All Set (For Home)

Written Friday, DecemberYesterday

I saw a man hold his breath for over two minutes last night.
Not in person.
It was on a documentary.
It's probably something that you should see.
Some might say his effort outweighs his reward (don't worry; he doesn't die).
What we can push ourselves to do is remarkable if we just meditate and eat enough peyote.

Speaking of trips, I did my first feature spot last night.
It felt great, which feels even better.
The second is tonight.
Today is far less uncomfortable now that yesterday is over.
Do you ever contemplate what you might contemplate if there was no opposite sex?
We'd be thinking whatever it is snails are thinking, probably.
"Man, I wish I had more direction in my life."
I ended on a Newfie joke during the show.
Which is 100% shameful.
But they really talked me into it.
I explicitly told them that they were receiving special treatment.
It was my biggest laugh of the night, which is much more embarrassing.
Now I see how Buddy Wassisname gets the dollars.
Of course, they do Sarah.
I could never do Sarah.

Speaking of which, Turpin still hasn't ejected her baby yet.
But we're all crossing our fingers that it will grow into its giant head.

Snails do screw other snails.
It looks like this:

New Heights

Written Thursday, December 29th:

Tea is the new coffee.
Which is funny, since coffee was originally the new tea.
I think I'm a lifetime behind on my multivitamins.

I'm acting like I'm not thinking about my show tonight.
And you have to do that with me, okay?
Do you ever feel like shouting stuff from mountaintops?
Who here got laid for the first time and then wanted to tell everyone?
If you were on a mountaintop right now, what would you-
Scratch that.
You are on a mountaintop right now.
Oh sure, it looks like you're in a shitty cubicle or office.
But if you pay attention, you'll notice that the ground feels jutted and indecisive beneath your soles.
You know that it's not going anywhere.
But you feel unsteady just the same.
The panorama is almost as good as TV.
It yawns all around you, leaving agape the staggering view.
Dry ice made from real snow whispers from the distant peaks that surround you.
The gaping maw of some prehistoric sea creature.
As far as the crags are, they seem even farther.
The silence whistles.
Then falls quiet.
Noise is something you brought with you to this place.
When you leave, the ambiance will go with you.
You can't look down because of the clouds.
They look as soft and plush as so many glued-on cotton balls to childhood sheets of construction paper.
You close your eyes and you can swear you're in an office somewhere.
What do you shout out?
No one's around.
Now's your chance.
"I hate my roommate!"
"I enjoy shoplifting!"
"I'm cold!"
Meanwhile your pack mule is thinking, "Can we get on with this?"
I didn't mention him before.
He would have ruined the mood.
It doesn't hurt to isolate yourself sometimes.

Let's cook up another paragraph without much of a point.
I'm in the coffee shop across from the coffee shop.
I'm still pretending I'm not thinking of the show.
One day these shows will be long past and this writing will be embarrassing.
Y'know, that's the shittiest thing about writing.
Particularly personal writing.
Sure, a journal is a great way for your mom to discover that you smoke weed.
But otherwise, no matter your age, they are a growing pain.
The more the years go by, the more embarrassing the process becomes in the present.
Maybe people believed in sea monsters centuries ago because someone kept drawing them on all the maps.

Ditto for mermaids.
You know why men were so attracted to the concept of mermaids?
An exotic woman who isn't looking for a commitment.

Not What I Had In Mind

You think your blog is a real hot tamale.
16 page views yesterday, thank you very much.
Until you go into the statistics section and check the keyword searches that brought about those page views.
Wanna know the top three?
Ahem:

dog caskets for foxhounds
pregnant piss
pregnant orgy

Yes, there are a lot of dissapointed fans out there.
Sounds like I've found my target audience.
Maybe it's you...

Buy As You Might

You think you have a handle on what has always been your struggling masculinity...
...Then you one day select, order and purchase spectacle frames identical to your girlfriend's.
The only difference being that mine aren't covered in semen.
Too far!

So Christmas is over and Fridays will now fade to lighter and lighter grays.
Until they become Black again.
And we all know a Good Friday is a Black Friday.

 

I apologize if this clip turns into a Rick roll halfway through.
I couldn't check the content because I could only stomach about eight seconds of it.

People initiating the first fistfights of their lifetimes at the age of 50.
Over a toy no one will give a shit about come May.
"Tickle Me Who?"
Perhaps you pause from being a shitty parent long enough to watch the news.
"And that, researchers say, is the most Mariah Carey ever vomited.
I have to interrupt the broadcast ladies and gentlemen.
I've just been handed this bulletin:
There are no Furbies remaining in Delaware.
Scott, get it up on the ticker.
Everyone, once more:
Delaware's Furby stocks have been depleted."
If you live in Delaware (pity), maybe you make promises within your boundaries.
Santa is magical.
Come up with a magical excuse.
"Santa may not be able to bring you a Furby this year, sweetheart.
He Skyped me and told me that he wants to make a special Furby just for you.
It's like the others, but this one grows its hair back after you give it a haircut"
(Kids love that).
You were lying to them in the first place.
Stretch it and avoid that hustle and bustle.
Get them the newest Foo Fighters album.
By next year they'll have forgotten what a Furby is.
I'm using toy references from eleven years past because I don't know any current ones.
Besides Modern Warfare 3.
And don't get me started on that.
 Back when the Furbies and Elmos were just marginally more topical.

Reasons Fleetings

From my phone.
No Internet where I am going.
Christmas in a hut.
But from me and mine to you and yours... ...I'd love to see you in a shower sometime.
Merry Christmas.
And remember: they don't love you like I love you.

What Do You Get the Generation Who Has Everything?

Steal a roll of drink tickets.
It's Friday.

Why can't the dads be against drunk driving also?
Tragedies can make men empassioned, too.
Sure, it would end up being a FADD, probably, but it's nice to get them off of the couch.
Am I right, ladies?! Am I right!?

I have nothing to tell you people.
I really peed my pants onstage last night, which was miserable.
It's tough to describe the emotional anguish associated with taking a dump under the bright lights.
Imagine the let-downdest you've ever been with yourself.
Then compound that with the shared dissapointment of 30-120 people.
Give or take.
It took me until today to realize that I'm sick of the opener I use.
I just sort of hoped I could use it until I eventually run away from this industry to become a teacher.
But this is the holidays.
I shouldn't be talking about work right now.

It's hard to write things that are positive while you're listening to Fiona Apple.
But she has the tunes.
Lisa Loeb's tortured contemporary.

Fuck Chuck Norris.
We collectively resurrected this man.
We can collectively bury him (a second time).
One dude writes a bunch of wacky shit about your beard taking over Kansas or...whatever.
Suddenly you're on TV again.
The Internet makes fools of us all.
We're going to get bored with it, you know.
The Internet.
There is only so much funny shit your dad can say.
He's going to tire himself out.
The LOLCats will all eventually age, get osteoporosis and die.
The Internet is the greatest communicative FADD the world will ever see.
But there will come a time when Wikipedia is as ICQ as cassette tapes.

And this can't come too soon.
As a moonlighting educator, I know how stupid children are.
They're stupid because they're smart enough to have figured out that they don't need to learn anything.
Look at it from their perspective.
Put yourself back in the classroom of your memory, but this time, take your iPhone along.
They really don't need to bother trying.
And when you think about it, would you?

The cat picture looks welfare, I know, but you get the idea.
It took a great deal of my patience to get it to look this good.
He's saying, "I can haz 15 more minutes?" The stereo speaker got in the way of the text.
That's Puss, in his first blog cameo.
He likes getting into boxes.

Fiona flushed her own career when she said "this world is bullshit."
She was wrong; the world's okay.
But I think it has seen better days.
See! I told you it's hard to be positive while listening to her.
Bah Humbug, everybody!

 Coincidentally, this live performance seems to have taken place during Christmas.

It's A Cigar!

Turpin is going to birth a baby soon.
If Nostradadamus was still around, he'd owe me five bucks.
I didn't do it.
Neither did the Wood Twins (it would have taken both of them).
Peter did it.
His funeral, guys.
But I'm bothered that I haven't figured out the gender yet.
I figured that after the first day I'd be able to look at her and say, "Girl."
"Boy."
"Ninja Turtle."
But I'm as clueless as everyone else, which I hate.
You know how grandmothers used to dangle the spoon over the womb?
That's how they'd get the gender.
Have you read Middlesex?
I sort of thought I'd be the spoon, y'know?
And that I'd be right (for once).
If I can't be the father of this dynamo, at least give me the dignity of knowing what colour to paint their room.
Turpin will no doubt paint it some non-gendered colour anyway.
Which would have been our first argument.
I guess the room is already painted, now that I think about it.
And now that I'm still thinking about it, I guess I would have seen this colour.
I don't know what it is.
But their kitchen is purple, I can tell you that.

