groups of 35 to 40, with the help of (digital) placards and recorded sound clips.
Faded pictures of historical figures making eye contact with other historical figures.
The tour guides will wear maroon blazers.
And they'll say, "A hundred years ago people would spend days, or even weeks making eye contact with one another.
It was used in conversation, but sometimes people would make eye contact from across a room without any dialogue at all.
Before fucking one another in the laundry room at a party.
Just try it now. Turn to the person closest to you and make eye contact."
Giggling and nervous everyone will try it out (some of the children will be too afraid to participate).
"It's terrifying!" One woman in the back will exclaim through cautious laughter, her eyes locked with some fat man's from Iowa.
But step one:
Make more Blackberries.
The babies don't have them yet.

Hall Pass

I just returned home from my first 'observation day.'
If I'd brought my own car, and if I hadn't worn a suit, I could've went to Sunshine Park.
For a field trip.
And canoeing.
Just as well. I probably would've drowned.
I'm exhausted. Mostly because my sleeping pill didn't kick in.
But also because I had so many children gawking at me today.
Guess I wasn't the only one observing.
When I've slept and washed the school system off of me, I'll fill you in.
On my observations.

Dropped Call

I lost my cell phone.
Of course I did.
Turns out I dropped it.
On Larkhall Street.
Some nice lady named Amanda found it.
She then called my grandmother because it was the latest number in the phone.
Amanda caught my Aunt Barabara in my grandmother's room.
Thank fuck.
If Amanda had gotten Nan on the phone, they both would have been greatly confused.
And Nan would've had Amanda talking about the weather for half an hour.
Amanda was eventually put into contact with my mother.
This is just another item to add to the mass list of things that my family can ostracize me about.
I've said it before and I'll say it again:
No matter how old you are, when you're the youngest, you're the youngest.
I've never said that before.
But I've said shit like it.

9 out of 10 dentists agree

She used my toothbrush once, you know.
Did I ever tell you?
Da missus and I have been on the go for an entirely staggering two to three months.
Ish.
And I once asked her, at some point after intercourse had started, if I could use her toothbrush.
I wouldn't say that she was appalled, necessarily.
But she was something like appalled.
She explained that we weren't so far along.
I told her she was welcome to use mine whenever.
She told me that she had never used another's toothbrush.
Apparently she doesn't use toothbrushes as haphazardly as I do.
One night, however, soon after I had finished pleasing her sexually
-several, several times-
SHE BRUSHED HER TEETH WITH MINE.
Now, no matter what happens, I'll be the guy.
"Paul Warford?
Yeah, I know him. I dated him for a while. He's a fucking deadbeat.
Did I ever use his toothbrush? Yeah...I did.
I'm ashamed to say it...but he was my first."
This is how ex-girlfriends talk about me, by the way.
Relationships are small victories.
And huge, obnoxious fights in which you throw plates at one another.

Sellout

I'm shirtless.
I have a midterm tomorrow in Effective Teaching.
The professor is very animated.
It's a take-home exam. So we're laughin'.
Now, Turpin has lost the take-home examination sheet.
But I'm sure we'll track down another one.

I had a very fun set last night.
The manager of the St. John's Yuk Yuk's (not yet open) was there to scope for talent.
While I pretended that I smoke cigarettes all of the time, he told me many encouraging things.
I have a show at the Rose and Thistle on Wednesday.
The other guys are all worked up about it.
I only see it as more burnt gas.
And emitted carbon.
We're supposed to make some percentage of money.
I'm sure it'll be less than what's projected.
I hate to say, 'I'm not in it for the money.'
But I guess I'm not.
Not when the money is 20-something bucks, anyway.
We hit $100, and it'll be a different story.
I can't wait to get famous.
I'm going to forget everyone.
Family. Friends. Old teachers. You.
Everyone.

Robert Shandera had a bachelor party on Saturday.
I have only seen one picture from the evening so far and it already carries enough weight to keep me out of office for the rest of my life.
We played paintball.
It was funner than anything else I've done in many, many years.
It would be, I guess.
Because it's guns.
Playing guns.
Which boys do. With plastic Uzis and pistols.
But the arguing aspect of guns-the "I got you!"
"No you never!"
"I did too! I got you in the arm!"-
that's eliminated. Because there's a big blotch of paint to say you were gotten.
And, in some cases, a welt.
We were playing the first round of the day.
I was behind a piece of sheet metal.
And I can see our opposing team crouched and lurking across the way.
And I think to myself, "I'm going to run and take cover behind that wooden thing."
I get up, and run as fast as I can, and dive behind said wooden thing.
A second later I hear the thump thump thump of paint hitting the other side of the palette, and I think to myself:
'Oh yeah. I could play this every weekend.'
By the end of the second round we were walking to the 'safe zone', breathless, saying, "Fuck golf."
I plan to play again before it begins snowing.
Though, in truth, I'd be playing now instead of writing this shit if I could.

