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.