What You Give Is What You Net

Written in a stuffed Tim Horton's on December 21, 2012ish

Max out your MasterCard to pay off your VISA.
It's the Friday before Christmas.

For most people, resumes are stacks of potential you can file.
For me they tend to be future scraps of paper.
And so, here we are.
Some guy on Gottingen Street asked me specifically to help him get back on his feet.
He just got out of jail today.
I felt like saying, "Just in time for Christmas!"
But he seemed to have other things in mind.
Now, he said that one of those things was not drugs.
He didn't need my money for anything like that.
But I still think he wanted drugs.
And why not?
It's the holidays. Nothing wrong with a little crystal in your nog.
Nothin' wrong with it!
Having spent the past while on the till, I wrestle with the question of whether or not Christmas brings out he best or worst in people.
I suppose I still don't have a concrete answer.
However, a good guideline would be:

• Navigating a parking lot: Worst
• Finding a sweater in the desired size: Best 

Many have displayed kindness when they need not have bothered.
Others, their impetous.
You can only take both with a sighed, "'Tis the season."
As a tapestry, Christmas seems to be bringing out the people in people.
And I guess that's alright.
Christmas has mutated, really.
The concept of giving what we are able to give has been reindeer'd into giving all we've got (plus interest).
I myself have been worrying that my lover's gifts aren't 'good enough.'
Which is retarded.
There's no joy in giving if you look at it that way.
And of course they'll be good enough.
Who wouldn't want the Lego X-Wing and Tie Fighter?
Though, at it's core, the holidays as we celebrate them foster an idea of giving to make others happy, I still think that there's a unified concern they'll be happy enough.
Perhaps it has always been this way.
Perhaps it has been this way since the Cabbage Patch Dolls.
And though free of the moniker, maybe those 20-years ago Fridays were just as Black.
Yet, if each year is a benchmark - a memory to be outdone - then we'll never really have the Christmas Spirit.
Imagine what it must have been like in the days when you were happy to receive a fucking apple and a fine-toothed comb.
Were those folks jollier?
Probably.
Regardless, I think that they all received the bonus gift of perspective. 
Don't ask me what my point is.
Well, if I were to give a holiday message...
You know me. Keep it simple.
Get drunk on the tree water and fuck.
And keep your receipts.
You never know what might be going back.

Quaintity, Not Quantity

I'm sitting in church now, and I'm early.
Better than being in a church late, I suppose.
Strapped for loved ones, my Aunt Barb picked me up today and brought me to her home.
It's off the beaten GPS, but it's around here:

View Larger Map
There are herons sometimes. It's a lovely place to visit.
Sipping beer and espying faraway seals with the telescope, I can pretend to be rich.
Pretending to be rich is great.
All of us have been there before (except the welfare crowd).
Be it a weekend of house sitting for the neighbor who owns Wendy's, or staying in a dying uncle's haunted mansion, we've all wandered into hot tubs that are not ours.
It's great. The ease and comfort, though temporary, can elucidate us to the benefits of hard work or a (suspiciously) timely inheritance.

Being Christmas Eve, I'm supposed to talk about Jesus and the donkeys and the angel swarms.
Overdone.
I'm not making the same jokes about frankincense and mermaids for the sake of a calendar date.
Really, I can't wax Christmastime because it feels very little like the holiday.
Perhaps because I've already given my gifts.
Maybe it's because I was too busy during the days leading up and I didn't have a paper chain.

I probably just miss my mom.
I may have said this already, but if I ever had to go to jail, I'd make a paper chain that would count down to my release date.
All mothers in a church smell the same.

I went to PEI for a few days in order to try and charm a family.
Not sure it worked.
Nevertheless! I spent some quality time with some toddler-esque girls, listened to some Dora, enjoyed a meal with 30 strangers in 90-degree heat, and learned some more about the woman I love.
Mostly, where she gets her cheekbones and explosively violent temper.
It's a nice enough province,  but that frigging red clay gets over everything.
You feel a little Ochre by the time you're ready to leave.
The girl in the pew behind me has to go poop.
Andie's nieces were really charming, even when they were making lots of noise at what must have been 6 a.m.
One of them was clothed in front of me, and then she was suddenly nude.
The freedom.
This church is too cold.
I'm not sure The Book of Common Prayer is relevant, but it makes a fine table.
The little piece of paper with reader responses ("And also with you") is also useful, at least as scrap paper.
The sheet is almost out of room, but I'll say this:
I think PEI is too quaint.
No place should be so wholesome.
It's charming and beautiful - to a point.
But every shop front is old timey.
Every turned corner reveals more flawless rolling hills.
The province's facade is a Stepford Wife.
It's very tough to trust.
You feel like you must be getting duped somehow.
Time will tell on that one.
Either way, put out the carrots and Starbucks gift cards.
Santa's coming.
And to you and yours, have a great Christmas, free of malice and vomiting.

My pick for 2012's Hymn of the Year:
Good King Wenceslas.
Very well-written.
I know that Away in a Manger was a contender - maybe even your pick.
But, really, that hymn is only popular because it's adorable when a group of five-year olds sing it.