Just Want to Bang on De Drum All Day

Is it normal in classroom group work to totally tune out what your partners are saying?
I hope so.
Everything has been handed in on time so far, by the way.
Take that, everyone who said that Turpin and I would fail miserably.
What does my mom know, anyway?
We do tend to lose focus though, from time to time.
Like for the four questions we had to answer in Effective Teaching?

Her: "Oh! Let's go watch a movie! Oh right...we have stuff to do."

But between the two of us we attend many classes and have purchased many books.
We have gathered many syllabi.

A Monster

I'm thinking of opening a restaurant.
A vegan restaurant.
I'm going to call it The Same Demise.
I'll serve all sorts of stems and leaves and food without nutrients.
I'll have coat racks all around so that the vegans can hang up their scarves.
And I'll have plasma screens situated throughout the restaurant.
Playing a continous live feed of animals in slaughterhouses.
Being slaughtered.
So that they can watch all of the animals they're not saving while they eat.
Only in a country where the residents have too much, y'know?
That's the only kind of place where it's cool not to eat anything.
Find a kid in Zimbabwe who's subsisting on shrews.
Ask him if he ever conisders the shrew's rights.

Oh come on.
I never get to talk ethics.

Blue Balls

I'm thinking of writing a bit on bag tagging.
Because, as a practice, it's one of the most ridiculous things that men do.
When I was finally preparing to leave Acadia (ego in tow) my roommates and I invented a game.
Here are the rules:
You take a tennis ball.
You all sit a few feet from one another in low-riding seats.
Legs spread.
You arc the tennis ball a few feet into the air.
Trying to hit the other players' testicles.
You take turns in a circle.
No moving.
No flinching.
We called it 'Lob Ball.'
Of course we did.
We played it for an afternoon.

Grand Tally

Kirk Bussey has asked me to be his best man.
That's one.
I guess the bachelor party will involve poker.
And strippers.
Oh! Strip poker!
More of you should have me standing at your weddings.

eDit: I'm already taking the strip poker idea seriously.

We Hope You Live to be a Hundred

A strange woman is going to be rubbing her breasts in my face within a few days.
Don't worry; I'll pay her for it.

A purveyor of tits, my brother, turns a miserable 32 in a few weeks.
Here's a fun birthday idea:
Instead of putting candles in the cake one year, just jam miscellaneous shit into the icing.
And light it on fire.
"Why's this chair missing a leg?"
"Make a wish!"

When I was around eight, I cut my cake and had to tell everyone who I had a crush on.
I said "Leanne Badcock," and she ran out of the bowling alley, crying.
This would prove to be foreshadowing for how women react to my affection.
I'm not embarrassed about telling you the story.
I'm embarrassed to admit that I was ever into Leanne Badcock.
Even pre-pubescently.

Figure of Speech

They say that 'you learn something new every day.'
That's not true.
Besides the occaisonal tidbit on classroom management, I'm learning nothing new.
But I hate someone new every day.
I think that they should change the expression.

Don't worry about where I've been.
I've been doing homework. I've been sick.
I've been lazy.
Don't worry about where I've been.
Just be glad that I'm back.

"Can You See My Balls Now? Good."*

Whisper about your best friend behind her back.
It's Friday.

I sent a picture of my testicles to Robert Shandera yesterday.
Through my cell phone.
It's really a versatile piece of equipment.
And the best thing about these cell phones?
You can call your wife from the Tim Horton's.
And you can say, "There's no fruit explosion left, so what do you want?
...
Blueberry? Uhh...I don't see any blueberry. Yeah, the girl's saying there's no blueberry."
If you go to a large auditorium or concert hall, you don't actually need to specify a time or meeting place anymore.
You just get out that cell phone, and you call your friend from the entrance.
And you can say, "Yeah, I'm here, where are you?" while you look over the sea of doe-eyeds.
It's a great invention.
Every single person on the planet should have two.
Anyway, I texted Shandera a picture of my testicles.
I had to go into a bathroom stall to take the picture.
I was so amused with my own antics I was giggling in class.
My mom keeps telling me that I need to 'grow up.'
Not today, mom.
Not while I still have these balls of mine.

I'm not not getting a haircut because da missus likes it long.
I'm not (not) getting a haircut because I can't afford one.

Twenty-six years ago today Sarah Turpin  first escaped from the Cryogenics lab.
Be sure to throw eggs and cabbage heads at her in the street.

*Can't take credit for this one.
It's a GTA IV quote ("Is he still talking about that fucking game?")

A Bed of the Class

I'll tell you why I like her.
Because we debate the key issues, and she always has the sharp counters.
Id est:
Me: Hobo's pizza is wicked.
She: You know what else is wicked? Jeans with elastic waistbands.
She's shorter than I am.
Just the way I like it.
She's afraid to meet my mother.
I don't blame her.

I really have to start attending more classes.
We all know I'm not getting through this degree program unless I start making eyes at my professors.
And they say that 'abscence makes the heart grow fonder...'
But what do they know?
I have a stamp card for the coffee shop in the Education building.
The coffee wench suggested I not 'lose the card.'
Like she knows me.
I'll lose it soon.
She kinda does know me.

