A Real Dame

I had a comedy dream.
I have these infrequently, thank fuck.
After I wake up and finish masturbating, I always find them unsettling.
In this one I was trying to convince someone to give me stage time.
And I believe that I wasn't getting it.
I think that I was trying to convince Dame Judy Dench to let me onstage.
She played the Queen.
A few times, I think.
Let's see her do an airport joke, though.
Mom was watching some garbage on TV today and a character said:
"Everyone's a comedian."
And I said, "No they're not."
They're not.

Overnight and single-handedly, Russell Samways has become the blog's biggest fan.
This used to mean that Ed McMahon would come to your house.
But these days the prick won't answer my e-mails.
Speaking of deceased people, I saw my grade one teacher at church tonight.
I just assumed that she's been dead for years.
She was old when I had her. In grade one.
Anyway, Samways.
Read the whole blog in one sitting, essentially.
I wouldn't even be willing to do that.
I can't really explain a Samways to you, if you haven't met one.
One time, at Uncle Bill's, we were having a fire in the yard.
And this van pulls up.
Blaring music.
And suddenly, a Samways gets out of it.
With approximately five women.
And within seconds (seconds!) there are fireworks going off.
I can't say any more than that.
It's cool.
Because now all of the 'Bay Roberts Crowd' might begin reading it.
Which means I may be able to impress people that have always been slightly older than me.
And that's something.

Alright, I have to go up to the tree and shake all of my presents now.
I'm hoping that Santa brought me a successful lifestyle this year.

Snail Male

The thing about drinking white russians is...
...drinking them doesn't make you feel any more European.
So you have to drink more of them.
If I were to choose between an Asian bride.
And a Russian bride.
I'd go with the Asian bride.
One reason: postage.
And if you need another reason: less heavy brows.
Anyway. This is neat.
I could be the host of Canada's Worst Driver.
Fuck this guy that I'm watching right now.

My Ragtime Gal

This is, and always will be my favourite Loony Toons gag:

On the Fragility of the Psyche

Here's a homework assignment for you.
Get it done now, before the weekend.
Listen to this song.
Don't scroll down yet!
Wait until Iron Butterfly gets cooking, then scroll down.



Keep listening.
Now look at this picture:

Then write me an essay on disturbing images in the media.
Oh, lighten up Oprah.
What're you gonna do?
Sue me?

Salary Cap

Sometimes people complain that athletes make too much money.
9 million dollars.
12 million dollars.
They're getting all of the Gatorade commercials you could be starring in.
I get it.
Sydney Crosby making more money than your family tree ever will.
That prick.
And he's so young!
He even has dimples (probably).
You work hard, don't you?
You do your spreadsheets to the best of your ability.
You show up on time every day.
No one ever catches you on Facefuck while you're on the job.
Or this romper room of an Internet site.
You jerked off in the copy room during lunch last year. True enough.
But you only did it the one time.
You stir the sheep manure as well as anyone else at the plant.
Why the fuck aren't you making 9 million dollars a year?
Fuck those athletes!
Right?
Right.
But, then again...
Doing those spreadsheets...you're not at risk of losing your eyeball.
Or a tooth.

Nine Lives (minus one)

Did I ever tell you how my tarantula met his end?
It's a good story.
Though I wasn't there, and I'm likely getting all of the details wrong.

I don't know why I have such an interest in venomous things.
That most people find gross.
When I told my mother that I got a tarantula, she said:
"Oh yeah? Now, what did I do wrong raising you that made you want to get that?"
How about keeping me in piano lessons for five years?
Though, I must say, keeping me out of Tae Kwon Do was a good call.
I'm frightful and squirrelly enough as it is.
Repeated kicks to the face and ribs wouldn't have helped matters.
Then again...
For something with a brain the size of a B.B., he had a certain charm.
Or she.
Whatever it was; I never did learn its gender.
One of the Critter Keepers I kept it in had a pink top.
The other had a blue top.
And he (it) always seemed happier in the blue one.
So, in all liklihood...

Anyway, Turpin's sister was taking care of him.
Because I was in Banff smoking drugs.
Hardly an environment to care for an invertebrate in.
Claire had this cat.
I can't remember what they called it.
Anyway, one day Claire and Turpin came home to find the spider.
On the kitchen table.
And the cat was in the corner of the room.
Not moving.
Now, the spider had sustained injuries.
So they put him back in the Critter Keeper.
But he eventually went the way of Charlotte, and bought it.

To be honest, I wish he'd killed the cat.
"If' I'm goin' down..."
That kinda thing.

One day I hope to head to Australia.
Where I can see such abominations in their natural habitat:
The kitchen cupboard of the boarding house I'm staying in.

edit: This is the Facefuck message Turpin sends me afterwards.
It was too funny to not include:

I commented on your spider blogpost.
It's way funnier the way it actually happened.
Because what actually happened involved me dabbing vaseline on something I didn't want to touch with Q-tips.
And the cat was STIFF.
And claire was just bawling and bawling and swearing and yelling and being absolutely useless.
Like.... just BAWLING.

"We'll let you know."

No calls to substitute today.
But I still have to be on alert.
The mayor may call me to stop those three generic guys from robbing the bank.
I just keep me costume on under my suit.
It's important to show up quickly.
Make a good impression.
My parents believe that you should be early for everything.
And, as always, they're about 90% correct.
There are, however, exceptions.
Like when I had to go to the loan office to score crusts of bread.
"Get your ass out of bed now tomorrow, and be over there for 9 o' clock."
That's as profane as my mother gets.
"Ass."
Sometimes, when she forgets something she was supposed to bring, she says, "Aww, piss!"
Which I never found that funny until I wrote it down just now.
Anyway, where was I?
Dishonouring thy mother and father?
Gotcha.
Loan office.
Who wants to wait for three hours at the loan office with a bunch of ingrates?
I do, but I usually have classes to get to.
You want a fast trip at the loan office, go at 2:30 in the afternoon.
All of the keen losers have left by that time and are likely eating bran somewhere.

I can never understand how people are in such a rush to line up to board a plane.
They saunter on all of the grandmas and Bettys, weiner asshole children
(That I'll be sitting next to).
And people are on the edges of their seats.
"Again, this is flight some-particular-number, we're ready to start-"
People are pushing in front of one another.
I don't even get up.
I feel like saying, "Fuckers, we're all getting on the same plane.
We have assigned seats.
This isn't like getting to the back of the bus."
Retards.

Now there's the concern that I'll get a permanent position down here.
Somewhere.
That'll solidify the spinster life for me.
I'll get a job teaching in Hermitage.
And suddenly I'll have an inexplicable appreciation for Springer Spaniels.
I'll have Springer Spaniels sewn onto all of my pillows.
And my sweaters.
I'll never own a Springer Spaniel, mind you.
People will find themselves behind me in line at the grocery store.
And that'll be occaison enough to tell their spouses.
"You'll never guess who I saw at SaveEasy."
"Then you best tell me who it was."
"Paul Warford!"
"Oh, that dog! What was he buying? Eukenuba!? What a prick!"
Can't happen.
I get a job in Hermitage and my buddies will talk about me like I'm dead.
"Hey, we should get a pizza."
"Warford used to love Pizza..."
Everyone becomes silent...
"Alright, so what should we get on it?"
I'm going to throw any interviews that I get.
I'm not that capable, but I could accomplish this well enough, I think.
"Hi, hello. Before we get started, I just think that I should admit that I find you very attractive.
Okay. Shoot."
"I can work for you, if you wish.
But one day, we'll all work for the newly-risen comintern.
The sweat of our backs belong to all.
In fact, I brought some pamphlets that I thought you might like to read.
Okay. Shoot."
"Why do I want to be a teacher?
It's more discreet than basketball coach or mall Santa.
Okay. Shoot."

Miss Congeniality

Last night I had a dream that Sandra Bullock was a porno actress.
It was awesome.
I think you were in it, too.

