It's fucked when you sit and realize that no one will ever sculpt you. Like a statue. You will never be a statue. I won't be either. And if either of us are cast in stone, it will likely be for all the wrong reasons.
Owning a dog involves convincing him or her that you lead the pack. You have all of the sex. Becomes an easier point to prove once you lop off their nutsack. Owning a cat involves convincing the cat that you don't give a shit about them either.
Have you heard of Omegle? You're a savvy group. You're a hip young readership. You know what I'm talking about when I say Omegle. South Park made fun of it (I don't feel like finding the episode, sorry). You have conversations with strangers on it. Unless you have a web cam. Then you masturbate in front of them instead. So, new laptop from Santa Clause, I figure "Now's my chance." I found a real looker quickly enough. Things were getting amorous. I had already asked her where it was that she was from. Whether or not she liked Pink Floyd. Things were getting serious. We begin undressing. The Internet is finally paying off. Turns out she's under age, and the whole thing is a sting operation. As soon as she begins lifting her shirt, a bunch of FBI guys bust into her room. Wearing FBI hats and t-shirts. Pointing guns at me. So I had to put my hands up. Until the screen saver came on.* I should have known something was fishy when she asked: "Who's Pink Floyd?"
Two words for you would-be teachers: R.W. & Co. However many words that is. Technically, none. Big boy clothing throughout the whole store. Sick cardigans with cool piping. And the male employees all have erect nipples. A great place. I went clothes shopping with Peter White and Jeff Elliot. A pair of comic vagabonds, I spent a fair amount of Saturday with them. Including Saturday night, which I had assured Peter before his arrival, would involve us getting drunk. Which happened ten-fold. Outside of Christian's at about 4a.m., and then wherever else I found myself. I slept on couch cushions on a section of floor. I spent the entirity of Sunday wishing that Peter White hadn't been in town. Typical, if you know him. Some woman with a baby was with us for a part of the evening. With Evan. It was Evan's birthday. Evan wasn't the baby, by the way. He's some dude who has likely been suckered into caring for the baby. Her baby had a broken femur at one point. That's the leg bone that horses get shot over if they break them. We watched a number of middle-aged people dance and try to have sex with one another. I hit the floor with a tall, 30-something homely woman. And a shorter, squatter, more sexually aggressive friend of hers. That's it. That's everything I have the energy to describe right now. Oh, I found my phone, also. Don't worry about that. It was in the cab.
They make a shave gel for sensitive skin. But I can't find one anywhere that accomodates the sensitive man. I go to the counter sometimes and ask about it. That's where you buy shaving supplies anyway; at the counter. Beer, cigarettes, razor blades. All of Man's vices. Anyway, I'll say to the register: "Excuse me, but I didn't see any sensitive man shave gel over in the aisle. I was just wondering if you carried any?" Unrelated story: One of my fondest Bussey memories was the time we were waiting to leave for St. John's. One of Kevin Senior's business trips, that doubled as a van ride into town for us. Pat would come along so that we had an adult to bring us into the R-rated films. So, we're all in junior high and we're all sitting and waiting to leave. Passing the time, Bussey's younger brother, Bussey, picks up a flyer on the van's floor. And reads: "We have assles and assles of selection...?" His father grabs the flyer and looks at it and says, "That's aisles and aisles." You really had to be there. Or you at least have to hear the story spoken aloud. But this version will have to do. Technology hampering us once more. All of my best stories.
I just received a drunken phone call from an Australian woman. Everyone should experience this at least once.
Elizabeth Taylor is dead. When I learned this, I just wanted to check and make sure that Liza Minnelli was okay. I don't know what that means.
My father and I sawed some pieces from some doors yesterday. The doors, normally attached to my brother's rooms, have been scraping the carpet. And that's insignificant enough to make dad do something about it. So, we had to detach these relics and saw the bottoms off of them. About half an inch. We bring the first door back upstairs after the fact. As we're lining it up, Dad says, "I believe I accidentally cut from the top. Do you think so?" "Well," I replied, "The keyhole's upside-down."