Turpin slept over last night.
Though I wouldn't really call it sleeping, if you know what I mean.
I tripped over one of those reusable bags that she's always carrying around.
Which made a big commotion.
Then we had to remain stationary.
Because she's afraid of my brother.
I am, too.
I threw a bar of soap at him once and hit him in the face with it.
It was a decision that I immediately regretted.

"Maybe She's Born With It..."

I headlined last night.
It didn't go nearly as swimmingly as the last time I was on the marquee.
However, I have a new joke that alludes to using a baby as a projectile that I really enjoy.
It's all they're good for, really.
Moreover, I cooked up a Kinnicky ad lib that went over very well.
Sometimes this is a gig of wee victories.
And monumental failures.

I had to break into my apartment today.
It was frighteningly easy to do.

I think that all of Johnny Cash's post-mortem hysteria would even irritate Johnny Cash.
If he weren't so dead and all.
"Come on fellas, I was using simple chord progressions.
And according to my biographers, I was drunk all of the time."
Let's make a flashy Hollywood blockbuster about Hank Williams.
He has way more style.
If Joaquin Phoenix auditions for the role, tell him he hasn't got the drawl.
Don't even get me started on Reese Witherspoon.
Someone needs to stick that broad in Cover Girl commercials.
Where she belongs.
They finally got around to it with Drew Barrymore.
Keep that momentum going, guys.
I hear Maybelline is hiring.

I have a pair of jeans that accentuate my penis.
I never knew (that my penis could be accentuated).

Oh!
Speaking of my erotic wardrobe!
The Current is, allegedly, interested in putting me in their 'In Style' section.
'Bout time.

Lack of Taste

Tell her "It's just a rash."
It's Friday.

And I am mildly hungover.
If this hangover was a salad dressing it would definitely be a light dressing.
One of those pussy brands that you spritz over your salad.
Which is perfect if you want to pretend that you're tasting something.

Alright, I'm going to choose an outfit.
Maybe I'll bounce back after the golf.

DeskTopic

You know when the host thanks the guest?
Says 'We'll be back with whoever the musical guest is this week"?
Then they cut the mics and cue the music and fade to the Colgate commercial?
All I really want is to know what's being said at that desk that the audience doesn't hear.
And I want it said to me.
Probably "Get off of the studio's property."
Or something like that.

The English Patience

I have a crush on my English teacher.
Or my teaching English teacher.
I would.
I want to get drunk and tell her.
Speaking of which.
Me and some Nova Scotian cats were doing some group discussion (there's a lot of this).
And, after reaching a breaking point I asked:
"When do we all start getting drunk together?"
No one seemed to know the answer.
"I know the faculty is organizing a hike at Cape Speare in a few days."
"Yeah, see, that's no good. You can't get drunk at that."
They all nodded solemnly in agreement.

Shred the Gnar

Pete and I are looking to initiate a radio station at CHMR.
There's a training course.
Then we're in.
Our target audience?
Maids with ears.
We have tossed around an idea or two and already I'm stoked.
That's snowboarder talk for 'excited.'
They have rad words for everything, that snowboarder crowd.
They wear bandanas around their legs.
They're very cool people.

Some waifs live above me.
One of them came down to our place a few days back to ask if she could share the internet.
And I said, "You can't like, share the internet, man. It's everywhere.
That's like asking if you can share the sky. You can't share the sky."
I didn't really say that.
Can you high school girls eat something?
This person definitly weighs less than my nan.
Anyway, I opened the door, and she, smiling, stuck out her hand.
"Well, if we're doing that, I'll do up my belt."
Then I fastened my belt.

Thin Eyebrows

Does the week seriously move this slowly for you people all of the time?
With my recent (joyous) stint of unemployment, I was beginning to forget what it's like to be under da man.
This week has taken forever. I think Tuesday happened twice.
I apprecaite that today is Thursday. But I meant to write this post days ago.
The week's just been moving so fast.

H'anyway.
Where were we?
Comedy was pulling teeth last week.
But I did manage to get an overly verbose lawyer to buy me dinner.
And John Sheehan is now my Facefuck friend.
I'm going to have a website like his one of these days.
And Pete Soucy will say that, "Paul Warford is the most tender lover who's ever neglected me."
Cause you have to dream big in this business.
I've already looked at all of John's pictures of him at the beach.
I feature this week.
I'm going to have a good set.

Peter Russell, Robert Shandera and I saw this boat last week.
It was really big.
All of the deckhands had solid gold teeth.

Turpin and I spoke with Amy recently.
During one of our legitimate business meetings.
Amy slings the lattes and mochas at the Top Sail Jo Boss.
Between Shandera, myself, and wassisface, we see her on a nigh-on daily basis.
She has discussed her sexual escapades with me on at least one occaison.
I introduced her to Turpin on this particular day.
While Amy threw herself at me.
She brought some slope-browed boyfriend with her into the shop.
Detailing that she believed he might be 'too cool' for her.
After Amy left us to our great minds, Turpin and I eyed this man.
"He looks like an idiot," I muttered to myself.
Not hearing me Turpin mutters to herself, "He looks like an idiot," seconds later.
In the exact same tone and pitch.