Unmixed

Like many other forms of drunken performance, the stars can all align in comedy.
Nothing you say falls flat.
Everyone laughs louder than normal.
All of the women in the front rows have ample breasts in low-cut tops.
It all works out while taking no work at all.
Equivelant to a lightning strike, such truly flawless nights are anamolies to be coveted.
Like an emerald, or nude photos of a buddy's ex-girlfriend.
They're truly beautiful. They're unique. You never forget them.
To use a buzz word, you "kill."
"You didn't kill, bud. You did very well.
Killing is when they're banging the tables and standing when you get off of the stage."
That's Bill MacIntosh and the smokey words he'd plume at me while standing outside after a show.
Bill was great at keeping you grounded (if not deflated).
I never utter the words "I killed."
But when all of those constellations queue up for you, well...if it's going to happen, it'll happen on a night like that.
Conversely, the constellations sometimes get hammered and belligerent (much like your audience), and leave you to your doom.
Saturday's show was like that.
Offering my bones and thoughts, I tried to wow some concrete alchemists during their Christmas party.
By 'concrete alchemists,' I mean, y'know...dudes who mix concrete.
"Needs more salt!"
Enticed and teasted by the open bar, Andie and I milled about with Caesars as we waited for me to get things done.
This was when we still thought the show would be pleasant.
And it was pleasant, initially.
The patrons seemed content enough.
There was prime rib. Chicken Tetrazini.
What could go wrong?
At corporate shows - any show, really - I obsess over and spot the drunkest people in the room.
I guess I do this in order to psyche myself out.
Works sometimes.
When you're among a large gathering of co-workers who are all outside of work's perimeter, you feel otherwordly.
You're there, but you're not present, and eyes linger on you as employess wonder what your 'deal' is.
Anyway, it seemed like it was going to be a normal show.
Some boozebags. A slideshow. Some awards.
A lot of old people, maybe, but relatively standard stuff.
The vibe slowly began to queer, though.
She and I watched some geezer hobble our way.
Picture the slowest-moving old person with a cane that your imagination is capable of.
...
Got it?
Skipper was slower than that.
I'm not kidding, I've never seen an old person more full of molasses.
If he says, "I'm gonna go to the bathroom," in the kitchen, he has piss running down his leg in the living room half an hour later.
That slow.
I'm mesmerized by this, and a few feet off, I can tell Andie is too.
Then he approaches me.
"Are you Luke?"
"No, I'm not."
"What's your name?"
"Paul Warford."
"What?"
"Paul Warford."
...
"I don't work for this company."
He nods, places his hand on my arm, and then procedes to walk around me.
I don't know if he ever got to where he was going.

The program said:

Dinner
Bullshit Awards
Slidshow
Entertainment
Band of Portly, Middle-Aged Fellows (musical act)

Now, I was the "entertainment."
Unfortunately, what sort of entertainment I was never was mentioned.
Which isn't a great precursor to a show.
The element of pre-emptive surprise is not our friend.
Springing a comedian on a group works when the comedian is Chris Rock.
They showed a series of awful safety videos just before bringing me on.
"Don't plummet to your death while working."
That kind of thing.
They starred the employees themselves - atrocious actors, the lot of them.
Therefore, the videos were morose and laughable at the same time.
Giving a final word on the importance of using handrails, I was introduced.
"And now for his views on the world, Paul Warford."
I got up there and looked at a sea of people who were mildly confused at best.
I start talking. I try to engage. No one wants to tell me anything.
As I'm doing this, I think to myself, "Do they think I'm a motivational speaker?"
Never experienced that before.
Nor have I experienced the slow, gradual metamorphises on everyone's faces from confusion to sheer bafflement.
Who is this man? Why is he talking to us? Are we paying him?
This is what their countenances call to me as I wade, waist deep, through utter feces.
Awful.
Jokes don't work. Banter doesn't work.
Swearing doesn't work.
I keep trying to engage with the drunkest guy in the room (rookie mistake).
He's so hammered he can't even form sentences, electing to instead interrupt me with sounds out of his mouth.
"Huh! Whuh nuh scabbah! Ha!"
And I'm returning that with, "What was that, sir? Say it again."
I had four people listening to me in the very front.
At one point I asked if anyone had committed a dine and dash in their lifetimes.
I had an experience (you'll hear about it eventually) that I was going to delve into.
A woman at the front, quite haphazardly, I might add, raises her hand.
And she's like, 60.
"You've dined and dashed," I ask.
A sort of preoccupied nod to this.
Immediately I've forgotten how bad the show is going and now want details.
Turns out she once ate at a place called 'Dine and Dash.'
Not the same thing.
Someone asked me if I was a homosexual. 
My relationship with the room was just never meant to flourish.
Eventually, I got quieter and began actually describing to the promoter why the show wasn't working as the show wasn't working.
People trickled to the bathrooms and bar.
Others initiated their own conversations at their tables.
People were waiting for me to be done.
And boy, was I.
I was done.
Slated to do 30 minutes, I performed about 12 in what has proved to be one of my worst bombs in history.
Since people have begun paying me, this was the first instance of me not doing my time.
No matter what, just do your time and dust off.
Drink up.
But dust off.
Apologetic and legitimately embarrassed, I went over the aftermath with the guy who hired me.
Not unlike recounting a plane crash while the bird's tail is still sticking out out of the side of the barn.
Though he certainly shouldn't have, he paid me.
I offered him a free show (which I will certainly perform) should he ever want one.
Then it was time to mingle.

It's hard to fight your own cynicism while chatting after a private show.
The experience is typically nice enough, but a little strained.
A lot of smiles and nods.
A lot of response to compliments (which is nice 'n all, but still weird).
After the show, there is a new feeling of familiarity that the audience has.
However, this feeling is mostly a combination of the show's conclusion and alcohol.
There is no familiarity, really.
Yet you shmooze.
It's a part of the job.
That is, of course, unless you piss your clothes onstage and want to get the fuck out of there.
Despite the open bar (which we were more than welcome to), I had a rental to drive home.
Given the atmosphere, I figured that requesting a hotel room at that point would have been pushing it.
Andie finds me in the hallway outside the ballroom, saying, "We've gotta go.
I called some woman a bitch in the washroom. We have to go now."
Meanwhile, I'm flabergasted because this is a woman who typically apologizes to furniture.
"What? You did what?"
"In the bathroom, that woman who called you a homosexual asked me, 'You actually let him fuck you?'"
Isn't that awful?
"And I said, 'I don't let him, I beg him for it.
I think you're a homophobic bitch.'"
Astounding.
So, now Andie is afraid of being punched in the face.
It is time to scaddadle.
We were desperate to steal some beers to drink at home.
Sheer principle, I guess.
They are opening the bottles as they hand them over because this is a hotel and they have rules.
So, we come up with the brilliant idea of getting some saran wrap to cover the beer bottles with.
We ask the A/V guy to get that for us.
Andie explains why we want it as she's tearing off sheets of the plastic wrap.
As discretely as a pair of flaming kangaroos, we try to seal these beers while inside the ballroom.
I have my backpack positioned near them as we're hiding them under a small table's cloth.
Andie also stashed some cookies under there, I believe.
As I leave to grab our coats, one of the wait staff walked near to Andie and took the little table, revealing our welfare setup in the process.
Uttering, "This is ridiculous," she walked away.
It never would have worked anyway.
I explained to her that at that point we were very much a stink in the room.
Eyes were on us everywhere.
Some of the wives looked particularly disgusted.
We went outside for a joint with Craig, who saw me in another town on another show that was actually good.
A fan.
We left following that.
We sat in the parking lot for a while first while my mind siphoned out some alcohol.
The rental's headlights pryed the night open as we made our way home.
Holding her hand as I drove and she slept, I realized I was beaming ear to ear.
It had been a great show.
It was truly beautiful. It was unique. I'll never forget it.
Though polarized zeniths, bombing and killing have a few things in common.   
 

