Wise Guys

Long ago, before VISA existed, people would have to pay for their presents through other means.
Poor families would often have to struggle in order to afford enough Furbees for their numerous chilren.
Oftentimes, they would strke an accord with the local merchants.
They would be given all of the Ninja Turtles and Go-Bots they would need.
In exchange for one of these children.
The merchants could keep these youngssters as property.
And set them to toil in the furnace rooms of their elaborate mansions.
Traditionally, the family would open all of their gifts Christmas morning.
Then, the following day, they would take the agreed upon child-
Oftentimes the most unattractive, or irratiting would be chosen-
And then the family would force this urchin into a box.
Taking turns drilling air holes into the top of the box.
And then lifting the box, as a family, to the previously determined delivery point specified by the merchant.
Boxing Day.
In time, the merchants would have a surplus of reject, Boxing Day children.
So he would sell them to barren, childless families.
At ludicrously low prices.
Boxing Day sales.

That was lackluster, at best.
Hi.
Sorry I haven't been around.
But all but the most depressed and lonely of you have probably not been around either.
For another Christmas Day has passed.
And each year at this time, I can't help but think:
Gold, frankincense and myrrh are terribly irrational gifts to give a baby.
Gold makes sense, I guess.
You could trade that for figs.
But the other two are tree sap.
If someone brought tree sap to a baby shower these days, everyone would later talk about that person behind their back.

You Could Name the Cats

Lisa Loeb is not, and has never been, the girl of my dreams.
But it's not for a lack of effort.

I Know What You're Thinkin'

I bought the majority of the gifts that I need to buy yesterday.
There was a wooden train for Tommy.
And a little doll for Susie.
And a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps for Tommy and Susie's divorcee mom.
I can't wait to see their faces when they open them.

Y'know what bothers me about humans and telepathy?
They won't even entertain the possibility of being able to communicate
Without using sounds or movements.
(Like shouting, or semaphore).
I'm not referring to this-'I'm thinking of a number between one and another one.
What is it?"
-Hocup pocus garbage.
Mathematics are so impersonal.
I was in the shower ("Oh, here it comes") and I was thinking of a non-event.
I was picturing Turpin and I in a room with Colin.
Which has happened before.
But there's no bottle of peppermint schnapps this time.
Anyway, Turpin is telling Colin stories about her various lovers.
Disfigured and unbalanced as they are.
And I want her to tell him the story about that guy who bought her a teak table.
After knowing her for some short period of time.
While she was in B.C., and therefore eventually travelling.
A teak table.
And I say to her (I'm still in the shower, imagining all of this):
"Tell Colin the story about that guy."
Which is how I would say it to her.
And she'd piss and fiddle about, acting like she doesn't know which guy I'm talking about.
THOUGH SHE TOTALLY DOES BECAUSE WE'RE SOUL MATES.
So, I just look her in the eye, say nothing, and repeat, "Teak table teak table teak table."
Over and over again in my head.
That's where this deranged fantasy ended.
Because I then started thinking about writing this post.
This is how my brain works.
Personally, I think that if this were really happening, she would figure it out.
And why is that so far-fetched?
Every generation, humanity believes that they know everything.

4th Century
"Well, someone wrote the Kama Sutra, and we have invented the trebuchet.
Nothing can stop us now."

[Time Passes]

8th Century
"Well, we've invented the harp.
And horseshoes.
Angels have something to play.
And horses have something to wear on their feet.
Nothing can stop us now."

[Time Passes]

11th Century
"Well, we've invented the magnifying glass and the hypodermic needle.
Now people can pass on AIDS to one another.
As soon as someone starts banging monkeys-
Like that would ever happen!"
[Resounding laughter]
"Yes lads, nothing can stop us now."

[Time Passes]

18th Century
"Well, we've invented the steamboat, and Napolean's boys found The Rosetta Stone.
We'd try and take it from him, but he has so many damned trebuchets.
Regardless, nothing can stop us now."

[Times Passes]

20th Century
"We've invented Blogger.com and the Furbee.
Yes, we've finally done it.
Nothing can stop us now."

This joke ran away with itself.
These people of the past all seem so old.
But, it's important to realize that we're already as old as they are.
Of course, these are all inventions, and I'm talking about a (meta?)biological thing.
But if we have figured out how to fight static cling.
I don't see why we can't be telepathic as well.

Three-Legged Race

Myself versus Terry Fox.
I'd make this joke about another famous one-legged person if I could think of one.
This could be construed as mean.
If it wasn't for the fact that we all know Terry would win.

Are You Still Here?

I recently bought pornography from an airport news stand.
That's right.
In print.
I also still do my banking in a bank.

My parents only get to experience 'empty nest syndrome' when I go to buy gas.
With their money.

Really, we should get our tombstones on our first birthdays.
That should be our first birthday gift.
They have the party hat on Ruddiger.
His grandparents are there.
Ruddiger has his birthday outfit on.
He's in his high chair.
He's needy. He's confused.
And then they open his gift for him because he can't grip anything.
To display, in marble:

RUDDIGER SURNAME
A MONUMENTAL DISAPPOINTMENT
BORN DECEMBER 14, 2010
DIED ____________

That way, Ruddiger will always be aware of the fact that his time on this earth is fleeting.
He'll also realize, with age, that his parents were jerks for picking that epitaph for him.
Adults complain that kids believe that they're 'invincible'.
"Driving their goddamn cars on two wheels.
Kids think they're invincible these days."
I believe that adults think they're invincible, too.
Until they're diagnosed with something or the plane fails to leave the tarmac.
This would solve this problem for everyone.
Young and old.

Do you think that animals realize that they're doomed?
Probably.
But you have to wonder.
When a deer is eating grass in a clearing, does he think:
"Eating grass is so boring.
I can't believe I have to do this until the end of time."
Or does he eat grass in a clearing and think:
"I'm incredibly vulnerable right now."

The Look of Love

They've been talking about Mona Lisa lately.
And by 'lately', I guess I mean the last five hundred years or so.
But in the past few weeks.
The ol' bimbo is in the spotlight again.
I'll tell you what she's smiling about.
Though I don't know why it matters.
It used to be about the painting.
Eventually it became about Mona herself.
Lisa.
Whoever.
Instead of the methods used to paint her.
Or the painter himself.
Those of us outside of art circles (which is most of us) are obsessed with the model.
This never would have happened with a bowl of fruit.
Anyway!
I know what makes her smile so intriguing.
And I know you'll read this and say, "Paul's just trying to be funny (again)."
But look at it and tell me this isn't at least-
At the very least!
Plausible.
Isn't she sort of smiling like she just fucked the painter?

edit:
On a second glance, it kinda looks like she had sex with the painter.
But immediately regretted it afterwards.
Like she's thinking, "Oh man. How am I gonna get out of this?
He's probably going to be sending me pigeons all of the time now.
Asking me to go for coffee with him."

The Good Fight

I'll tell you what's wrong with 'Movember'.
Really, it's the name.
If you want to act like you're changing something, that's fine.
But don't give it a retarded name that a junior high class would think up-
And I would know.
Kids are illiterate as it is.
You have enough grown men and women calling the month 'Movember'.
And children will believe that that's what it's actually called.
Then they'll assume from looking at calendars that the sound an 'M' makes is actually spelled with an 'N'.
Then I'll have to teach them the difference.
When they're in grade eight and failing language arts.
So you're making work for me.