So, class is happening.
Or so I've heard.
I've been skipping them semi-regularly.
I'm doing so right now, in fact.
It's a faculty. A small one.
I won't have the liberty of skipping classes down the road.
This is wise time management.
With which I am quite proficient.
In one of the those that I made it to, our room had to introduce itself to one another.
Write down three things that describe you:
-average height
-fun loving
-classy
List some of your passtimes:
-stand-up comedy
-being rejected by women.
Two broads with harlot faces listed their passtimes as:
-shopping
-going to the gym
If these are your interests, you have no interests.
You're boring.

Quality Shmoment

Perform felatio on the cab driver.
It's Friday.

You don't need a rotational feather duster with 360 degree capabilities to dust your home.
Just use a fucking rag.
Or the ol' wedding veil.
Might as well put that to some use.

I'm not certain that I'd necessarily call myself a cynical individual.
Miserable, sure.
Aggravated as well.
Surly when I'm drunk.
But not cynical.
However, I did duck my head into the MUN bookstore yesterday for the sole purpose of laughing at the shmos in line.
I searched for the word shmo because I wanted to see if I was spelling it properly.
Just goes to show you that you never know when you might stumble upon molecular theory.
At times when a university campus is fat with new wetbacks, I can't help but think.
One day I'll be giving little Paul Junior his special talk as he leaves for college
(Provided he passes remedial math).
I already know the advice I'm going to give him.
It's the same advice that my father gave me:
You don't really need to spend that much time on the nipples.
Just poke and prod at them for a moment.
And move on.
Because I do want kids. I do.
I have a lot of sprees still in me.
And I'm going to need someone to point at in the courtroom.
I'm going to need a spare set of finger prints.
On that. Here's the music of a guilty man.
If being wicked is a crime.



Alright.
I've gotta go.
Sarah Turpin just showed up.
With the following news:
"I bought a daily planner. So I'm going to be organized.
I don't know where it is, though. I think I left it in Wal-Mart."
She's a catch.
Like influenza.
Are you all still at work?
Put in minimal effort for the rest of the afternoon.
For me.

MonoMental

Alright.
I just had my first-ever education class.
It kinda sucked.
I didn't really absorb anything.
The word 'assessment' was used a lot.
Sarah Turpin hasn't turned up yet.
I checked off her name on the little sheet.
I'm sure she's got her hand caught in something.
Vending machine, maybe.



You know, I don't mind the unicycle guys.
If you've been groping and fondling me for a long time, you'd assume I'd have qualms with the unicycle guys.
That's not the case, though.
Two reasons:
Uno.
If you've got the courage and sheer stupidity to bomb Long's Hill on a vehicle with one wheel, you're alright in my book.
Deuce.
I figure that if enough jerkoffs start riding unicycles everywhere, it's only a matter of time before I see someone bail off of one.
And that would definitly turn my day around.
I'd have a good story to go home with after that crosswalk.

What're you people doing?
Who's in a cubicle right now?
Start masturbating.
Bet you'll get away with it.

Like Lambs to the Locker

The only French expression that I ever really got a handle on?
'Je ne sais pas. '
I couldn't count to dix.
But that expression?
By the end of high school I could pronounce it perfectly.
Let's just skip me, teacher, and ask Vince how to say "I need to go to the bank," instead.

Why do people applaud when someone in a large room breaks a dish?
Are we that into catastrophe?
Yes, yes. Someone dropped a mug.
The tilt's still at 23.5*.
Go back to eating your fucking omelette.

Early September leaves MUN clogged and gagging on new students.
Frosh week (or whatever they call it here) is my favourite.
A bunch of terrified people trying to look confident.
Some of them still have their braces on.
I'm sure you'd get the same vibe at the Canadian Idol tryouts (what a handjob).
If you ever happened to stumble into that hotel lobby.

*Would you believe I've comitted the ol' axis to memory?

"It's a Crane"

I don't know how to start it so I'll just launch into it:
I'm knocked up.
You've been wondering where I am.
Well, it has taken me a couple of days.
Oh, sure, you had your suspicions.
My mood swings.
My early morning vomiting sessions (so out of sync from my usual afternoon vomiting sessions).
My insistence on your leaving the room whenever I wanted to change.
And though you couldn't be certain, and perhaps it was just the influx of Boone's, but you could swear that I was 'showing.'
We're in this together, reader base.
Just know that I love you.
You have to come with me when I tell mom, though.
And she's not going to be happy.
When it comes to my indiscretions and mass blunders, she rarely is.

On that, today marked orientation for the Education Faculty.
A real opportunity for me to determine whether or not my fellow students are attractive enough to talk to.
I was late.
I really enjoy being late in an auditorium setting.
It's satisfying to let a large semi-circle of people know that you slept half an hour more than they did.
I didn't absorb a whole lot from the sit-in.
I did go edge of my seat when mention of the in-house coffee shop came up.
But when the lady with the microphone said
'Of course, it's not open today,'
I was about ready to leave.
The only resounding aspect of the orientation session was the overwhelming feeling that I didn't belong there.
So let's get me in some classrooms.