Grandmothers never dangle the spoon now.
They're too busy buying the car seat, and sometimes the accompanying car.

Musical Chairs

"Just believe in yourself."
Remember how often you used to hear that as a kid?
This was back when adults encouraged children.
"Believe in yourself and you can become a zoologist."
Teachers, parents...the woman who rented you your movies.
They'd all say it.
And they'd even say it to the kid who was obviously going to become a felon.
Two reasons:
1) Because it's what a decent person should say to a child.
And 2) It's just sound, grounded advice. 
Even the TV would say it between cartoons.
Days gone by.
Now no one of authority tells children to believe in themselves, or anything else.
And what's worse is that we've all stopped doing it as well.
Now we believe in the ourselves that others perceive.
Anyone who thinks I don't know what I'm talking about, ask yourself this:
How frequently do you check your Facebook account?
How pleasant is it when someone comments on your status?
Exactly.
As I was saying.
Focusing on the you that's in other people's heads is a much more dangerous alternative.
Let that manifest for long enough and then you believe in the fake version of yourself also.
Last phase is trying to live up to an iteration of you that you had little to do with inventing in the first place.
That's where a lot of us are currently
(And I'm not saying I'm not involved in this dance).
This is why you find yourself reading information like:
FINISHED LAUNDRY!! GOING TO THE MALL!!!
Who gives a shit?
We all do laundry.
We all have our own lists to complete before supper time
(This dance I'm not a part of, I'll admit. I have no priorities).
Another message that we used to hear as kids?
"Just be yourself."
Is that what you're doing today?

I know. I know.
I know what you're thinking.
And I'm on your side.
I liked the blog more when it talked about me getting drunk, too.
This post was supposed to be about how we don't need religion any more than deer do.
Maybe tomorrow.
 
By the way, the number of exclamation points doesn't make the event more interesting.
It's always one.
It doesn't matter how exciting or outrageous the sentence is.
If Obama was assassinated by Big Bird, that's one exclamation point.
OBAMA HEADLESS! BIG BIRD ONLY SUSPECT!
The people who need to know this aren't reading my blog, but I wish they were.

itallics count: 3

Usually It's My Foot

Clean the bathroom before your girlfriend shows up.
It's Friday.
Avril arrives in Halifax within the next few hours.
Right now, she's scrambling to pack everything she needs before her flight.
We're similar in a lot of annoying ways.

Speaking of crossing sexual boundaries, I put a condom onto a dildo last night.
With my mouth.
I was doing a show at Rodeo (Roe-Day-Ohs) for what may have been a dozen people.
It was arduous. It was an arduous performance.
But the Sexygirls were there.
So that was great.
They sell sexy girl items to sexy women, and less than sexy women also, probably.
Anyway, one sexy girl sat next to myself and Brian Aylward after we had finished humiliating ourselves onstage.
'Humiliate' is a strong word.
But we certainly degraded ourselves up there somehow.
When you're telling jokes and you can plainly hear the machine that makes the ice, that's bad.
She smelled nice and she was one of the few people in the room who had paid any attention to us all night.
And she's asking me to put this condom on this phalace.
She wanted me to do it onstage (I would have, just to take a break from speaking for a minute), but hesitated to ask me.
I hate to let down my fans.
She lists the flavours of the condoms, but I know that they're all lubricant-flavoured.
But I take grape anyway.
Grape is my go-to.
If you're wondering which Wine Gum to save me, save me the grape.
I realize as I'm getting ready to do this that the fake penis is almost exactly proportionate to my real one.
In an unsettling way.
You don't want the stripper to look like your cousin, you know what I mean?
Well, maybe you do want that.
Actively search for it, even.
But you see my point.
I'm committed, though. There's no getting out of this now.
I get it on. I know what I'm doing.
But I definitly didn't enjoy the experience.
I walked away having discovered something else that I'm probably not good at:
Blowing men.

The trick is to suck in on the condom, so you don't lose it out of your mouth.

Book your Sexy Parties now, ladies!
While your incompetent husbands are chopping down Christmas trees.

My Eyes!

I've changed the template again.
With sincere apollogies to the ones, dozens, or trillions of people who may  be reading this.
I hated the temporary choice worse than whatever template I will eventually settle on.
This black and orange affair was the first option I came across. 
I like the colour.
It has a confident, Gordon Freeman quality to it.
I was going to ask you to remind me to tell you about something tomorrow.
But I forget what it is.
I really do. Isn't that stupid?
Anyway.
Here's a photo of the whirligig duck that will eventually be in the design somewhere.
Possibly.

Nothing too Crazy

Lately, this song is all I want to listen to.
Perhaps it fits into your brain also.

Cyborgs' Greetings

This is hilarious.
For those of you who are too uncommitted to check the link, it's an article about Harper's Christmas card this year.
Turns out Harper and the two kids are wearing the exact same outfits as they were in last year's card.
I don't understand how you could make a fuss about such a thing.
Of course they're wearing the same outfits; they're painted on.
If the engineers had allowed the three of them to leave the factory with a standard, stainless steel finish on their robot, animatronic chassis, that would have reflected poorly on Canada's craftmanship (Robotics Division). 
Sure, the "children" aren't programmed to feel sadness or embarassment, but shame on the reporters for wasting everyone's time anyway.
Laureen (if that's a name) is the only human of the group, having married into the robotic family.
That's why they had her show a little gam in the photo.
To give it that human touch.
I feel the worst for her.
Sure, there's a lot of glitz and glamour, but I'd imagine that it's a house without much love
(Unless, of course, they've been programmed to feel it).

My Inner Child

Please Notate:
This is one of those self-reflective, "Who am I? Who would I be in other universes?" sort of posts.
If you want something a little less dramatic, read this one about my brothers and I causing a scene in Burger King.

After my show, I eventually leave the yacht club.
Knowing I'll never return.
But I'm happy about it because then I won't have to speak to Leroy any more.
That's not his real name.
That's the name he gave me before proceeding to continuously interrupt me during the show.
People are dressed in finery.
All of the men, by the way, look like they would be at a yacht club.
Portly, middle-aged. Dark sport coats over pinstriped red and white shirts.
No ties.
And Leroy is wearing a Fubu shirt that looks ridiculous.
It's black and has playing cards or...something all over it.
A lot of gold colouring.
It looks like your first junior high silk shirt
(Which typically wasn't even made of silk).
$250 he paid for this thing.
He told me afterwards.
If I lived in an alley I'd have a hard time using it as shelter.
He pays $250 for it.
None of this has anything to do with anything.
After all of this, Josh was having a party.
So I went.
Primarily because the club gave me free drinks, so it seemed like a logical step to take.
Everyone's more or less wasted when I show.
People are trickling in.
I introduce myself to people and begin moving around the room.
Speaking to individuals.
It feels good.
I yammer on to you about missing something I once had.
And really, this is it.
I used to love meeting new people.
I don't know how I came to hate people as I tend to do now.
I sort of blame Banff and its populace of wiener tourists.
Rather than blaming myself.
At the end of the day, it is this thing I am missing.
This desire to meet people.
And the party felt great because it was back.
It felt like it was back, anyway.
I guess it could have been the gin.
This woman showed up later into the night.
And I really liked her earrings.
I feel compelled to compliment women if they are wearing something that I would wear.
If I were a woman.
Or, y'know, if I were a man (if only).
They're triangular and sparkly and neat.
I want to compliment them.
But complimenting women is far more complicated than it was when I didn't have a sexuality.
Complimenting a woman and have them respond to it as though it were an actual compliment is rare.
It's more common to receive looks, shoulders or boyfriends' fists.
I don't want to make this woman uncomfortable.
I don't want her to think I'm flirting with her.
...
But I really like the earrings.
So, here I am.
Standing in this kitchen.
There are people sitting, people standing.
Everyone's talking, laughing. Whatever.
I don't hear any of it.
Cause in my head I'm thinking to myself, "Mention the earrings, mention the earrings, mention the earrings, mention the earrings, mention the earrings..."
But I won't.
When I talk about me now versus me in high school, this is the sort of thing I'm getting at.
I really was more an entertainer then than I am now.
Sure, my memory's not the best, but I know who I was then.
It might be sex...
Sex may have ruined it.
The me in high school never hesitated.
He would have said, "I like your earrings," the second he met Liz.
He really would have.
Now I can't do it.
Eventually she's sitting next to me.
She has just kissed a roommate of Josh's.
She's not available. I'm not available.
This shouldn't be so complicated.
"Mention the earrings, mention the earrings..."
I break and eventually tell Josh that this is bothering me, and why.
(Josh knew this mysterious former me also).
"Fuck it, man.
Now that I'm 30, I tell women whatever.
'I like your earrings,' or 'Your ass looks good in that dress...'"
He keeps talking and I have stopped listening.
Because he's right.
"Your earrings," I say.
Liz says, "What?"
"I like your earrings."
Liz and Josh's kissy roommate (Corey) begin to laugh.
"I just bought these today. He told me that they were stupid."
Corey now, "I didn't see you wearing them, though. It's different when you're wearing them."
I point out that, "She did the hold-up, though. She held them next to her head to show them to you before buying them."
He admitted that she did.
"It's funny you would mention that," Liz said.
I had to agree.
It was funny that I would mention that.
You should never hesitate.
Neither should I.
I left the party, wasted, realizing that I remembered the name of everyone at the party, and a detail or two about them.
In high school, this would have been the case also.
What I miss about my former self?
He was a good listener.