Besides.
Now men will be encouraged to grow mustaches every year at this time.
Because you want to 'fight cancer'.
'Fighting cancer' is having luekemia.
It's not altering how you groom yourself.
People only do this shit because:
A) Everyone knows someone who has died from it, and
B) Everyone, though they won't admit it, is afraid of getting it.
And they delude themselves into thinking that if they 'fight cancer' then they must be a nice enough person to not get cancer.
The exact same principle is behind most forms of worship.
Ignoring that, you can't fix a problem by throwing money at it.
Polio wasn't cured with ribbons pinned to lapels.
And wheelbarrows of ducats and sovereigns.
It was Jonas.
Jonas alone figured it out.
Probably while he was living with his parents and surviving on Spaghetti-O's.
Cancer will be resolved in the same manner.
Or not at all.
So, take your car ribbon stickers.
And your rubber band bracelettes.
And put them in a pile.
Set them ablaze, and while doing so face facts:
They don't make a fuckin' difference.
You wanna 'fight cancer', get a couple of buddies and a pickup truck.
Wrap some tow cables around the legs of a cell phone tower.
And haul that fucker down.

Geez, I'm moody today.
Aren't I moody?

I Am With You, Always

I put up Christmas lights today.
They look great.
It was awful.

This is my seven hundred and seventy-fourth post.
And I look back on our time together-
The hopes and dreams. The head injuries.
And I think, "Beautiful women are like bears.
They're as afraid of you as you are of rejection."
Then I think about how much I'd love to have all of you in the bath with me.
And now I can!
After sieging a couple of parking meters, I have accumulated enough hard currency.
I have purchased a laptop.
This means I'll likely write more posts for you people while I'm on the bus.
That is, whenever I'm not masturbating (on the bus).

Drink and Droll

I'm off of beer, lately.
Well, let me qualify that:
I'm on beer.
Daily.
I just have no desire to drink it in handsome capacities any more.
Beer gives me headaches.
Beer would be making me fatter if that was a possibility.
I'm off of it.
Which I explained to Avril as we wandered around the liquor store on Friday.
We were on our way to a party.
They served an incredibly hot beverage there.
It was probably a traditionally Christmas concoction.
It smelled like it may have had nutmeg in it.
I was terrified that I would spill it over the scalp of someone sitting on the couch below me.
Anyway.
I ultimately rested before the vodka section.
"I could do vodka."
It must be exhausting to listen to me make a decision.
I ask the woman, "What could I mix with vodka?"
She and Avril both gave me a number of suggestions.
"Right, it's vodka." I say to them.
"Anything works with vodka.
Why would I ask you about it?
We both went to high school."
So I bought vodka, mentioning that it would end up being a bad idea, probably.
"I have vodka at home that I'm not going to drink," Avril offered.
"Nah. If I'm going to make a mistake, I might as well pay for it."

Last Dance with Taylor Rain*

Stephen Coombs impregnated his wife.
He videotaped it and put it up on the internet.
Now, I think that if enough of us fellas got together and did that.
We could make a lot of internet money.
Which-in case you were unaware-is as real as real money.
All it takes is a really great idea like this.
For a bunch of us to be set.
They weren't doing this in Grease.
We could have pregnant Rizzo on there, for the people who were into that.
Now Coombs' wife, Angela, has spit out the baby.
And they are legally bound to it.
Which I think is wonderful.
Because Coombs and Angela are two balanced individuals.
They love each other.
They don't create their own alcohol in their bathtub.
Their first kid can probably read-
At the very least, I know that she's potty trained.
It's a good thing that this is happening.
Most people shouldn't be having babies, though.
There are too many people on the planet.
Have you been to China, lately?
It's packed over there.
You know how MuchMusic Video Dance Parties are really awesome?
But if you have too many people in the gym, then no one can dance.
It's tough to move around.
Other people are trying to get in through the gym door.
Shouting, "Play that Timbaland song!"
Others are yelling back at them, "No! There's no room, Jason.
Go on, Jason!"
But Jason comes into the gym anyway.
Accompanied by those two guys that always follow him around but never say anything.
One of them sort of looks like that guy who can't see the Magic Eye in Mallrats.
And the other one always has dead skin behind his ears.
No one likes these people.
Coombs and Angela would never raise people like this.
Anyway, then no one is dancing at the MuchMusic Video Dance.
Then someone starts a rumor that the principal is in the science lab.
While the dance is going on.
And they`re making out with a dog.
Desperate to witness this, everyone tries to exit the Gym at the one time.
And most are trampled to death.
That's where the planet is headed.
We let in many more Jasons, and we'll all be crumpled on the floor.
Only people who really love one another should be having babies.
Two people should not be having babies just because they like the same TV shows.
That's not a reason to produce life.

I occasionally use chopsticks when I feel like wasting my time.

*I thought up this cute title as a pun on that stupid Tom Petty song.
And while I typed it out I thought, "Man, I hope this is really a person."
Because I was pretty sure that Taylor Rain is a pop singer.
But that's Taylor Swift.
Taylor Rain is a porn star.
Nevertheless, I'm keeping the title.

Coombs and Ang, this one's for you.
The pressure's on.

Race Relations

I need a haircut now.
I need a haircut often.
People are always suggesting that I grow my hair out.
This is an easy suggestion to make when it's someone else's scalp.
I can suggest that you pierce both of your nipples.
And run a chain between them.
It's not like I have any investment in your nipples.
Unless you are someone from a choice list of my unrequited loves.
Dana what's-her-face in Saskatchewan, I'm talking to you.
It gets incredibly dry when it's long.
I ruin bathtubs with it.
I have to use large globules of conditioner on a daily basis.
My long-haired days are over.
I have been to college.
My button-down years are beginning.

I intend to get my haircut at a new place in St. John's.
Apparently it is geared towards...urban customers.
This is what I have been told.
"Urban" and "black" became interchangeable so quickly, I'm surprised 'urban' isn't a type of crayon already.
Anyway.
I need options.
So this is my current course of action.
Or, it will be when I go there.
If I ever go there.
If this place even exists.

Did I ever tell you about the first time I spoke to a black person?
Shawn Tate.
He lived with me in residence.
He was next door to another Shaun who had no personality, but managed to lose a bunch of weight.
Which is the next best thing.
If you're wondering how he did it, he consumed drinks made with colored powders.
And ate nothing but cans of tuna. For months on end.
Nothing to it.
That new dress size is out there, and it's waiting for you.
Anyway. Fuck that guy.
I was talking about Shawn Tate.
Shawn Tate was from a rather 'urban' area or Toronto.
He dressed the way that black people were depicted on TV.
Which was all I had to go on up to this point.
And he drank Colt .45 from brown paper bags.
Even when he was inside.
He used to leave the bottles on the heater in his room prior to opening them.
Which is awful.
He once took his penis out while in the boy's washroom on our floor.
I missed that, luckily.
Anyway, I got hammered once and began speaking to him in September one night.
And I said, "There are no brothers in Newfoundland."
Which is embarrassing now.
But this seemed like an important thing to tell him at the time.
He was cool about it.
Other brothers may have reacted very differently.

Some other guy on our floor took his penis out in the bathroom once, too.
While I was in there.
I was shaving the three hairs from my (virgin's) face.
While he groomed his chest hair next to me.
Without any sort of announcement, he took his penis out and laid it on the bathroom counter.
I would have told him that this was an unsanitary practice.
But I was too terrified.
Though I'm still not sure about urban myths, TV had things right with the Italians.
It's best not to stare at another man's penis in a bathroom.
Even when he's sort of inviting it.
So, I did a glance.
I can't say that Italians have large penises.
But I can say that this Italian's penis was certainly larger than mine.

Oh Danny Boy

I'm not really one for politics.
If you ask me, we should scrap the whole system, right?
Then what we do is we have every homeowner claim their property to be their land.
Country.
Region.
Whatever.
And no one is allowed to enter another's region without express permission from the landholder.
Then we give everyone a gun.
There you go.
Politics.
But, I would like to mention that yesterday, on Yahoo! search, Danny Williams was the number one topic to obsess over.
Beating out Kanye West.
PC. Liberal. The political party that believes we should be ruled by trees.
Whoever you are.
You have to be impressed by that.