While cursing on the Newfoundland Student Aid webpage yesterday I realized something:
September first is my least favourite day of the year.
Unless the first happens to be labour day.
In which case, I'm in the gravel pit.
And then September second is my least favourite day of the year.
Consequently, for 2008, the worst is over.

Oh. If only that were true.

'Spose I'll tell you about the missus, now.
She's fought her way to that distinction, by the way.
It's her title in my cell phone:
da missus.
It was close there for a while.
Talent competition she was fine (can you believe one contestant did Origami? Origami's not a talent).
But I really thought that she was going to be eliminated in that event where you have to run while balancing the egg on the spoon?
But she's full of surprises, this one.
There aren't any pictures of us together yet.
But I'm sure that when there are, we'll look adorable.

Tim Ronan is no longer in Newfoundland, and therefore no longer frequenting The Victory with me.
I've never been happier.
People have been asking me if I'm going to start using his jokes.
To which I reply, 'What jokes?'

Alright, I'm going to try and score some free barbecue.

"Boys! Supper! ...Boys?!"

The guy who came up with the concept of lawn darts wasn't that original.
That shit's just the javelin toss.
Home edition.
There.
There's your goddamned Olympics joke.

eDit: That warning label is awfully obvious, isn't it?
One could even say...blindingly obvious?

Shit the Bed

Impregnate the music teacher.
It's Friday.
And what a day! Cloudless. Subtle breeze. Birds are eating my garbage.
It's a great time to exist.
I walked around in da mall for a little bit, but the stench of employment drove me outta there.

You know who I feel bad for?
Carrot Top.
Everybody shits on him for being a prop comic.
When he should be praised for being the only prop comic to ever make it.
Except for Gallagher, of course.
But fuck that guy.
Oh wait. ...What's that?
You shit on Carrot Top because he's hideous-looking?
And he was in Chairman of the Board?
My mistake.
Either way, he was asking for it.
If I got noticed, and people started calling me 'Curly Sue', I wouldn't adopt it as my stage name.
I'd tell them to fuck off.

People ask, usually on Oprah, why is it that good things happen to bad people.
If God's so goddamned good, y'know?
But people never pay attention to the good things that happen to good people.
Like the cinnamon bun, for example.
And various other pastries.

I saw a cat panting today.
Which kind of threw me a little bit.
I find cats so irresistibly curious at times.
Because, like handguns, I never had them around when I was growing up.
I can still vividly remember Mike's cat in Mike's yard that time in high school.
Because I was watching this cat. And I've never owned a cat.
Hairballs, 'spraying' (that's too polite a term for what they do, by the way), eating lasagna.
These things were all new to me.
So, I'm watching this cat, and she's digging up the flowerbed.
And then she sits in it.
Mike and Pete continue their basketball tricks, unphased.
And I ask Mike, "What's the cat doing?"
Turns out, the cat was defecating in the flowerbed.
She looked like she was waiting for a bus.

Irresponsible

My mother is coming into town today.
I have set my alarm (for noon) for the first time in over a month.
Whenever my mother comes to call I find myself needing to do...things.
I need to make lists.
I need to wait in lines. Fill out forms. Present my picture i.d. which inevitably turns out to be lost.
And then, when my mother gets here, I can say:
"See? How's this? I'm applying myself."
Not unlike bringing goat carcasses to the entrance of an Ogre's cave.
Just to stay on its good side.
My mother, on the other hand, has a penchant for loan applications.
And who wouldn't, really?

Ying Style

Turpin, her missus and I ended up at Ches' after comedy on Sunday.
Sidebar: Turpin performed for her very first time ever.
And I'd never been so oddly...attracted to her.
She did very well.
Better than the fat man with the suspenders, or the guy who keeps saying 'cock' all of the time.
That guy needs a hobby.
A different one, that is.
H'anyway.
Our food was brought out by the young maid who hated us.
Because we were eating-in at two a.m..
And Turpin said to John, "I want some of your fish, so don't use malt vinegar."
A pause.
"I'm allergic!"
A pause.
"Oh no, I've got vinegar in my eye!"
While I had an apple in mine.

We went to Starbucks.
I bought coffee with her father's money.
We get out into the car.
We're talking about two different things at the same time, which we usually do.
I sit and wait for her to start driving.
She says, from the driver's seat, "Wait a second! Wait a second!"
While looking around.
And I think, 'Oh, she's lost the car keys.'
Then she reaches through her window and gets her drink from the roof of the car.