Stop Being A Baby

I'm allergic to destiny.

Alright, so here are the things that have been keeping me from speaking to you:

• I began working at Mark's Work Wear House (I'm the model for the bib overalls)
• I began a comedy room with my protege/mentor Dave Burke
• I took da missus home to meet everybody (and help her understand what terms like 'da missus' mean. 
• I began eating bananas for the first time since I was about four years old. 

I hated bib overalls when I was a kid. I have no idea why.
Mom used to dress me in them and I'd cry and cry.
I guess that even during my pre-school days I had a strong sense of wardrobe.
An instinct that had little or nothing to do with bib overalls.
I can't concentrate here.
I'm at some dive that plays a lot of old-timey music.
Which is fine and all, but I can't write while I listen to that in one ear-
"Oh girl, I want to be with you all of the time.
All day and all of the night."
While I try to listen to my new Cinderella band in my other ear.
Which sounds nothing like this antiquated stuff.
It sounds much more, well, awful, I suppose.
But what can I say?
I love the sound of awful sometimes.
I have listened to this album end-to-end more than most.
While jammed up in that van ride to Sydney, I listened to it and nothing else for the entire trip.
The album's only 33 minutes long.
They're called Future of the Left and they really jangle my chimes.

I was feeding Rowan.
There are pictures that my mother and her friends would find adorable that I might upload...someday.
I fed her some kiwi with a spoon, and I just sort of flung banana corners at her (think Trivial Pursuit pie pieces).
While I was feeding her, I figured "Well, if she's eating them..." and began helping myself to some.
"Like stealing banana from a baby!"
Tasted alright.
I always liked banana-flavoured things.
I just never ate bananas.
I guess I do now.
All because of her.
Babies are miraculously powerful entities.
No wonder people spend so much money on them.
It's so strange to me, showering gifts on babies.
It's sort of like...I don't know what it's like.
It seems like the parents and aunts and uncles and stuff are trying to appease the baby.
They're bringing the frankincense. They're bringing the myrrh.
Meanwhile, the child would just as soon gnaw on the end of a stapler.
"Do you think the baby liked it?" they say on the way to their cars.
"Does this please you, baby?"
I don't even really understand clothing them.
But that's probably because I'm not much of a caregiver.
Anyway.
I believe in giving to children.
Personally, I'd just wait until they have the mental capacity to appreciate it.
The mental capacity to not poop themselves.
Yet, they do have this ability to transfix one's attention.
They can elicit change without saying anything (intelligible).
I see these babies that have to do with me, and it's only then that I can say:
"Oh, I was as they are. I get it now.
They weren't just photographs.
They were me. Once."

Bit of a Stretch

Written on the road thru Cape Breton, Saturday, November 24:

We just pulled over the shuttle (minivan) for all of us to have a bit of a stretch.
Like all of you with your body issues, I've considered yoga, sure.
Though I've no preoccupation with being muscular (duh), I'm keen on being lithe.
But who has the time these days?
Not me.
I don't know what I've been doing, but I've been busy.
A dog has approximately ten times the amount of smell receptors that a human has.
Despite this, they're still prone to mishaps like eating a portion of a scented candle.
"Well, it smelled like food."
A good reason to keep them away from the heavy duty cleaners (lemon-scented).
One day the missus was so excited to hug me, she threw an unpeeled banana into a nearby garbage can.
These and other fruits to come!
Accidentally insulted a Vietnamese woman last night.
You can't refer to a race as 'they' any more.
Any race. Any they.
Like, "They invented the rocket," or "They eat hamster."
In this society I bide my time and wait to see what other perfectly legitimate language is eventually "Not cool, man."
I'd rather be a nobody than some internet sensation.
One day you're a slob, the next 14 million people are talking about you, the next you're hanging yourself in your bathroom.
My dad says shit, too, y'know. All our dads say shit.
Whose phrases will you parrot when he passes on?
I know, I know.
I'm just jealous cause people are reading his blog.
I'm going to make one that's called, "The Vocabulary of Mike."
It'll involve all of the words that dad has made up over the years and subsequently eased into his vernacular.
Like 'squez' (squeeze) and 'matt-rass' (mattress).
These days, most of us aren't as interesting as our parents.
I don't know how to end this post positively.
I'll write something more affable after I manage to shower.

Get Reality

Written whilst shuttling, Saturday, November 24:

It's sort of like a confessional, but I have no idea how many priests are on the other side of the fly screen.

I'm in a van and the van it moves. 
I'm doing jokes in Membertou tonight, so long as this guy keeps us on the road 'til Sydney.
Initially, after reading the ghoulish details of The Greyhound Bus Beheading, I decided that perhaps you shouldn't read such things while in transit yourself.
Ultimately, I've decided that you just shouldn't read about this sort of shit period.
Do you know the story?
By all means, read about it here!
Just goes to show you that reality is a matter of perception.
It's my perception that shapes what it is that I believe to be true.
For instance, my perception tells me that I'm tolerable, that green is green, and that every human is annoying sometimes.
His perception created a reality in which he was fighting a force of evil (quite effectively, I would say).
"He's crazy" is the easy answer.
Easy because it's true, probably, I know.
But who's to say what's what about something so cosmic?
You?
Me?
We're hardly qualified.
If you hear it and see it, doesn't that make it real?
Again, the easy answer is "Yeah, but..."
The much more complicated answer is the one that must go unanswered.
Philosophy majors!
Where are you guys?
Get to work on what counts as reality while those of us with jobs trudge on through the alternative.
I was a philosophy minor, which is why I have a part-time job.
Marching once more with the work force, I have yet another occupation that I'm grossly overqualified for (on paper, anyway).
Refusing to apply myself, I've returned to the social charade that names itself 'retail'.
Folding pants for the first three days, I think, "I can ride this out."
By the fourth shift, I hate every person who enters the store.
It must be this way.
As a (relatively) joyless hermit this past while, I had forgotten how truly awful everybody is when they're buying stuff.
Holding the two-pack of T-Max socks aloft, some makeup-riddled banshee yells:
"Do you have any more of these?!"
When you witness it firsthand, you can only shrug.
Are you for real, lady? What barn were you raised in?
That's the first thought that came into my head:
What barn did you come from?
You're 40-something and this is how you ask a stranger a question?
I'm ten 10 feet away and I'm ringing through jackals who at least have the decency to stand in line.
Follow some sort of order, why don't you?
What is unfair about retail is that you're not allowed to answer questions with questions.
"Do you only eat things that you first club to death?
The socks, by the way, are ten degree to your right.
Try not to choke on them."
Such anger.
It's weirdly nice in a way, though.
Items to browse for.
Discounts to wield.
Co-workers to adult with.
Staff is laid back.
Should work out so long as I don't encounter too many forces of evil by Christmas.