Paul Bearer

There was a terrible storm on the day Nan was burried.
People joked that if she were alive she would've said to stay home out of the cold.
They were right.
I carried one sixth of her to her final resting place.
The casket weighed a fair amount, I think.
Otherwise six of us probably wouldn't have been necessary.
She used to give me change to blow on Ghost Rider comics at The Red Circle.
Apparently, when she did, I used to shout "I got two gold dollars!"
Which was hilarious to my parents and grandparents.
Because I was theirs. Which made me charming.
I'd imagine that anyone sharing a plane with me would have disagreed.
Anyway, I left a couple of loonies in her casket.
Because I'm dramatic.
I've never left anything in a casket before...
I was wary, though, of the mortuary staff thinking it was some 'pay the ferryman' bullshit.
Later we had tea and everyone asked me if I was getting substitute time.
And I just wanted to lie and say that I was writing for Modern Dog Magazine.

"I Don't Wanna Fight"

My brother is in the province right now.
He's asleep.
And he's six and a half hours away.
Brian and I had what you might call a tumultuous relationship as children.
'Tumultuous' like Ike and Tina Turner's.
Guess which one I was.
I hold no ill will towards him now.
Because mom won't let me.
It was a part of the growing process.
It was meant to toughen me up, I'm sure.
It didn't work, but I don't blame him for that either.
I blame all of those sissy books I used to read as a kid.
If I'd only read a bare minimum I'd probably be some big hockey star by now.
Instead of writing this blog I'd be banging women and endorsing things.
And you'd all have to find something else to do at work.

Good Mourning

I'm about to head to school.
I have no idea who I'm in for.
Or what I'm doing.
It's 8am.
I am a substitute teacher.
I shouldn't be doing this.
I should be home, being sad.

On the bright side I look incredible.
Purple is one of my many colours.

Please God

So my nan died.
Yeah, I know.
On her 90th birthday we had an 'open house' at our place.
Like you'd hold for The Stanley Cup, or The Mona Lisa.
Colin and I joked at the time that she was like the godfather (yeah, that one).
Because she just sat in her chair.
And all of these people we'd never seen would kneel in front of her.
Whispering things. Offering her gifts.
And she would nod and say, "Si, si."

People always said that she had the most amazing memory.
Which I didn't clue into until it was becomming too late.
Typical.
Once she told me a story about dad losing his tam.
Whatever the hell that is.
I guess it's a hat.
And dad was only three or four at the time.
I found the story fascinating because it was about my dad.
And he was three or four.

When I was old enough to drive we'd visit.
Because I'd have to drive to her neck of the woods to get the Coke in the glass bottles.
I used to warn the others that she might offer them money.
In which case they may as well accept it.
I used to always say, "Me and you are gonna take this money and go on the beer now."
I also used to hug her and say, "You know, I believe you're gettin' taller."
She liked that one.

She always said that she hoped to "be around next year, please God."
But when she said it, it always sort of sounded like "plaise God."
And as a kid I didn't know what that meant.
Turns out 'plaise God' meant nothing.
Nan just had a really thick accent.

She taught me to appreciate creamed corn.
And when I told her that I kissed Natalie Webber that time when we were five, she didn't tell anybody.
I'm really not good with death.
Seinfeld said the number one fear among people is public speaking.
Number two is death.
"Death...is number two?!
That means that at the funeral you'd rather be in the casket than giving the eulogy."
I have no problem with public speaking.
The shitty thing about death is that you go from appreciating to remembering.
And I suck at that, too.

"We're just two lost souls swimmin' in a fishbowl..."

It has been snowing all day.
Which is a shame.
Because my butterfly net finally came in the mail today.

When I make it big I'm going to have a human fish tank.
It'll be like a normal fish tank.
But there'll be humans in there instead.
I'll pay artisans to make a huge skull for them to swim around in.
And I'll tap flakes of some food or another into their tank twice a day.
Those Shreddies wheat logs that mom buys sometimes, maybe.

And if they happen to die, I'll jam their carcass into a toilet.
Then it's achors away.

Your Turn to Think of A Title

Read someone else's blog.
It's Friday.

Mildly drunk.
I discussed woodwind instruments with children in grade one today.
This week I saw a young man vomit into a garbage can.
I saw a kindergartner weep while a bunch of other kids sang 'Jolly Old St. Nicholas' (like...seven times).
I had one girl say to me:
"I don't believe in Santa Clause."
To which I replied, "That's okay; I don't believe in Jesus."
I ordered a ukulele.
A black one.
And I realized the following:
That if men think with their penis...
...mine can't do math.

I didn't really say that Jesus thing to the girl.

My guitar is locked in my guitar case.
I don't know how to get it out.

Back to the Pen

Bussey and I received our flu shots yesterday.
He because he's health concious.
Me because he talked me into it.
And I'm always up for meeting nurses.
According to porno films, they're particularly slutty with their patients.

Shots were done at the Catholic church here.
As he was parking the car Bussey pointed out the interessting combination of science and religion.
We sat with our forms in our pews.
Bussey asked me to pass him a Bible.
Because he needed something to write on.
I understand they're good for decorating hotel rooms, too.
They didn't have any cookies there for us.
It was my understanding there'd be cookies.
We treated ourselves to Mary Brown's afterwards.
"I'm gonna go wash my hands," Bussey said.
"Wash your hands?!" I said. "We just got our swine flu shots.
What are you washing your hands for?"
Now my arm hurts.
But I can finally get back to socializing with pigs.

Hot Potato

Bludgeon the old woman so you can get the last Cabbage Patch Doll.
It's Black Friday.

I'm in a hotel.
They have individual packets of toothpaste here.
Which is a relief.
Because the airport people told me that my toothpaste was too dangerous to take.
I have spent a lot of time sitting in places I don't generally sit in.
Tuesday, for example, I sat in The Highliner Inn, on the TCH in Grand Falls.
For about seven hours.
I had pie for lunch and took a nap in the chair in their 'lobby'.
Then I sat on a bus for a long time and ate soup at the Gander airport.

If it wasn't for nausia and alcohol, ginger ale never would have made it as a beveridge.

I had the first of what I assume will be many photo shoots on Wednesday.
My favourites are those where I'm holding the parasol at the ranch.
Southern Belle has always been my best look.
Sobol did the photos.
Though I assume she'll deny it.

The Westin is fancier than I am.
Last night's show was well enough.
The majority of the audience was comprised of people I used to see frequently.
I tried to act like I've been accomplishing things.
Mike MacDonald made me carry his bags and chew his food.

Alright, guess I'm going to ride in the elevator again.
Oh, and don't worry about the iPod; the cab company has it in their lost and found.

Did I Do That?

I should have saved myself for marriage.
For one thing, it would make the dowry a little more legitimate.
But moreover, I believe I would be more upbeat presently.
From what Turpin tells me about high school, I was a generally happy-go-lucky guy.
Because I didn't know what I was missing.
Remember Urkel?
Exact same concept.

I believe that my greatest flaw-
and that's a tight race, by the way-
is that I find good in everyone.
If this wasn't the case I'd be far better at talking about people.
Behind their backs.
I'd have quite a bit to say about you.

When you boil it down, a great actor or actress is really just someone with tremendous control of their own face.

Darwinian

In a crowd, I bet I'd be the one who'd have to shout "Run for your lives!"
I'd be the first to see the escaped panthers.
Or the wave of molasses.
I bet I'd be the only one who couldn't run fast enough.
Thousands of survivors.
One fatality.
"I'm sure glad that guy yelled out.
I would've gotten molasses on my new pants."
"Yeah...hey, what happened to that guy?"
"Oh, I dunno. I blew right past him."

This is the rationale that will remind me to never go snowboarding.
Sure, it's cool when most people do it.
But I'd end up colliding with something.
I could hear them at my funeral now:
"He said it wasn't a good idea."
"Yeah, but he looked so cute in the goggles."
Closed casket.