Gut Feeling

I started a post that explains why the site looks so stupid right now.
A large-ish paragraph that could be summed up like this:
We're under construction.
If I had to look at the old template once more I would have puked.
Because I need to see images of myself during most or all times.
Otherwise I get all wobbly in the tummy.
I am so incredibly queezy as a person.
Still.
When I was four I threw up over my swim bag after an hour-long trip to the Aquarena.
(Newfoundland readers: would you believe that this is not the first time I linked the Aquarena?)

25 years later...

I was leaving a gig with Peter White and Bryant Thompson (T-Burger) the other night.
Driving away from Bridgewater to Halifax, which is where I live now.
And I couldn't help but notice that I was getting mildly carsick while in the back seat.
I was high, so it took me some time to realize that it was because I was playing a game on my phone.
Turns out I can't do that in a car.
In retrospect, kind of makes me wish I hadn't bothered buying a game for my phone.
But then, there are still ferry rides and church services that I'll have to while my way through.
Anyway.
The gig didn't suck, necessarily.
But I still managed to hate it somehow.
Ditto for the gig I did Saturday.
Sure, it wasn't awful. It was good, even.
Yet I still hated myself when it was over.
This is normal.
This is "the biz.."
It's exciting to know that I'm progressing on schedule.

Speaking of hating me, I have my first headline set coming up soon.
End of the month.
I guess this is good.
It's good.
It is.
I told Peter White ("this guy again?") when I moved here that I wanted to be headlining within a year or two.
This is not headlining.
I am not and will not be a headliner after doing these shows.
But it's a start.
I'm trying to concentrate on-
Here's the problem.
It's incredibly difficult, at times, to be yourself onstage.
All I want to do is go up there and be myself.
Two issues with that:
1) I can't relax enough to do this (generally), and
2) I have no idea who that is any more.
I don't want to have jokes.
I want to have conversations.

Speaking of which, I have to tell you about Liz' earrings.
But I'll do that in a separate post so that it seems like I'm writing more.
No jokes or pissing around right now, I had no idea that 'separate' was spelled that way until this second.
That's being real with you people.
'Separate' doesn't even look right.
It explains that song by Elliot Smith where he sings this word and it sounds just as it's spelled.
As it has always been spelled.
The song just popped into my head when the auto correct gave me something to talk about for another few lines.
That's another problem, you know.
Now I worry about time.
How much time I'll take up (we're talking about comedy again), how much time I can do.
It's how long I can stretch myself.
I used to do this kind of thing and wish I had more time.
Because I never wanted to get off.
I'm talking about an era before I ever did a comedy set.
See what I mean when I say that I just want to be myself?
Me neither.

For the Like of God

Lick all of the community wafers and then put them back in the goblet.
It's Friday.
(That one is for the diocese boys).

Parents beware!
If you employ a really stringent bedmaking rule with your kids, they may eventually join the army.
Because they'll have developed a taste for doing it regularly.
And for having someone provide their outfits.
So let them choose their own clothing, also.
Don't force them to wear overalls despite the fact that it makes them cry and cry and cry.
That last part was me.

I'm doing a show at Rodeo's tonight.
I did one there a few weeks ago.
A lot of inflatable cacti...
I know that it's pronounced 'rodeo,' like the horse party.
But I say 'Roe-day-oh' in my head.
Like the street that has a lot of botax clinics on it, probably.
I spoke to the audience and staff about it last time.
They have amateur stripper contests there.
I intend to go.
Not for the male contest.
But rather the female one.
So I can hoot.
And remember readers: when you enter those amateur stripper contests, make sure you remove the nicotine patch from your inner thigh before you lace up the knee-highs.

The sad truth is that we no longer need churches.
Sure, Bingo used to be popular, but now it's just something for the older crowd.
And since they've started putting up their own halls, the churches are even less necessary.
These things happen.
The post office.
The wagon wheel maker (the sort that goes on a wagon; not the cookie snack).
Little Bow Wow.
Trends come and go.
My suggestion would be to turn them into yoga hothouses, or sell them to the Staples people.
So that they can be turned into Stapleses.
"Where can I find the ink cartridges?"
"Oh, they're aisle 3, right under the stained glass depiction of The Last Supper."
...
"I dunno what it is, exactly.
I think it was like, the last big meal that was cooked over an open fire or something...
I couldn't say for sure cause it has nothing to do with Staples.
It might be an annual supper that bingo players have, maybe.
Ccause this place actually used to be a Bingo hall before.
No, it's true."
Nietzsche once wrote the part of a raving man who ran through town with a lantern, declaring:
"God is dead! And we killed him!"
That guy has a sucessful webcomic now.
Salvation doesn't have the same appeal any more.

But don't fret!
I'll tell you why.
As I was walking here, I was jammed up behind three guys walking abreast on the sidwalk.
I was hating them in my head for moving so slowly and speaking so loudly.
But then one of them noticed I was there, and he moved himself and his buddy aside.
"Thanks," I said.
"You're welcome," he said.
I eventually get here, to this Starbucks that isn't big enough.
I'm getting in line, and someone has two drinks and he's trying to break through the crowd of scarves.
I stand aside to let him through.
Same guy.
Who's to say what is and isn't connected?
Anyway, live your life
Commit your sins
Monday, repent
Your weekend begins

Take A Minute

Morning everybody.
Everyone seated?
Is someone taking the minutes?
Deb? You got this?
Deb?
...
Ever since Deb met that scuba diver guy she's become really unreliable.
Topher, this is your big day, buddy.
Take Deb's minutes.
Alright.
That's the minutes.
Where's our treasurer?
This is stupid. Let's move on.

If you have a kidnapping sex fantasy that means you hate your boyfriend.
When you stop to think about it, what else could it mean?

My brother and that wife of his are sending ultrasound photos of my tentative niece.
I have to be honest, while just writing that I realized I didn't even look at the pictures.
I'm going to tell them that I saw a pig's fetus recently that looked just like her.

I'm writing new angles on old blog topics now.
I'm not sure if that's a sign of refinement, or doom.

If you're the sort of parent who hears about negative youth behaviour and you think:
"Well, not my kids,"
Then it is your kids, and your kids specifically.
And when you were young, it was you.

In Lu of Common Sense

You know where the bathroom is.

It doesn't matter that you've never been in the house before. 

You know where the bathroom is. 

You don't need to ask. 

"These daiquiris are just working through me. 

Where is your bathroom? 

No wait! 

Don't tell me.

It's at the top of the stairs. 

It's at the end of the hall. 

It's the room with the soap and q-tips in it. 

It's the only room with an open door right now because you don't want me to see how unkempt you slobs keep your laundry room. 

It's the room that is in the same general location in every house built in the last two centuries. 

Let me know if I guess it."

How timid we all are. 

It could only be more obvious if you were sharing a prison cell. 

I think we ask where the bathroom is because we're secretly asking for permission to use it. 

Which may be the fault of our education system. 

What answer do you expect?

"The bathroom? It's in the basement, past the treadmill we never use."

"It is a hole in the backyard. 

And it's not a room. 

It's the backyard. You're looking for our bathyard. 

Which is obviously outside, stupid."

We've conquered irrigation. 

Grow up and just leave the dining table. 

Jimmy handles until you find it. 

What happens if you don't ask? 

Or they mistakenly tell you the third door instead of the second?

You drop a shit on their child's bed?

"It's not rude! You gave poor directions, frankly." 

I don't think so. 

I need to say this onstage, I think. 

That's why I seem so aggravated. 

It's not meant for you guys. 

It's everyone else. 

(And you guys).

Josh let me know about this band.
I'm only mentioning that because I just told him to drop by the blog.
Otherwise I would take credit for telling you about this disgusting band.

Hair. Plug.

Even though I feel awful every time I have a cigarette, I think there's a real market for them.

