The Circus is in Town

And they're doing Any Way You Want It. 

Have you seen this guy yet?

Apparently the tour is getting to him. 

It just goes to show: 

Having your greatest fantasy come true can be horrendously depressing. 

Callin' Your Bluff

I appreciate that it would be very difficult to prove, one way or ther other. 

But if Oprah read Eugenides' Middlesex, I'll eat my fucking shoes.

All pairs.

Causemetic

I wore a woman's hair extensions over the weekend.
Can you believe that you're not supposed to get those wet?
It's human hair
(which is fucking disgusting, by the way).
How are you not supposed to get them wet?
I'd sooner wear horse hair.
Wearing human hair is borderline voodoo if you ask me.
Hair extensions should only be worn by cancer patients.
And people dressed as famous hippie musicians for Halloween.
Same goes for fake eyelashes.
What a waste of time and money and delicately-applied glue.
Like guys give a fuck what your eyelashes look like.
You could ask a guy after 'dragging off' (picking up, etc.) the following morning:
"Did she have eyelashes?"
And he'll likely say, "I-unno. Probably."
My roommate looked the sexiest when she was doing laundry.
And while she showered and I secretly recorded her on my web cam.
Otherwise she generally looked like some sort of stranger.
Speaking of Halloween...

I got into a hot tub and I forgot to take my shirt(s) off beforehand.
I forgot to take off my hair extensions as well.

"What's Yours is Time"

You know what my favourite possession is?

Above the video games?

And the various oils and lubricants that I have hidden in a shoebox under my bed?

More than my Nazi memorobilia that I also keep hidden (seperate shoebox)?

My free time. 

That's my favourite possession. 

And the planet keeps trying to take it from me. 

You're History

If my romantic life flashed before my eyes right before my hitting the pavement-

'Go bungee jumping,' they said.

'Fine, we'll go somewhere for you to get a sandwich right after the bungee jumping,' they said-

it would look like this:

An orange prom dress worn a year too late.

A helium balloon.

Peach yogurt on a doorstep.

A typewriter.

A Tim Horton's chicken salad sandwich.

A Polaroid camera.

(sex)

Red shoes and a history class.

Boots I didn't like and friends younger than me.

A massive lull (this doesn't describe a romance

but a massive lull).

An uncle's house in Canmore.

A dog that was alright.

Boots that I really didn't like.

Sudoku and weed pipes.

Caesar salads.

Caramel suns drizzled over plates I washed.

A plane and a too-big room.

A stuffed chicken breast.

A party I was going to skip.

Conical party hats with Triceratops on them.

Inappropriate postage.
A chaperoned date.
Pad Thai in the afternoon.
("Spidoodle!")

Then I'd hit the ground and head to Valhalla.

Where these women would feed me grapes for eternity, I suppose.

I think that The Stones are bullshit.

Or Mic Jagger.

I think that Mic Jagger is bullshit.

If you watch him do his peacock strut, you should be thinking to yourself:

Now there's a man who didn't deserve half of the sex that he got.

He did write 'Paint it Black,' though.

 And this tune:

Which pardons his on-stage antics.

Very marginally.

The Neverending Story

I haven't contacted her yet. 

As they say, 'abscence makes the heart grow' and so on. 

Not sure if that works with complete strangers. 

If you weren't willing to entertain the idea of having sex with someone, would you give them your full name?

That's the question. 

I watched a 13-year-old girl recite 134 digits of Pi a few weeks ago. 

It was surprisingly entertaining. 

Alright. 

I'm going to correct 20-something research papers. 

That's all I've got.

"I never do this." "Do what?"

Where would I be without my friends?

Here. 

But I'd have fewer people to borrow money from. 

I asked for a strange girl's phone number this evening. 

Because of them. 

I don't ask strange girls for their phone numbers.

She didn't give it to me. 

She did give me her e-mail address. Told me to do the MSN thing. 

Probably the ol' duck and roll, but at least I asked. 

And more importantly:

I didn't vomit on her.

A Bad Sign

I have this thing. 

I've always had this thing. 

It's called Jaundice. 

Just kidding. 

When I'm single, I tend to obsess over someone. 

Whom I know nothing about. 

They generally happen to be in the same class as me. 

Or they got picked up at Starbucks after being turned down at Home Depot. 

They build and build in my head.

To the point where they say, "I'll get you your coffee on the other side."

And I very nearly say, "I'll miss you."

I can't help it. 

I don't visualize them in the shower or root through their trash or anything. 

I just...find them pretty for little chunks of time.

It's all very grade seven, in a way. 

I know. It's odd. 

I never ask these women out. 

Pardoning one exception.

So, there's this teacher. 

She's the only teacher who isn't an intern and isn't 45 or so. 

And when she goes near the coffee maker when I'm near the coffee maker I start rambling to myself in my head. 

Be calm. You're wearing a suit. You're fine. Say something funny. 

Like that's going to happen. 

She teaches children how to do sign language. 

See? 

Not a good match. 

She cares about people. 

But these are never rational afflictions. 

Ever. 

So, this deaf mom shows up today. 

What are the odds?