For Better or Worse

Placing "LOL!" immediately after something you wrote doesn't make it funny.
It makes it grammatically offensive.

So my substitution desolution persists, as I'm on day three with no calls.
I started out so well, too.
Y'know they probably came across this blog.
Bet that's what did it.
"This is terrible.
He thinks this is funny?
Stop calling this guy.
Is he in the rollodex?
Take him out of the rolodex.
Burn that card."
The number of things that this blog has cost me is likely staggering.
"This is Paul Warford's blog?
He thinks this is funny?!
Pretending Lisa Loeb is his girlfriend?
That's funny?
And I was going to have sex with that guy!
Do I have him in the rolodex?
My sex rolodex?
I need to burn that card..."
Sticks and stones.
She's better off.

So I leave for Halifax relatively soon.
Provided the bus doesn't crash.
Or the plane, for that matter.
Maybe a plane will crash into the bus.
I should be excited about it, I guess.
I'm not sure why I'm not.
Maybe because there's a boil order on in this town that I've been ignoring.
And that has damaged the anticipation portion of my brain, somehow.
Maybe I'm just not excited because Mike MacDonald probably isn't that excited.
He should be, though.
Because I'm bringing a Travel Connect-4.

Foiled Again

And while cleaning my keyboard's keys individually with a moist toilette I said:
"Do you think I'm beginning to get cabin fever?"
And my imaginary friend Jeffery said, "We should get a paddle boat!"

Everywhere I go I take a ball of tinfoil with me.
Whenever I experience a day where it seems like things are going well for me
I'll take it out and chew on it.
Helps to keep things in perspective.
Also reminds me that I should brush my teeth after every meal.
I call it my Reality Foil.

Well, it's Christmastime.
I can tell because Hallowe'en's over.
(Did I make that joke last year?)

I dropped by the high school today.
Because I wanted to get some tickets for the 50/50 draw.
While there, I found myself in the drama class.
They wanted me to do improv.
All I can concretely remember from high school improv was the following:
We had a competition of some sort during which I wore a shirt that may have contained pink.
With a Barbie sticker on it.
And that I imitated Jim 'The Hammer' Shapiro at some point.
Today it went okay.
The kids liked me more than Wayne Brady, at least.

Why, It's Elementary

Hi everyone.

Or, as I like to call you, Steve.

Sorry I'm late.

Against all of my whining and protesting, I've been busy.

My first substitute day was Thursday.

I was in for the French teacher.

Friday I was in for a grade four teacher.

Now, if you're wondering what subtle differences there are between teaching grade fours and people in puberty, allow me:

-though incoherent, junior high kids never tell stories that go nowhere.

Several times I nodded and "Oh really!'d" through anecdotes that made no sense.

-if elementary kids want something, they just...walk up to you.

And ask for it.

Before you know it you'll have a circle of them just...around you.

Looking at you.

And they constantly rush up to you to interrupt one another.

Kid One: "I don't have my math book."
Me: "This is Language Arts."

Kid One: "Yeah, but"-

Kid Two: -"My nose is bleedin'!"

-junior high kids won't call you down to their desks having farted immediately beforehand.

Whatever affords me the currency to replace my 360.

Bring it on.

Anyway, I figured I'd touch base with everyone.

But I'm feeling rather Sunday this morning.

So I'm going to phone it in with some random garbage from that book I try to impress women with.

The only part of Equestrian riding that's truly impressive is convincing a 1000-pound animal to run around a little track for you.

We are all varying accumulations of drier lint.

Convocation is just a church service with smarter people.

My new method for choosing a wife:

The day I start dating a girl I buy a new, large box of Q-tips.

If she's still around by the time I use the last one, I propose to her.

If you're deaf and you're wearing mittens, how do you communicate?

Now that my friends have stopped watching wrestling,

I believe that we should start gassing audiences.

And the wrestlers, for that matter.

You can tell a business doesn't take itself seriously when they answer their phone with:

"Hello?"

Tomorrow I teach grade 5s.

How to have a nervous breakdown, probably.

You should see Steve's family photo for Christmas.

So adorable you could throw rocks at them.

...the baker, the candlestick maker...

You'll settle down and marry me after I get rich with my new idea:
Laptops for babies.
Because babies need laptops.
Studies say that they should be able to use laptops before they leave the crib.
Otherwise, they won't be able to figure out how to buy shoes online.
Or check this blog.
The laptops will come with the tiniest little mice.
Which will be purchased seperately.
That's where most of the money will come from.
Which will of course afford me the oppurtunity to settle down with you.
Everyone will know that you married me for money.
I'll be fine with it (you will be too).

So, I'm in Harbour Breton now.
I met the principal of the school today.
She told me that I should eat more.
There's a coffee shop that was converted from a fish plant.
I'll probably be there every day.
The floors creak.
They sell muffins with stuff in them.
The woman working the counter told Miranda that she apologized for coughing while she spoke with me.
Even though I didn't tell this woman that I was living with Miranda.
In fact, we barely spoke.
She coughed while we did so.
Which I was very offended by.
I feel like as much an oddity here as I suppose I am.
So it's not so bad.

Today was the 40th anniversary of Sesame Street's first airing.
The show that taught children everywhere.
That the letter 'P' is a legitimate sponsor.
And that it's cool for men to bathe together.
As long as they sing about it from time to time.

Breaking Even

I'm nautious.
I went to a pamper party last night.
In some house in the woods.
There was a generator and a hockey game.
I was the newest human by what must have been at least six years.
I played poker and lost.
I played 'Chase the Ace' while stoned and won.
Then I ate onion rings with my father at two in the morning.
And lost again.

Speaking of losing, I'm moving to Harbour Breton.
At least for a little while.
Emotionally speaking, you're all coming with me.
But I can tell you what's not coming with me:
My toothbrush, phone charger, socks and underwear.
Some of those things won't be easy to replace.
Definitly buy my underwear at K-Mart.
Definitly at K-Mart.

Check this out.
(You're welcome).
Actually, you should be thanking Burton.
Turns out he's good for something.

You Missed Me, Alright

Remember:
Those paper things that you bake cupcakes in may look like little coffee filters.
But they're not.
Even if you distribute them around the filter basket really carefully.

My ex keeps asking me to put her in the blog.
I've been avoiding it, but I'm finally crumbling, I guess.
I still have a closet-full of her conservative black dresses.



I want my flat iron back.

A Full Body Corsage

Doing comedy is like going to the prom.
With the hottest chick from your graduating class.
And you're acting as naturally as possible.
As naturally as anyone can act in a cummerbund.
But you know that they know that she's way out of your league.
And no matter how charming or how suave you are on prom night.
You never get to bang your date.

Actually, maybe that last part is specific to me.

Those Three Simple Words

You know why Twister™ became so popular?
Because people like wagging their body parts at one another.

The internet has so many dim-witted people that sometimes I feel like taking a bath after using it.
With this dog.



I Love You, Dog @ Yahoo! Video

Sure, he says it to your face, but on a Friday night you're sitting by the phone.

It doesn't even sound like the dog is saying "I love you."
It sounds like the dog is saying, "Rowr rowr rowr!"
It sounds like the owner is saying, "I love you."
It also sounds like the owner is saying, "I don't have enough friends to organize a dinner party."

Missing Something

I've spent the past few days getting ready for my Halifax trip.
By cutting the crotch out of all of my pairs of underwear.
It's a shame, really.
I got through nearly the entire load before I realized that they had holes already.
Live and learn.

There are a lot of people I'm looking forward to seeing in Halifax.
Jon-O.
...
I guess that's about it, really.