They say that amateur is the most successful brand of pornography. That genre with the wine glasses and the semen is pretty steamy, sure. Nauseatingly so. But amateur. That's what we want to see. And we all know why it is that we want to see it. We hope to encounter someone from high school on some filthy (free) site somewhere. So we can judge their character. Judge their nude body. And then forget all the fightin' and fussin' of the past. And masturbate. With gusto, I might add. This is healthy. This is adulthood. And it happens, too. It's happening all over the world (internet) right now. Wait... See? It just occurred again. Some guy in a bathrobe stumbled upon an intimate film starring the girl who sat behind him in biology. And suddenly it's human reproduction all over again. He's springing to his feet, arms raised high, his bathrobe flappy and agape. "Who's the prom king now!?" He cries to his empty apartment. "Who's the prom king now!?" Exclude the simmering betrayal that had to transpire for her to be on there in the first place. And it's really a beautiful thing.
I had such a film once, y'know. Plus photos. But when the relationship cooled (ended horribly), so too did I. In a proud act of defiance and maturity, I physically mailed these exposures back. Leaving no spare copies. None. This, it would turn out, was the most idiotic thing I have ever done. And it's a long list. Like I'd never get over it. Like she stops being naked and erotic because she left the province. Like my being upset has anything to do with my two-years-from-now libido. I mean, my Jesus. It still turns my stomach to think of it. How stupid I was. Now I wish I had uploaded it. Just so I could search the internet until I found it again. Save it in 'my favourites'. I'm not into that, though. Posting ex-sex chums on the internet. I find the notion vile and uncouth. It takes a tremendous amount of self-confidence for me to bed a woman. Never mind record it. This I usually need to amplify with alcohol. And talking. And being charming, but not too charming. Cool clothes that aren't too cool. I need to be sweet and I need to cook stuff when it's unexpected. I need to stand outside her window in the rain, holding a boom box over my head. Why would I go through all of this? Have this intimate piece of media to share with this person. Just to have some unit in Wisconsin find it, watch it and keep it forever more? For free! He doesn't even need to get out of his chair. And he has it. The thought is honestly ludicrous to me. It really is. I wouldn't even show it to my good friends unless she was dead and I was really hammered. So, ladies, just so you know. You can bring your Coolpix along on the first date. I'm on the level. You can dump me and I won't even keep a copy for myself. Idiot!
Never one for fashion, Colin was once heard to say:
"What the fuck's a Billabong?"
It's a good question, really.
The great thing about your father's hearing loss?
You can stand right next to him humming Alicia Keys tunes while he's using a saw, and he'll have no idea.
Dad and I have been working on a box to put my Playstation 3 in.
I originally used the cardboard box it was packaged in to transport it.
But someone who will remain unnamed (and therefore less embarrassed) threw up in it.
So now we're constructing one.
He's constructing one.
While I hold stuff and turn on the air thingy that keeps the sawdust out of my coffee.
Last night I watched a kickboxing tournament with Pete and Robert.
Watching a kickboxing tournament really makes you appreciate how out of shape you are.
I made lewd 'wooing' noises at the girls who carried the Round 1, 2, 3 signs.
Because nobody else was doing it.
And they wanted to hear it.
Why else would they carry the signs in the first place?