Classic Beauty

*Do NOT open the female actress links at work unless you don't care about paychecks, or you work in a coal mine.

Who is your Sofia Loren?
I know mine.
She is the one and only celebrity crush for me.
Apart from all of the other celebrity crushes I have.
She's the one!
If she has a sister, I don't care.
Larry David has listed Sofia Loren a number of times in his television show.
As a masturbation source for him.
He never dwells on it for very long, but you can tell that she's the be-all.
End-all.
So who is the one for you?
Do you go for the girl-next-door, understated blondness of Gwenyth Pawltrow?
"Gwen and I would have four babies together, each one named after an ingredient in her favourite fruit smoothie."
Or the urban, street cred allure of Halle Barrie?
Or the seasoned dignity of Dame Judi Dench?
Judi Dench would be like selecting the most reliable set of winter tires on the market.
Personally, I go with the "Are you in line?" charm of the woman standing behind you in Mr. Sub.
Lauren Graham is my Sofia Loren.
If I met her in person I would have to tell her that I thought she was the most beautiful woman in Hollywood.
Not because I believe that she would necessarily want to hear this from me.
A gappy, praying mantis sort of man who has somehow found his way into her bathtub.
I wouldn't tell her to ellicit any sort of response from her, necessarily.
I would tell her because I would have to tell her.
That's why she's the one.
Can we generate a discussion here, fans?
You leeches never give me any feedback.
Here's an exception:
Who's your Sofia Loren?
Bonus points if it turns out to be me.

A Probable Fate

Turpin and I had supper at Pizza Delight Monday night.
We confused the waitress.
After I had her write down my order I said, "And can you ask them to spit in it?"
When we first arrived she asked, "For two?"
I said yes, but at separate tables.
Turpin also said something witty here but I can't remember what it was.
Because I can only follow my own dialogue.
Anyway.
Nothin'.
The waitress wasn't going for any of it.

Turpin and I are entirely aware that we are romantically involved in other universes.
We have the sort of relationship where we can talk about that and it's not weird.
I suggested that in one of them we probably got together immediately after her moving to Bay Roberts.
(In this universe) She showed me Calvin and Hobbes cartoons from a book.
Far from our first meeting, this would have been our first 'hang out' together.
She suggested that (in this universe) we could have a Calvin and Hobbes-themed wedding.
"They could be the place-setting on the cake," she added.
I said that we could have two people dressed as mascot-sized Calvin and Hobbeses, walking around at the reception.
Then she suggested that we could be dressed like that.
"That'd be great," I realized, "Because we wouldn't have to talk to anybody because of the giant heads."
Yes, we're a happy couple out there somewhere.
"How many of these universes do you suppose we commit suicide in?" She asked me.
"All of them," I replied.

edit: This comic has no metaphorical significance.
It's the first one I came across that I laughed at.

With Utilities

My father broke his wrist yesterday.
At first it was cute because he had his little sling and everything.
But then I realized that he won't be able to play the accordion for two months.
And then I felt bad.
Dad has been playing the accordion for a great length of time.
But he has only started jamming-really jamming-in the past few years.
He even played onstage for a bunch of old people a couple of times.
His repertoire used to be violently limited.
We'd hear 'Frostie the Snowman' bustling out of the living room while we played basketball.
In June.

It's important to purchase your own food when you live with your parents.
Your senior citizen parents.
And I hate to be the guy who makes jokes that basically go, "My parents are so old."
But they're so old!
It's a gradual transformation, with violent, soaring spikes that occur occasionally.
For example, their fridge contains a variety of jams.
All of them homemade.
They have canned beverages in there.
But all of them are oddly coloured and marked.
Advertising preposterous flavours, like 'Green Apple Sparkling Soda.'
You can't mix gin with something as ambiguous as that.
These examples are gradual.
The dramatic instances are far more terrifying.
For example, I was checking my stock options on the computer the other day
("Sell!).
And dad approached me and began saying something to me.
But I couldn't hear what he was asking me because his pants were hitched up so high.
To the point where I was absolutely flabbergasted.
There's no other word to describe it.
And I felt like asking him:
"Dad. Why in the fuck are your pants like that?"
I've known him since I was born.
He has never worn his pants this way before.
It was frightening.

You share with your roommates.
Laundry detergent.
Paper towels.
Boyfriends and girlfriends.
You share with your roommates.
I left my shaving sack at Avril's place (second week in a row).
So, I had to borrow one of dad's razor blades.
"You don't have hepatitis, do you?" I asked him this before using his razor.
He claims that he doesn't.

Mom Like an Egyptian

I'm still living with my parents.
That's still happening.
I can only assume that I'll be living with my parents until they're not living any more.
Then I will continue to live with them in spirit.
While I continue to use their toaster and coffee perk.
I asked my mother what she intended to do with her dolls.
When it comes time for us to put her in her own collector's box.
For those of you who never used to get drunk with me in high school, my mom has these...dolls.
Seemingly hundreds of them.
They mostly occupy their little cabinet.
Which they commanded my father to build.
But some of them have managed to find their way to end tables.
Swing sets.
The downstairs bathroom.
Do you have any idea how unsettling it is to glimpse a doll in the mirror while you brush your teeth?
The Warford men mock them endlessly.
And when my mother cooks the roast (dies), I'm sure we'd all as soon toss the dolls on a pyre.
But Mom is way too sentimental for that to be a possibility.
And I'm the only male in the family who is sentimental enough to realize this.
So I guess the dolls will go to me.
But, it's still fun to tease her about it:
"What are we going to do with the dolls?
Cause we can't sell them. You'll want us to keep 'em."
"We'll be putting them on eBay immediately," announces Colin.
Who is considerably less sentimental.
Then it dawns on me: "We'll bury you with them!"

Starved for Attention

I lost a cell phone charger and a book over the weekend.
I gained some fees in the process, though.
Borrowed book replacement fees, for example.
So things all balance out in the end.
Like when you avoid food poisoning while on a resort weekend trip.
But you smash into a cliff face while parasailing.
Like that.

I did some free shows this weekend with the wonderfully supple Peter White.
Peter White is like the Halifax version of me.
Except he's attractive (maybe) and he's a working comic.
He and I and Avril tried to go to a reptile exhibit.
But it had a lineup like an Alicia Keys concert.
With the addition of a plethora of wiener children.
We said, "Thanks, but no thanks."
If I feel like going nowhere while surrounded by youths, I'll teach.

I made a new friend last week.
A new vegan buddy of mine.
I mentioned something about eating food.
As a carnivore.
And he asked me: "Is that how you like your food?
You enjoy stabbing it and watching it bleed out?"
I responded by grabbing a nearby kitchen knife and chasing him around the room with it.
The meat I eat is purchased in cellophane-wrapped packaging.
I don't give a shit about whatever hormones or steroids or Maybelene makeup was put on or into the meat before I eat it.
Because the same things are being injected into the red and green peppers that I buy.
Any animals I consume aren't going to do anything for me or the rest of us.
It wasn't a swine that cured Polio.
And people say meat-eaters are the aggressive ones.
While riding in a car with Turpin they passed a cyclist.
He yelled from the window, "Thanks for riding a bike!"
My new friend didn't realize that homie was probably riding a bike in the first place because he was charged with a DUI within the past year.
When I pass someone riding a bike I yell at them, "Go back to China!"
Feels more appropriate.
Joke's on this emaciated bigot, though.
Because I stole the little link of bicycle chain that he inexplicably wore on a string around his neck.
He probably removed it from some bike that he used to date.
I tell people that the link is from a larger bike chain I used to use.
When I was in a gang (my idea).
A gang called 'The Bats'.
Because they attack everyone with bats (Turpin's idea).
I was the black sheep of the group because I used a bicycle chain.
I wear it around my neck to remember my criminal glory days.
We used to primarily dent the hoods of cars.
And kill old people, eating their raw flesh.