If only there was some way to have a child, get them to roll them, sell them at school, and reap the profits...

That's a back burner idea. 

Until then, it's sneakers and Gucci bags. 

I don't know why I walk to Starbucks to write these. 

It's pretty far from tranquility here. 

This place is jammed with monkeys and these machines make such a racket. 

So many women wear moccasins here. 

And not a one of them is Eskimo. 

It's fucked, y'know. 

The footwear women get away with. 

Hideous footwear. 

But I already talked about that. 

Searches I used to find this old blog post:

"I probably don't know what I'm talking about" (unsuccessful [though accurate]).

"dart my fucking eyes out" (for the win). 

Good thing we have those cell phones. 

Used to be that only doctors and drug dealers had to be on call. 

Now it's all of us. 

On call for absolutely nothing. 

When you reach a mature age, you begin keeping all of your spare change in a huge jar. 

And unless you bust it open to buy the re-re-release of The Lion King, you keep that jar. 

Until you turn 70. 

Then you use all of that accumulated change to pay for absolutely everything. 

Is that funny?

I said that onstage and got nothin'. 

The Internet is literacy's undoing. 

Don't believe me, ask the lolcats about it. 

They solved impotence. 

But they're still working on hair loss treatments. 

These bald dudes can't prioritize. 

As long as you can have sex when you're seventy, who gives a shit, y'know?

Who cares? Women will sleep with you anyway. 

Some woman will. 

You've had sex since you've been bald, right?

And it's not like baldness is your only problem, right?

There are worse physical afflictions. 

Half of the NBA surrenders their hair on purpose, and they fuck everything. 

Of course, they can drive to the net better than you can. 

But still. 

Indian women give up their hair for spiritual purity. 

And, unbeknownst to them, for bitches in L.A.

You don't hear them complaining. 

Buy some of that, graft it to your head, and fuck off with all your creams and gels. 

Scalp buffers and satellite, hair-growth laser beams. 

None of it is going to work. 

You're bald. 

But at least you can keep your penis hard. 

By the way, if you're a 30-something balding man, and you still mousse and gel what little remnants of hair (dignity) that you have, you're going to your death bed not understanding how to be cool. 

Stop trying. 

Well. 

That felt good. 

Sorry, Coombs, if you're reading this. 

You kind of got hit by the crossfire there. 

Coombs on CBC, everybody!

Airs November 19, the New Screech Comedy Festival!

Check out his jokes as the sheen of his polished, flawless scalp takes your breath away. 

Also on that show are John Sheehan, Trent McClellan. 

Hot stuff Sean Cullen. 

And Dan Akroyd says a few words before he goes out and gets fucked up on his own brand of wine. 

Unchained Malady

I don't really have a whole lot to give you people right now.
I just finished having some lunch with Nadders and Steph.
Nadine is from Elmsdale and she likes softball and highland dancing.
She's a Scorpio (possibly) and her birthday is exactly one month before mine.
Stephanie Rogers was once in a gang based out of Bridgewater.
She's from Lunenberg and she enjoys wrecking cars.
I'm writing this for their benifit.
Which is sort of silly because I'm confident they don't frequent this blog.
Their loss!

The day we live in a perfect world is the day they remove the post office pens from their chains.
I'm not sure that day will ever come.

You wish you had more anal sex analogies that had to do with professional sports?
Paul's here for ya.
"Lacey in receiving? I hear she takes it in the endzone."
I'm just writing down portions of things that-holy shit, that guy looked just like Matthew Broderick.
Being maried to Sarah Jessica Parker must make you feel like not wanting to have sex with your wife ever again.
Anyway, as I was saying, I don't really have any actual thoughts coming out of my head today.
So I'm regurgitating those I have thought of and written down beforehand.

Do you know why you hate your husband?
Because courtship isn't supposed to entail getting drunk and fucking some guy you met that day at the gym.

I saw some real, live Green Peace vest-wearers the other day.
I detached a wrist-thick piece or birch from a nearby tree and beat them mercilessly with it.
Shouting, "Here's some green piece for ya!"
Felt great.

Saving Some Scratch...

Don't ask me why I have the Baby Orajel.
I don't want to explain.
Just know that I have it. In my little laptop satchel.
I'm in Starbucks currently, and the woman sitting punching-distance behind me just said:
Well, I don't know what she said, exactly.
But it pertained to having a fussy baby.
And I felt an urge to reach into my bag, turn around and say:
"What your baby needs is Baby Orajel for babies.
Guaranteed to make your baby less irritating for at least an hour or two."
I have the wrong job.
Which is, well, no job, I guess.

"Spinning" is a generous term for spending an hour on a bike that doesn't go anywhere.
Have I said this before?
I feel as though I have...

The really attractive woman from American Pie is in a dandruff comercial.
She's the one that only I would have found attractive in American Pie.
The flute one.
Buffy.
She was on there, too.
And now she's doing that How I Met Your Mother.
A popular show.
It has Bob Saget.
It has Doogie Howser.
Some people who aren't really passionate about The Big Bang Theory still watch it.
So, why is she in the dandruff commercial?
Protocol is: Your career tanks, you do the Proactive informercial.
Shatner is selling cars.
Christ. Shatner isn't struggling.
Sure, the world needs resturant servers.
But the world will eventually need new actors and actresses as well.
Christopher Walken, against all logic, will die eventually.
Give some new up-and-comer the dandruff commercial.
What else do you do, Willow?
Go to the corner stores in your area every day and buy all of the scratch tickets that they have?
Share some with the rest of us.
As if you would ever have dandruff.
Like that's even possible.
Like you would ever actually use Head & Shoulders.
Your personal shampoo probably has rhinocerous extract in it.

Women. The Pitts.

Take the afternoon off on the secretary.
It's Friday.
It must be rough for Brad Pitt.
When you think about it.
Because he's fetching to all women, everywhere.
So, when Brad sits down and has a relaxing evening with his buddies (and he does do this.
Sometimes.
He has to)
Brad has to provide some astronomical number for sexual partners.
He can't count out three or four women.
"Well, there was Jennifer. And that one with the lips.
What's-her-name.
Looks like John Voight."
No good.
Brad Pitt isn't cool unless he's slept with at least thirty or forty women.
And those are generously low figures.
If he doesn't give the right answer, all of his buddies can and will mock him.
Causing Brad to storm out in a huff.
Get in the jet and fly away from the situation.
Hey, is Michael Pitt related to Brad?
He has the same delicious eyeball color...

I'm not really hot into debating.
Despite the number of women I date who are passionate about it.
But I do love debates that have no bearing on anything.
For example, Peter White and Bryant Thompson invited me into this one:
How many babies do you think you could kill if you were faced with hordes of babies...
...before getting tired?
That's a worthwhile discussion to me.
It really is.
Anyway, Family Feud may be my outlet for further questions.
The other day they posed this one:
Name something only an infant can fit into.
My answer was 'roasting pot.'
But, to challenge myself, I'm going to try and write a new answer every day.
Day two I came up with 'bread box.'
And today...
Shoebox.
I think you could get an infant into a shoebox if the baby was fresh enough.
It's a coincidence that both of these debates involve discomfort for babies.
I'm open to discuss any ludicrous situations you may want to delve into with me.

Speaking of ludicrous situations, Hallowe'en is approaching.
For all of my fellow drifters out there, I'll supply you at least one affordable costume idea:
Get a blanket.
Cup of cocao.
Don't shave for several days.
Wrap the blanket around yourself and carry the cocoa.
Tell people that you're a guy who got lost in the woods, and has just been rescued.
Not bad.
You could knock on a few doors with that one.
Get some Lays.
Some tiny, individually-wrapped orange gumballs.

The Last of Barrett's Privateers

I know.
I know.
I should have written before now.
You've been worried sick since I packed up all of my pairs of pants and moved to Halifax.
The coffee maker drips in your languid apartment.
And each 'plink' seems to say, "Paul...Paul...Paul..."
You need to get out more.
As I have.

I didn't want to write until I could communicate something truly Halifax to you.
I wanted to prove that I'm truly a Haligonian, properly embarassed by the stupid title.
'Haligonian' sounds like an extinct reptile of some sort.
It's not an appropriate name for a group of people who really enjoy used furniture.
Which doesn't coincide with the Halifax tidbit that I had fabricated to tell you people.
As I was getting my morning apple (Sobey's apples are shit) I thought:
I'll tell everyone that the people of Halifax all enjoy inflatable furniture.
And that is all there is to know about them.
But I just ruined that.
We're moving on.

Next paragraph!

So, I have a room in a house.
I have a bed.
I have a weed contact.
I do not have a job.
I do not have anyone to have sex with (yet).
I do not have an end table.
It has been great.
It has been okay.