Dogs love me. If I was trying to sleep with dogs instead of women, I'd be a total stud. If that had been the case growing up, I would have been Peter. Peter would have been me. If we grew up in the dog sex world. Another lifetime, perhaps. Anyway! Dogs love me. Which I'm entirely cool with. Because I love them, too. And dogs know that. They can smell that. Possibly. Scientists haven't produced anything that detects smell as well as a German Shepherd. Who knows what they can smell and what they can't smell? I met Jennah's dog, Herman, a couple of weeks ago. Here he is: The house he was in contained two full-grown bulldogs. And the three of us were having a grand time. While Jennah kept mentioning that they were behaving oddly. The owners of the two gippers came home. And they kept insisting that their dogs were "Never like this with strangers." One of them wagged his tail so much that he had to go to the vet. To get it looked at. Which made me feel awful. And also made me wonder if that's why Bulldogs traditionally have their tail removed. Because they're so jubulent. Ashleigh Sobol's dogs pulled the same move: Here's one of them. The other one looks just like this one. Neil's Shih Tzu, H, hates my guts. But even they tell me that she hates my guts less than most. It's a fun gimmick. And it's terribly vindicating when it happens. I always tell dogs my secrets.
You can't appreciate Joel Plaskett's hair of today until you see his hair of yesterday.
I'm helping Turpin do a play with the kids in Placenta.
I haven't met them yet.
I'm anticipating disappointment.
They probably are too.
Turpin wrote the play and I edited it here and there.
Our first project!
Years from now, when we're writing films for Zach Galafanakis-
("He ate all of the danishes off of the snack table. Again!")-
We'll think back to this play for the Placenta drama team...
And then we'll go right back to being tremendously drunk.
"Get in the shopping cart, Zach! This is gonna be awesome.
Zach! Where's he going? Zach!? Get in the shopping cart!"
I can't remember the last time I had a heart-to-heart with someone.
That's a lie.
I remember my last heart-to-heart perfectly.
Well, by 'perfectly' I mean I can remember who the person was.
Where it was.
Mark what's his face (I can't remember his last name).
Does that mean I actually can't remember who the person was?
I'd be able to pick him out of a Mark lineup.
He used to play 'Message in a Bottle" at Bruno's.
That's the place that had the Reuben sandwiches.
I lost one once.
Anyway.
In Banff.
He just started speaking to me one night about...whatever.
He probably wasn't even there to see me.
He was probably there to do drugs with someone.
And he just started telling me things.
About his childhood and upbringing.
His decisions after school and why he made them.
Things he'd never mentioned to anyone.
And as he's telling me all of this he's saying,
"I don't know why I'm telling you all of this."
But it wasn't a surprise to me.
Much like myself with dogs (remind me to talk about that later).
People used to open up to me like that all of the time.
Because I was easy to talk to.
I used to hear that all of the time, too.
"You're easy to talk to."
I can't remember the last time someone told me that.
I'm not easy to talk to any more.
I suppose it's because I'm not listening.
People assume I've never been listening.
Because I can't remember.
But that's because I can't remember.
I'm still not a good rememberer.
But I used to be attentive.
Maybe that's why people used to tell me stuff all of the time.
Because I wouldn't remember where they said that they stashed the diamonds.
So it was okay to tell me where their 'wicked hiding place' was.
Really it's because I used to like people back then.
And they could figure that out for themselves.
But I stopped liking people during my time there.
Because no one is meant to habitate in a tourist town.
Entire families wearing matching Crocs while eating matching ice cream cones.
Three rubes standing immediately in front of an escalator or stairwell.
Talking about how many pictures they've taken so far.
I used to always see the good in people.
Even if I was dealing with someone who irked the shit out of me.
"Sure, he's irritating.
But he's probably suicidal, so he's not so bad."
...
Maybe I just need to go to more parties.
In my youth I used to fantasize about meeting everyone in the world.
Shake hands, say hello, move on to the next person in the gas station.
I was too shitty at math to realize that billions of people were too many.
I wouldn't have enough time to pull it off.
Regardless, that's a true anecdote.
I envisioned this as a sort of pilgrimage.
We used to have this substitute teacher named Miss Bennett.
She was amazing because she wouldn't feed us lies like everyone else.
Most thought she was 'burnt' because she claimed to see letters-
and people-
in colours.
I thought it was fine and probably lovely to see people that way.
She was just picking the wrong hues to mention it to.