Lucky Break

This may work now.
Remember when I went off to Montreal or wherever to perform in Just For Laughs?
Me neither.
Which is my own fault.
Mom was sweet enough to buy me a disposable camera for the trip.
And that camera is still in its rocketman space-age silver wrapper now.
In my backpack.
Next to the lube.
Anyway. I went there.
Below is a video of the set that allowed this.
Which I may or may not be allowed to embed.
If it asks you for a password, the whole thing is moot.
I know the password, but I'm confident that I'm not allowed to give it to you.
It's really hilarious, so don't watch it if you're trying to feel sorry for yourself.

When the soldiers were in the trenches, eating peanut butter to survive, do you suppose they ever paused to think:
"I hope they dedicate a day to me when this is all over.
One in which people can go to the movie cinema when they would otherwise be working."

Paul Warford Showcase, February 24, 2010 from Zoe Randall on Vimeo.

edit: Okay, so the video does require a password.
I'm working on downloading it.
Again.
Stay mildly interested.

Sarah Strain and Paul

Some days you wake up and you think to yourself:
I don't need Sarah Turpin as a best friend any more.
I can play the guitar now.
I see Gossey on a regular basis.
I can make new friends.
"Who needs her?!" You decide.
But, then you pause to imagine her in a pie-eating contest.
And you say to yourself, "Oh, that's right.
That's why I do this."
And then you're back to square one.

Just Watching TV

Do you really wish to see how fundamentally odd cable digital high-def PVR TV has become?
If the answer is "yes"-
-And I'm not sure whether or not it should be
Leave your TV on mute.
For an entire day.
Glance up from your Sudokus to observe it occasionally.
It's the best way to glimpse how retarded commercials have become.
Who are commercials designed for, really?
Adults?
Which adults?
Anyone who wants to buy their toilet paper from a cartoon bear-
Or a suspiciously telepathic Golden Retriever puppy-
Should be labeled as 'adult' with a degree of caution.
Maybe kids would read more if our gum commercials didn't involve middle-aged men bursting into office buildings on ostriches.
Though I doubt it.

I'm likely writing this way because I'm currently reading Klosterman's Sex, Drugs, Cocoa Puffs.
And though he has already proven through his first chapter that his ability to social analyze is way beyond mine...
...You can't help but think, "I can do this, too" when you read it.

hyphen count: 4

What's Not to Like?

I've got a joke for ya.
Would you like to hear a joke?
Alright.
Okay.
Ahem.
Sometimes when I'm warming up my throat before a really good joke, instead of saying "ahem," i like to say, "meha!"
Anyway.
Why did the lobster fuck his buddy's girlfriend?
Because he was a shellfish asshole.
Ta da!

Having sex with the best friend's girlfriend is really everyone's true romantic aspiration.
She often likes all of the same things you like.
Because she likes all of the same things that your buddy likes.
Which are all of the same things that you like.
Which is why you like your buddy and is why your buddy likes his girlfriend.
It only stands to reason that in time you start to like what your buddy likes.
In a woman.
And the nutty thing is that once you two start going for ice cream.
Without bothering to tell your buddy about it.
You realize that you like more of the same stuff than your buddy.
"Rainbow! That's my favourite flavour too!"
"Really?!"
"Yeah! I never get it with Buddy because he says-"
"-That it's too effeminate to be an ice cream flavour!?"
"Yeah!"
When you're finishing one another's sentences, handjobs are soon to follow.
And all of a sudden, you like the one thing that your buddy likes that you're not supposed to like:
Having sex with your buddy's girlfriend.
In time he finds out that you like the one thing that he likes that you're not supposed to like.
And he doesn't like it.
And now, what's more, he doesn't like you.
He doesn't like her.
And you wish that you'd never bothered noticing the things that she liked that you like.
Now all three of you dislike the scenario.
Yup.
Sex with the best friend's girlfriend.
Nothing quite like it.

"Sorry I'm Late."

This is one of those occasions.
I have been away from the blog for so long that when I come back I don't know what to say by way of apology.
Like I stood you up on a second date.
Or I told you that I was 'just going for cigarettes'.
So that I could abandon yourself and your mother.
And your little sister.
But she'll be too young to ever remember me.
And one night at the dinner table, while you're all eating the velcro out of your shoes, little Betsie will speak up and say:
"What was daddy like? When are we going to see daddy?"
And your mother will scream, "He was a bum! That's what he'll always be!
Don't you ever mention him!"
Then she grabs Betsie by the shoulders, looks into her eyes.
"Don't you never marry a man who smokes, Betsie.
He'll only leave you."
And Betsie will get real quiet and doe-eyed.
Your mother will storm out of the room and begin drinking mouthwash.
While sobbing in the bathroom.
And you'll say to Betsie, "It's okay Betsie.
Just eat your shoe, okay?"
But that night something will have changed inside of you.
What was once dormant has now stirred.
And you have decided: You're going to find me and kill me.
For allowing you to live like this. All of you.
Three years you spend on the road.
Going from gas station to gas station.
Asking, "Do you sell cigarettes?"
After the greasy attendants nod, you always show them a photo and say:
"Have you sold cigarettes to this man?"
And they inevitably shake their head.
Because the photo is a clipping from the newspaper.
And the man in the photograph is Brian Tobin.
Because your mother once told you as a child that your dad was away because he was an important politician.
And she showed you this picture.
But I am not Brian Tobin.
And I never will be.
After the third winter you surrender your trek.
Through menacing forests and placid swamps you trudge home.
You find your mother bedridden with dysentery.
While letters suffocate the coffee tin your family uses as a mailbox.
All hand-written warnings from Betsie's teachers:
Betsie never completes her homework, they say.
And you crumple to your knees and you curse my name.
"I'll never be like you, Brian!
I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"
Your lamentations and the pounding of your fists on the sheet metal flooring of your shack will echo about the desolate room.
Then I walk in through the door.
Now what am I supposed to say in a situation like that?
Whatever it is, that's what I'm saying to all of you now.

525, 600 Minutes, 599, 598...

So here is what the doomsayers are saying these days.
Now the world isn't going to end in 2012 all of a sudden.
They think.
They're not sure.
Of anything.
Because they're a group of people who legitimately believe in the idea of a death clock. You don't get to guess and then make a new guess when you realize that your first guess was wrong.
That's like guessing how many jelly beans may be in the jar.
And then saying, "No, wait! I meant the number you just said!"
Meanwhile, they're handing the Furby to some other kid who is better at approximating than you are.
One guess, doomsayers.
You blew it.
Go back to saying that MSG is going to get us all.
Besides, there's only one true death clock for a human: leukemia.
So get out there and live your life, everybody.
That anvil may be dangling just above your head.

Who's the Fairest of Them All?

You know what's depressing?
How these Chilean miners are getting so much press time.
And I can't get on NTV.
They're heroes, y'know.
Every one of them.
The engineers who came up with the contraption to get them out are not, mind you.
What did they do?
But these guys who were in the mine.
They went without internet for a long time.
What was I talking about?
Oh yeah!
You know what's depressing?
When I look at my behind in the mirror.
While I wait for the shower to heat up.
I never look in mirrors, to be honest.
It's commonplace for me to show up (late) with toothpaste still on my face.
Or shaving cream in my ear.
I don't know why it is that I never look into mirrors.
I'm appropriately meek about my appearance, I guess.
Ashamed.
Appropriately ashamed.
That, and I'm afraid that if I look at a mirror for too long...
...Well, you know...
I'm afraid that Bloody Mary will pop out of there.
And yell, "Cocktails!"
Then she'll get loaded, refuse to leave, and dad will have to drive her home.