This city is tiny and so I walk everywhere these days.
I take the bus sometimes, but only when it's raining a lot or I have actual, physical change.
Bus passes cost a pissload of money.
I'm considering an attempt to have someone forge me a university I.D..
Those get you past the bouncer for free.

I did comedy with Scott Faulkenbridge and Dom Paré when I first got here.
That was fun.
Dom made chicken pot pie and Stove Top for Thanksgiving dinner.
The three of us met some strange man who claimed to be a comic.
He struck me more as a T.V. vaccuum salesman.
He was suddenly there and then he wouldn't go away.
He was issuing me business cards and shaking my hand.
Next thing I knew he was peeing in the toilet I'd been peeing in the past number of days.
It was terrifying.

I've been meeting the comics here and studying the dimensions of their girlfriends.
Mike MacQueen (Night Train) has driven me home a few times.
Thompson (Four-Eyes) learned from me that he has birds roosting in the eve of his house.
Mark (Merv) almost went to a reptile show with me.
He also found out about birds in his eve from me.
They live in the same house.

Robert Shandera had a baby just before I left and -
Wait.
Scratch that.
His wife had the baby.
Now I'm Uncle Paul.
I've been buying an appropriate amount of pornographic magazines as a consequence.
Every family has 'that uncle.'

I have done an open mic since getting here.
I had a great time.
I explained that Halifax has more cultrure than Newfoundland.
Which I figured out after passing guys spelling out 'TITS' and 'CLITS' in the infield sand of the public baseball diamond.
I also let them know that I have this strange fascination with seeing women change in the top floors of Halifax houses.
I keep expecting to see a topless woman in some window if I just look up often enough.
What's silly is that this would be true of almost anywhere.
What makes it strange is that I really expect to see her in Halifax.
That's 100% true.
I can't explain it, though.
I suggested to the audience that perhaps we're all in the wrong place at the wrong time.
No one laughed at it, but I didn't give a shit.
It was my favourite thing that I said.
Open mic again tonight.
Who knows?
Maybe I'll tell you how it went.
Probably not well.
All I've written in the past week is an anecdote on how difficult it is to have a pet elephant.
Walking it.
Because once it poos, I have to carry around a garbage bag full of shit, not unlike Santa.
Which is really stupid.
I just like picturing it.
Standing off-balance with this large bag.
Speaking to someone at the bus stop.
And having them say, "Do I detect a slight odour?"

It should be legally permissable to kick pigeons when you're having a bad day.
I love all of you.
http://youtu.be/-Gu3gDhESRY

Take A Shit. On Me.

They'll give you a look, you know.
Women.
If you can prove you're competent.
I know.
Because I spent the vast majority of my life being incompetent.
Getting no looks.
So when I get them they're ultra-apparent.
Like when I made toquitos and salt & pepper wings for da b'ys?
I told you about that one, I think.
For some occasion or another at Bussey's place years back.
I made all of the food for everyone and it only took me three hours.
And when it was finally dished out I remember thinking:
Why are Miranda and Christa looking at me like that?
And to my horror I realized that it was because they wanted to do me.
Now I have a new list of chores I can blindly manage.
Having spent a summer (or two) working with dad.
Yesterday was plumbing.
He and I installed my brother's toilet after my brother and he installed bathroom tile the day before.
If you've never installed a toilet, I don't recommend it.
For fun, anyway.
Don't install toilets for fun.
My knees were wet for the entire afternoon.
Toilets weigh several many pounds.
"Get the matt under it, quick! It's heavy!"
Whenever Dad gives me direction with a sense of urgency I forget how to do everything.
Next time you're on a toilet and you have a minute, notice that it's bolted down.
With two bolts.
Dad dropped both of these down the drain (individually).
At the end of it all the little water-tube thingy was leaking.
There was a plastic nut involved.
Dad's tightening it with the wrench.
"It's almost good there now. Maybe another half-turn," this is dad.
My head thinks, "Tell him not to do it!"
But it's too late.
There's water spraying everywhere and dad is saying "Jesus! Jesus!"
It looked a lot like TV.
We fixed it eventually.
One day perhaps I'll install your toilet.
With you looking on with The Look the entire time.

Oh, P.S.:
I know the title's kinda crass, but I still think it's pretty funny.

point three three three three...

We climbed out of the ocean.
A bunch of other stuff happened.
In time, mathematicians were considered to be wise, rather than philosophers.
Because mathematicians can calculate profit yields and key demographics and whatnot.
But if you try to discuss the idea of infinity with a mathematician, he'll just tell you that it's an eight on its side.
And that answer is wrong.

Orgy of the Species

Have sex with the bridesmaid.
It's Friday.
Oh, remember when I used to say that all of the time?
"Something cutting edge.
It's Friday."
I haven't done that in so long.
Because I forget even the things that I regularly remember.
Here's a feel-good tune for you.


You play it, you listen to it, you feel good.
Also, it reminds me of having sex with bridesmaids.
You people ever sleep with bridesmaids? Groomsmaids?
What songs make you think of these experiences?
Post 'em!
Let's all remember our indescretions together today.
And here are some past Fridays to take a look at.
I wonder where orgies are most likely to happen spontaneously.
Amateur orgies fascinate me.
It's too bad because most of them are likely conducted by our parents.
And their friends, of course.
They can't have an orgy alone.
Well, not necessarily their friends.
Might be with total strangers who happened to answer the ad on Kijiji.
While young people should be having the orgies, we're not.
And I can't understand why.
We're all so sexually permiscuous (even the bashfull of us).
And we're matter-of-fact about it.
Doing bridesmaids left and right.
No orgies.
If tonight there are hundreds of thousands of pairs getting drunk and having sex with one another.
Having never met before.
How is it that there aren't tens of thousands of pairs of pairs of pairs doing the same thing?
I'm guessing cruise ships.
I'd say a lot of orgies happen on cruise ships.
All of the booze is free.
You have a cabin all to yourself.
Everyone's wearing revealing clothing.
Your neighbors aren't around.
That would be my first location choice.
Anyone have other theories?

edit: I have more Fridays to tack on later, but for now I have to go bathe.
I have an eye appointment with the optometrist.
Then I have to see Meaghan Whelan
(I'm giving her her life back one meeting at a time).

In the Neighbourhood

I've tried to start a post about Ice T three times now.
It was two times when I first wrote this.
Now it's three.
I made a note about him in my book, and now I just want to put a check mark next to the note.
And forget that this happened.
I made the note in the first place because he's a video gamer.
So says Spike TV.
He's like a little spokesman for the mainstream.
It's strange.
I follow Ice T on my Twitter account, for fuck's sakes.
What an odd twist.
And I just thought it would be funny if he never actually plays anything.
He just saw an oppurtunity and went for it.
"Sure, I play video games from time to time, when I'm not banging women."
It's not funny unless you really visualize Ice T saying it.
Here's how ganster I am:
In my book I referred to him as "Iced Tea."

I have an apartment lined up now.
Cork Street.
If you want to visit me, it's the one that looks like a haunted mansion.
Because it is a haunted mansion.
I hate this blog post so far. I really do.
It actually looks like every house that you lived in until you finally settled into a place of your own.
At least, I think that that's what it looks like.
Mom used Google Postman so that she could see the street that it's on.
I'm not sure which house it is.
But I can tell you that someone living nearby drives a Volkswagon.
 My future roommate is a fellow comic.
He's tall and he looks like he sleeps with a lot of women.

A Job (To Do)

Is this a hurricane?
I can't tell if this is a hurricane or  not.
I know it's not a day to look at women while I pretend to enjoy the beach.
So I'm staying inside.
Are all of you people at work?
You are?
Drag.
I'd bet you can afford a can of Coca-Cola from time to time, though, can't you?
Well, that's not bad. 

I participated in a comedy contest last night.
The only way to be a cool guy in one of these things is to act like it's no big deal.
Which it isn't, really.
The winner of this particular contest is chosen through online voting.
It's the sort of thing that's going to go to the Mark Days of the world.
Talentless, big-headed men with too many friends.
I had to do five minutes.
I opened by equating participation in a comedy contest to sticking your tongue on a battery when no one's looking.
And then swallowing the battery.
Then I asked how much time that ate up.
Felt great.

I have an apartment in Halifax now.
Which is really something.
Guess I'm doing this.
All that remains now is a job.
Just once.
Just once in my life I'd like to have a job like the ones you people have.
Where you surf around on the internet for half of the day.
Because no one's truly paying attention to you.
And several of your co-workers don't even know what your job is.
Or theirs, for that matter. 
Perhaps a situation where I can read all day.
A used bookstore near some train tracks that no one ever goes to.
Except for that one fair-skinned woman with the long cardigans.
And leather bodice!
Looking for mint copies of Harry Potter to sell to people in Africa via Ebay.
I'll probably be pumping gas.