The Postman Always Gawks Twice

Now, though people of colour may be partially to blame for my agonizing estrangement from you goons, I further blame the move.
On the new apartment:
I like it.
My room has enough space for my bed and my couch.
Which was my bed.
There's a huge bay window which I fear will bring with it the cold air once winter hits us.
Next month.
It has blinds, and my bed being right in front of the window, I'm worried that people may see my sexual exploits through them.
And I have enough trauma in my life without the mailman seeing me masturbate at two in the afternoon.
That's when I do it.
I still need to set up my stereo.
I hate any activity that involves great masses of wiring.
What was I talking about?
Oh yeah!
My being not here.
Well, there's a games room.
Which is where the video games go.
I also plan to put up a NO GIRLS ALLOWED! sign, but I haven't gotten around to it yet.
I want to put up a piece of paper in here that says:
BREASTS IN WHITE SHIRTS WITH WATER OVER THEM
Something like that.
Colin will make me put it on my side.
Being the realist that he is, he'll be more interested in the depiction of actual...y'know.
Hooters.
The electrical outlet on my side of the room is in the closet.
Far from my computer.
Which, consequently, is still only partially unboxed.
I have to use Colin's computer as a result.
But as soon as he comes home, he kicks me off of it.
I am seven again.
I want a laptop.
But unless my spreadsheets are off, I'm violently not in the market right now.
Today I had a great idea to counteract this issue:
I can use the typewriter that Jana gave me as a birthday gift.
Then I remembered which decade I'm in.
And how the internet works.
Thus leaving this plan, like so many others of mine, dashed.
Due to pesky logistics.

Courting

The days in which I forget to put on my deodorant are my sweatiest days.
I have many sweatiest days.

Gather 'round. Let's get everyone caught up, here.
I know that those of you who are slightly more obsessive have surely been wondering where I've been.
The Savanah. That's where I've been.
Not to hunt, or anything.
It's just that people keep saying that Lions are the king of the jungle.
And call me egotistical (many do) but I believe that it could be me.
So, the lions and I had a sitdown about it.
I got into a bit of a tussle with the alpha of the pride, but eventually we both agreed that we said some shit that we 'just didn't mean.'
We made up over a gazelle carcass, and then got drunk on Irish Car Bombs.
That's what you'd call a political drink title:
The Irish Car Bomb.

Okay, so I'm whatever. Dating someone.
I've a temporary life partner.
A potential spare kidney.
A gal.
A missus.
Possibly.
But not really. Because any term that refers to commitment beyond a week freaks girls out these days.
Someone utters 'girlfriend' and women just scatter.
Now, I'm not one to kiss and tell.
But let me detail all of our shared moments within the last three weeks.
Kidding! Kidding.
On our second date, or whatever I'm supposed to call it, I took her to a tennis court because it was the most romantic place I could think of.
I don't get out much.
I will say this:
Her name is Kerri. People call her Nan.
She wears the right sort of glasses and occasionally drinks jasmine tea.
Shit.
There's someone at the door.
Hang on.
Nobody there.
Creepy.
She's never had a bisque.
She seems sane.
That's all you're getting.
I will give you details of the various adorable things I will do at this person's behest as they unfold.

Some may blame this newfound on my lackluster blog presence as of late.
Which is fine.
Personally, I blame minority races.
But then, they're responsible for most problems, aren't they folks?

Recession

You know how people will talk about deadbeats in hushed tones, and say shit like,
'So and so can't hold down a job'?
People could say that about me, now.
And it would be applicable.

Vindicated

You know, if you start playing the clarinet when you're four and you go from 'Three Blind Mice' to Eine Kleine Nachtmusik's first movement, then that's good.
Impressive, even.
And everyone knows that the clarinet is a wiener instrument.

I ended up with Turpin, her missus, and one of the Foley men (they punch people [with padding]) a few nights back.
At her missus' place.
I brought along my 360 because I was asked to do so.
We were to fuck with that and then watch some bullshit nudity zombie film.
I set it up while the others put the pizza in the oven.
Dabbled with this and that, and then I eventually tossed on GTA IV.
Because you would. Anyone would.
I swear I didn't mean for this to happen.
But the result was the three aforementioneds watching me play the game.
For about four hours.
I asked after an hour or so (it was a blur for me) if they wanted to put the movie on.
And Foley said, "This is better than any movie."
They said they could sell tickets.
Sure, everyone was stoned. But still.
Who says we couldn't sell tickets to stoned people?
Business is all about thinking outside of boxes.
I had a fucking blast.
You rarely have spectators.
Which is why video gamers are accused of having sallow complexions.
The reality is that we gamers know that what we're doing is better than anything nature might be offering up.
Especially in this province with its shitty weather.

Ever go swimming with the family?
And you're on the diving board?
"Mom! Watch me dive, mom! Watch me dive!"
It's like that.
But mom never looks up from her Danielle Steele.
And replace the word 'mom' with the word 'everybody.'

I went to a party a few months back in a building with this game.
And Melay was there.
He's a long story; I won't get into it.
But he's hardcore.
We started playing against one another and the party stopped to watch us.

Lip Service

When I'm in public, I laugh out loud occasionally.
At the public.
The stroller shock absorbers from a few posts back, for example.
Laughed out loud.
While waiting for Pete to urinate at da mall the other day I saw a woman wearing a jacket that said:
Cosmetology.
That's the ology of cosmetics, for anyone a step behind.
Where are the cosmetologists?
What are they working on?
Are they wearing lab coats wherever they are, do you figure?