The mom's writing things to communicate with the secretary.

Then she waves. 

Then she starts signing. In the language. 

And it's the sexiest and most touching thing I've seen in some time. 

Then I quickly leave. 

Before I start coming up with elaborate ideas. 

Like:

"What if I learned to sign 'would you like to get coffee with me?'"

And other restraining-order laced thoughts. 

If I was deaf I'd be constantly worried that everyone was talking about me.

Dirty Laundry

My gym teachers all proved to be right.

I have recently worn panties.

Possibly.

"Whose panties are these?" This is de other one.

She's holding them up, gingerly.
And against her ample bosom, I notice for the first time that they do seem rather...

Petite.

"Oh, those are mine."

Because it's a few months ago.

And I'm around the bay and I have once more forgotten to pack underwear.

If it hadn't been underwear, it would've been my toothbrush.

Breen was always telling me to take them off and I couldn't fathom why.

"Cause you're wearing some stranger's drawers!" She often exclaimed.

But she didn't understand.

I found them in my parent's house.

Which means, in some decade, mudder washed 'em.

Which meant they were fine.

They were pure.

I thought they were a pair that Colin wore before he really enacted his *baloney diet.

They just looked like the sort of thing that Shandera would wear.

Making them inappropriate on me, sure, but otherwise fine.

"You can tell by the cut of them!" This is de other one again.

"No, I think they're mens'."
"Then why is there a Playboy Bunny on them?!"

I thought that was supposed to make them sexy.

"I thought that was supposed to make them sexy," I say.

In hindsight, they were always quite tight (toight).

*I know how to spell it properly.

But with Colin, you have to pronounce it 'baloney,' or it doesn't work.

Wish You Were Hair

When you step back and look at me. 

And it doesn't have to be a large step. 

You'll see that my life is just a series of piles. 

Piles of dirty clothes. 

Piles of slightly less dirty clothes that have been through the dryer with a Bounce sheet. 

Piles of books and history notes. 

Piles of failed manuscripts that Penthouse Letters turned down. 

And coming soon, a pile of bodies. 

Made up mostly of those Penthouse people I just mentioned. 

And also a pile of hair. 
From my arms. 

Because I haven't seen my friend Josh White in a long time. 

When you lose touch for long enough, you begin to forget what it is that your friends appreciate. 

But I think that Josh used to really enjoy my arm hair. 

I believe I can recall him rubbing his face in it. 

After getting me drunk and open-minded to such things.

His cousin Del is departing for Halifax, and that's what he's taking to Josh. 

From me. 

I'm not sure if airports have made a rule about carrying on body hair (yet). 

So that's something I have to do later. 

I'm trying to decide whether I want to use a traditional or electric razor. 

I'm surprisingly nervous about it. 

Sour Grapes

Now is a good time to talk to you, I think. 

I have two folders, jammed with tests, that I need to correct. 

Now's a good time to tell you how I've been doing. 

"I'm miserable." 

That's what I tell people at school when they ask me at the coffee machine. 

They think I'm joking. 

I went to a party this weekend. 

There was a french man, and lots of guys who were broader than me. 
And likely still are. 

I smoked drugs by a hot water heater. 

Then I went upstairs to see that more guests had arrived. 

Women guests. 

Guests with breasts. 

I entered the living room and had a minor panic attack about where I should be standing. 

Then I drank more beer. 

Then I was fine. 

I can't remember any real highlights.

I was halfway through a cigarette with some man in a green shirt before I realized that he wasn't interesting enough, relative to the temperature, for me to continue talking to him.

I know I made a witty comment about almonds. 

And was immediately glad I had opened the tub. 

It was the first thing I tasted the next morning. 

The next thing I tasted was defeat. 

Just like every other morning. 

Peter and Turpin and I listened to portions of songs and drank portions of beer. 

I did not enjoy myself. 

And so I drank fewer portions. 

Then they yelled at me. 

Later they vomited and I didn't. 

I enjoyed myself a little more, then. 

Shoyden frauda. 

That's why. 

Who's up on their German? Who can spell it for me?

I know that Germans don't use 'Y' very often when they spell words. 

So that's probably wrong. 

They like 'O', though. Especially when it has little dots over it. 

Alright, this was stupid. 

I'm going to tell 60 students or so whether or not they know what 'tone' is. 

I barely know. 

The Sweetest Plum

Stupid fuckin' contest.
I didn't wanna win anyway.
Okay, fine, I did.
If John Sheehan had beaten me I would've been fine with it.
But then John Sheehan got in second place.
It wasn't until then that I thought, 'Jesus Christ, maybe I won this fuckin' thing.'
That's what bothered me about it all.
Because I was duped by the Warfords' greatest enemy:
Hope.
Then some other guy won.
So, then I not only didn't win, but I also didn't place and win a Molson bag.
He was funny, sure. He yelled a lot, but he was funny.
But he has never done comedy before the contest.
We paid dues.
I've had fat drunk men yell at me.
That's the thorn.
I'm gonna get some Thursday night 'spots', so I guess that's okay.
I wanted to ask if 'spots' meant 'paid', but figured that would be in poor taste.
And after already making a joke about 'boning the waitresses'-
a second time-
I figured I'd better scale back.