She took over for my literature teacher halfway through the year.
Presumably because my lit teacher had some sort of a breakdown.
During parent-teacher getting in trouble night, mom and dad spoke with her.
"Here's what I can tell you about Paul:
Paul loves school.
Paul loves life.
Paul will be fine at whatever he does."
She was right at the time.
And that's it.
I just moderated some comments that the blog has received. They were spam for Gucci knockoffs. Gucci! I wouldn't have expected this blog to be good enough to sell Bugle Boy knockoffs. But Gucci! That gives me a reason to go on. Despite the overwhelming number of reasons to quit. I guess I should have let one of their comments onto the site. In case one of you wanted to buy a Gucci bag. They're not real Gucci bags, mind you. But no one who couldn't afford a Gucci bag would notice. If you prefer the real thing, you should probably know: Only assholes spend $800 on a purse.
The least muscular part of my body? Definitely my back. I don't even know how I walk around and pick up objects.
You have an old friend from college who you wanted to get close with. But you couldn't figure out how to make it happen. Because this is Paul Warford's blog. And it's written from his perspective. Point is, you might as well look up that friend now, find them, and bang them. Cause the world is comin' to an end. It's gonna happen. We're not making it to hover cars. By the time we hit the year 3000, it'll be The Renaissance again. Don't have the sense to believe me? Ask these millions of sardines what they think of my theory. Oh wait. None of them are talking:
I wouldn't mind, y'know? The apocalypse in my lifetime. Really, I should have predicted it ages ago. Regardless, why couldn't it occur due to too much of a good thing? Rather than too much of a bunch of bad things (idiots in ties; energy drinks)? It could have been much more pleasant. So many gummy bears that we all stop making normal food. And die of malnutrition. Something like that. Actually, that doesn't sound all that pleasant... And I don't even like gummy bears that much (I really don't). I don't know why I wrote that. Okay! Try this: Everyone gets a kissing disease and we all have to keep kissing or we'll die. But we start to die out anyway because we have to stop kissing long enough to eat the gummy bears. Until all of our friends are kissed out and dead, and we can't kiss our families. Cause that's weird. So we all die. Cause of the kissing disease. That's an end of humanity that you can cuddle up with. I thought locusts and plagues were only in fairy tales. Of course, I may be wrong. Maybe this is just the end of sardines.
Y'know what's funny about high school students? Very little. Except this: When they tell you, "You're cool, sir," they think that they're saving you from something. When you woke up this morning, you were an itch of society's groin. But now! Now! Well, now you're cool. Sir. I have almost said (and still may), "Like I give a shit what you think; you're in high school." I really could say that, you know. I casually swear around high school students. Because they always do so first. And they use way worse words than I do.
Musicians are pansies, really. Pussies! And the famouser they get, the pussier they are. Purely from a performance standpoint, that is. Not a sex-with-women standpoint. If we're looking at it that way, the weiner is still me. And Esteves. But on stage? Big deal. You have two or three other people with you, first of all. So if you black out or forget which guy in the band you are, they can cover for you while you figure it out. (Regain consciousness) Slipknot has like, ten guys in the band. One of them could have an allergic reaction to shellfish they ate on the tour bus. Crowd probably wouldn't even notice. Go on Letterman. Do one song. One thing. Of the things you do. You do one. The crowd can't wait to hear it. They've sung to it off-key at intersections for weeks. Naueseated! They want to hear your stupid song so bad. Can't sleep. You play the opening note of the song. Crowd loses their mind. Your work's already done at this point. You fuck up a chord. You forget a word. Your wind chime guy has an allergic reaction to shellfish. Whatever. Doesn't matter. Cause they saw you play that song that time. You are Right Said Fred. You are Chumbawamba. You can be horrible and you're still amazing. Therefore. Pussies. Comics do it alone. No one gives a shit about who you are unless you have a TV show. You do things they have never heard. While you hope that they'll like it. And if you do one figment. One sliver of a line they know: "Oh, this guy sucks. I heard this joke before." And unlike musicians, we're not even cool. We have to act like we are.