Mark Forward stopped by the club.
He did comedy, and there were people there.
But I think they may have been his family.
I only conversed with him for a total of maybe twenty minutes.
And despite that I felt hauntingly compelled to give him a birthday card.
Having met him half an hour beforehand, I say:
"When's your birthday?"
He tells me (it's June 17th).
Saying nothing I write it on my hand.
He pauses, and then he whispers, "Are you going to do a trick or something?"
Sometimes these people come by and they're so funny that you want to vomit into their luggage.
You'd be jealous of them but you can't be jealous of them because they're so funny.
And you want to steal all of their material, but you can't because they're still in town.
I can't be this good in 27 seconds:

Drop the Beat OR Return to Neverland

I know that we should really leave Michael to rest-
Wasn't he supposed to roll back the stone of his tomb after three days, by the way?
What happened to that?-
But I was thinking about all of those pesky molestation charges of his.
And I realized that, unsavory sleepovers or no, the flak was all his fault.
Because when some woman accused him of being an illegitimate father, he wrote a hit single.
No one ever brought it up again.
Soooo...
After the kids tattled on him,
Or the parents made the kids lie,
Or whatever...
He should have called up Quincy and said,
"They're at it again. I need a beat."
Then, he could have died in obscurity like a normal king of pop.



All jokes aside. Seriously.
I could listen to this song over and over again.
It's my favourite of his.
Just goes to show what you can achieve if your father beats you enough.

Sound engineers are incredibly adept at bedding women, by the way.
I had a friend in Banff who was a sound guy.
He had a piranha, a stereo system that snaked his entire apartment, and two girlfriends.
Who were both cultured and beautiful.
And were cognizant of each other.
He was integral to my self-esteem.
If I carried on a conversation with a female customer for more than three minutes, he would chastise me for not asking her out as soon as she left.
He insisted that I should give them staff discounts.
And then ask them to get undressed with me.
In not so many words.
"Just say to her, 'We're not supposed to do this, but I can give that to you at cost.'"
He believed that 100% more women were interested in me than I did.
Really, I should've listened to him.
Two girlfriends.

edit:
I had to add this video cause this kid is sick.
And adorable.
Like if you took all of the fattest Basset Hounds* and baby penguins.
And sleuced them through a meat grinder.


*check the link! check the link!

Bobbing for Titles

I have those ribbon bumper stickers all over my body.
Because I support everything.
But I don't want to taint my car's non-colour paint job.
They keep coming off in the shower, though.

Alright
Alright.
So it's Halloween or whatever.
I'd be out Trick or Treating with my children.
But they're all illegitimate, so I don't have to deal with them.
That's what social workers are for.
Have you all inserted your needles and pins into your apples yet?
There's not much time left...
Why is it that there's always one year, during childhood, in which you dress up like a hobo?
And parents always let their kids get away with it.
Not me though.
If my illegitimate kids track me down
And they want to dress up as frigging vagrants, I'll set them straight.
"No dice. You're all going as vampires this year.
You'll have enough time to dress up as hobos when you're homeless.
Now start slicking your hair back."

I'll upload pictures of it around Christmastime.
But rest assured, this is the most lackluster year for a costume yet.
Due to a number of things.
Primarily, I just don't care anymore.
I've lost the energy.
But more so, Esteves already beat me to the Elvira costume idea.
Just as well; I can't fit into my dress anyway.
I've been eating too many molasses candies*.

*I couldn't find a picture of these.
I really wanted to.

PunchMuch

I began reading Paradise Lost.
Which I believed was all about the Paradise election that's in the news.
I thought I was reading local politics.
Which I've been concentrating on lately.
Because I desperately want to undress Debbie Cooper.
Anyway, turns out it's about some guy named Beelzebub.
Whoever the hell that is.

Speaking of uphill battles.
I've noticed that the more difficulty I have flirting with a woman.
The more attracted I am to them.
Like someone who can't swim worth a damn insisting they join the polo team.
The water polo team that is.
Not the kind with horses.
I was doomed from the start, really.

If you could punch any television personality in the face and get away with it...
...who would it be?
Mine? I'm glad you asked.
Rick the Temp.
And I certainly wouldn't give him an explanation.
Not that he likely needs one.
He probably gets struck in the face on a daily basis.
Half of you are reading this and uttering, "Damn! He took mine."
But we can share it.

A Warford Divided

I'm really depressed.
Let's see if you subordinates can cheer me up.
I may be depressed for any or all of the following reasons:

(A) I've been doing math recently.
(B) Fall in Newfoundland is just a more colourful version of winter.
(C) Tony and Michelle flew away on a plane a few hours ago, and I wasn't on it.

It's hard to explain how such an amorous bond can develop in such a short period of time.
Such solidarity.
I don't know if it was the rails upon rails of cocaine that we did together.
Or if it was the laughing that we did as Tony slugged mailbox after mailbox while I drove and Michelle took pictures.
It had to be Tony; he has the longest wingspan.
Though I never told him, Tony made me feel okay about every time that someone has said to me:
"Paul sit down. You're making me nervous."
I visited them in their hovel yesterday.
I was in the bathroom, tasting Michelle's makeup
When I noticed their little travel tube of toothpaste.
And as I did, I realized that I wanted so badly to be them.
So, I've been speaking with my agent. And my brother.
About moving to Toronto.
But let's not tell mom just yet.

I'm in the Education building library right now.
Because I have trouble letting go.
But not as much as I have trouble with straightforward calculations.
Which I have been doing all afternoon.
Sort of.
I figure if I brush up on my Physics I could substitute teach Physics.
I'm only at displacement and it's not going well.
Anyway, I just noticed an anonymous tube of lip balm.
And I took it.
Because I was complaining all weekend that my lips were chapped.
Now I'm taking the initiative.
Don't worry; I'm going to sanitize my hands very thoroughly before I use it.

"You Can Both Have Me!"

This weekend I've been doing comedy.
With Tony Krolo and Michelle Shughnessy.
I find them exactly equally attractive.
So it's a matter of pistols at dawn if they want to win my love.
Which I can only assume they do.

In other battles for affection, I convocated yesterday.
I forgot to wear deoderant and my gown was very hot.
I tried to get a good picture of myself in my garb in the bathroom of the Arts & Culture Centre.
But dudes kept coming in.
I sat in the very last row of the convocator jerks I was with.
And I began speaking to the woman next to me (miraculously).
In doing so, I found out she was a Hurley.
So I asked: "Why are you sitting next to me if I'm a 'W' and you're an 'H'?
And she replied, "Oh, I'm back here because I only registered to graduate two days ago."
To which I said, "Me too!
...I guess that's why I'm back here."

A Desert Session

If I ever found myself stranded in a desert somehow, I wouldn't even bother walking.
I wouldn't even try.

"Well, I'm doomed," I'd say to myself.

I guess I'd just sit down then and wait for death.

Which is what we're all sort of doing anyway.

But at least we get to watch the hockey game while we do it.

Not in the desert, though.

I wonder if I'd see a mirage.

A mirage is sort of like a (nearly) physical version of false hope.
So probably.
"Hey, is that an oasis! Oh wait. Nah. It's just a bus station."

Back to giving up, then.

Shooing away vultures.

"Not yet, jerks. You're worse than seagulls!"

Eventually I'd snap and run head-on into a nearby cactus over and over again until exhaustion.

Then one vulture would land beside me and say, "Not much to this guy."

And the other vulture would say, "Twelve o' clock and all's well!"

Anybody? Anybody...?So it looks like I'm confirmed to do comedy in Halifax next month.

That's a whole new staff of waitresses that I can embarrass myself in front of.

And pine over.

More to follow.

Just Call Him 'Junior'

Writing comedy is sad some of the time.
Well, writing comedy is sad all of the time, really.
But sometimes you write jokes that you know you can't keep.
Because they're not good enough jokes.
But you want them to be:
If it was called Warford & Juliet instead of Romeo & Juliet, just as I would drink the poison, she'd wake up.
And say, "Oh, I'm sorry! I don't like you like that."
"Always...taking...things too...far. And with that...I die."
Scene.

Last night there was a roast at The Levee.
George said it was pig, but it tasted a little too gamy for pig if you ask me.
Luckily, no one did.
Do I use commas too much?
Tell the truth.
Anyway, we made fun of George.
Which was easy because he's old.
It was pretty fun.
I was the only one with the decency to wear a suit.
Esteves was the only one with the decency to get drunk afterwards.
Oh wait.
Lisa and April.
Nevermind.

