"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...