Save Mace

I'd like to be with a girl long enough to know her phone sign-off.
Everyone has a phone sign-off.
My ex-girlfriend's, for example, was:
"Who gave you this number?! Quit calling me!"
It's the little things, you know?

I wouldn't necessarily say that I expect to be maced one day.
But I believe that I have the capacity to be maced.
It's in me to be maced.
Ever get hot sauce in your eyes?
Stings, doesn't it?
Not like rejection.

Only Newfies will get this.
Do you know what heaven is?
Goobies.
A bunch of people meeting up with one another.
Enjoying bowls of turkey soup.

Remember the age when eating baked goods with an alcohol theme was exciting?
You'd eat seconds when no one was looking.
Then you'd brag to your friends the next day.
"Mom had a Harvey Wallbanger cake for pop's birthday.
I ate three pieces.
Then I had a bunch of chocolate liquor candies.
Like, a box of 'em.
I must've been drunk cause I threw up over my bed."

We're slaves to screens, you know.
The government is winning.
And if you read this and say to yourself, "That's ridiculous."
Ask yourself this:
Have you ever defecated in the presence of your laptop?

It's Different When They're Yours

If what's on TV is reality, then we're more doomed than Nostradamus thought.

Pregnant pornography is catching on.
Who's surprised, really?
Talk about your self-sustaining industries.
Do you think the porno guys help the women from the couch to the set?
Ease her in and out of a sitting position (among others)?
Would Le Mans work as well during anal sex as it would during child birth?
That's an awkward conversation thirteen years down the road.
"Mom...some of the guys at school said you were in a porno.
Is that true?"
"Actually, sweetheart, we were in a porno.
We were in rehab together, too."

Glutton for Punishment

Sorry I've been away so long.
I was busy winning contests.
Booyah!
Now I just have to wait until February 10th.
To see if I can eat the most hot dogs in the quickest time.
Of the comics in St. John's.
Matt Esteves is my real competition.
That guy can put 'em away.
Just look at pictures of him in elementary school.

I've been getting closer and closer to listening to Led Zeppelin.

I worked with Tracey MacDonald over the weekend.
She's funny.
Despite occasionally wearing fake glasses.
I finally brought a headshot into the club.
It took me a while to figure out what to write on the picture.
When I eventually decided, I was extremely satisfied.
I wrote these while waiting to go on in the green room:

Wings made by my dad
Hey, something smells like candles
A chalk outline; feathers

Wine served from a box
Clothes strewn about the hardwood
A new mouth to feed


I keep having dreams that take place in Australia.
I have yet to be poisoned in one of them.
Guess I'll save that for the real thing.

Showboat

However many underage penises he may or may not have touched.
What a dancer.
I posted some garbage similar to this not that long ago.
But still.
I'm just facinated by confident performance.
And that's what this is.
Watch the way he tosses the hat, and the way he takes the mic from the stand.
And there is a moonwalk in there somewhere.
I've been practicing my moonwalk.
I have fallen down over two flights of stairs already.

The Man in Me

I'm growing concerned that I'm losing my taste for milk.
Did you know that you're only supposed to feed cats milk when they're little cats?
I always thought they drank milk exclusively.
Guess they lose their taste for it as well.
I was once in love with a girl who was lactose intolerant.
She used to eat lucky charms out of the box.
Digging past all of the grain stuff they put in there for filler.
So, I bought a bunch of boxes of lucky charms, sorted out the marshmallows, and put them in one box for her.
Gave it to her for her birthday.
See what I used to be like with women?
I don't know if nice guys finish last or not.
But I do know that I never did see her with her top off.
The sweet guy inside of me is succumbing a little more each day.
When he eventually expires, I can only assume that I'll have sex all the time.
With women I can't stand.
Should be awesome.

I couldn't blow up balloons until recently.
Before then I believe that I legitimately didn't have the lung capacity to do so.
Could you imagine if I was a smoker?
Unable to blow bubbles like everyone else in the park.
Or at the wedding.
That's the new thing now at weddings.
When you leave the church (tent, carnival, shanty in Vegas).
You blow bubbles.
Because people used to throw rice.
But complaints arose that starving third-world children would swarm the proceedings.
So now they blow bubbles.
At my wedding, I'm going to invite my guests to throw their gifts.
I admitted that I couldn't blow balloons to my Australian friend, Alex
I believe I've mentioned her before.
She's like all of my Canadian friends.
But when she speaks it sounds funny.