There Goes my Hero

Taught grade fours today.
Taught them how to receive a proper beating.
They were fast learners.

Colin's birthday is coming up.
I don't know how old he's going to be, exactly.
But I know it's old enough that he's probably not excited about it.
I'm going to buy him a video game.
Because I guess I feel bad about it.
Not that it's my fault, or anything.
Y'know, it's funny.
I guess because he was the oldest.
And perhaps because Brian had a tendency to give me daily beatings...
I always admired Colin when I was a kid.
He was a real hero.
All of his friends were hockey players.
He was a good swimmer.
He worked hard jobs in scary places.
He had abs! Real abs!
Colin!
Then he got fat.
And things went downhill from there.
He used to come home from 12+ hours at the fish plant.
And he'd sneak up behind me and cup his hand over my mouth.
Leaving it there for a while.
Have you ever worked for 12+ hours at the fish plant?
I haven't, but it's gotta be a putrid place. 
I saw him fall off of his bike and break his arm one time.
It was awesome.

Avril and I watched The Bonavista Chain Locker recently.
A real group of lookers.
Not much upstairs, though.
Anyway, I forget the name of their opening band.
But I know that they covered this song.
And that it was fabulous.

"Beer From Fridge is Falling Down (Falling Down, Falling Down)"

Originally written Thursday, October 7th:

I'm in a van in da missus' driveway.
I don't know where she is.
But that's where I am.
She might be inside her house, actually.
I went to Placentia (Placenta) for the first time in my life just the other day.
Do me a favour for a second while you read this.
Put your hands in front of you, parallel to your chests (luscious as they are).
Palms down.
Now, touch the tip of your middle finger to the tip of your other middle finger.
Now raise your hands at the tips away from one another.
It was my understanding that Placenta had a bridge that did that.
But it does not.
Hold one hand in front of your chests again.
Parallel.
Now raise your hand up towards your face.
They have a bridge that does that instead.
Like a hotel elevator used to move bins of garbage.
Which is far less romantic.
A little less Thomas the Tank Engine and a little more Placenta.
Turpin and I went to a gas station to get beer.
But they only had various motor oils available to drink.
One of the local savages directed me, around Doritos, to a corner store.
Across the bridge.
She stayed in the van, churlish and awful, while I went inside.
She soon noticed from the passenger seat that everyone in the store was staring at me.
This is because the first half-case I removed from the cooler was missing a bottom.
So all of the bottles fell onto the floor, smashing into bits.
Then I had beer on my pants.
I immediately thought to myself: 'Aww, come on! I just got here!'

Day Tryppin'

Happy pagan affront to gluttony, everyone.
I have eaten two turkey dinners, and the tryptophan is making me lucid and apathetic.
More so.
Thanksgiving is such an inconsequential holiday.
I don't understand why it is that we still celebrate it.
Well, I do.
People who work for the government don't have to go to work.
People who work for the government love not going to work.
On the bright side, anyone working in Baby Gap today will be getting time and a half.
That's 1.5 times as much mouthwash that they can afford on their next paycheck.
Which is how I measure wealth.

Speaking of earning your inebriation, what a weekend I had at Yuk's.
Thursday I went over my time by 15 minutes and an old comic (Bobby Keele) yelled at me.
I really, truly deserved it.
Friday I slammed it. Dominated.
I told all of the teachers in the room that I wanted to have sex with them.
Jennifer Snow was there.
I stand by my statement.
Saturday night...
I can't really describe it effectively.
I have never been hugged so many times after a show.
Strangers were offering to hug me.
The wait staff...
But it wasn't me.
It was them.
I would have been good.
If they had let me.
So, I was able to focus entirely on the sexuality of the hugs.
Because I didn't really need the comforting effects of them.
I told the crowd that I had been to more sophisticated cockfights.
Someone may have laughed at this if the audience had been able to hear me.
Sometimes tables of nimrods need to be escorted to a parking lot.
Increases the likelihood they'll be struck by cars.
And there were no employees willing to send the drunk men to the parking lot.
I miss Bill.

Ring My Bell

I purchased a phone today.
Against my better judgement and my own wishes.
My old phone never received phone calls.
This may be because I'm a massive loser.
Either way, I need something new.
It's growing on me.
It is now far easier to use punctuation when I text.
But the phone is black.
Which is a super gay colour.

I'm hoping that Peter can fandangle it to play specific songs when people call.
Here are a few ringtones I already have in mind:

Avril:


Mom:


Turpin:


Robert Shandera:


Colin:


Bussey (inside joke):


And I might include this song for Pete.
Because it was on CBC Radio 2-Drive.
Which he suggested I listen to.
I'll include it regardless because it has been stuck in my head:

Look Who's Talking

Well, Shia LaBeouf and Frankie Muniz have returned to their twelve-year feud, apparently.
"I'm taller!"
"No, I'm taller!"
They're the same height, really:
Below average.
As though Shia LaBeouf has the right to mock anyone.
His name sounds like some sort of an egg dish.

Thanks to my shopping cart, I am ready for parenting.
It told me to never leave my child unattended.
Now I just need to read the labels on some baby food jars.
Program the number for poison control into my phone.
And I'll be set to start impregnating (more) women.

N'est-ce Pas?

Talk about going down with the ship.
Steve Coombs brought my attention to this tasty little tragedy.
Did the Segway survive the fall?
That's the question marketers should be asking right now.
'Reliable! Resilient! Survives the fatal plummets to the Earth that your body cannot!'
Perhaps this will convince shareholders that Jimi's suggestion to install rockets on the Segways may not have been such a bad idea...
Puts a spin on that classic mother-son argument, doesn't it:
"Mom, I want a Segway!"
"Who let you off of your shackle? No way, go back to the basement."
"But mo-om! Everybody else has one!"
"If everybody else drove their Segways off of cliffs, would you do it?!"
Okay, are we good? Is that enough making fun of this guy now?
Alright.
We'll move on.

I have been dropping by schools today.
Trying to convince them that I'm not as wayward as the townsfolk say I am.
At one place they confirmed that I couldn't speak French.
Immediately.
"And no French, right?"
"Right."
Then he proceeds to mark 'NO FRENCH' on my resume.
And underline it.
He could have dazzled the both of us and at least set fire to it in front of me.
There are other subjects.
I went to school.
We didn't do French for five periods and then go home.
Laughing, surrendering, our berets askew.
Special education and French will get you a teaching job anywhere on the island.
Every other subject area is like some sort of scarlet letter.
Perhaps photocopier instruction manuals are only printed in French.
And they need the teachers to read them in order to fix paper jams.

Baby, Shower!

Eating a meal with a baby is sort of like eating a meal with a homeless person.
It's fine to do so, but they tend to get messy and not say a great deal.
It also doesn't take a huge amount to fill them up.
Two weeks ago? Maybe?
Whenever it was.
I ate a meal with a baby at some new-aged parents' house while Turpin smothered demons beside me.
She dragged me there.
It was a good time. Don't get me wrong.
The co-owner of the sprout is also a co-owner of the house.
And the baby.
So, the meal was flagrantly vegetarian.
And I ate the whole thing!
There wasn't anything left on the plate and I didn't whine about it or anything.
Though the meal hit a brief snag when the baby tried to touch me while I was sipping my coffee.
All covered in melon and youth and God knows what else.
So I told the baby.
I said, "Don't touch me with your mangy (pronounced 'mang-ee') ol' hands-get away from me."
I think Peter Miles (the father) was insulted.
Which is ridiculous.
I wouldn't have believed that Peter Miles could be insulted.
Some years ago we celebrated his sister's 30th in their parents' home.
And he laughingly suggested I have sex with her while there.
Because it would have been hilarious.
For everyone but me.
Anyway.
The baby was alright other than that.
I'm cool with feeding him squash.
But I would like to think that he'll be offered a carnivorous option when he's done teething.