Growing Pains

I have had dreams. Dreams of the Children's Dystopia.
This isn't a society in which things are really sad for children, mind you.
As it stands now I would say that children have things going pretty well for them.
And that will only exacerbate itself.
No way I'm using that word properly. Exacerbate? Anyone know what that means?
Where's our dictionary guy? Did we hire one of those yet?
Anyway.
I'm talking about a society in which children rule everything.
There have certainly been science fiction books and films on this very topic, but I don't know any of their titles.
Besides, fiction is all well and good, but it'll seem much more real when 14-year-old cops are shaking you down for chocolate bars and loose change.
It's going to happen, man.
Kids are fucking running this place.
And, of course, there can only be one reason why this is the case:
We're letting them.
There are no parents. Everyone's trying to be their child's friend.
I've hinted at this several times, but it's gone too far. Hinting is a waste of time.
I have to get the message out.
Kids have already fucked the education system.
That's a branch of government. They've overthrown it and now control it.
If you will, a demonstration:

Little Asshole Tina: [throwing her bookbag where she pleases] I hate Mr. Person!
He expects us to write down our homework and then do it!
Asshole Tina Senior: Well, you have to put up with Mr. Person because he has tenure.
Little Asshole Tina: Isn't there any way to get a new teacher?
Asshole Tina Senior: No my little angel, I'm afraid not. Unless, of course, he sexually harassed you.
Little Asshole Tina: [brightening] Well, he rubs my back funny when he shows me math stuff.
He also runs his hand along my thigh sometimes.
Asshole Tina Senior: Oh yeah? We'll see about that!

A year later, Mr. Person has a job shoveling up dead seagulls at the dump.
They don't even do homework any more.
Homework has been taken out of schools because (wait for it) the kids won't do it.
In a school system where kids run everything, what do you suppose their first rule would be?
"No More Homework."
Check.
Sure, if the kids ran everything, they'd have sodas in the vending machines instead of bamboo shoots, but they'll rememedy that when they have tenure.
This is all coming about because of this asshole kid I saw on Sunday.
He was this little heffer who sort of reminded me of that fat kid in all the movies.
Fewer freckles, but that same sort of confidence, y'know?
This fat kid confidence that you can't figure out, so you just take it as being endearing.
As I'm walking by, I (make a point to) hold eye contact with this kid.
He holds my stare without a flinch.
I look away for a second and look back, and his gaze is waiting for me.
Undaunted.
I can drive. I can buy beer. I had been doing drugs recently.
I'm an adult (as far as he can tell, anyway).
None of this phases him.
I look away, and once more I look back, over my shoulder this time.
He's looking me dead in the pupil, and he lazily licks an ice cream he's holding while he does it.
It was fucking weird. It was legitimately unsettling.
Kids have no respect for adults now, which means they have no fear, which means we have no control.
Why don't they respect us?
Well, I would think, and I'm actually quoting Ferris Beuller here, that it's because "you can't respect someone who's kissing your ass."
In Stalinist Russia, children ratted out adult neighbors for crimes uncommitted, and those adults were sent to the gulags.
That's a labour camp.
Worked to death. Literally.
All on the whim of someone who doesn't realize that you should never take a radio into a swimming pool.
Stalin's kids sent adults to death because someone allowed them to.
You think Ice Cream cone would have any trouble sending one of us to the slaughter?
I don't think so.
I've had dreams, y'know.
I say we put them all on harnesses and keep them there til they learn to say 'please'. 

edit: I don't have enough battery to proof-read this right now.

Finding My Way

WANTED IMMEDIATELY:

Telepathic secretary with at least two (two [2]) years telepathic experience. Duties are to include:

• close monitoring and observation of my inner monologue for the purposes of recording, filing and sorting said material. 
• provide reminders for appointments, bills and any stuff my mom wants me to do once it becomes telepathically apparent that I have forgotten them. 
• physical documentation of all seemingly good ideas that I may have, regardless of whether or not I am aware of them. A keen sense of discretion will be required to detect what may be deemed a 'good idea.'
• light telekinetic typing.

Successful applicants will have a firm background and knowledge in telepathic communications and/or marketing, an ability to mix coffee properly and a car. Firm breasts and a knowledge of MS Excel an asset.
*Only applicants residing in this plane of existence need apply, please. 

For those of you unable to read my mind, I have been on the job hunt lately.
'Selling myself' on a daily basis, I have dawdled about every manner of bordello and grocery store.
Someone's gotta need a stock boy somewhere.
I won't get into the particulars of my applications (as I'm paranoid the potential employers may Google me), but I think that it's going somewhat well.
I've had interviews. I've worn ties.
No one is orientating me yet, but it has only been two years.
I'm joking; it hasn't been that long.