I haven't tied my tie yet. So we can't speak for very long. I'm about to head to Ascension to fill in for the gym teacher. It just seems like something that warrants mentioning. I don't get what it is that these people do, exactly. Hand out the ball hockey gear and hope that no one ends up requiring stitches. Mark down the names of those who aren't prepared for gym. Because they hate gym. Really you're handing out the equipement, and then recording who dislikes gym. And I can do that. If there's more to the job I'll be able to let you know about it before the day is out.
I'm also judging a public speaking contest at Amalgamated this evening. Which I was initially excited about. Until I figured out that I'll be judging speeches written and spoken by grade sevens. Nervous grade sevens.
So, I'm not into microwaves. "That Warford. Always got to be different!" Whatever. Food tastes soggy out of a microwave, whereas out of an oven it just tastes warm. Takes an extra four to six minutes. Like you need to reheat leftovers within seconds of your removing them from the fridge. Like you're closing that many business deals. You need a microwave as much as you need an escalator installed in your house. You're saving inconsequential amounts of time. Time that you spend on quizzes about Charlie Sheen. Or what kind of a cat you'd be if you were a cat (hairless!). I can't remember what my point was. Oh yeah! So I use ovens a lot. But I still have a habit of sticking my face in front of the food after I open the door. Can't break it. I don't know why. I want to look like the people in the Pillsbury commercials, maybe. Or perhaps, as my old hockey coach used to say, there's a little Sylvia Plath in all of us. And scene!
... ... Y'know, I didn't even want to get into the microwave thing today. I just wanted to do the Plath line. That was the whole purpose for this post.
This ad doesn't even have people sticking their face in front of an oven. But it was too great to not use. You know that gag on TV where a couple will swipe everything off of the kitchen table? Because they're about to screw on it? These two invented that. They were the first to do it. And it happened as soon as they finished shooting the ad. Right there on the set.
My mother once said that it was time for me to settle down and be a man. "Get a car for yourself," she'd said. And I tried to explain to her that fullfilment was a little more compliacted than that. Unless I have it wrong and the car commercial writers have it right. But sometimes I think that those commercials have ulterior motives. Like owning a car would ever make me happy. Here's another expensive thing for me to spill things on and lose. If anything it would make me less happy. If I owned a car, I would no longer have a concrete reason to go on The Price is Right.
Sure, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros have a fun tune with that Home song. Still, I doubt I'd want to spend any amount of time with them on a bus.
This morning I dismantled a bird house that my father once built. Dismantled with a hammer. Isn't life funny?
I taught a lot this week past. Which was fine. At no point did I have the 7-3s. You have to relish the small victories. Did I mention that I took a bath last week? What a trip. I almost puked when it was over. It was so hot. Sweltering. And my nude body probably wasn't helping. Anyway. I'm becoming endeared to a fellow teacher who once went to high school with me. And I feel gross about it. Because she plays sports.
So, the Laugh Off happened on Thursday. My goal was to say soemthing onstage that I have never said before. Consequently, I said a bunch of things that I have never said before. And most of them turned out to be funny. Semi-finals funny! Coombs has footage of it that I hope to upload as soon as his kids are off to college. The evening was not without its complications, though. First of all, I receieved a call to teach the following day. And I'd never been so sad to receive a call to teach. Sad! Like a mourner. Depressed about it. Driving to Bay Roberts at 11 in the evening. To potentially fill in for my old drama teacher, Mr. Warren. Who has the shittiest smammering of classes a sub has ever seen (The 7-3s are his home room). And there were other emotional complications as well. Have you ever had a comedy set that went really well, and it makes you want to have sex immediately afterwards? It happens. It's how Steve Coombs had his second baby.
If we're to believe mourners, as asshole hasn't died yet.