A-Brewin'

Get your duckie boots out of your childhood closets.
As my parents would say, "It's blowin' a gale."
Hurricane Igor is ambling through our province and threatening our barbecues.
I'm here to boost moral and give everyone up-to-the-minute reports on how I'm doing:
I'm okay.
Usually I enjoy a good storm.
No one really expects anything of you.
You can put on your pajamas in the morning and leave them on.
You have a decent excuse on reserve for anything that you may forget to do or not do later that week.
"Sorry I forgot to get my greyhound registered for the race-
that storm on Tuesday was something else.
Lost my rain gutter.
Can I still enter him now?
He has been eating raw eggs all week. He wants to get in there."
You can buy aging greyhounds, y'know.
They have all of their shots, they have all of their papers.
They're well-trained.
They're sleek.
In a storm like this they can be used as a weather vane.
And from what I understand they're rather inexpensive.
What a bargain. 
The only problem with these dogs is the obligation to name them all Santa's Little Helper.I'd ask for one that didn't win any races.
So that the dog and I would have something in common.
I don't need a pet with a blue ribbon mentality.
That's why I left that cocky Wilbur on the farm.

Colin has begun concocting his own beer.
I may aid him in the process in the near future.
Then I won't feel so bad about drinking all of his hard work at Christmas time.

Killing Time

I really can't put into words how I am dressed right now.
Just know that I'm wearing my mother's lime-green capri pants.
Turpin has a bottle of champagne that includes wine glasses and everything.
So we decided to turn it into a date.
While drinking the champagne at three in the afternoon.
We're having trouble keeping ourselves occupied here in Bay Roberts.
I can't wait to see what she's wearing.
I hope she's not in the same outfit.
That would be embarrassing.

If you said, "How's it hangin'?" to a puppeteer, it would be a perfectly genuine question.

Turpin and I rented a film last night.
But this time I picked it out.
First of all, let me tell you something:
This is the first shitty horror film I have picked out in the course of our relationship.
And it is by far the best one that we have watched yet.
It is entitled Bikini Bloodbath Car Wash.
It was written and directed by Who the Fuck Cares.
That's really what it says in the opening credits.
The film didn't have nearly as many exposed breasts as I thought it might.
But then, it has 'bikini' in the title.
And there were lots of those.
I enjoyed the cinematography.
I spelled 'cinematography' properly on the first try.
Anyway, you should all watch the movie.
It's a hell of a lot better than Mongrel.
I meant to tell you guys about Mongrel but never got around to it.
Some other time.



Alright, I believe I hear my fair maiden.
Wish me luck.

A Lump In the Throat

When the mourners huddle around my coffin, reeking of booze, I hope they can say:
"Well, at least he died the way that he lived.
In the jaws of a hippopotamus."

Out of the Panopticon, Into the Fire

This is that hand-written post I mentioned a couple of days ago.
Transcribed blah blah blah. Whenever I wrote it:

Stephen Hawking believes that if we find aliens, we shouldn't attempt to communicate with them.
Another classic display of a scientist's true inability to behave socially.
Finding aliens and then refusing to greet aliens would be equivalent to being lost in the Congo, encountering another guy lost in the Congo, and then acting as though he's not there.
"Oh Jesus! Thank God! Someone else is out here. I was separated from my guide and a guerrilla ate all of my provisions.
I brandished my pocket knife at him, but he took that too.
None of that matters though. So long as we stick together!
If we follow the river we should locate civilization downstream.
C'mon!"
And you just look at him blankly.
Nothing about this response says 'diplomacy.'
When it comes to space, Stephen Hawking's a genius.
But he should leave the socializing to someone else.
He's not dancing with any girls at the party, if you know what I mean.

If aliens drop in, I'm going to find a nearby roof.
And then I'm going to hold a sign for them to read as they land.
Like that chick in Independence Day.
Something like:
DO YOU THINK THESE PANTS ARE TOO SHORT?

The government is watching us, y'know.
Just like Enemy of the State.
They spent gillions of dollars, but now they can see us as soon as we step outside.
Perhaps you've heard of the project codename:
Google Maps.
It is Nineteen Eighty-Four.

The Slacker's Manifesto

Library.
I'm beginning to think that my writing benefits from being in front of a window.
Like dictating a novel while doing the dishes.
I can see the roof of the Arts building.
Sort of makes me feel like a bird.
Or a roofer.
I saw photos of my grandfather putting a roof on his new shed.
With my father.
And "is that Colin on the roof, too?!"
Mom: Yeah, Colin was their helper.
Me: But he's like, four!
Mom: Pop insisted he be up there with them.
And they wonder why I can't use anything that requires its own fuel.
I didn't volunteer to be useless, y'know.
For the record.
I used to frequently ask to help dad.
But I was always "too little."
Now the joke is on my parents and future wife.
Because this response eventually mutated into "too lazy."

Speaking of harbouring my shortcomings, I'm sort of at the library in order to avoid mowing Avril's lawn.
Her mom asked me to do this.
Avril suggested that I do a shitty job so that they won't ask me to do it again.
Which takes the pressure off of me to try and figure out how I'm supposed to do a good job.
So use your kids for labour, everyone!
Tell them that they don't get their supper untili they sweep the chimney.
Otherwise, you'll end up with me:
A 28 year-old hobo who's only good for washing the dishes.
And looking out the window.

Here We Grow A Grain

Transcribed from yesterday, 5:30ish.

Y'know what sets a first-world country apart from a second-world country?
Eating contests.
A second-world country can't really spare the grain for the hot dog buns.
Or pie crusts. Whatever.
How do they even turn grain into food?
Isn't grain the stuff that we feed to chickens?
Oh. We set a bunch of grains down in a field and then the chickens come.
And those who survive tell the other chickens where to find this grain.
Because chickens are stupid and don't know how to avoid danger.
Which is why they keep crossing the road.

I'm at a Canadian Tire (Tube) right now.
The van has a flat.
I'm supposed to meet mom and dad for their airport arrival in ten minutes.
Mom would be irritated that I'm not going to be there. If she knew.

Drawing A Bath

I had written a post onto paper for all of you.
I did it in the library again.
Something about 18-year-olds' asses that I just find soothing.
Call it therapeutic.
Like setting up a change room web cam at the Aquarena.
See, this was all written on the piece of paper as well.
Unfortunately, the piece of paper is in the missus' car.
Which is in St. John's currently.
We went on a road trip yesterday.
To Gandar.
A very short road trip.
But long enough, given the destination.
We got home by about 7:30, tired and argumentative (not really).
I immediately began to eat ham that had inexplicably arrived in my parents' fridge.
Now, it turns out that Avril brought it along for the trip.
But I didn't know this at the time.
Though she had told me that she had packed ham before we left, I had long since forgotten that.

My parents are still in Toronto.
They get home tomorrow.
They bring dreaded responsibility with them.
Turpin watered the plants while they were gone.
Even now that I'm capable of buying booze for them, I doubt I could have as many high school kids here as Colin would when mom and dad were away.

A new comedy open mic is launching tomorrow.
Esteves and I had been discussing originating our own.
And then a mysterious woman contacted all of us and informed us that she would be starting a room.
As you can imagine, I consider it a little too good to be true.
But I'm going to discuss screenplays with Esteves soon.
Just in case.

Speaking of making it, I'm going to ask the Yuk's people to put us on tour together.
I asked Bill if they would entertain such an idea.
"Sure they would, especially if you're willing to share a hotel room."
Which I am not.
But I am willing to have him sleep in a bathtub for a month and a half.

