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.