I walked through a haunted corn maze last night.
Now, it was referred to as a 'haunted corn maze' on all of the road signs (which took a while to find).
Be that as it may, I'd like to deconstruct the name of the attraction a wee bit in case you're intending to go to Truro yourself to see it
(only to discover that it's not exactly in Truro, but is instead somewhere in the same province as Truro).
Firstly, it wasn't haunted like...Amityville Horror-haunted.
It was more like people-dressed-in-masks-jump-out-at-you-and-go-"Bah!"-haunted.
Further, it wasn't so much a maze as it was a path (which some would consider a portion [though certainly an important one] of a maze).
There was corn, though.
That part was right.
I dismantle, but it was pretty fun.
There were high school kids in masks rushing at us in the dark with chainsaws.
Operating chainsaws.
It was thought out and there were strobe lights.
Works for me.
I was embarrassed to find that though I wasn't frightened, necessarily, I was on edge somewhat.
I've always been a bit of a 'fraidy cat.
And the surprises about me reveal themselves again and again.
I was afraid of the dark for a long time.
And ghosts.
By ghosts, I don't mean I-ain't-afraid-of-no-ghosts.
I mean dead-people-I-may-or-may-not-have-once-known-ghosts.
The idea terrified me.
I have no idea why.
If anything, I should have found the idea of discovering a ghost comforting.
I've never been crazy about the idea of dying, either.
This would only support the notion of an afterlife, albeit an overly active and annoying one.
My shoes were full of mud and I found myself discussing what I liked about it once I was out of it.
This is activity.
This is fun.
I suppose I've been having fun lately.
I went to the maze with some of the missus' friends.
As you can likely guess current (former) friends, these people will all ultimately replace you.
That's not true.
They are pretty lovely, though.
It's good to be out. It's good to be doing stuff.
While I grasp the apple in my hand at the U-Pick farm, twisting 'til the snap, I understand that this is experiencing something.
This is normal.
She was with me in the maze as well, of course.
Clasping her hand in mine, both intertwined and stuffed into her friend's comfy sweater, we inched slowly through the dark.
Waiting for the come what may.
Lately, it has been coming and going.
Still I hold her hand.
I intend to keep doing so.

Sorry I've been out for a couple of weeks, guys.
I really have been handing out a lot of resumes.
Shaking hands. Holding eye contact.
Not only that, but my doppelganger and I have begun a new comedy room.
It may actually be something someday.
With any hope, a fire hazard (because it'll be full of people).

Da Beats

It's the thought that counts?
Maybe.
Either way, it's not each day that you have to ask the judge to 'drop the beat.'
This article explains what I'm talking about.
To surmize, some St. John's hooligan beat the fuck out of some teenage kid.
Then, during sentencing, he apologized by rapping.
"Judge is gonna see my flow. Gonna get off with some community service."
It almost makes him sound even guiltier (if that's possible).
The feel-good image from this story is the expression worn by an entire courtroom of bewildered, mildly disgusted people.
The victim can't smell any more.
That's how badly he beat the shit out of this guy.
"We all know where this violence is gettin' us
Sorry to hear about your detached retinas
My style sizzles like bacon and ham
You can't smell 'em cookin' and I'm sorry again"
Any publicity is good publicity, I guess.

Who's Yer Daddy?

And how is he in bed?
This is an icky one.
Turns out this woman accidentally married her own father.
The rumour was eventually confirmed for her by her uncle (whom she dated in high school).

Qualms for the Poor

My brother refuses to go to the doctor unless absolutely necessary.
Already covered with sores and boils, he will not seek medical attention.
"No, I'm not going to no doctors.
As soon as you go to see the doctor there's something wrong with you."
He really believes this.
Namely, that if you visit the doctor, you are willingly inviting illness.
Ignorance is not only bliss, but is also quite important to your well-being.
This is his stance.
And maybe he's right.

SARS isn't back.
Luckily for two hundred people out of however many billion we're at, SARS is still out of style.
The Space Hog of diseases, SARS came and went before its time.
Now, sometimes it'll be remembered when everyone is intoxicated to the point of nostalgia at an off-campus party.
"Remember SARS?"
"Fuck yeah, I had their album!"
We are all, presumably, safe.
Except for one man in the UK, within whom a whole new flash-in-the-pan virus has been found.
Our inability to be empathetic really comes in handy at a time like this.
"Poor guy," you utter around your McMuffin.
Probably.
He's probably a poor guy.
Depends on how keen this virus happens to be.
In Newfoundland, if someone is referred to as 'poor', it doesn't mean they're broke.
It means they're dead.
"I'll tell you who else drove a Skylark: poor Gus...whoever."
Gus' surname doesn't matter.
Gus is dead
(there is no Gus).
These are the sorts of conversations my parents have, by the way.
Those looking forward to the pinnacle of their marriages, this is what it sounds like.
Of course, it could be worse.
You too could be poor.
Like this poor bastard in the UK.
It's one thing to have a bad day.
Having a newsworthy disease discovered on your person is a different bird entirely.
Maybe it's a bird flu.
Anyway. The point is, get your shots.
You can read the details here.
The BBC's advice on avoiding this disease is to go about your day as you were.

A Close Shave

This post was in fact originally written in April of this year. 
It was never posted because I was concerned that my seeming lack of sensitivity contained within would complicate my search for sex. 
At least, I think that's why I didn't post it. 
It was April, after all. I can't really remember back that far. 
But it certainly seems like a likely motivation. 
I'm having sex now, so I'm no longer conflicted. 
Err...proceed: 

Sometimes I can still surprise myself.
This story will be irritating to type out, but here we go.

Del was in town.
Now, you don't know who Del is, but that's okay.
He's a great man.
Has a valley bulldog named Floyd.
He recently got himself a pair of loafers, which is what I have been thinking about buying for my own feets lately.
On this particular night he said, "I never thought shoes could be like this."
That's how excited he is about his new footwear.
They were amazing
(edit: I've since bought a pair of the exact same model of shoes).
None of this matters.
In fact, Del doesn't even really require mentioning to tell this story.
But sometimes it's nice to get new people involved.
We'll let him know that he's in here.
He watched me punch Josh in the face one time.
Josh is more important to the story.

Nostalgia.
Weed.
Del leaves.

Josh and I go to The Lion's Head for karaoke.
They elected to bypass a comedy night there in favour of a third (third!) weekly karaoke night.
Which immediately made sense when we got there.
People everywhere.
We grab a table with some wasted woman and Michelle.
It was Michelle's birthday.
She also isn't important to this story.
And I don't know her last name.
But I'm sure that she's important to someone.
She wants to have a baby soon.
Anyway!
Josh and I go to get some beer.
We run into four women who are together.
Fun-loving and not interested in fitting in, one of them is doubled over in the middle of the room.
The others are yammering and cajoling.
They're being loud, but it's largely going unnoticed in the loud bar.
Turns out she has the hiccoughs.
Her friend with the hideous haircut explains this to us.
The 'do sort of has a punk thing going on. Mid-eighties, maybe (I don't know).
It's all shaved on one side.
We make chitchat and then Josh and I have the same conversation about women we've been having for a decade.
Hiccoughs come over and starts rubbing Josh's face (cause he has a beard, I guess).
Josh isn't impressed because he wouldn't be impressed by someone doing that.
And I could tell he wasn't attracted to Hiccoughs immediately.
I assume that I'm not either.
But I'm bothered that she's paying attention to Josh and not myself.
I'm the interesting one.

