I'm Cured*

First of all, first of all.
Why didn't anyone tell me before now that The Cure is absolutely savage?
I don't even mind now that they're taking all of our fine sistas (check the link).
I mean...I know it's The Cure.
Friday I'm in Love and all of that.
But savage!
Good Lord.
So there's that. I wanted to mention that.
Let's toss some media on here.
Put you in the mood to buy their lunchbox.





Also, I shaved the mustache.
I used the mustache wax that the missus gave to me for Christmas.
So I suppose the whole drama has run its course now.
The wax made my face feel incredibly uncomfortable.
But not as uncomfortable as the people looking at me, probably.

I did a lot of walking today.
I feel awful.
Last night was the Yuk's staff party.
Christmas staff party.
I thought we'd end up getting hammered and begin doing jokes.
But they had a bunch of tables propped up on the stage.
Probably as entertaining as we would have been.
I'm trying to tear my material down and begin speaking to the audience again.
If I was to compare it to alcoholic's anonymous, I don't know which step this would be.
But one of the later ones.
This way, more bruising will occur if I fall down the steps.

*The title for this post is shameful.
I know that.
I just want you to know that I know.

Her Better Half

Oprah Winfrey has conjured for herself a half-sister.
Using the bone and sinew of her felled adversaries.
And a little good ol' fashioned voodoo.
This is rather fortuitous for Oprah.
Unveiling of the bastard child accumulated the highest ratings for Oprah's show-
Even more so than that time Tom Cruise was on there and he jumped onto his plushy chair-
But on a personal level it is to her benifit as well.
She needed someone to change the newspapers in her aviary.

Free Fallin'

Remember when all of those birds dropped dead in North Dakota?
Turns out it wasn't because of The Apocalypse (a shame).
They were just attempting to get into the wrong pic-ah-nic-ah basket.
Now, I'm not a Yankton resident (a shame).
But if I was, I believe I'd want proper officials to let me know if they were intending to fumigate nature on a given day.

Yanktonite 1: Hey, does the air kinda taste like DRC 1339 poison to you?
Yanktonite 2: Nah, you're probably just hallucinating.
[thud]
Yanktonite 1: Weird. That's another bird.

Too Legit to Quit

Sometimes I worry that my past lovers may have been 'faking it'.
But then I remind myself that none of them were likely capable of portraying 'utterly unsatisfied' so convincingly.
No offense ladies.
I was never after you for your acting skills anyway.
We all know that.

Good Night, My Sweetin

Speaking of celebrities...
If all of my childhood crushes continue marrying other people, I'll be stuck marrying the chick who played Kimmy.
Or Blossom's shitty friend that no one can remember.

Eat the Rich

If you have trouble remembering what you ate yesterday, grow a mustache.
Then, if you're struggling to recall, you can suck on it pensively for hints.
"Tastes like...brine. With a hint of lemon...
Eureka! I had cod. With lemon wedges!"
People should more frequently say 'eureka!' in conversation.
"Oh fuck, I lost my contact lens.
Eureka! Left it under the baby! Alright, I'm ready for kickboxing now."

I believe it's time for the mustache to skedaddle, though, just the same.
This was the first Christmas in which I felt like keeping the mustache after the holidays.
But that is probably out of a yearning to do nothing and drink casually on weekdays.
Rather than a desire to look like some sort of a prostitute.
I'm surprised, though, at how casually people will tell me that I look bad.
With the mustache, that is.
Generally people are otherwise secretive about what they think of my appearance.
Whispered in dark alleys and school cafeterias.
"He's ghoulish!"
"Imagine seeing him in the shower!"
[in unison] "Ewwwww!"
But I had several people tell me at a Dymond family function (lawn darts) to "lose it."
And they have not been the only ones.
Which doesn't bother me.
What bothers me is that if I said, "You're right.
And while we're discussing style, you should ditch those shoes; they look hideous."
That would be considered frightfully rude.

Oh!
I keep forgetting to ask you this.
It was a Question of the Week for me recently.
Ahem:

IF YOU COULD GRIN UP ANY CELEBRITY INTO A BURGER AND EAT THEM, WHOM WOULD YOU CHOOSE?

Now, as a stipulation to vegetarians, Sobol came up with a clever abridged version:
If you could grind any celebrity into a hamburger and feed it to another celebrity, whom would you choose?
That's an option if eating even metaphorical meat bothers you somehow.
Leave your answers in the comment section.
The owner of the best answer will receive a scented candle with an AM/FM radio built into it.