Alright.
Watch this.
I was told to watch this by an unnamed logger I know.
This has over 18 million views.
The Martin Luther King Jr. "I have a dream" speech only has 7 million.
Think about it.
But not for too long:


I'm not saying it's not funny.
I'm just saying.
18 million.
It's probably funnier when you're stoned.
Get stoned before watching it.
Don't do acid first, though.
You won't make it back.
Same with this blog.
If you're taking acid you should not be reading this blog.
In fact, if you're on acid right now, I feel as though I should tell you that your mind is this blog.
This has always been your mind.
And it is here to tell you:
You want marshmallows.

For the sake of comparrison:

My Best Friend

When I get a dog, I'm pretty sure I'm going to name it Skipper.
That or Puss.
But if I name it Puss, what will I name the cat if I get one?

He's no Angel

So my friend Peter has left now.
He lives in a place where you have to play golf with your own patch of grass that you carry around.
They barter using goats as far as I know.
My mother insisted that Pete was a poor influence on me as I was growing up.
We used to argue about it frequently.
Mom would insist that Peter would get me into bad habits.
Like swearing in public and marrying people from the Turpin family.
We went to the same church, he and I.
That is to say our mothers dragged us to the same church.
When you're 12 you're not concerned about piety.
Unless you're a Mormon.
In which case I believe you're pretty into it.
That and drab clothing.
Anyway, the priest would gather around all of the children at the front of the building.
Then he'd quiz us on who got swallowed by what whale and so on.
Peter and I would always sit together and fuck around.
Being sporadically interrupted by Pete answering the questions correctly.
Then I'd go back to my pew.
And mom would whisper, "You're not sitting next to that Peter Russell any more."
Every time.
It only got worse when he became an alter boy and I joined the choir.

Pete helped to raise me.
He taught me how to make a fist (probably).
He taught me how to ride a bike without training wheels (probably).
He taught me how to do bottle tokes.
He taught me that with just two dollars you could buy a lighter.
And if you then threw that lighter against a big rock it would ignite and make a really cool popping sound.
He taught me what's flammable and what's really flammable.
And I can vividly remember receiving advice from him on performing oral sex.
Before I ever performed it.
"When you're doing it," he said.
"Uh huh," I said.
"Do it to the vagina."
Saved me a lot of embarrassment.
Of course, he'll come back from this country eventually.
Presumably.
But he'll likely have to teach me all of these things over again.

At the Teet

So I'm still at my parents' house.
For no particular reason, really.
I just enjoy wood stoves a lot.
And storing the wood that goes in them.
The junks.
I stay for the junks.
Though my mother has always insisted that she despises laundry, I can't prevent her from doing mine.
I do know that she enjoys doing laundry more than Jeff Patey's comedy.
Because she told me so.
When I stay out here I feel like maybe I should bother being successful.
Because opening a fridge to find it full of food is rather novel.
Too many condiments to know what to do with.
Drizzling the honey mustard down my naked thighs.
That's what I could be doing.
But being successful just seems appealing from the outside.
Honey mustard is a real bastard to wash out.

My grandmother could double as a javelin, if you need one.
She's the frailest person I'm related to.
She fell recently.
But don't worry; they got her back up again.
Like any reasonable drunk, she has tiffs with gravity from time to time.
Vertical spats, as I call them.
As of now.
She didn't break anything.
Because her bones are made of something industrial.
Sort of like Wolverine, I suppose.
In fact, she sort of looks like him.
I'll see if I can dig up a picture*.


I'm going to return to St. John's soon enough.
Wood stove or no.
Bay Roberts has no women.
Well, none who share my interests. That's for sure.
But it will be a tough transition.
I'll have to finish my homework on my own again.

*I tried to find a picture of someone in a Wolverine costume and then claim it was a photo of Nan.
Har har.
But I found this photo before finding that photo, and I think this one's just as good.
This post is dedicated to that kid.

Sexual Syndication

Three`s Company is back on the air these days.
This of course means that my attraction to Joyce Dewitt is re-awakened.
And, now that I have reached sexual maturity since its last being on the air, this has only intensified.

It's the Principal of the Thing

Look out world.
I'm up before noon and making a name for myself.
To as many as half a dozen vice principals in the Eastern School District.
Not a bad morning.
I have forgotten how affable vice principals tend to be.
It's the principals who are the real sour pusses.
And even then that's not really the case.
I just wanted to find a way to mention Birdie Taylor in here somehow.
Two years.
Two years of blogging.
Of the long nights and the nacho cheese residue on my bare chest.
Finally.
(Say it with me).
Birdie Taylor.
For those of you who grew up in metropolises or down the shore, Birdie was a principal at my junior high.
She sucked.
Not in the way that kids see principals as just being generally shitty people.
Then you grow up to realize that they weren't shitty at all. They were enriching in their tough-but-fair style.
Hers is more of a 'you grow up and realize how incompetent this person was' sort of thing.
But who cares about her.

If I lost my glasses I would have to call in sick for absolutely everything.
I would have to stay in bed and see things out of focus until someone brought me new glasses.

Home Away from Home

You know the problem with Simani?
They're too comercial now.
They used to be in it for the music.
For the satisfaction of doling out a fresh accordian jam.
And for memorable and provacative lyrics like:

Where's Aunt Bessie, Uncle George?
Oh, she's up on choppin' block
She's callin' her sheep, Now nanny come nan

I was raised on this stuff, y'know.
It would be Music and Friends followed by Outport People.
While dad tried to maneuver the motorhome through downtown Montreal.
As we all fucked around in the back.
And mom staved off a nervous breakdown.
And the inevitable subsequent abuse charges.
All things considered, she held it together pretty well.
It was when she took off her seatbelt.
That's when we knew we'd gone too far.
She wouldn't wail on us or anything.
But it would scare us pretty thoroughly.
And this would be playing in the background the whole time.



Dad had a handle.
On the CB radio.
Which was crucial for communicating to the Bradbury's.
To tell them that it was time to 'gas up.'
Or that there was a 'KOA campground in about half an hour or so.'
Then my brothers and I would consult the campground directory.
Which existed.
To verify whether or not the KOA in question had an arcade.
What was I talking about?
Oh yeah!
Dad's handle.
Well, Mr. Bradbury was 'Jake' for some reason that I can't recall.
And there was a television show on the go which had a star named Jake.
So dad got the other name from the show.
The Fat Man.
That was dad's handle.
"Fat man, have you got your ears on?"
This was my childhood.

The latch on the fridge door was unreliable.
Whenever dad took a left too sharply the fridge would spring open and cans of coke roll onto the floor.

Some Assembly Required

Sometimes when I walk down Prince Philip.
I'll pass those guys who mow the grass on the median.
And I can't help but think to myself:
"We'll be co-workers soon enough."

I helped my father put a mechanical bed together today.
As all sons do with their fathers eventually.
Dad suggested that I not "go into mechanic work or anything."
Which is a fair suggestion.
But he had little to say once the buttons on the bed weren't working properly.
I'm good with buttons.
Like a monkey.
Which I reminded him of once I got the knee-raising portion of the bed operational.
It's just as well, really.
I never know what to say to mechanics.
"Do you wake up that greasy, or does that accumulate as the day goes on?"
I'm confident that mechanics, like horses, have a certain disdain for me.
I've asked several horses whether or not they like me.
They always stomp twice.

"Ladies, do I have one number right...?"

If the customer was always right, they'd know how to work the cash register.

I've been watching much more Price is Right lately.
If I was on the Price is Right, I'd get the Price wrong.
One of the following things would likely happen to me:

Price is Right Catastrophe Scenario A:
Drew would say, "Skipper, who do you have for us on Contestant's Row?"
"How about...Paul Warford?!"
The camera would pan around and settle on me just in time to see me trip.
And cascade down over the stairs, eventually striking my head on...something.
The whole audience would get eerily quiet.
Drew would make a slicing motion across his throat until they cut the music.
They'd have to air lift me out of there.
They'd play this sound bite as they loaded me onto the gurney.
Afterwards they'd enforce a new rule that you must calmly walk down to contestant's row.
While holding the rail.