Ass in Headlights

So, I'm situated in yet another basement apartment with trickling faucets and not enough floppy chairs.
My bedside table was a microwave for about a week.
But I don't use it for that anymore.
Now I use it as a microwave.
I like it here.
I can walk to da mall.
Which is handy if I feel like wishing that I was somewhere else.
Or if I need coffee.
Someone who lived here formerly left a set of golf clubs.
Left-handed golf clubs.
It's no train set. But it'll do.
To get to my apartment, one has to walk over a slight embankment.
The car is parked at the top of it.
Whenever I leave so as to drive somewhere, I hit the unlock button on the obnoxious keychain thing, which flashes the car's lights.
In my eyes.
It'll be months before I break this habit.

Of the Cloth

You know, I get the cup holders.
In strollers.
When they came out with cup holders, I got it.
I don't really get why mothers are putting their scalding hot macchiotos into the cup holders.
But I get the cup holders.
But you lost me with the shock absorbers.
What are you doing with your baby to need shock absorbers for their stroller?
Just how much of a 'mom on the go' are you?

Where have I been?
I know where you've been.
You were in the office on Wednesday, complaining that the 'fucking Regatta was canceled.'
Ditto for Thursday.
Friday you were drunk. Probably nowhere near the Regatta.
On Wednesday I was in Starbucks with Turpin and John (her missus) and I was tempted to yell:
"Nice day for a boat race!"
In high school I wouldn't have hesitated.
Of course, in high school you generally think you're awesome when instead you're just loud.

I'm more interesting than you, so let's recap the week:
I'm a monk now.
I shaved my head. Bought an orange robe.
It's terrycloth.
Sure, the other monks make fun because it's not 'legit.'
But it'll do until I happen upon a loom.

In other spiritual occurances, I moved.
I apologize to my stalking fans (my favourite kind).
You've new routes to memorize and loiter around now.
And I'm going to be on foot much more frequently, so I'll be tougher to track for a little while.
Won't be on the couch nearly as much.
But if you're dedicated, you'll persevere.
I have faith in you.
It's important to say that to your obsessive acquaintances now and then.

Lastly, I believe that my days of looking attractive while nude-
and I mean as attractive as I was ever destined to be-
are quickly drawing to a close.
And I didn't exactly have sculptors following me around in the first place.

"How Do You Know Erika Tuck?"

Friday.
I grab a bottle of Mike Warford's finest, and my most recent aggressively-worded t-shirt and I google map Erika Tuck's house.
Colin and I got lost on the way.
I've been heavy on not sleeping a whole lot lately, so I was wary of socializing with a bunch of strangers with astute vocabularies.
But, with Erika Tuck playing party host I figured her two-story would be a Mecca for girls in plastic-framed glasses.
My favourite kind.
I was right.
But they all wanted to talk to the skinny dude in the red and black striped sweater.
And who could blame them, really.
He seemed angsty enough.
So, I spoke to Barrett and Critch (old friends now) about teaching cats from Saudi Arabia how to speak English, and the UFC.
I was mildly disinterested.
But they seemed nice enough.
I ended up on the stoop/deck because I was boozy and smoking.
I began speaking with one Kerri Breen (with a 'K'), who chiefly edits The Muse.
I've never written for The Muse.
Though I've threatened to several times.
I threaten to do all sorts of things.
Get a job, for example.
They need a features editor.
And I haven't been procrastinating nearly as much as I'd like to, lately.
So who knows?

It wasn't until afterwards that I remembered that I'd had another drunken evening on a balcony with a Muse chiefly editor for the majority of an evening.
I forget his name. But he had hair.
And a face.
I threatened to write for him, too.
Never panned out.
My memory's fuzzy, but I don't think he was as pretty.

Gimme a Shout

I need a case worker.
Due to an exorbitant amount of pressure from my father to purchase a cell phone
I'm purchasing a cell phone.

Friday.

I go to the plywood Aliant depository.
I stand in line for a few minutes.
I lament inwardly that the damned place doesn't have any chairs.
I leave because I find the whole 'feel' of the place too irritating to stand in.
I walk. I come back. I stand again. I leave again.
I go to Telus.
I explain that I want the simplest phone with the simplest plan and that,
"I don't need any additional...bullshit, pardon me for saying so."
I tell them that I have a Telus phone from my inebriated Banff days.
I can use this. Thus absolving me from having to commit to a pesky, lengthy contract.
I resolve to buy a 360 game with the 'saved' money.
I head home. I look through shoeboxes until I find it.
It's a Virgin phone. Not a Telus phone.
I'm fucked.

Saturday.

Saturday I was too tired to do anything.

Sunday.

Telus. Bright green. Bunny Rabbits and Poison Tree frogs.
This is how you move merchandise.
I pick a phone and prepare to make a commitment I've no interest in making.
I need picture I.D..
"Shit, it's in my car. Hang on."
I begin to walk through the mall when it dawns on me that my car is in my driveway.
Not the parking lot.
Because I walked.
So, I walk home. Drive back.
Return to Telus with my MUN I.D. (they said any picture, and that one's less chewed than my liscence).
"Could I possibly get your driver's liscence?"
"Yeah, hang on, it's in my car."
I get sidetracked.
I eventually return.
While choosing my 'fab five' I forget to add Colin's number.
And instead of giving them Bussey's number, I accidently give them my previous land line number.
Which is now disconnected.
My phone is pink.