Time marches on.

We go back for more beer.
Haircut is there with another friend or two.
Now, bear in mind that she started it.
Haircut asks Josh if he wants to commit suicide like her.
Which is odd, isn't it?
Now, she's not saying this Criminal Minds.
It's more jovial than that.
She's just fucking around.
But still.
Who says that to someone?
Like rubbing his face, Josh isn't impressed, and mutters a response.
Feeling responsible, I say, "Not as much as you do, probably."
She giggles and says, "Yeah, I want to commit suicide pretty badly."
So I say, "That explains the haircut."
...
Then Josh makes this face and noise that suggest I shouldn't have said that out loud.
And Haircut is angry.
Silent from then on, we go and sit.
They're at a nearby table, and I squeamishly watch as Haircut recounts the story to Hiccoughs.
Mouth agape, Hiccoughs locks eyes with me (during the punchline, presumably).
Feeling responsible, she picks up a beer bottle and approaches me.
I tell Josh that if she hits me with it he's going to have to do something about it.
I really do think that she's maybe going to pour this beer over my head.
Instead, she tells me that I don't know how to talk to women and that my hair is stupid, too.
But then we kept talking and she ended up being hilarious.
She eventually got over it.
"She asked my buddy if he wanted to commit suicide. Come on."
Then she stuck around because I was being really charming.
Before she went back to the others (after about 20 minutes) I made her admit that the joke was funny.
By the end of the evening, Haircut was hugging me and apologizing for...I'm not sure what, exactly.
Hiccoughs and I refused to give our phone numbers to one another.
In the end, it was neat to offend a group of people so thoroughly and then fix it.

Mostly, I just wanted to tell you the haircut line.

Sexual. Prisoner.

He's one of these guys who's all eyebrows, y'know what I mean?
I just wanted to conduct some video game business at the video game store.
No different from any other retail job (and in several ways worse), EB Games can slowly rot one's soul.
I always try to avoid this guy who works there.
At a glance I can tell he's the store's manager. At a glance.
All eyebrows.
The sort of person who frowns so much that trying to look "okay" or "fine" seems visibly painful.
Pissy. Just constant, sour, everyday pissiness.
Pissy one day. Pissy the next day. Pissy at every turn.
That's this guy.
I always try to be cordial to EB guys because I know how much the job sucks.
Though he doesn't deserve it (he doesn't), I try the same with him.
It's just considerably more difficult, which is why I avoid him.
Anyway, the point is, we do our dealings, and he's just so contrary.
Like, if someone were to try and hug him at that moment, he'd mumble "No" and try to shake them off.
Grabbing the goods, I wheel and say under my breath, "Jesus Christ, buddy, you need to get laid."
It has been about 48 hours, and I'd bet that he still needs to get laid.
I'd also wager that his facial expression hasn't changed since, either (I mean that).
Like the dolphin and the swine, we need sex.
The great equalizer, sex resets all of our emotional modems, I would think.
We all know this, of course.
But in a sense, we're all prone to forgetting it, too.
It's only after the side plates are in shards on the floor and we're holding damp clothes to fat lips that we realize:
"Hey, I think we just needed some sex there."
I had this really vivid dream about being in prison last night.
It felt disturbingly Oz-like.
Oz Group Showers.
Not Oz Tin Man.
The food was bad, they wouldn't let me keep my cell phone, I couldn't communicate with loved ones.
And worst of all? They wouldn't let me out.
Brian Aylward was a fellow inmate, and, as in real life, he acted as a conduit for deliberate, brutal logic.
Mentoring me through the concept of fighting someone (so that I wouldn't be established as a 'bitch'), he was there to provide the only advice available.
Today I've been left to wonder if this was a subconscious metaphor for my comedy 'career.'
If that were the case, George Price would be the guy I'd barter with for cigarettes.
And Steve Coombs would be the warden's daughter.

Why Weight?

Convince her to (finally) try anal.
It's Friday.

**WARNING PUSSIES: THIS POST CONTAINS THE 'N' WORD**

A breakup is the exact moment that two people get to know each other.
Frig, this place is always full of children.
Every day there are children clamoring all over this coffee shop.
Wouldn't bother me, but they always drag their parents along with them.
Alright.
Where are we, here?
Let's get organized.
Food for thought? Sure, I've got it.
My roommate and lover (two separate people) insist that I 'fret' over my meals.
I concern myself with what I'm going to eat and when I'm going to eat it.
I line up all the particulars of my three daily meals a night in advance.
Not generally my style.
That being said, we're not talking whiteboards, here.
We're not talking food schedules ("Spaghetti on Thursday!").
But I suppose it's true.
I do sort of obsess over what the next meal is going to be.
After dwelling on it a bit, I've concluded on a possible motive for this.
Maybe I ploy over my meals because they're the only events I experience in a day.
Think I might try to get a job.
Like, a real one.
Well, not a real one, per se.
Just one that has a schedule.
There's that, and, y'know...I lost five pounds.
My losing five pounds is sort of like a normal person losing whatever amount it takes for them to reach 135 pounds. 
I'm back up to where I belong now, thanks.
A safe Turpin weight (when  she's not full of babies, that is).
All-Sumo diet.
A fish stew and beer.
That's all I consume.
They treat the lower dan guys like cattle, y'know.
Far from the WWE, these guys have to really pay their dues to reach the top.
Did you know that Yokozunas have special vestments that they wear publicly to denote their sumo status?
They're huge celebrities.
Sure, they have a lifespan of about 45 years, but it's my understanding that they fuck a lot of women.
Any athlete would tell you that that's a good deal.