Price is Right Catastrophe Scenario B:
I get to Contestant's Row (unscathed) and stay there.
Because the person immediately following me always bids a dollar over me.
After the first Big Wheel round I snap.
Me: Nine Hundred!
Other Guy: Nine-oh-one, Drew!
Me: You cocksucker!
The beauties escort me from the premises.

Price is Right Catastrophe Scenario C:
I get to play Plinko.
I confuse the prices of the deep fryer and the hot dog cooker.
So I only get one chip.
I get ready to drop it and I fall over the front of the board.
I land headfirst in the '0' slot.
Snapping off all of the pegs on the way.
They have to retire the game indefinitly.
I spin the Big Wheel but ultimately lose to some bat named Mabel.
And Drew has to help me get the wheel all of the way around.

At best I'd win luggage.
"Thanks Drew. I'll pack my old luggage into my new luggage when I fly home."

A Poor Substitute

I'm quite good at taking things out of the oven, you know.
I don't even get nervous about it.
I don't need oven mitts, either.
Which is fortunate.
Because I refuse to wear anything deemed a 'mitt' under any circumstance.
The biggest reason why I was never the baseball catcher everyone thought I would be.
It's just as well.
If I'd made it to the big leagues, I'd keep turning around during pitches to wave at the camera.
You burn yourself enough times on one of those toaster conveyor belts and you grow out of oven mitts.

It may be plausible that I'll substitute for real teachers soon enough.
I have some legitimate ideas for teaching, once I begin
(while not being under constant supervision).
Rule one:
No eye contact of any kind.
It makes me edgy.
Rule 2:
The only food permissible to eat in my class is that which you earn.
I'll have a tub of chocolate bars and stuff (riddled with peanuts), and I'll dole those out.
"Correct! Stalin wore a size 13 shoe. The rest of you write that down.
You know what they say about dictators with big feet, har har har.
Oh, you don't know what they say? Whatever. Here's a Snickers."
Rule 3:
You must always have change on you in case you need it for the swear jar.



Rule 4:
If I catch you texting in my classroom, you'll get away with it if the text has perfect spelling and grammar.
If it doesn't, I get to confiscate the phone for the remainder of the day.
Yes, I'm dreaming moderately large.
You should hear the stuff that I have in mind if I ever get tenure somewhere.

Message in a Bottle

I was walking down Prince Philip Drive yesterday.
Hoping that people in cars would notice me.
It sort of backfired though because as one car drove by, a passenger yelled:
"Get a haircut!"
So I yelled back, "Be more accepting of other people!"
In hindsight, I should've just yelled, "Blow me!"

If I was stranded on a desert island, I wouldn't even try to survive.
I'd just dust my hands of sand and say, "Well, guess I'll wait for death, then."
Which wouldn't take long.
It's not like I could fashion a raft.
I have trouble determing whether or not pictures have been hanged level.
Before the buzzards and torti gnawed on my carcass I'd probably spell something out with rocks.
For posterity more than anything.
It's what you're supposed to do on a desert island.
And we all know how desperately I want to fit in.
Probably something like:
DON'T BOTHER, JUST KEEP FLYING
or
I SHOULDN'T HAVE WENT WHALE WATCHING
Then I'd lie back in the bleached sand and wait for the tide.
While listening to The Beach Boy's Pet Sounds.
Because it's one of my desert island discs.
Which I carry around with me wherever I go.
Just in case.
Plus a little album that has tunes like this corker:

Don't Spend it all in One Place

And the angels said unto the Lord:
"With your grace this one should turn out okay."
And the Lord spake, saying:
"Huh? I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention.
I was checking my Pro-Line.
What were we talking about?"
Thus Sarah Turpin was born.
Since I have no wherewithal.
And since my mother constantly reminds me (through tears) that:
"She's someone else's problem now."
I haven't festooned any sort of a present for her.
Then I remembered her narcissism.
Since it essentially imitates mine.
And I thought of what I always think of when I think of Sarah Turpin.
Myself.
And I asked myself:
"Self, what would I want for my birthday?"
To be mentioned in someone's blog.
Will that do?
Alright, good. I'm going to check my own Pro-Line.
Innevitably, Sidney Crosby has fucked me somehow.

A Wild and Crazy Guy

I've been on safari before, you know.
Which is not a euphemism for sex (this time).
I went with a group of Beavers during my drug experimentation years.
The children's group.
Not the animal.
I planned to live out the remainder of my life on the Savannah.
Because it's breezy and I find 'Savannah' a pleasant word to say.
I would have made it, too.
But one of the tour guides shot me in the ass with a tranquilizer dart.
I thought several layers of plaid would blend in with the tall grass...

I had a great set at the ol' comedy bordello last night.
Some woman got a phone call during my set.
I asked her if I could answer it.
And she let me.
I was so excited when it happened.
Because I was foolish enough to believe no one had thought of this before.
As I raced towards her table I thought:
I am Steve Martin.
But I am not Steve Martin.
And it has been done before.
In fact, Bill referred to it as 'classic'.
Which suggests it has been done a lot.
But it was still funny.
Oh, you don't think it sounds that funny?
Well excuuuuuse ME!

I thought about doing Steve Martin for a recent 'tribute' night at The Levee.
But I couldn't afford the balloons.

Migrated Pupils

The day that sour cream was invented:
Guy One: Anybody else want coffee? (rummaging in fridge) Ah fuck, the cream's gone sour.
Girl One: Well throw it out.
Guy Two: No wait! See if it tastes any good on perogies first.

You know where we get sour cream?
From pissy cows.

I ran into a few students in the mall this week.
I'm as stiflingly retarded speaking with them as I would be any flirtatious maid.

Dylan (not his real name): Hey Mr. Warford! You cut your hair.
Mr Warford: If you say so then I guess I did.
Dylan: I cut mine too. Well, I shaved it.
Mr. Warford: Yeah, it makes you look skinnier. So are you all ready for PWC?
Dylan: Yeah, I guess so.
Mr Warford: They're gonna eat you alive up there.

Outside of the movie theatre.
Tina, Mallory and Eustachia (not their real names) approach me.
Giggling and pushing one another.
Then they sort of stand in front of me like that for a little bit.
Mr Warford: You know you can talk to me, you don't have to stare at me blankly.
Giggling.
Mr Warford: How was the summer?
Tina: Good!
Mallory: Boring.
Tina: Can I have a hug?
She asked for one on the last day of school as well.
Mr. Warford: I guess so. It's not as bad as it was before. Though you're still 16 and in the mall...
Nothin'.
Mr. Warford: Pretend I didn't say that.

Dead Man Walkin'

I've been having increasingly odd dreams lately.
The other night I dreamt that I had died.
Despite the fact that I was plainly visible to mourners.
I could carry on conversations and walk around and drink coffee.
"You would drink coffee when you're dead," Pete said when I described it to him.
I was standing next to my mother and complaining loudly that not enough people had showed to my funeral.
I haven't spoken with my therapist about it yet.
I haven't referenced the dream book.
My subconcious is probably telling me to go to more parties.
But I never get invites.

Lately I keep thinking to myself:
"Jesus Christ, I'm twenty-eight."
But I'm not.
I'm twenty-seven.
Going on twenty-eight.
While my wardrobe is going on sixteen.
And my sexual prowess is going on...I'm not sure the age.
How old are you when you're in grade eight?

Friends With Deficits

I bought a shirt with a Canadian flag on it.
Because Canada Day was weeks ago (probably).
So the shirt was on sale.
I buy all of my clothing from bins now.
It's my newest plan to fit in with the artsy crowd.
I've been reciting poetry at Bar None.
Nothin'.
Anyway, the shirt has a picture of the flag and underneath it says:
THESE COLOURS DON'T RUN
I just took it out of the dryer.
It turned all of my socks pink.
You get what you pay for, I guess.