A Token of My Occupation

A wind chime in Newfoundland is a racket.

Disinfecting them isn't raising them.
For all of the on-again off-again parents that may be reading this.
That's a tidbit for you.
Also, you've gotta talk to your kids, parents.
Cause I'm sick of doing it.
I can't think of anything more arduous.

Y'know what separates us from the monkeys?
Mouthwash.
That, and those collapsible canvas shoe racks that you can hang in your closet.
Because monkeys don't wear shoes.
Cuts down on their dexterity.
It would be like we humans trying to go about our day with thumbless oven mitts on.

If I worked at the DMV, I would give out handicapped stickers as presents.
Jam one of those in someone's birthday card.
Far more thoughtful than a gift voucher for that Amish place with the furniture.
I could give out his and hers stickers for anniversaries.
Inside, the card would say:
COUPLES WHO PARK TOGETHER, STAY TOGETHER!
Wicked for a baby shower.
"There you go.
Sure, it's not as pertinent as a bib right now.
But she'll grow into it."

Tender Moment

Me: Variety is the spice of life.
She: That's why we should date other people.

She's right, ya know.

Three Square Meals and One DJ

I'm still having trouble processing this.
Because, y'see, I thought the bum was really good at singing.
Because all of the articles claimed that he has a 'golden voice'.
Leave it to Yahoo! to bring you all of the pressing news.
About charming hobos and cats that can swim.
But the bum doesn't sing.
He's not a singing bum.
Avril explained that he has like...a radio voice, I guess.
Like, okay. You know the guy who does all of the movie trailers?
Well, when he dies, from what I can understand, this bum will be eligible to take over.
He's like Casey Kasem, if Casey Kasem had ever lived under a bridge.
I haven't watched any press on this guy.
None accompanied by sound, anyway.
I saw him on Oprah.
They keep him dressed as a bum.
Keep him in the rags so that the riches seem even richer.
Camouflaged rags.
Yes, he's got 'er scald now.
He'll no longer have to use discarded pizza boxes to communicate what he wants to say.
It's double-corrugated for him from now on.
He can write messages like:
BRING ME MORE MALT LIQUOR, SERVANT!
With only the freshest of magic markers.
Socks that are freshly darned.
Kicked back in the mansion that his freakish trick has earned him.
A barrel fire burning in every room.

All That Glitters is Told

People often attempt to discern the relationship that Turpin and I have.
Like classic duos of the past-
The Edison twins; Penny and Brain; the organ grinder and the monkey-
People have futily made jabs at studying and possibly even understanding us.
I'm here to lay out the facts for you, once and for all.
You'd best get some cocoa first.

Once great mariners and privateers swore of a vast treasure.
Hoards of shimmering jewels, crowns topped with sanguine rubies and topazes (what colour are topazes again?).
Gold dubloons and silver 50-cent pieces stamped with the queen's bare ass.
Not the gross old queen of today. The hot queen. The good one.
A wealth so vast and insurmountable that any one who stumbled upon it could buy the finest motor home ever seen.
With two TVs aboard!
And they could drive that motor home to the Florida Keys (easily affording the gas).
Park that sucker on the beach.
Loose the awning.
And sit back until eventually dying of...whatever.
So the whispered legend went.
The legend whispered on to say that this Scrooge McDuck score was buried...
...In the belly of a giant squid.
Lucifer the Squid, they called him.
Ebony black, he was, with red eyes the diameter of a jumbo pizza at Hobo's.
He had eaten many a man.
But Lucifer never swallowed them whole, like all of those faerie whales of yorn.
Because squids, like most cephalopods, have a beak-like beak.
Which, upon entwining poor rubes in his tentacles, Lucifer would use to bite the men into portioned, manageable pieces.
So was the story of Lucifer.
Lucifer the squid.

