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."