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!