Though I'm short a Metallica album, I have learned that Hot Hot Heat is great.
They sold me on it in the CD store.
I used to do that at one time.
I once sold a couple of seniors a copy of A Perfect Circle's 'Thirteenth Step.'
And now?
A substitute teacher.
How the mighty have fallen.

When the Bow/Bough Breaks

Watching your girlfriend sleep is far more touching than watching bums do it.

This song is at the top of my charts currently.
I love a tune that tells a story.
It is one of the few appeals of the music of filthy Steve Hoskins.
Of course, all of his music tells stories about how much better I am than him.
With due cause.
He's from Paradise.
The one in Newfoundland.
Not the one with all of the dead people in it.
Anyway.
I'm paying it forward:


Speaking of false hope, I was at a funeral today.
Y'know, bringing a baby to a funeral is somewhat rude.
Nevermind the screaming it does while the father is trying to 'say a few words.'
Funerals are our way of saying, 'Well...he's dead.'
How could someone have the gall to bring a baby to this occasion?
What's more alive than a baby?
A pregnant baby!

eDit: by '...than watching bums do it,' I mean 'watching bums sleep.'
Not 'watching bums watch my girlfriend sleep.'
Which my girlfriend wisely asked me about afterward.
Though I now sort of wish that I had meant the latter.
There's a third option neither of us considered.
In which 'do it' means 'have sex.'

For the Birds

I'm upstairs in the QEII library.
I'm writing on the back of a sheet containing their hours.
Which I removed from some wall or another.
It's called recycling, guys.
I'm in a leather chair.
Someone recently ate pistachios while sitting here.
When I lived in Banff I used to buy pistachio bars that cost approximately six dollars.
I am superb at wasting money.

Speaking of which, I just saw a pet shop deal on budgie birds.
$16.99.
I very much considered buying one for the sole purpose of setting it free in the parking lot.
But that's sort of extreme; I could buy, like, three pistachio bars for that amount.
I probably would have emancipated one already if there was someone around to take pictures of it.
If only we loved like the love birds love.
They spend all of their time sitting within inches of one another.
They eat together.
Defecate together.
And they couldn't live without one another.
If on of them goes legs-up in the newspaper, the other follows suit.
None of this 'in-it-for-the-life-insurance' shit.

So, here's one for our side:
Chris Turpin now reads the blog.
This is better than convincing all of The Osmonds to read it.
Chris sails boats.
He keeps a portable barbecue on hand in his shed.
Did I tell you about the time he picked Turpin and I up from the Education Building?
And he had those three bushes in the car with him?
I probably did.
I didn't even ask him what they were for.
I just said, "There was a sale on, was there Chris?"
And then he went on to describe the deal he got on them.
Leaves all over the car everywhere.


QEII LIBRARY
EXTENDED HOURS
SPRING/SUMMER 2010

Saturday August7, 2010 8:00am - 4:45pm
Saturday August 14, 2010 8:00am - 4:45pm

** The QEII Library will reopen Monday August 16, 2010 at 8:00am.

Domo Arigato

Since Peter's showing me this video a couple of weeks ago, I watch it whenever I feel like I need cheering up.

And you all look pretty miserable, so...

A Oh-Canine

After raking up bits of rotted clapboard and ancient nails, Dad suggested we take a break.
While eying our cleanup job, he insisted that I smelled a rose in the garden.
Because it had "some smell on it."
It reminded me of why I love my father;
He reminds me of me.

It's hard to afford true happiness these days.
Some of you may ask, "Well, Paul, what is true happiness, exactly?"
Is it witnessing two women making out in a hot tub?
Potentially.
But I believe that it is also enjoying life at its most basic level.
I can think of only one truly concrete example of this:
Dogs sticking their head out of a car window.
Below is exhibit A.
Which I found among Valerie Kent's Facefuck photos.
I can't even recall the last time that I spoke to Valerie Kent.
But I know this!
I was likely charming when I did so.
Anyway.
Here's hoping we can all find satisfaction as these guys have.

New Turritory

For some time I have been intent on getting Avril's father some Turr.
It's a bird.
Apparently they're entirely black, once plucked.
And they taste like something that my grandfather would have enjoyed eating.
Bad.
They taste bad.
But of the land.
Anyway, Avril's father mentioned that he used to enjoy Turr at a younger time.
So I cataloged this in my brain.
Caused me to forget to pay my VISA bill for that month in the process, but whatever.
I filed this away because I knew that my father would be able to procure for me this bird.
Unlike Avril's dad, mine primarily associates with savages.
Dad has said for some time that he had a bead on some.
Some nights ago, Dr. Lear dropped by for a visit.
Despite being a doctor, and a real go-getter at that, Dr. Lear enjoys shooting things a great deal.
Woodsy.
He's woodsy.
"Here are your Turr!" Then he handed me this bag, which I laid in the freezer.
But on the way to the freezer, I thought to myself in my head:
"I'm not going to look in the bag right now...
...But these feel like two frozen bird carcasses.
That's what these feel like."
Y'know what I had pictured.
Some mysterious black meat in a somewhat opaque, tightly sealed mason jar.
That would have been fine.
You can give that to someone as a gift.
You can't give someone two frozen, deceased animals.
That's no good.
I mentioned all of this to dad today
(After he showed me how to use a whipper snipper!).
He chuckled and said, "Yeah, these birds were what you might call, 'gathered in the rough.'"
How apt.
I considered this, and then said, "Well, they're better to him like this than they were flying around..."
I'll keep you posted on this one.
I have a good feeling about it.

No Stain, No Rain

I didn't take a single picture, you know.
The whole time I went on this pilgrimage of mine.
Not that I'm sure I'd have anything to photograph, really.
A slew of comics performing better than me.
The most photogenic moment I experienced was outside of the St. Catherine Starbucks.
I was waiting for Jane (Stanton. Redheaded. Boisterous) and Lars (Callieou. Brunette. Road rager) to buy whatever.
And I look up just in time to see this massive papier mache head roll by.
On a forklift.
I eventually managed to find the heads on Facefuck.
But they haven't responded to my friend request yet.
I spent a lot of time on that street.
Looking for women wearing white dresses, primarily.
Or, at the very least, a light yellow.
There were suckers dressed in full nylon outfits.
Handing out pamphlets for Zoo Fest (No animals. I checked).
Head to toe.
Imagine a nylon "onesie."
Garishly coloured and dotted with unflattering sweat stains.
Now attach a hood to that.
With no orifice holes whatsoever.
I got close to one of them and they had all sorts of spittle stains around their mouth.
It was nearly 30 degrees most of the time I was there.
What a job.
I'd rather pump gas.

Casting A Spell

I'd love to tell you about all of the shmoozing I have been doing, and how shitty I am at it.
But I no longer feel as though I need to speak to you.
Seriously, though.
I'm in a 'business center' that isn't air conditioned, and I'm miserable because of it.
Soon enough I'll go back to being a gangly person without a day job.
I'll have plenty of time on my hands to yammer at you then.
While we wait for that, please check out my podcast on the Todd Van Allen, or TVA show.
This happened last Thursday, I think.
It was on the second floor of a building.
I'm certain of that much.
You can find the podcast (his 200th!) here.

"How Much Time Am I Doing?"

How's it going?
It's great to be here!
I just flew in last night
All the snacks cost too much
Wrote jokes about the flight

My room's AC was on the fritz
My eggs fried on their own
They 'fixed it'--now it won't shut off
I haven't thought of home

I go out to help get warm
Come in to help cool down
I've paced the lobby twenty times
There's no one else around

I wake late morning, nap at four
Dinner's at one a.m.
The other comics have bigger rooms
At least I'm making friends

Did a podcast, played some rooms
Put beer on someone's tab
Flew out twice at the cock's crow
Paid too much for a cab

My iPod is my new best friend
My TV's my new dad
Super Sexe has my new gals
Perhaps I'll do their ads.