With all of this bubble talk, I present Men Without Hats.
Currently Men Without Jobs.
Like me.

None of the Time

My watch doesn't work.
I'm assuming it's the battery.
Though I'm concerned that it may be related to the crack in its face.
Which wasn't there before Christmas.
I'd try to replace the battery myself, but I'd likely swallow one of the little screws.
Besides, batteries aren't flown into town until the 22nd.
Well, that's AAAs and AAs.
I'm not sure if watch batteries come on the same flight.
The same sea plane.
You should see people down by the docks on the 22nd.
Milling about, clutching their TV remotes and their remote-controlled helicopters.
They swarm the plane when it arrives.
I still wear the watch.
Because juveniles find it impressive.
And after three years, I'm accustomed to the weight.
Like I need to off-set my equilibrium.
I walk into enough door frames as it is.

Everyone will be so surprised when the world ends.
Except me.
John Cusack.
And the Mayans.
Those Mayans saw it a mile away.
A very funny person named Damon Tschritter said that the Mayans predicted the calender would end in 2012.
But, really, they should have estimated about 450 AD.
That's bastardized. It's much better when he does it.

Anyway, while we're treading water next to the polar bears.
And you're trying to swim to Tim's.
Wondering why there are no land masses anymore.
I'll float by you, shrug my shoulders, and say:
"What'd you expect? It was called Consumerism!"

Go Fetch Yourself

Let her cry.
It's Friday.

When they're on foot they're 'developmentally delayed.'
But it's still a handicapped bus...

Christmas has been over for some time now.
You...have taken the tags off of your jeans by now, I assume.
If you're still walking around with one of those length x width stickers on your pantleg, it's not funny anymore.
It's just another reason not to invite you places.

It'd be nice to have a dog.
You can really tell yourself that your depression is misguided when you have someone who's so excited to see you.
That's probably all I would do with my dog; leave it and return again.
Over and over on a Friday.
Really maximize that companionship.
Of course, knowing my luck, my dog would get sick of me.
'Man's best friend' would eventually become 'man's occasional acquaintance'.
Eventually I would get excited and run around a lot when he'd get back from walks.
Which he would eventually prefer to take by himself.
I'd offer him treats and he'd just look at me blankly.
Then, to seem confident, I'd act like I wanted the treat myself.
Wash it down with some of his water.
If I get a dog I want a big dog.
If, however, I elect to not get a pet with larger poops than my own, I'll get a small dog.
And I already know the breed.
My brother used to always accuse me of 'copying' him.
Like it mattered; I was eight.
Who was going to steal Brian's trendy ideas in grade two?
Blaire Barrett?
Exactly.
Who's Blaire Barrett?

Brian owns Mi-Kis.
Two of them.
They look like an old-school Asian dog.
But they have a real North American laziness to them.
They used to call little crackies like these 'lap dogs.'
Because they'd chill on your laps.
Mi-Kis are kind of like 'nap dogs.'
I'll let you figure out the rest.
They behave as though they're hungover every day.
They sleep for hours on end, their eyes are all squinty.
They frequently look disoriented and confused.
That's a good match.

Well, that's it for me.
I'm going to watch some more of channel 6.
See if the ad about the hockey pool comes up again.
Alright Hootie, you know what to do.
Or, at least, you did between 1992 and 1995.

The Best Policy

If I was in an interview with an assisstant manager.
Or the leader of the hunters/gatherers.
Or the head stunt driver guy.
Alpha stunt driver?
That's what they should call him.
Anyway, if I was in an interview and they asked me:
"What's your strongest trait?"
I'd have to say, "Apathy."

I Want A Rock (Rock!)

My knee is wet.
I have always had a profound regard for the nerd sports.
Because they're the only ones that I can compete in.
And by 'compete' I mean 'participate.'
You know the nerd sports.
They're as easy to pinpoint as nerds are.
Ping Pong.
Pool.
Darts.
Bowling.
And curling.
Which is my new favourite thing to endanger myself with.
Move over luge.
Could you imagine me lugeing?
I'd set a record for the quickest fatality the sport has ever seen.
I have beginner's luck with sports that athletes play.
Before everyone eventually becomes better than me and I ultimately get sooky.
Nerd sports, on the other hand, show a gradual improvement with me.
Until I buy a new video game and go back to being a reclusive weirdo.