So, I don't wish to talk smack, but I have to mention the new living situation.
It's about the same as the old living situation, but there's a new roommate.
Seems like a good guy so far.
...
...
It's just that, well, I was living with one dude who was a little beefy up around the noggin.
And that's fine.
Now, however, it's sort of...well, there's two.
I'm sure they'll work out.
Because I'm in the midst of a project in which I convince myself that they'll work out.
Preparing for one of my usual wayward constitutionals, the new one bid farewell by saying:
"Enjoy the fuckin' walk, son!"
Now. There's no need to make a big deal out of this.
It's positive, y'know?
That's a positive thing to say.
I just don't know how to respond to something like that.
Anyway, I'm a modern man and I'm going to roll with it.
It's like Napoleon always said, "If you can't beat 'em, outdo 'em."
Of course, Napoleon said it in French.
We're passed the tricorner hat, but I can certainly get some FUBU caps.
Trimmed with graffiti-style writing that doesn't actually say anything.
Loose jogging pants.
I'm going to listen to lots of music that has the word "nigger" in the lyrics.
Eat my cereal with Cretin.
Start fights with guys simply because I have made eye contact with them in a bar.
I'm going to show these guys who the real numb skull is.
I'll see you on the other side.

Writer's Cock

Uh oh.
This can't be a good sign.
When I sit and I stare at my keyboard, wondering what I could possibly talk about, it generally spells a stink post.
A real bellyflop of writing.
When I was in grade whatever, we were supposed to write some story for Thanksgiving.
Knowing what I now know, I understand that this was grade three (think it was three) busywork.
What an insult to education and humanity in general, by the way.
Busywork.
The word alone makes the spittle froth about my lazy jaw.
Work's bad enough.
No one needs work for the sake of doing work.
This is why I could never work in HR.
I almost applied for an HR job at the hotel.
Pretty weird.
I could have gotten the position, probably.
Moving around within a hotel is easy after you've punched some time.

HR (unlikely) Pros:

1. I would have gotten to wear a suit every day.
2. I would have been paid more.
3. I would never again have to extract brocolli stems or broken glass from a drain.
4. Free recruitement trips to Australia (that was the big one).

HR Cons:

1. I'd have to frequently smile illegitimate smiles.
2. I'd no longer be able to look myself in the eye.
3. I wouldn't have been able to steal food so readily.
4. I'd be working in HR.

I'm here now, so none of this matters.
Anyway, it was grade three busywork, likely organized solely because my teacher at the time had found lined sheets of paper shaped like a turkey.
I wrote some...thing that spanned 20-something of those turkey sheets.
I think mom still has the original manuscript.
Because my mom is the relic keeper.
That was then.
Full of promise. Wonder.
Words, apparently.
Now here I am.
Old. Broken down.
Hairy.
Even back then I had such a desire to write, with no limitations due to all of these silly adult fears.
Now, I worry about being able to fill the turkey sheets, and I hate that.
I once wrote in one of my ass-pocket books:
I never thought, "this isn't good enough" about something I wrote until I started doing comedy. 

edit: When the title popped into my head, I thought, "Oh, this post was worth it after all."
Took me a second to remember that roosters have sex with chickens, not turkeys.
I'm going to keep it up there anyway, okay?
Because it was inches from being really clever, instead of what it is now:
Nonsensical.

Jurrasic Lark

I'm sad, everyone.
Well, I'm not sad, but I'm certainly contrary.
I'm not contrary, really.
Ever have a day in which you can't figure out how you feel, you just know that you don't feel well?
I'm like that.
I'm not really like that.
I'm kidding. Yes I do.
I probably haven't been sleeping enough.
I might be spending too much time in the sauna.
Too wrinkly.
Too sweaty.
Do you get wrinkly in a sauna?
I know, I know.
I'm getting too personal again.

That guy who looks like me is in cahoots with myself to open a comedy room.
Don't tell anyone.
I hadn't intended to tell you, in fact.
The only reason I do so is because one of the venues we considered serves tacos.
Dave: Tuesdays is fifty cent tacos. Pretty sweet.
People could be coming by and getting tacos, checking out jokes.
Me: Yeah...tacos are distracting though. They have a lot of crunch to them.
You can't hear fuck all over tacos.
Dave: They might be soft shell!

My sex partner, the ol' ball 'n chain, as she likes to be called, has been running her yap again.
Says she's not in the blog enough.
Which is sort of true.
If we are to consider the amount of time we spend together, grossing out the locals, I guess she's right.
She once mentioned that some people don't believe in dinosaurs.
"Isn't that interesting?"
I guess I just stared at her blankly because she followed that with, "Don't worry; I believe in dinosaurs."
She said I looked incredibly relieved to hear it.
She met my Aunt Barb and they hit it off immediately.
I suspected as much since they have tremendously similar interests.
As I watched them discuss one of Barb's rug hookings, I felt an overwhelming sense of this weird pride.
A sort of "you'd want to take her home to meet your mother" kind of pride.
The fact that she has similar hobbies to that of a sixty-year old woman?
Didn't even bother me.

When people ask me if I have seen this movie or that movie, I always have to explain:
I don't really bother with movies any more.
Which is true.
Sure, I had a copy of Die Another Day on VHS.
Despite this, my movie days are done.
I consider them to be a relative waste of time.
I have games to play.
I mention this as well, and I can see that some people find it odd that I'm still playing video games.
Which is okay with me.
Frankly, I find it odd that people are still watching movies.

A Leg Up

I suppose we're all prone to sore losership at some point in our lives.
I have a feeling spellcheck is going to call me on 'losership.'
Anyway.
It's possible for any of us to balk another's success.
Especially if we bet a whole bunch of money on ourselves.
Though not accused of gambling, this guy IS accused of being a bit of a fussy Gus after passing the ticker tape.
Yes, we can all be a sore loser under the right circumstances.
But perhaps we'd be even more susceptible if we had no legs.
Like these guys.

See, one dude is accusing the other dude of having too-long prosthetics.
Despite the fact that he himself (his name is Oscar) uses his pretend legs against whole men.
And he's the only paralympian who gets to do that.
Politics.
These races always beget so much politics.
Give me the Special Olympics any day.
You go out there and have a nice swim.
Make some friends, and everyone gets a tote bag for participating
Given this liberty, you'd think that Oscar would be keen to draw less attention to himself.
Tough enough as it is, given that he looks like an extra from I, Robot on race day.
Fuck, you just can't make jokes about anything fun.
How many of you found that offensive?
No fair.
I make fun of countless ethnicities, societies and accountants on this blog.
If that mockery is okay, this has to be too.
Oscar only gets the wrath because he's in today's headlines and I needed something to talk about.
Besides, I don't care for sore losers.
They make us regular loses look bad (worse).