Undaunted, I laden my dory with the necessary provisions:
Squid harpoons; vamps; oka dokas (couldn't find a link); hardtack; a warm cap.
And I ventured out into the frothing spittle of the damnable Atlantic.
Fueled solely by my unerring desire to never have a job.
After 20 months at sea, I discerned, looming and contrary, Lucifer.
Lucifer the Squid.
And, delirious with a lack of dietary variety, I bellowed, "Holy piss! What a size!"
For two days he and I tangoed.
Until the sun crested the convex horizon of the third day.
Illuminating Lucifer the Squid...no more.
A number of his tentacles gnashed in my teeth, I hauled that bastard to a nearby cove.
And, with my treasure knife, I jimmied Lucifer open.
Prepar'd to receive my destiny.
And when I stripped away the mighty stomach lining I beheld what was due to me:
Turpin, homely and not at all gleaming, squinting, said, "Ah, finally!
Alright, I'm ready to go, just help me find my glasses."
What is the relationship between Turpin and I?
She's some unlucky penny I found.

Sunday Drive-In

Alright.
Screw this.
Side note, before we get started:
I don't know what it is, but I find the expression 'Screw it' impossibly funny.
When someone says it, and they really mean it, it floors me every time.
Anyway.
Screw this.
Subtly is for wieners and poets.
This is for you, readers!


I was on my way from St. John's.
Picture it.
Are you there?
Now, as I was driving, I espied something curious.
The van in front of me was playing one of those DVDs.
It was set up for the kids in the back seat.
I guess the kids had been on a number of Westjet flights, and had developed a taste for the cooking channel while traveling.
I turn my Westjet screen off, by the way.
Like I need screens anywhere else.
Like any of us need screens anywhere else.
They play CNN in the coffee shops now in case you stumble into a conversation.
Anyway.
The van's right in front of me, and we're all moving along.
And then I realize that the kids had just started watching Donnie Brasco.
And I said, "Aww man, Donnie Brasco! I haven't seen that in ages."
So I stick real close and settle in for an awesome flick.
By the time it got to the part where Donnie gets the Porsche for Lefty-
"That's a fugazi!"-
I was hooked.
When Lefty got the Lion, the van pulled into a service station, and I parked at the pump behind them.
This is when I realized that I didn't know where I was.
I think we were past Avondale, somewhere.
There were a lot of alder bushes.
I made a mental note of that, and then got back to the movie.
But they shut off the van and shuffled inside.
So, - nonchalantly mind you - I followed them.
One of the little Juniors went into the bathroom.
Once I got in there, I noticed that he went into a stall.
That's when the idea dawned on me.
I isolated myself into the neighboring cube, sat on the toilet (pants on), cleared my throat, and said:
"Can you turn on the subtitles, kid?"
And the little Jimmy said, "...Huh?"
"Get your dad to do it. Ask your dad to turn on the subtitles."
But I guess that request was too complicated for him.

Eventually the movie van pulled into a driveway.
Their home, I suppose.
But the movie wasn't over.
So, I didn't get to see the part where Left asks Donnie about the F.B.I. boat, and I don't know where I am.
I was able to get onto their wireless network.
I'm parked outside of their house.
Their siding is like, a sort of navy colour?
It's really sharp with the white door.
Anyway.
I'm going to sleep here I guess.
See if I can catch the end of the movie when they're on their way to school tomorrow.

Out of the Blog

Every year The Scope does it.
They have their year-end Best Of St. John's extravaganza.
And every year they justify and fuel my narcissism by giving me nods.
Putting me in the running for contests I didn't even know I was a part of.
Tragic Hero got a bronze star for Best Local Blog.
Probably nominated by whichever of you wishes to see me in the bath the most.
Like Ryan Snodden's meteorology fiasco counts as a blog.
Especially in a province that is cripplingly obsessed with the weather (as described by someone else).

A Royal Pain

It took me a while to figure out how to meet cats.
Cats are aware that they're better than you.
They hate it when you rush up to them, implying this very fact.
They know that they're darling animals; they don't need you telling them.
Allow me to divulge:
You see a cat in a household, you treat it like a really hot woman at a party.
Briefly acknowledge, and then utterly disregard them.
You've seen cats before. No big deal.
What is that, a corset?
Whatever. You're heading to the table with the chips on it.
Let them begin to develop an insecurity about it.
They'll come to you.
Sit next to you on the couch, sniff your hand and lick it.
Gorgeous women and cats.
The world's most overconfident creatures.