I don't know what I'm doing here
Or how I got this pass
All the others know so much
They must think I'm an ass

I just spit it when I'm on the mic
And pray there's some applause
Hope the dudes will clap their hands
As girlfriends throw their bras

All the pros are so damned smooth
Seven hundred's no big deal
Maybe one day I'll be them
How fucked would that feel?

I'll try to shmooze with Jimmy Carr
The boys from SNL
If I don't throw up in their drink
I'll say that 'it went well'

The scariest are 'the industry'
Who know the whys and whos
Make me the next gillionaire
In 'The Hangover 2'

I try to take it all in stride
And wear my stupid shirts
If they happen to not dig my ways
They'll get their just desserts

Go over new lines. Eat something light
Then get in the shower
I have another show to do
My car comes in an hour

It's All Over but the Riots

The World Cup is over.

I know.

I watched the whole thing bleed out and die personally.

In a restaurant in Montreal.

I watched the entire match with other comics who didn't have the sense to not watch it.

115 hours of tepid action, punctuated with one goal.

It was fabulously adequate.

Now there are people honking car horns and brandishing flags without the usual nationalistic caution.

It's sickening.

I wouldn't find the display so aggravating if it wasn't for the motorcade of units behind the whole thing.

Banging on their car doors.

Shouting things with their shirts off.

What a crock of shit.
You don't need a soccer game to take pride in your country and get piss-wasted hammered.

That's what the olympics are for.

A Wing and a Scare

Written on Westjet flight 400-and-something
July 7; 7:05 a.m..

I'm in a plane right now.
It's flying without my help.
It's hard to concentrate because I'm on the wing.
I'm always on the wing.
This gives me something to whine about because:
A) it's the loudest seat to sit in.
B) if the engine suddenly falls off, it's my responsibility to stand up and yell:
"The engine just fell off of the plane!"
Which makes me look like the bad guy.
I watched Toy Story 3. It was good.
But it was in 3D, so when it was over I had to go back to perceiving things the way I usually perceive them.
Bland.
I hate the guy sitting next to me.
And he didn't even do anything.
Except sit next to me.
I guess that's enough.
Sitting on a plane is like sitting on other vessels; you desperately don't want anyone sitting next to you.
Unless it's one of those Hawaiian Tropic girls.
Babes.
They prefer to be called babes.
There are so many people sleeping right now.
I should do my "the engine just fell off the plane!" line now.
For practice.

Two for the Show

I'm in Toronto.
But with the Humidex I'm in Toronto and contrary.
It's still early in the morning here.
But not as early as it was when Avril and I first got up to go to the airport.
She sang Leaving on a Jet Plane while I went through security.
I was mortified.
Anyway, I'm at Brian's and I want to nap.
So why am I even talking to you, really?

I do and will have more to tell you, though.
I wrote you all a post while I was on the plane.
Shorthand!
I performed shorthand for you vultures!
But I'll transcribe that later.

Oh!
There was a Just For Laughs guy at the airport waiting for me.
With a sign.
He introduced himself and then said, "Do you have your luggage?"
I responded, "No. Should I?"
He pointed behind me and said, "Should be through there."
The door I'd just walked through had red stickers all over it.
Telling us not to go in there.
"Are we going to be able to get in there?" This is me again.
"Oh yeah, that's fine."
Then he pried the door apart with his hands.
A Yuk Yuk's guy would've told me that I'd have to buy all new luggage.
Anyway, I had to tell him that I didn't know he'd be there.
And that I didn't need a ride.
He had to call Wayne and tell Wayne.
I believe he woke Wayne in the process.
So I'm already making friends.
Alright. That's it.
What do you want me to bring you back?
Little CN Towers?
A flesh wound?

I Beg Your Pardon

I pardon puns.
But not non-puns.
Usually people say, 'Pardon the pun,' after saying something that is not at all a pun.
These are the same individuals who say:
"I'm really bad at telling jokes.
So! These two nuns walk into a bar.
No wait...it's raccoons.
These two raccoons walk into a bar..."

A Little Meat on Their Bones

Sure, they're sexy vegetarians.
But nobody's asking the real question here:
Just what is the man's relationship with that goat, exactly?
The answer isn't in his bio.
The woman is opposed to killing animals.
And wearing shirts that have buttons.

Three's Company

Shouldn't it be "The flowers and the bees"?
What do birds have to do with it?
Maybe I just haven't had enough sex to figure it out yet.
My good buddies Peter and Turpin are coming home.
Did I ever tell you about the time with Tupin and the butter?
We used to talk on the phone and look at one another through her kitchen window and my den window.
She would always insist on taking her shirt off for me.
Anyway, show time had just finished.
And I suggested to her that she dip her finger in butter.
And then dip it in suger.
And then eat it.
She seemed skeptical, but I insisted that it was really good.
Eventually she tried it.
Now she does it all of the time.

They're coming home.
Did I mention that?
They've been in some place with camels for a long time now.
Some place hot.
I'll have to be at the airport for when they arrive.
But, for the life of me, I can't decide on what to wear.
I mean, even if I found chaps in time...
...I wouldn't be permitted to wear something assless in an airport.
I was also thinking of some sort of tutu number.
But they saw that just before they left.
Suggestions?

edit: Oh yeah!
I forgot to add this.
Under the 'artists' tab I'm on the same page as Pamela Anderson.
My bio was heavily edited by...somebody.

Writing on the Wall

'Biblical proportions' is just another way of saying 'highly unlikely.'

I vomited early on Sunday morning.
That was the only day this weekend, though.
I drank four beers.
One bottle and three pints.
"So, really you drank six beers.
Cause a pint is like a beer and a half.
Seven beers."
Robert explained this to me yesterday while dogs frolicked around us.
Robert's good at math.
The important thing to realize here is that after vomiting, Avril brought me saltines.

While walking through the mall's skywalk, I noticed that someone had written the following on a support beam:
JESSIE IS THE BEST THING TO EVER HAPPEN TO ME!!
I wrote underneath it:
It won't last.

Speaking of damned relationships, mom and dad recently observed their fortieth anniversary.
I wasn't there.
And I forgot to call.
But it still happened, just the same.

A Band-Aid Solution

I was invited to volunteer for a school's sports' day.
Which I agreed to.
Because classrooms aren't involved with sports' days.
Fields are.
And the staff barbecue was happening later that same afternoon.
So why not?
They asked me to be there for 8:30.
I hung up the phone and then immediately realized that I didn't want to be there for 8:30.
I'd have to get up and shower before then.
And I'd be there for most of the day.
That's a lot of volunteering for anyone.
My generosity only goes as far as it will benefit me and no one else.
So I immediately called back and told them about the blood work I had to get done in the morning.
Which I'd plum forgotten about.
I found myself in my mother's van at 11 the next day.
Tearing up squares of tissue.
Adhering them to my forearm.
Somewhat nervous that I didn't bring enough band-aids with me.
To keep up my miserable lie.
Then I went and had ice cream with the grade fours.

I eventually went to the ball field to watch the grade sevens shotput.
The only interesting ones to watch were those who were maturing faster than their friends.
"Nice try, David."
"Nice try, Laquesha."
"Holy shit, Jeremy!
Good arm, buddy.
Takes the focus off of your acne."
I saw one of the students I would frequently talk to in the hallways.
Because he never seemed to be in class.
Which I liked.
Anyway, he had his jacket zipped up tight to his collar.
And he was wearing a knitted/stocking cap.
So, I said to him, "Gerald, why are you wearing your jacket and toque on a nice day like this?"
To which he replied, "What the fuck's a toque?"