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.