I think I'm depressed.
Well, we're all depressed.
I think my depression is beginning to get in the way.
I don't blame you people, though.
I guess I blame the royal family.
Because they're always on TV.
If someone kicks their car it's international news.
Or their lorrie, whatever.
Just because they want to get to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows in time to buy tickets.
People gossip about their marriages, and which of them are off to war.
What a joke, by the way.
That Prince What's-His-Face was involved with that war as much as I was.
You dress him in fatigues, put a helmet on him, and photograph it.
That's not war.
Flunking out of high school.
Drinking a lot of watery beer.
Sending sexually explicit videos to your lover 'back home' over the internet.
That's war.
And I guess this is what I'm getting at.
Everyone talks about the royal family as though they're realy people.
The version of the royal family that we have seen aren't as real as the characters on Coronation Street.
They don't do anything.
Even celebrities - the absolute shittiest ones - do things.
They put up with ostracizing criticism from people who don't know anything about what they do.
They go into rehab.
They steal babies from foreign countries.
The royal family waits for a special event, gets all dressed up for it, appears, waves, and then leaves.
And you know that they can't stand to go to all of these events they go to.
Imagine being a kid in the royal family.
Every day would be like going to church.
You have to get dressed up in constrictive clothing.
Sit really still.
And listen to adults prattle on about bullshit for hours.
We're the lucky ones, everybody.
We, the peons.

Let the Good Times Roll

My father's cast has been removed.
Which is fantastic.
I was beginning to get tired of his in-your-face healing process.
He had a habit of waggling his useless sausage fingers in front of me to say:
"And my hand is right swole' up, too. See?"
Then he'd prop his hand an inch away from my face and incessantly ask me to look.
"I can't judge it. What do you think?"
And then I'd say, "Ugh, Jesus! Get away from me. Go show mom."
If we can keep him on the Aspirin and away from his power tools, he'll be endangering himself again in no time.

Speaking of which, I have officially signed up for Jiu Jitsu.
In what anyone would call a surprise move.
The whole issue can be blamed on Kill Bill Vol. 2, inebriation, and Robert Shandera.
Like so many one-night stands across the province.
It is really quite fun.
I only wish I had this knowledge to employ twenty years ago when Brian was putting me in Boston Crabs.
And The Small Package.
Unless you have had these performed on you, there's no point in asking.

She's A Brick House

Today is Nadine Wood's birthday.
Barrett.
Sorry.
She's married to a man now.
And his name ends with Barrett.
Nadine likes Lionely Ritchie a lot.
I couldn't explain to you why that is.
But I know that it's true.
Anyway.
It's her birthday today.
Hers is the easiest birthday to remember because it's a month before mine.
And it's easy to remember for that reason because I'm self-absorbed.
Her family used to have an anual croquet game.
I stayed at her parents' home a couple of times.
It's in Nova Scotia. Off of the highway.
Her mom used to call me Screech.
She'd cook me food and let me stay in a bed.
None of this 'pile of hay in the barn' stuff.
I think I stayed in her brother Donald's room.
He's a comic as well.
So he and I have a bond.
Because I used to rummage through his things.
But not like my bond with Nadine.
I'd tell you all about it if I could remember any of our time together.
I know that we must have walked places.
Classes in overbearing buildings.
Shops that sold stuff we didn't need.
Y'know, I can't recall ever seeing her throw up.
We were together so often that recalling an isolated moment is difficult.
But I can tell you this one:
Once at a party in my last year I wrapped my arms around Nadders and said, "I love you."
Now, to interject, this wasn't some drunken confession.
I told her I loved her all of the time.
Anyway.
I said, "I love you."
And she said, "My bum is wet because I sat in something wet."
It's my favourite thing that she ever said.

Wrong Place. Wrong Time.

Ah yes.
Grey skies, saturating weather.
Kids throwing styrofoam plates from the local pizza place onto our lawn.
It's another one of those days.
In which I'm glad that I wasn't born in Africa.
They have nice weather, sure, but the list of pros stops around there.
I knew a guy from Africa.
Shawn...Matua? I've been trying to remember the name for days.
And it does, really, sound vaguelly African, doesn't it?
A lot of As in there, combined with a U.
African.
He was in French class with me.
It took me a couple of classes to figure out that French was a language they spoke in Africa.
Specifically the part of Africa that he was from (Kenya).
Which is why he would go to class, put his feet on his desk, and read the newspaper.
(Participation mark).
But so many people in Africa tend to have AIDS.
Or they're starving.
Or they're starving with AIDS.
Sometimes it's a good practice to take a step back and remind yourself of what you were born into.
Slavery, too.
They had that one for a long time.
Yup.
It's a great day to not be in Africa.
I don't mind picking up the plates, considering.