'Be cool Milly...'

A glass of wine into it, Turpin drives us to Earnie's.
Because I make her.
Because I want to be able to eat it later in the evening, and we'd be too drunk to drive there.
And Anne-Marie refused to drive us (da bitch).
I let the E & E wenches know what I want, they drop the fryers, and I head back to the car.
I have Sarah turn over the car (not literally) so that I can listen to Guns.
Use Your Illusion II.
Suddenly, the battery dies.
Our thighs are inches apart.
It's terrifying.
Then the thunder begins to rumble in the distance.
And I turn my head towards my window, breathe deep, and think,
'Just be cool, man. Like you rehearsed.'
Conditions are perfect.
I say, 'The weather sure is crazy here. If you don't like the weather outside, wait ten minutes!'
And she says, (get this), 'Yeah.'
I take another deep breath.
Then she throws herself at me and we make out.
It's tedious.
Later we drink bottles of wine and try to maintain the mood.
Which I believe we did rather successfully.
Between the tears.

...my element

Vomit in wastepaper baskets.
It's Friday.
Pete and I ventured downtown today solely so that I could buy a pink (salmon) shirt.
From a women's clothing store with a very, very minute men's section.
I wandered in there about a week ago to avoid conversation with some Victory patron who makes me uncomfortable (Tim).
Suddenly I'm face to face with two attractive women and I'm browsing Joey t-shirts and lime-green dresses.
And purses.
And preposterously over-sized belts.
And "Is this a women's clothing store?" I ask.
They inform me that it is, in fact, a women's clothing store.
With a very small men's section.
My returning had nothing to do with the infatuatingly attractive artsy female whom I bantered with during my first visit.
I just wanted to buy a shirt that I could write
I HATE YOU
on. And I wanted to use a shirt that was softly-colored.
When it comes to public animosity, soft hues are tantamount.
She was there again today.
She helped to hold the shirt steady as I did the lettering.
Our fingers were inches apart.
It was terrifying.
And I used to be the confident one in all of the boutiques...

Mum

I'll be back into it tomorrow, everyone (whoever that is).
I've had a few non-days in a row.
And don't even get me started on my set last night...

Young and Purée

What's that?
You want to hear a tale about my lacking physical stature, and abscence of sexuality?
Well, pull up a chair.
This was from quite some time ago, when heavy petting was a reality only to those who were extremely popular and/or skanky.
I was violently neither.
Shandera and I were speaking with a group of girls
-Shearstown girls-
who were discussing the fineries of the male buttocks.
One of them gigglingly referred to so and so's behind as being reminiscent of a fruit.
I can't remember which fruit. Or which fellow.
Moot.
So, they went on to describe Shandera's ass as being like that of a strawberry.
I know this sounds ridiculous, but keep in mind that we're about thirteen at this point.
"What about Paul's?" Someone quips.
Any guesses?
"Raisin."
This selection is and was, of course, dried fruit.
But I suppose I didn't have the wherewithal to point that out at the time.

Cabin Fever

'Krusty wants out!'

I think I need a new job.

I only got as far as the steps of my (former) upstairs apartment today.

Where I read.

But not for very long because it was too cold to stay outside.

At least when I go to Starbucks I can tell myself that I'm being social.

On that, Peter and I saw another old man fall asleep in there a few days back.

That cozy atmosphere is condusive to more than just reading, evidently.

I couldn't choose between these two pictures and am therefore using both.

"Telefonda!"

Chew your coffee beans, everyone.
I don't really have a whole lot to talk about, I suppose.
My set on Sunday was killer.
I had sex with three women from the audience.
And two men.
This is what comedy affords you.
That, and a penchant for suit jackets.

I can't remember Monday, but I'm sure that it happened.

Yesterday I had a wee guitar lesson with Shandera.
Smoothed his cats.
I like his cats.
One of them desperately needs my attention (specifically) as soon as I arrive at Shandera's.
Of course, it's tougher for her now.
Cause she has to get around the dog first.
The other cat I almost like more because he just seems like he can never really be fucked to do anything.
Am I talking about other people's pets?
I used to be an interessting man, you know.
I used to live next to a guy from Turkey.
He yelled, on the phone, in Turkish.
It was terrifying.

I had coffee with Martin yesterday evening.
I was half an hour late.
She would have known that I was behind schedule if I'd remembered her phone number.
But instead of calling her I called some confused woman.
I also drove in the wrong direction for a while.
Then I had to buy some gas because I really thought that I might run out.
Ever experience that?
Or are you people too organized?
You're driving, and you're incessantly eyeing the gas gauge.
And you're starting to mull contingencies in the back of your mind.
Cause 'this might happen'.
Erika Tuck walked in while we were seated.
Makes sense.
Artsy kinda place. She reads books.
I assume.