On the bright side, I wore bloomers today.
And delivered Shakespeare to a room of people who couldn't possibly be less interessted in Shakespeare.
Some heads looked up.
So that was nice.
And all it took was for me to wear a cape and some tights.

Of Banff

I appreciate that they look like assholes in the photo.
Listen to it anyway.

Chromosexual

The first caveman and woman to discover kissing must have been so satisfied with themselves.
Or first two women?
Because the men would've been hunting and gathering.
The women would've been grunting to one another:
"Let's put our lips on things."

...I just really wanted to use this title for a post.

Underbelly

I'm not even exaggerating.
Sometimes, though I've never really admitted it before, this song gets me choked up.
I have no idea why.
It might be the piano.
It might be because I work hard to get my fill.
And I, like everybody, want a thrill.
Now you know.
I'm really quite serious.
We had some assembly on Friday, and the student/teacher band performed this.
And I thought I was going to cause a scene in the gym.


I'm giving you the softer side of Warford this week. Not the softer, 'I'm-not-that-good-at-sports' side of Warford.
But the 'He-really-is-as-deep-as-he-is-in-my-dreams' side.

Two Bits

I never shave my jawline symmetrically. 

And doesn't that say it all?

Beyond The 'Old Apartment'

I have thoughts of learning this song.

And singing it off-key to some deserving female.

In our shared bedchamber.

But who, of who, could that be?

(And what are the chords?)

I'll do it tomorrow

I just sent Sarah Turpin a Facefuck message.

And, after telling her that the Doomsday device production is on schedule, I said:

"I'm so lazy. Oh my God, I'm so lazy."

Which is true.

I'm also becoming incredibly...shaded.

From the sun.

I could be a man in a cave. It's in me.

I don't mind being referred to as lazy.

As much as I don't mind being referred to as 'gangly.'

You call a spade a 'spade.'

I just wish that the term didn't sound so dirty.

Am I that unsavory?

"Yes," would be the short answer from the stock brokers and salmon sexers.

Who go out there every day and give it their all.

I give it my all every day as well.

To relaxation.

You tell me who's the dirty one.

(I know. It's still me).

Like most young lads, I too used to fantasize about my wedding day.

The song that would be played during the bride's eventual fleeing of the church.

For a while, and I'm embarrassed to say it, I was going to use 'There She Goes.'

But I think a lot of boys in junior high went through that phase.

I've somewhat settled on 'Take the Money and Run.'

There will be no money-taking involved, of course.

But it just seems to fit.

Anyway, I also decided from a young age:

I'm having my wedding on a Wednesday.

In February. Or January.

One of the shitty months.

Because everyone has their wedding during the summer on a weekend.

And that's bullshit.

It's clogging the nuptial industry.

But a wedding party's like an asshole group of tourists.

It's all 'me me me.'

Well fuck them.

Wednesday in February.

You can book the day off from work.

Because if there's stiff competition for a reservation at Fong's...

...something has gone wrong.

Teaching Starts in the Washroom

I'm trying to borrow a Shakespearean outfit. 

I've learned that jeans really do nothing to make my buttocks look supple. 

But maybe pantaloons...

My public life has shifted marginally. 

I can't wear shirts that say 'fuck' anymore. 

And that used to be my whole wardrobe. 

I still don't know how I'm going to get through this summer. 

There are so many strangers that I want to offend. 

But what do I do if those strangers come to parent-teacher night?

One of my students was in the bathroom last night. 

At the mall. 

One of my female students. 

"Hi Mr. Warford!" She's giggling. 

What else can I say? 

"Hi...you're in the wrong bathroom," I tell her. 

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to urinate after an encounter like that?

Relatively. 

I'm washing up (I wouldn't have bothered, but she was there), and she says:

"This must be very awkward for you." 

I say, "It's not that bad." 

And it wasn't. 

Because they're surprising me less and less these days.

While getting paper towels, I add, "Bye. Maybe I'll see you in a change room later."

Bottom Fed

This post had to be cut so I could get this blog back onto the public circuit.
Where I can offend globally once more.
So I'll keep the only line in the post that I really liked anyway.


Poor lobsters.
Only animal in the kingdom that tastes most delicious when boiled alive.

"Under the 'O'-old."

Where is your life when your proudest accomplishment is your Romeo & Juliet unit plan?

In the toilet. That's where. 

Sometimes I feel like I'm a unit. 

My grandmother turned 94 over the weekend. 

For those of you who haven't met her, she's frail. 

Which makes it all the easier to lift her during the keg stands. 

Ever attend a birthday in an old folks' home?

It's like attending a birthday for an infant, but with less balloons.

The room that the women in the floral shirts cleared aside for us had a bingo machine in there. 

Dad and Colin, needing to know how to fix whatever they encounter, poked at it and discussed its mechanics. 

"D'ere's a fan here that must suck the balls up out of it."

"Where's the motor to? Oh, there it is."

And so on. 

Then Dad turns it on, and bingo balls go all over the floor.