I'm growing increasingly concerned that I'm about to find myself in a no-strings sexual relationship.
I'm the only person I know of who would be concerned about something like this.
In order to do this properly I'll have to appear sexually confident.
I've often wondered what it would be like to be sexually confident.
Hey, there's orange stuff on my wrist.
No, I'm serious.
Sort of looks like cheese.
Which is preposterous because I just got out of the shower.
I'm sure I'll be fine...

I played chess with Sobol yesterday.
Because she felt like losing at something.

The Bloom of the Dogberries

There aren't enough scented candles to appease me.
Though you can still swing some by my place if you wish.
Gourmet vanilla, if you're wondering my favourite.
This is, traditionally, my least favourite day of the year.
Last year I celebrated it by not sleeping with any women or donating to any charities.
I feel as though this year will be a repeat.
If you were to ask why I'm so lazy, I couldn't give you a proper answer.
I suppose because I can't muster the energy to come up with one.
Though, if I had to blame anything, it would be the tides.
They're always fucking me up.
So it's the moon's fault, really.

You don't give someone AIDS.
Giving implies that you're bestowing something nice to someone.
Like a scented candle, for example.
You leave someone AIDS.
Which is, generally speaking, something largely unwanted.
Like an old lamp that doesn't work.

Yes it would

Think of my in the bath.
Are you there?
You're not picturing me with enough shoulder hair.
Alright, now you're good.
Now, to complete the illusion hum this song:

As Good As Hitler/For Science

I have two tricks for falling asleep:
I lay on my arm, or
I burry my face into the back of the couch.
Or the back of whichever dame I've brought home with me.
So much so that when I woke up yesterday afternoon, my forehead felt bruised.
Which leads me to believe that perhaps these aren't my tricks for falling asleep.
So much as they are my tricks for dramatically decreasing my blood pressure.
Like when you wrap a rubber band around your pinky several times.
But let's leave your hobbies out of this.

Sarah Turpin went to Qatar recently.
You'd never see me over there.
They don't wear jeans.
None of their electrical outltes will accept my hairdryer.

While I was around the bay I read a bunch on Ted Bundy and John Gacy.
And then I was too afraid to go to the bathroom.
They studied Gacy's brain after his execution.
Which got me to thinkin':
I'd like to do something significant enough to have psychologists jar up my brain.
I'd rather not rape and kill a bunch of little boys, though.
I like girls.
But, I would like to do something so well that doctors say, "Stuff his brain in that coffee can when no one's around. I'm taking it home with me."
Maybe because I'm so good at fast dancing.
They talk about it at the funeral, I was so good.
"Did you ever see him cut it to Sandstorm? (looking toward coffin) He was a treasure."
Eventually medical scientists hold a press conference regarding their findings.
"Mr. Warford was such an afluent dancer due to a swelling in his prefrontal lobe.
We believe this may have been due to an abusive older brother, or sleeping too frequently with is face jammed against the back of a sofa."

A New Age

I'm in my parents' home.
Because I'm going to the big party at Peter Hardy's (was that his name) and I need to get into Dad's liquor cabinet.
I'm certain that I won't fit in.
The booze helps to make that less painfully obvious.
I may in fact throw the party myself; Mom and Dad are out of town.
They're somewhere that may be Bonavista.
I've taken over the entire house.
I removed the Rita McNeil discs from the stereo and replaced them with mine.
I've been playing my electric twanger in the living room.
I'm defrosting a steak.
My parents took all of the toothpaste.
To teach me some survival skills, I suppose.
So I had to walk to the Turpin's and use their toothpaste.
No one was home.
The Turpins have really been contributing to my oral hygiene lately.

It's tough when you realize that your parents are getting older.
The hints are subtle, but the more you pay attention, the more you realize that they're everywhere.
The grape nut ice cream, for example.
Actually, that's about as subtle as a poke to the eyeball.
All of their drinking glasses are tiny.
Glorified shot glasses, really.
And that's when I figured it out:
You only need a small mouthful of grapefruit juice to swallow a regimen of pills.
While looking for the toothpaste (which I believe we went over) I found Epsom salts.
When they start collecting ceramic cat figurines I`m going to stop visiting.

"How hot is it?!"

Anne-Marie and I went to The Grumpy Stump last night.
The bar that time forgot.
Then we ate banana pudding in an all-night restaurant.
Our waitress was making eyes at Anne-Marie.
While Anne-Marie was making eyes at me.
As she does. Or will.
We talked about making a marriage pact for 40.
I didn't have the heart to tell her that I'd be on eHarmony long before then.
Plus, I have a marriage pact with Ern at 30.
But I promised her that I'd be game after my subsequent divorce(s).
eHarmony commercials make me uncomfortable.
Because it's like I'm looking at an advert for inevitability.

July was the hottest month the planet has seen since meteorologists bothered writing stuff down.
I went out and bought a bunch of aerosol spray sunscreens and bronzing goos to celebrate.

Ahead of the Plaque

I have a new toothbrush.
I stole it from the Turpin residence.
Because they have more toothbrushes than they have top and bottom rows of teeth.
The Turpins are accustomed to a lavish lifestyle.
They eat octopus for Christ's sakes.
Now, this toothbrush is replacing the mystery toothbrush that I received from Bussey after his wedding.
Because I left mine in the honeymoon suite.
Then he brought me all of the things that I dumped in the hotel.
And instead of my toothbrush, he had this toothbrush.
I wouldn't have cared.
Well, to the point, I suppose I didn't care.
But I would have cared less had the bristles not been so shoddy on this one compared to the original.
I just used it anyway.
Thinking 'hopefully I'll be able to steal one from the Turpin's soon.'
It's yellow. Did I mention that?
I'm the polar opposite of a germaphobe.
Whatever that is.
A hobo, I suppose.
I used to debate with Jane whether or not it would be safe to share a sandwich with a homeless person.
Because I believed I could do it.
I don't mean, like, giving a bum half of your sandwich.
I'm talking bite for bite.
What's the worst that could happen?
Malaria?
Mosquitoes carry that.
He (or she) would probably just smell really bad.

If 'A', then 'B'. See?

I'm surviving strictly on a diet of tuna these days.
It's not so bad; some cats do it.
Not all of them, though.
Some cats eat Chicken Florentine.
Cats who belong to stock brokers.
Cats with names like 'Spreadsheet,' and 'Non-Equitable.'
"Junk Bond! Din-din!"
Maybe when I run out of tuna I'll start eating their cats.
They'll taste superb because they've been so well-fed.
Cats eat flies.
Children eat flies.
And you wouldn't feed a child Chicken Florentine.
This is simple logic, folks.
Modus Polens, maybe.
Sobol? Are you reading this?
Help me out.
Ponens! It's ponens.
I still don't know if that's the right one, though.
I could have been a stock broker, you know.
And I would have been, too.
But I blew out my knee in the championship game.
If that hadn't happened, I'd be singing this song to some woman by now:

"20 minutes of nutting."

When I finally saw the sign I said to the empty car:
"Ooooh! Cape Broyle!"
Not Cape Royal.
It's a matter of oven funtionality. Not regency.
Anyway.
So, I did this show for the wee little children.
It wasn't terrible, really.
That's not to say it was overly pleasant, either.
I performed on the back of a flatbed truck.
And I immediately followed two of the b'ys from Celtic Connection.
The kids didn't laugh, necessarily, but they did interact.
"Who here has a cat?" I asked.
40 hands shoot up.
"You kid, what's your cat's name?"
Then everyone else yells out their cat's names.
"No no, I don't need everyone's."
It wasn't all bad.
It was the most money I've made in a seven minute-period of my life.
Without question.
Also, I met an MHA and ate a free chicken burger.
While doing my 'Pat' joke, the row of 16-year old rec staff employees all lost their minds.
I spoke with them about it afterwards.
One of them explained that they wrote 'for a good time call Pat' in washrooms all over St. John's.
I thanked them for giving me a deadly bit.
The kid's cat was named 'Dusty.'