I went to Trapper John's last night with Peter White, Brian Alyward, Andrew Ivimey, and herself.
Ivimey's ego had to get the bus down and meet up with us later.
Crammed into my mother's car, we jammed to Lauryn Hill on the way down.
Don't blow away out there today.

On the Other's Land

It's hard to concentrate because I'm listening to Enid right now.
And that song always gets me.
"...and every time I remember the taste of your lip gloss."
That's me.
I'm enid.

The internet, when you size it up, is the sum of humanity's knowledge this far.
It's everything that we have.
Whatever we have done or intend to do. That's the internet.
So, is it just me that considers it fucked to see that the most important search of the day is:
Smoking Orangutan.
I am the only one who thinks that's fucked, aren't I?
Sure, it's adorable because it's a monkey doing something
(Kind of how evolved versions of us will look at current versions of us),
But couldn't they have had the monkey do something healthier?
Like chewing gum.  
Ever feel like you were born in the wrong century or decade?

Coincidence can be so tender sometimes.
I played some Randy Travis for Avril the other day.
For no real reason, particularly.
Aside from Randy's being the fucking man.
All of these Tim McGrath cowboy hat jerkoffs don't deserve to tie Randy's bolo.
Anyway!
Avril has this unit nextdoor neighbor who enjoys playing Kixx Country at full blast in the middle of the afternoon.
He probably enjoys a bunch of other things that I'd consider intrusive.
I think he deals drugs.
Whenever he walks up the steps to his front porch, he does so really slowly.
While glowering and glancing up and down the street.
That's not a normal way to enter your house.
Also, he has a small motorhome.
People who own and maintain small motorhomes either deal or grow drugs.
We've all seen Breaking Bad.
Avril and I have sex and then we stop having sex.
She's loosening the ball gag when it dawns on me:
"Randy Travis!" I shout.
And then I point at the ceiling.
Because that's what I do when I'm referring to music currently playing.
And if I think Jesus is nearby.
I point at the ceiling then too.
The very same song I had played for her.
Now for you...

Kids' Stuff

They say that accidents tend to happen in the home.
But I usually knock up women behind the mall.

I'm going to have a kid alright.
I might have dozens of them, just for the sake of racial and language variety.
The spice of life, you know.
Because if I have a kid, I can go into women's change rooms.
I see people taking kids into change rooms all the time.
No one ever seems to notice or care if the kid is the opposite gender to the ol' silhouette.
I can only assume it works if the parent is the opposite gender.
Mom used to bring me into the change room at the Aquarina.
Up on the counter, she'd turn me around so I wouldn't watch the women.
But then I'd just ogle them in the mirror.
Three or four years old.
Perversion is something ingrained.

Because more associates of mine are having babies, there are more things I have to act interested in.
The trickiest is definitly those ultrasound photos.
"Here's a picture of my baby."
Are you certain?
Maybe they mixed up the photos in the outbox and that's actually some Indian woman's baby.
How would you know?
Why would you even show these to other people?
"This is a picture of my fetus taken by the Mars space probe."
I just cannot feign enthusiasm over what looks like a photocopy that used too much ink.

I Can't Pretend

Peter Russell frightened me in the shower today.

With my parents away and my inhibitions skyrocketing, I showered with the door open.

Generally I shower with the door locked and the lights off.

It's just common curtosy.

Anyway, I'm singing the second verse of En Vogue's Don't Let Go.

Suddenly Peter's arm juts in front of me, holding a bar of soap.

Then he asks me if I want it.

Showering in front of other men has always terrified me.

I couldn't possibly act like I was comfortable while it was happening.

Which means I have something to hide.

Maybe I'm concerned that my penis will be larger or smaller than everyone else's.

(Smaller).

Domain Game

How about this, huh?
A new web address for a tired, broken old man.
This domain name may be just the ego-centric, Paul-centered shot in the arm this blog needs.
Avril surprised me with it.
While wearing one of those lingere pieces?
You know the ones.
All women wore them at all times in the 80s underneath their normal clothing.
Or so porno would have me believe.
Anyway, that Paul Warford football guy can go fuck himself.
He missed his chance.

Things are going to be different here at paulwarford.com.
I'm going to change this damned blog design for one thing.
I think I'll get some photos of those lawn ducks, y'know?
Those ducks that are made out of wood, and when it's windy their wings spin (flap) around?
Some of those would be fun.
And a picture of me...inside a fridge would be neat.
That could go across the header.
Where can I find an empty fridge, I wonder?
Besides the dump.
Leave comments to suggest design elements the new blog could have.
Then I'll find one of my friends who's talented at web design to make the changes for free.
A search for 'wind propeller ducks' yielded this.
This isn't it.
But you know what I'm talking about.
Especially if you're from Newfoundland.
There's a house in Victoria that has a lawn full of them.
Anyway, we'll dig up some pictures somewhere.
Maybe me posing with live ducks...
Sorry.
These are things I could be thinking to myself, rather than mentioning them now.
I really like ducks, is all.
Leave your comments, goddamn you!
I distract all of you people from your miserable jobs on a regular basis.
It's the least you could do.

Mother's Milk OR Milking It (For the Time Being)

Always on the forefront of trends, some five years later, the NTV news will soon be broadcast in HD.
When this happens, viewers will finally learn that Lynn Burry is just Fred Hutton in a wig.
If I had any passion for photoshop, I'd find a picture of Fred Hutton and make that image for you.

So, I'm moving to Halifax.
Don't ask me why.
Well, I can tell you why.
Same reason teen pregnancy is on the rise:
Peter White.
He stole my mom's spare set of car keys, and he told me that he'd only give them back if I moved there.
October 6th.
As good a day as any to leave your parents' rec room and start having sexual experiences.

Every night that I go to bed, I take a giant glass of milk with me.
Bunch of reasons:

Reason Number One:
I love eating in bed, and that piece of chocolate cake isn't going to wash itself down.
I also love milk more than most liquids (piss!).

Reason Number Two:
I hate ending the day because it might be my last one.
If I have a glass of milk, obviously I can't go to bed before drinking it or I'll waste the milk.
So, I have to stay up until the milk is gone.
Thus, therefore, or those three little dots, I can garner five extra minutes every day with which to live.

But here's the problem: I don't pay for the milk.
I don't pay for the chocolate cake.
I don't earn anything that I have.
It was great when I was a kid.
It's great now, by the way.
But it is getting old.  
I am getting old.
So I'm moving to Halifax.

*This post brought to you by Bell Media.
Watch Peter White's Comedy Now! airing tonight, September 2.
Also brought to you by Schneider's Naturals.
Enjoy Schneider's Country Naturals Bacon while watching Peter White's Comedy Now!

A Little Grilling

I don't really think that it's a barbecue cover.
Sure, everyone says, "Cover the barbecue!
Gotta get the barbecue covered."
We don't need to cover our barbecues.
They're the heaviest appliance that humans have, next to the fridge.
Dishwasher.
Clothes dryer.
Hitachi magic wand.
They're the only things left outside that always survive hurricanes.
"The patio's gone!"
And the Landcruiser! How's we gonna live?!"
"Hey, lookit! The barbecue's still okay."
Steaks for everyone.
Steaks among the rubble.
Barbecues don't need a cover.
I think it's a barbecue hider.
That's why people use them; they don't want thieves thieving their barbecues.
Doesn't work, though.
Just makes it look like you have a barbecue with a custom-made tarp over it.

Small Package

The ineternet has few uses, sure.
But I have seen the fat person have sex.
And I have seen the midget have sex.
If you're curious to know which is less appealing, I'll say this:
Proportion goes a long way.

Home Aloners

Seth Green is a Macauly Culkin who made it.

It's not really wrong to have sex with your cousin.
It's just wrong to have children with them
(this is the most insightful thing I've thought of in months, by the way).

The Royal Family are really professional visitors.
They just dress up nicely and go to events.
Stay until it's acceptable to leave.
And then they leave.
They never outstay their welcome.
They never have you over to their place.
People make every effort to make sure they're comfortable.
So far as I can tell, this is all they do.
For a Royal child, every day is like visiting an aunt that you just met.
The CBC once televised a how-do with a bunch of traditional Natives that the queen was at.
I watched the report with my parents over supper.
And there she was, in her mint green old person dress, smiling politely, while dudes in feathers danced around and beat the drum and so on.
While on camera, she leaned over and said something to one of her bodyguards.
And I said to mom and dad at the time:
"Guaranteed she just asked him what time this is supposed to be over."
Can you think of anything else they do?
They're celebrities that don't do anything.
At least normal celebrities do something.
Talentless celebrities. That's the royal family.