Not only did I not fall down.
I only tried to sweep with the broom upside-down once.

mightier than the sword

Whenever the bag says "Tear here" I can never tear there.
I usually have to jab the bag open with my pen.

Cost of Fame

You know who I feel bad for?
The seals.
Because they don't really have a voice in all of this.
Well, they do.
But it's Paul McCartney's.
Did you ever think that perhaps they want to die?
They look down at themselves one day and they realize:
"Y'know, I'm too cute to live.
I think I'd rather be someone's coat."

Seriously, though.
I feel bad for Ron Jeremy.
Because he has to pose for pictures like a proper celebrity.
But he can't afford cocaine like a proper celebrity.

To Have and To Scold

I do plan to get married.
To a woman.
Despite the fact that, whoever she is, she may disagree.
I'm on the fence about kids.
Because you have to keep feeding them and telling them they're significant in some way.
If you don't then they might not call you when you're old.
And apparently that's a very awful experience for an old person.
I'm not good with dependants.
Besides, it's a risk.
What if the kid turns out to look hideous?
Then I have to tell it that it's significant and unobjectionable.
More lies than I'm accustomed to in the run of a day.
And I'm already living so many...

My friends have begun to get married.
Which I'm surprisingly fine with.
I suppose because I keep forgetting about it.
But they have married friends.
That's more unsettling.
Marriage is, so far as I can tell, a longing, desperate search.
For new topics to argue about.
Until you find that really special topic that you can argue about until you're old.
And your children aren't calling you.

You know the hardest aspect of visiting unfamiliar newlyweds?
Figuring out which of their towels you're supposed to use.

Jackass Of All Trades

Sure, as far as a twelve-year old is concerned, Winnie Cooper is a goddess.
If we had sexually-developed pysches at that age, we'd utilize them to imagine having sex with her.
But it doesn't change the fact that she wore too many headbands.
There's a bar wench at Montana's who looks just like her.
These days I do have a sexually-developed psyche
(theoretically).
Which is why when she asks, "How many for a table?"
I say nothing.
I think I sort of make a noise. I'm not sure.
Sort of like an, "Eeee" sound, but really high-pitched.
Then my mom says, "Three."
Because I only ever eat at Montana's with my parents.
She probably assumes they're taking me there because I did well on my math test.
Shows what she knows.
I'm shit at math.

I'm worse with waitresses.
A waitresses' job (besides forgetting your waffles) is to spot rubes.
Who obviously never sleep with humans.
And will likely forfeit whatever loose change they have.
That's me.
I'm the rube.
In this scenario.
At times I'm also the putz.
The crybaby.
The wuss.
The mooch.
The 'poor lay.'
Christmas-time I went downtown with my brothers.
To some Irish place.
Which was 'Irish' the way East Side Mario's is 'Italian.'
The woman who served us could spot a rube some distance away.
He's the frail one with the mustache.
And he's had a jug of beer.
Before we exited the bar I wrote, "You should marry me" on one of my cards.
And left it on the table.
Haven't heard from her yet.
Which is weird.
But I assume she's still busy lowering her standards.
When she moves down here I'll let you know.

A quick read while bored/Far from a proper entry/Saturday breeds sloth

While sitting on a bench in the Grand Falls Mall.
In front of Tip Top
(sidebar: should I get a scarf? I saw a nice one I nearly purchased.
Am I mature enough to wear a scarf, really?):

Loud curses uttered
Arguing while in public
Dismal grades in school


Envious of birds
Down an elevator shaft
A gambling debt

If I could write haikus for a living I very much would.

Potty Humour

I tried to write a blog post just now.
But all of the lines kept saying:
blah blah blah.
So instead I'll just leave you with this.
Which I must have written while I was high or really tired:
I clogged my toilet with my hamster.
But it's what my goldfish would have wanted.

Breaking Point

You want masculine?
I'll give you masculine!
I cracked off a set of compasses on some kid's desk today.
If this was fifty years ago, the word 'desk' would be replaced with 'knuckles.'
Just wanted to tell you about it.
I'm going to go perform some deep breathing.

