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.