The Test of Thyme

Do you people dislike the adult content warning when opening my blog now?
Tough!
Tough for all of us; I have to personally bypass it every time also.
You're probably more irritated that every time you log on there's no blog to look at.
And here I am!
There's always the archives, people.
Want to find out how much I hated my job in 2008?
Whatever that was...
It's all there.

I made vegetable stock yesterday.
If you don't know what that means, think of vegetable water.
It's vegetable water.
I've bought thyme twice now to make it with.
A sprig. That's what the recipe calls for.
And twice I had it go bad because I take so frigging long to do anything.
My parents are away again and so I'm acting like an adult
(though I'm really at my most juvenile; using their paper towels
swallowing their prescription medicine).
Really they're the ones who took too long.
Not me.
Cooking is frustrating when mom and dad are here.
Because I can't have pornography on in the background while I do it.

Speaking of things I haven't done, I'm writing now.
I haven't been.
I haven't been.
I want to move to Halifax soon.
In order to do some writing, have some infidelities, or get mauled by a deer in a coffee shop.
Though I'd rather watch Peter White take the antlers than myself.
We can chalk all of this up to a relatively lax summer.
And a crippling video game addiction.
Which has only become so literal lately.
My thumbs kinda hurt.
25 years I've been playing video games.
Only taking breaks to lose my virginity, get an education, and check on the egg rolls from time to time.
My thumbs have never hurt before.
I suppose I'm not too surprised.
You play guns for a season's length and that's bound to catch up to you.
My colloquial (I can't pronounce this word out loud) term for this game.
I single-handedly convinced six people to purchase and begin playing it.
Alas, I believe it's time to take a step back.
Fun is fun, but that's long enough not making the vegetable water.
That being said, I'm no less afraid of doing things that involve money.
If someone wants to find me an apartment in Halifax so that I don't have to do it...
...You know the rest.

Do you stop being nice when you lose your virginity?
Did I?

The Cold. Truth.

I need to watch a documentary every day.
Whether they're good, or they just depict a guy eating a lot of Big Macs.
Documentaries always put me in the mood to write after I see them.
Probably because they're well-narrated and they have upbeat songs during the closing credits.
So I've been...not around.
For the longest period since I began writing this blog in the first place.
I began writing this blog because Turpin convinced me to.
Did I ever mention that?
Oh! Speaking of.
She and I went on Maury Povich last month.
Turns out that I'm not the father of her child.
No, the father of her child is in fact a Western Lowland Gorilla living at the Woodland Park Zoo in Seattle, Washington.
He won't return her calls.

I don't know why I've been gone for so long.
Mom and Dad went on a three-week vacation.
Which meant that I went on a three-week vacation.
It was okay.
I made my own pizza dough.
After that, I guess I just sort of reveled in my own sloth.
As I tend to do, given a chance.

I don't know about those bike lanes that the Doc stuck in St. John's.
To me, and I'm no transit expert, they seem like pictures of bikes and arrows painted on the road.
I guess those are the bike lanes.
Oftentimes when I'm driving (polluting!), the vehicle occupies the space in which the bike is supposed to be.
I haven't encountered a cyclist yet, but when I do, I'm going to assume I have the right-of-way.

When they invent robot maids, all human maids will have jobs assembling and maintaining the robot maids.
And they'll scoff these machines for being unable to feel love.
And for not stealing loose change when it's right there in front of them.
With their robot maid vacuum arms.

I missed you while I was gone.
And I felt as though I was doing the wrong thing.
Not writing.
Not texting.
Not looking at photos of you on the beach on Facefuck.
But that's changed now.
In truth, I'm fever-y and snotty and sick and I need you.
And whenever I need you, I'll always be there.

(This one's genius):
I tried an oxygen bar not that long ago.
I found I could get as good at home.

Hard to Follow (Up)

Comrades!
It's me again.
I'm writing my blog post in Starbucks.
Just as Starbucks intended.
What is a Starbuck supposed to be, anyway?
Perhaps they refer to their revunue as Starbucks because they intend to use it to buy a planet.
Or solar system.
Doesn't matter.
Doesn't matter.

I'll be on stage within a couple of hours.
I'm doing a weekend with Allyson Smith.
Sorta looks like a teacher who wanted to be a writer.
I have to speak to her before we get started because I think I accidentally flirted with her last time she was in town.
Despite the fact that I know they have self-esteem issues, I can't think of a more terrifying woman than a comic.
Like myself, Allyson Smith did Just For Laughs early into her career.
I mistake this coincidence as kinship of some sort.
I asked her what I should do after the fact.
She advised that I 'follow up on it.'
I nodded while realizing that I didn't know what that meant.
While she was in town I offered to stop by because I wanted to ask her about it.
This is the situation.
You people don't need to know any of this.
I'm just practicing my apology which I'll be spewing at her in a couple of hours.
I still don't really know what it means, by the way.
Move out of your parents' house, probably.

Speaking of empty nests, mom and dad have flown the coop for a few weeks.
Some Winnebago extravaganza that leaves me man of the house.
I babrbecued everything I ate yesterday.
They're gone for what will be the best three weeks of my summer.

Gandar is over (but not forgotten.)
I performed to a room with an odd shape and a lot of quiet, middle-aged people in it.
I went too long and then Sheehan made me look bad.
In the best possible way.
He didn't like it when I said that he had a square head.
If he dislikes the things I say about him publicily, he'd hate the things I say about him behind his back.
Kidding John!
Kidding.
He drove myself and Avril home to Bay Roberts.
We talked shop, he gave advice, and we listened to Appetite For Destruction.
It was a good gig.
We stopped at a flea market.
I was about to haggle with a round woman in a cowboy hat and fanny pack.
Over a game.
But then she had a frank and terse discussion with a guy who ran another flea market table.
It seemed like he was talking about how wrong all of the flea market "staff" was to dislike him.
She seemed to think that they were all on to something.
I chose to eavesdrop on that instead.

Maybe I'm the coolest loser out there.

I See A Little Silhouetto of a Man

Anyone who has dated me for a long enough period of time knows.
I'm not into skinny jeans.
They're not designed to make someone look good.
Though they did end up being designed to make someone look like they're fitting in.
Almost as important.
I don't understand how this catches on in a society of eating disorders.
They make even my thighs look huge.
And I don't have thighs.

Pot and the kettle, I sort of bought a pair.
Well, I didn't.
They're not 'for real' skinny jeans.
I can sit down in them.
They are, however, the tightest pair of pants I've ever owned.
If you know where to look, you can see the outline of my penis in them.
That's too tight for me, emotionally.
Though, to be honest, I'm not concerned about people seeing the outline of my penis in these jeans.
I'm concerned about them mistaking things that aren't my penis in these jeans.

The Space Between

I've been meaning to go see the dentist for some time now.
Which is an absolutely terrifying thought.
Because "for some time" translates to be about a decade or so.
How could the dentist possibly have good news for me?
Do you have any idea how many Fun Dips I have opened in the past ten years?
Zero!
But I'm still concerned.
When I go, I'm going to ask him or her which toothpaste they recommend.
Oh sure.
Dentists are recommending toothpastes on TV all of the time.
But I worry that some of those people may not even be dentists.
They might be stand up comics instead.

Speaking of pulling teeth, I have a gig coming up in Gandar in a week.
With John Sheehan.
Nice guy, probably. Has a square head.
Fights fires.
I offered him a ride on the way to Gandat.
Warning him that it was "a little unorthodox."
He seemed interested.
But he must not know what 'unorthodox' means.
He was surprised and dismissive when he found out that my ride was with my parents in their motor home.
He said that he'd "just take his van."
I don't know why he was so put out; the vehicle is a class-A.
It's a very spacious machine.

He announced as he hosted the Screech Comedy Fest open mic that I would be on next year's gala.
'Gala' means 'festival's final show with the largest venue'.
This is good news.
He mentioned this as I was getting on stage.
Pete Soucy mentioned it earlier in the evening.
But I was in the bathroom at the time.
So everyone in the room knew this before I did.
Avril told fellow comics not to mention it to me.
Which proved to be a neat idea.
It's nice to get good news seconds before you're about to do comedy.
I opened by saying, "I didn't know I was on the gala next year.
I don't have to worry about doing well now.
Fuck this show."
Then I talked about haircuts for six minutes.

I hate the gap in my teeth, by the way.
I always have.
I don't even like referring to it.
I'm forcing myself to do so right now.
And even now I'm not mentioning it therapeutically.
I just won't have a title for this post otherwise.
I guess it's supposed to provide my face with character (faults).
But I would argue that my face has more than enough character already.
If anything, I need less.
Though, to be honest, I'm not as hung up on this aspect of my physical appearance any more.
Not with my body hair growing in the way it has been.