"...go 'round and 'round."

I haven't the energy to wax blogographical with you today.
Because I got a call this morning.
After an evening of not anticipating one.
And they're not big on giving subs time cushions.
I couldn't eat my yogurt tubes or drink coffee 'til recess.
"What time is the bell again?"
"Ten-fifty."
"What? Ten-fifty?!"
High school to the elementary school.
Then back across the bridge to the high school for drama.
I got a ride over on the bus.
During which time one of the grade 3's showed me chords on my new ukulele.
Like I've said before: the job's not that bad.

A You In Every Universe

It has been postulated that there are an infinite number of universes.
Parrallel ones.
In which an infinite number of yous are living out an infinite number of possibilities.
Meaning that in some universe you are sporting a fu man chu.
In some universe you accidently shit your pants in grade 4.
In some universe you exclusively date bank executives.
In some universe you exclusively shoot bank executives.
In some universe you actually did push your mother down the stairs that time out at the cottage.
You're far happier in that universe.
It stands to (meta)reason, then, that in some universe all of my failures were successes.
I signed up for hockey.
I never wore bib overalls to school.
I was the prom king (it's all politics).
I studied radiology.
I bedded all of the women I hoped to bed.
I wish I could talk to the alternate women in those universes.
And say, "See!? Wasn't that flask of shcnapps worth it?
Could you tell the women in my universe, please?"
I've been trying to contact these women for a while.
It's tough for me to get around to (not) sending Christmas cards.
Let alone get a postcard to you in another dimension.

We have a cat in that other universe, you and I.
Named Schrödinger.
And at certain points in time the cat is both dead and alive.

Man, I hope someone gets that.
Yet another reason why Gus Webb should be reading my blog.

further reading:
This Futurama episode explains the phenomenon perfectly.

Blasinphemy

Women talk about penises.
Shapes, sizes.
Questionable blemishes.
Which I believe is a little crass.
If I asked a buddy to describe his girlfriend's genitals, I'd likely get punched in the face.
Deservedly.

I wouldn't say that I don't believe in God.
Well, I would say that. And it'd be true.
If I'm wrong, I suppose he can smite me.
Squash me with his foot, like those old Monty Python animations.
That's not to say that I don't believe in higher powers.
Well, I don't, I suppose.
I believe that humans are far too stupid to pretend they have answers to anything.
Even our smartest ones.
That's what I believe.
The New Horizons space probe left Earth in 2006.
It left our atmosphere at the greatest speed of any man-made object.
It won't hit Pluto 'til 2015.
I believe in that.
The space probe.
I worship space probes.
I'm probably investing my time as wisely as any other worshippers out there.
We haven't even figured out where our doorstep ends.
Not to mention the neighborhood.
We should be in awe of what we cannot fathom.
And that should be enough.
Rather than some Dude with a beard that some other dudes with beards invented.

Kinda Cheesy

When you take a step back, 'Breathalizer' is a really stupid name.

Get your new titty calendars out of the plastic.
It's New Year's Day.
My least favourite celebrated religious holiday that there is.
Next to Remembrance Day.
Which always tends to be a downer.
But New Year's is up there.
Like I need to be reminded that I have a whole new year of possibilities.
Do you know what all failures start as?
Possibilities.
Besides that, fireworks startle me.
No resolutions to speak of this year.
There's nothing quite as sad as breaking a promise to one's self.

My grandmother began eating cheezies at the age of 92*.
Never touched salted snacks beforehand.
92 she can't get enough of them.
By 94 she'd stopped eating them again.
Two years of an intense fondness for cheezies.
After nearly a century of not being fussy on them.
I think that's the funniest thing.
If you don't agree with me, re-read the previous paragraph or something.
Go back to September.
There should be something funny in September.

*I forgot to mention this when Colin initially wrote this post.
Cause Colin writes all of these.
He's the literary mastermind behind Tragic Hero.
I'm just the figurehead.
On her diet:
My grandmother, 'near the end' as they say, was chilling in the hospital.
She maintained she was fine, but she wasn't big on the food.
And she wished that she could have a couple of boiled cod's heads.
Which is as adorable as it is disgusting, really.
My favourite part of the story?
The elderly woman in the bed across from her said:
"Yes my dear, and I'd love some boiled cod's heads, too."