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.