Fantasy of the Opera

I'm not thoughtful enough to actually remember gift ideas.
I always write them down.
Like when I'm in the toy aisle at Zeller's and I see Colin eyeing the Legos.
Avril mentioned the opera to me yesterday.
We've all been there, right fellas?
And that reminded me that I had once intended to buy her opera gloves.
To go with the pairs that she already has.
Anyway.
Even though she didn't really ask me to go, I responded to the idea just the same.
And, since I'm obviously too lazy to come up with new posts these days...
Enjoy!


So are you asking me to go to the opera?
That's a little TV clichéd, isn't it?
Well, it isn't.
But if you asked me to go on the same night as the big football game match it would be.
And all of my football buddies rented a big screen TV just for the big game.
And I have to go and see it. I just have to.
But I don't know what to tell you, and I promised you the last time that there was a big football game during the opera that I would go with you this time.
And it's our anniversary.
But I really want to watch the game.
Then it dawns on one of my football buddies that the opera starts a couple of hours earlier than the football game does.
So, we can do this:
I could go to the opera, but wear my football TV game clothing under my tux.
Then, during the opera's intermission, I could fake a seizure and have my football buddy, who is also a paramedic, come by and get me from the opera house.
He'll assure you that I'm fine and that you should enjoy the rest of the opera while they tend to me.
Then I can get changed in the back of the ambulance.
And we can make it to kickoff just in time because my football buddy can drive with the sirens on.
And I say to my football buddy "that's perfect!"
But when you and I go to the opera, you surprise me by telling me that your old college buddy Dennis is in town for one night only, and you have asked him and his wife to join us for the opera.
And it turns out that Dennis and his wife are both medical doctors.
So, now I don't know what I'm going to do because I'm concerned that I can't fake a seizure convincingly any more.
And I'm sweating under my tuxedo in my football clothes.
So, I decide that I'll be really crude during the first portion of the opera in the hopes that I'll offend Dennis and his wife away from our seats before the intermission.
I caress and fondle Dennis' Wife's arms and thighs during the performance.
And I shout at the performers that I can't understand what they're talking about because I don't speak Italian.
And I tell Dennis that he needs to lose some weight.
Then I excuse myself and phone my football buddies from the bathroom.
To tell them that the plan has hit a snag.
But it turns out that Dennis' Wife is really into me because I'm forward and take-charge and so she follows me to the bathroom.
And tries to undo my belt buckle.
And I've been watching a lot of classic pornography lately (I really have), so I just sort of go with it and let her take my pants off in the bathroom.
And she begins performing on me orally.
And I say into the phone "I gotta go," and then hang it up.
Then Dennis comes into the washroom because he has to use it and he's wondering where his wife went.
He sees her fellating me and gets really angry, but then he sort of calms down really quickly and begins undoing his belt buckle.
And then you come by because you don't know where everyone else is.
You start touching and caressing Dennis' member and that's okay because you're wearing opera gloves.

I guess what I'm saying is that I could go with you, but you might be able to find another friend who will appreciate it more.
Maybe I'll turn this into a blog post...


And scene.

I hate these little videos that everyone has to watch these days.
These litte...y'know...videos.
YouTube is infested with these videos that you've 'gotta see!'
This might turn into one of those.
If it hasn't already.
But, I hate to say, you gotta see it.


The real question is:
How did the young couple get their hands on what looks like an endangered animal?
The camerawork, disembodied hands, and whispered tones remind me of amateur porn.

No Dogs Go To Heaven

I don't fear car crashes, necessarily.
I just don't want to die while I'm listening to Oh What A Night.
Eerie.
That's not even the name of the song.
The name of the song is December, 1963.
It's like they knew they wanted to name the track after an early line in the song.
And they just didn't realize which one was going to catch on.
Anyway.
Careening into the woods while that's playing.
Boughs ripping out the windshield wipers.
I'm okay with dying in a hilarious way.
But I'd prefer someone was around to witness it.
For example, I'd be mad at the piano movers for losing their grip on the rope.
But at least they'd have a good story to tell after the police reports.


While we're on the subject, music can fascinate me in some ways.
How it affects our brains and bodies.
Try listening to Ahead By A Century in a vehicle by yourself.
And see if you get to the end before you start bellowing the lyrics.
Can't do it, can you?

Sometimes people ask, "What will become of me when I die?"
Someone needs to be compassionate enough to tell them that the answer is "Compost."
So these people can move on with (what's left of) their lives.
I knew my thoughts on the afterlife when I was very young.
I would say, "What was it like for you in 1812?"
Response.
"Exactly."
Nothingness is nothingness is nothingness.
Sure, that's a real downer of a concept.
But that's not to say it's an irrational one.
We insist on afterlives and whatnot.
But I can't fathom why.
Eternity wouldn't be so selective.
If humans were granted an afterlife, so too would ants.
And skunks.
And Jack Thompson.
Just doesn't seem right.
Our souls don't transcend fictitious borders after we fall off of a cliff.
We're just really smart.
Relatively speaking.
Life is now.
Keep that in mind while you're eating ravioli in a veal stock.
Or you're fucking your sister's friend that you've been keen on for a decade.
Of course, I sure hope that I'm wrong.
But, as always, I doubt it.

Y'know, I once sent Jack Thompson an e-mail telling him to go fuck himself.
Wonder if he got it...

A Little Bird Told Me

It took me some time, but I have finally figured out the purpose of Twitter.
It's to justify not writing in your blog for a couple of days.

A Fine Time

I'm in a hotel lobby.
There are politicians everywhere.
That's not really true.
But Jack Layton was here earlier.
It's funny how TV affects your brain.
Because, really, Jack Layton is a man that I'm not interested in.
I'd have lunch with him, but I'd tune him out just like anyone else.
But when I saw him, I immediately thought, "Holy shit, is that Jack Layton?"
People will do that with me someday.
They'll think, "Holy shit, is that Jack Layton?"
And then they'll size me up and realize, "Oh, no, it's just some dead beat.
Rummaging through garbage."
Anyway, I could tell it was him because he used the word 'platform'.
And he looked as though he was listening very carefully to whoever was speaking to him.
His whole job, really.
Besides promoting the colour orange.
Which, I must say, he's pretty good at.

I paid the hotel $200 to environmentally clean my room.
After the security man busted me for smoking in there.
It wasn't me doing the smoking, really.
Well, not all of it.
I don't handle confrontation with security well.
I have a nasty habit of immediately telling the truth.
"Are you smoking in that room?"
"Absolutely. And I'm enjoying it immensely."
And I just want the situation to resolve itself as quickly as possible.
"That's a $200 fine."
"Great. Let me give you my name and bank account number."
He said that he hated doing his job.
But he was smiling the entire time...

It was lovely, though.
Kyle Radke is a very funny man, and one worth looking up to.
He has big teeth, but they don't register as big when you speak to him, y'know?
Nadine and Steph Rogers dropped by to brighten my day.
Which they were always good at.
They once straightened my hair against my will when I was 18.
Holy shit.
That was eleven years ago.
Anyway.

I went shopping for sexy stockings with Peter White yesterday.
Everyone should do this at least once in their lifetime.
We went to La Senza first.
I did all of the talking.
But when the woman responded to me, she addressed both of us.
As we walked out I told Pete that I feared she thought we wanted the stockings.
For ourselves.
In our private time.
Not the case though.
They're more for my girlfriend's legs and washing machine.
The woman suggested The Bay.
"I hate the Bay," Peter whined.
"Well, this is going to be a rough day for you," I replied.
We wandered while Pete's girlfriend asked me what sort of stockings I wanted.
The more I described them, the more she seemed to think they were a bad idea.
As we walked around a couple of old bitties passed by.
And I Realized that they're The Bay's main clientele.
Then I realized that we wouldn't be finding sexy anything at The Bay.
We stopped by H&M.
A chain we don't have in Newfoundland.
Their (regular) socks are awesome.
And gay men claim that their men's' underwear is lovely to buy and wear.
But the store is very disorienting.
There are mirrors and pitch-black mannequins everywhere.
I tried to find an employee and eventually found a woman.
To Pete, "She's putting clothes on racks, she probably works here."
"Nope, I'm just hanging these things up," she responds.
I think that she's throwing me friendly salesperson banter.
So I go on.
"Can you tell me where to find sexy..."
Then I realize that she has a stroller with her.
And it has a baby in it.
"That took you a long time to figure out," Peter said as she walked away.

Peter White had a lovely vehicle rented.
I would have accidentally opened the door and spilled out onto the road as we moved.
Luckily he had the doors locked.
Peter knows all of the necessary precautions.
He's spent some time with me by now.