Shamefully, that's all I've got.
Take it away boys!

All Ages

I'm booked to do a show for 10 to 18 year olds tomorrow.
Not sure how I'm going to handle that one.
Guess I'll just talk about drinking in the woods.
Bill recommended that I say 'douche bag' a lot.
Pretty savvy advice, really.

I went on a 'mini' pub crawl last night.
I wore a brightly coloured shirt and complained about people I hated.
With others who complained about the same.
I learned a great deal of sexual facts about some girl named Erin.
I also learned that Stefan doesn't know what 'fingerbang' means.
When Charlotte picked me up downtown I was carrying on a conversation with two people who 'looked homeless,' according to her.
I was probably asking them for money.
Here are some messages that I sent around:

To Buje:

oh my goodness.
i'm so drunk.
i'm just concentgraining on setence fragements rights now.

To Turpin:

sorry i kept calling.
i'm reall drink.
pretend it deidn't happne
are we swaujere?
square.
see?
i told you.

And my personal favourite.
To Wade (who organized the event):

wasteddnes.
tongiths twaas gun.
you'fdre in for whicheever not you want.
i'll tel l bcekct \
just let e lknow

Sure, they don't make any sense.
But look at how well my punctuation held up.

Over. Under. Around the Tree.

I watched Sarah Turpin get married.
She didn't look that good.
Luckily, Peter Russell was standing next to her to balance her out a little bit.
It's often a matter of lighting with her.
You just need good lighting.
The new mayor's a nice guy.
He tied my shoelaces for me.
Took me until grade three to learn to tie my shoes.
Prior to that, my teachers had to tie my laces each day.
Before the bus left without me.
As though I had something wrong with me as yet undiagnosed.
The day I learned, I called my grade three teacher (at home) to tell her.

Anne Marie Wassername has shown up once more.
And I'm sweaty.
She came back into my life while I was ironing my shirt collar in my underwear.
Seems fitting (almost tastes like a pun, doesn't it?).
My mother was giving me instruction on how to use the iron over the phone, by the way.
It's great to have her around again (Marie; not my mother).
No one makes smoking feel more rewarding.

Which we did yesterday evening.
At Uncle Derek's.
Though I've befouled his hot tub and ogled family portraits of his wife, I've yet to meet this 'Uncle Derek.'
I had to walk to his place today.
It's on Thorburn Road. Not too bad.
However, by this point I had already walked back and forth to MUN.
Twice.
And we know how lively I am.
As I'm walking I'm thinking to myself, "It'd be awesome if someone stopped and picked me up."
At which time I get a text from Shandera saying:
"Fag walking with his headphones on."
To which I text back:
"Asshole! I need a ride."
Whizzed right past me.
I see him a moment later, driving past in the opposite direction, waving and beeping the horn.
Ingrate.
At one point I decided I'd jeopardize myself and hitchhike.
There's a vulnerability to hitchhiking.
Like asking for a light.
Or bumming change.
But I thought I'd try my luck.
Until some prick in a passenger seat gave me the finger.
Kind of took the good out of me.

People always make fun of 'Dildo', but no one mentions 'Cow Head.'
Sure, it's less phalic, but it's as ridiculous a name for a town.

Bear With Me

I used to tell people that Banff had one unique quality as far as employment was concerned:
It hosted the only job orientation I've ever sat through that gave advice on avoiding a bear attack.
And cougar attacks.
I considered the cougar attack tutorial to be moot.
Tip #1: Cougars always attack from behind.
I would consider that to be the beginning and end of the cougar attack lesson.
Apparently, when encountering a bear, you are supposed to avoid eye contact, back up, and speak in a strong, firm voice.
I once discussed it onstage while my fellow employees ate ribs.
I said that I thought this advice was weird, because I assumed what you were supposed to do is run away, looking over your shoulder, shouting, "Shit I'm dead! Shit I'm dead!"
Works better when you see it.
Like all of the other things I write that you don't laugh at.
I can't believe I never posted this before now.
Bill asked me the other night:
"What do you want to list as your occupation when you're traveling?
'Teacher'? Or 'comedian'?"
A valid question.
My mom would hate him for asking me.

This One's On Me

I'm thinking of writing a book.
Well, it won't be written so much as it will be lurid pictures of me.
Black and whites.
It's art if they're black and white.
Seriously though.
I compile interviews of people working in retail.
No one over the age of twenty.
Fashion it into a manuscript.
And I call it, While the Cat's Away.
Or, Tonight's Dead: The Damnable Lives of Employees.
Or, Closing On A Friday (and other stories).
No one has their finger on the pulse of humanity more.
The things I could do with a budget.

Being five years old must be exhausting.
So many questions that you're not interessted in answering.
"So are you going to school next year?"
"And how old are you?"
"Is that your favourite bear?"
Must be like going to a party that your parents are throwing.
For years on end.

And my mom said comedy would never pay off.
She's likely right.
But those comedy business cards are working out for me.
Besides being textually accosted by strangers occaisonally, I have something new to show for Staples' efforts.
I won a big frigging thing of coffee.
From Starbucks.
One of those business card draws for what are supposed to be legitimate businesses.
And I won.
96 ounces.
I think it's the funniest thing.
Maybe I'll interview the employees there when I go to pick it up.
"So do you live around here?"
A guy can dream.

Too-Done List

I wore a tuxedo this weekend.
Amongst other things, I also:
-drank beer from a keg (no stands though; no one could lift me).
-kicked a 5-year old out of a living room because I wanted to pass out.
-saw whales.
-saw lesbians ("They're coming right up to the boat!")
-sorted candies by colour. Like a monkey.
-bought condoms in formal wear.
-stole a pen from a church.
-drank several beers out of coolers.
-rode in the party bus.
-got my picture taken several dozens of times.
-made out on a dance floor.
-made out under my tuxedo jacket.
-danced on a chair.
-winged a speech.
-watched my buddy get married.


And I'd do it again.

Nuptial Selection

The world is divided into two groups:
Those who have worked in retail
and fuckers.

I have so much compiled garbage to dodge and lament over.
The wedding was successful in many regards.
I didn't win the limbo contest, but I did place third in the high jump.
Racey pictures of me have already surfaced.
But it hardly matters because everyone is too busy watching videos of Bussey doing his garter dance to notice.
I'll tell you more about it when I'm not doing whatever it is that I'm supposed to be doing now.

Imagine being influential enough to have peons fashion a 100-foot statue of you.
Of course, we're not deities.
Some of us aren't even that smart.

Reeled In

I keep trying to initiate this post.
But like sex with the blonde girl who works at Starbucks, I don't know how to go about it.
I have had a drab few days.
Because it has been so sunny.
And usually when people are enjoying themselves-flying kites, going to the beach-I am lamentable and surly.
More to the point, it likely has something to do with school work.
Which is becoming stifling and tedious.
Like sitting in the middle seat of a twelve-hour flight.
Which is why I try to stick to boats for my voyages, when I can.

I don't see the point in getting a high-definition television.
I can never keep my glasses clean.

How long does it take to learn to walk in heels?
And I thought applying eyeliner was hard...
I had to wear heels for a photo shoot that Turpin and I participated in recently.
We ruined a portion of an evening for some people in Lottie's.
Alright.
Alright.
You got it out of me.
I didn't have to wear the heels so much as I chose to.
Nevertheless.
I wouldn't care how tight it made my ass look
(as if it could get any tighter).
I would be far too terrified of rolling my ankle to ever go to a keg party.
Let alone show my breasts there.
Which, from the American Pie franchise, is what I understand women do at keg parties.
That and they watch Stiffler inevitably end up drinking piss somehow.
You women fascinate me with all of your various fishing lures.