"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.