I should tell you about this band before they're Gotye and no one gives a shit anymore.
They're British and I think they're great.
They just need a band name that isn't based on a keystroke.

Share and Share Alike

Written yesterday while watching Peter White's hair thin on a basketball court:

A small boy gave me a truck today.
As well as a bus.
Not full-sized vehicles, mind you.
These were just toys, which is no less considerate, I suppose.
When children give me things, I'm not sure what to do with them.
I understand I'm just supposed to accept the gesture.
I may not want the empty Q-tip box, but I'll take it for the sake of the child.
I've figured that much out.
Couple of high school girls are coming my way.
Play it cool, Paul.
Something I never learned while in high school.
Anyway, it's after the fact that confuses me.
Do I give it back to him as a sign of good faith?
"I know that you want the truck and bus more than me.
Besides, socially, I can't play with this stuff in public.
You keep them."
I could pass them on to someone else.
Ideally, the mother.
"You should be dealing with these instead of me."
Today, I just ended up holding the die-casts longer than I wanted to.
Kind of like after you've finished the bacon-wrapped scallop at the fancy dress party.
The guy with the tray is gone, and you're left holding the toothpick.
Wondering to yourself, "Now where am I going to lay this down?"
You end up holding it for several minutes, avoiding conversation, until you ultimately drop it inside a vase.
At least, that's what I would do.
21 months.
That's how old the little fella was.
I asked the mother.
Then I discussed the Terrible Twos and how to age young children
(turns out you use the same method as you would to age trees).
It felt meaningful.
Asking a stranger a question to find myself genuinely invested in the answer.
Listening, these days, seems unheard of (pun intended).
Then the mother had a window tumble open and hit her on the back of her head.
I didn't witness this.
Happened in the bathroom. The girls'.
Not my place.
This summer has had too many wasps.
With bees, at least you know where you stand.
Wasps dangle too-close when all you want to do is use your barbecue.
It's equivelant to a bully not letting you pass by in a hallway.
After the injury, I had to leave the coffee shop for a number of reasons.
One: Whenever someone is being treated for injury, I instantly feel in the way.
Someone's getting ice, another is getting a cloth.
I just feel as though I'd help everyone by leaving immediately.
Two: I felt uncomfortable because
a) I knew the window hit her on the noggin while she was on the toilet, and so, I began imagining her on the toilet and couldn't unimagine it.
b) (and I mention this gingerally) I could see up her skirt while she recuperated.
I'm not some sort of freak (I might be).
She was on a raised platform relative to me.
If I turned in her direction, that's what I saw.
So I had to leave.
Peter White interjected at this point of the story to ask what that was like (pervert).
I answered, "Shadowy. Always too shadowy."
But that was a joke.
Fact was, after speaking to her I liked her just a little bit.
Consequently, I didn't want to look up her skirt.
It felt great.
This one has a humane ending. 

Helen Hath No Fury

I hate the way I hate kids.
It is true.
It's different when they're yours.
The news babies in my life have this profound ability to make me love them.
I hate that, too.
If I feel this way about the babies who are important to me, then I should support all of these delusional 'parent' fucks who think that their children are amazing.
And that can't be right.
Yet it's undeniable.
I went from refusing to pick up anyone's child-
"Hold her? Does she always land on her feet?
No? I'll pass, then."
To finding myself unable to put them down.
It's okay, really.
I'm okay with loving babies.
Their useless little brains and bodies.
Their insistence on making noise when there really isn't any need for a fuss.
If I only love those close to me then I resemble so many people I can't stand.
If I love all children then I'm unbalanced and weird.
Never mind the fact that I'm emotionally incapable of loving all children, I'd rather that weren't the case either way.
Y'know who loves children indiscriminately?
Spinsters (some of you thought I was going to say 'pedophiles').
Weird, desperate women who knit selflessly and insist on talking about it.
Not my scene.
I only mention all of this because I'm resisting a seething hatred for the children in this coffee shop.
But it's not them.
It's never them.
Nanny is supposed to stoop once in a while, and say shit like:
"You're being loud and there are other ears besides yours.
Play quiet, okay dumplings?"
Nanny's just sitting there, though.
Acting as though they're not making a sound (which is what's truly infuriating).
Children are closer to dogs than people; you don't befriend, you break. 
Anyway, whatever.
Complaining about kids is thoroughly discussed in this blog.
I'll tell you what isn't, though:
Helen Hunt's current whereabouts.
Not just some forgettable sitcom wench, she was legit in As Good As It Gets.
Twister was a two-hour Dodge Ram commercial, but at least a lot of people watched it.
Where did you go, Helen?
Come back to us.
Classic beauty beats some toe-thumbs archetype any day.

Do you suck on those talons, Megan?
Ugh.
She's no hotter than most ungulates.
Anyone looks hot after four hours of primping and one hour of airbrushing.
True beauty is throwing on a sundress with very little makeup and carrying that throughout the entire barbecue.
Helen could do that.
Megan would probably just regurgitate the ribs.
Jamming her disfigured thumbs down her lacquered esophagus-
Alright, I'm making myself queasy, so I'm going to go. 
Just remember that you look great.
Even if you're hideous. 

Bluff, Bluff, Pass

Urinate on your partner.
It's Friday.

Speaking of pissing for more than one reason, Lance Armstrong failed a bunch of drug tests.
Failing a drug test is sort of like failing a regular test.
However, instead of being threatened to be held back only to eventually pass and move onto a grade you're not ready for, when you fail a drug test, the repercussions are far worse:
You lose endorsements.
And when the only things you have going for you are your endorsements and cancer, you don't want to fail that drug test.
If there's one thing (and there aren't many) that Americans like more than their star athletes, it's discovering that those athletes are frauds.
Nothing quite beats taking the ol' bucksaw to a pedestal.
I'm not sure why it is that we all love to see successes become failures.
Humans, I assume, won't live for a particularly long time.
In terms of the fauna timeline.
We can distract ourselves with all of the rubber bracelets we want.
Fact is, we're doomed.
We just can't share.
Other animals can all share because they don't have the mental capacity to hate.
What a luxury that must be.
Humans can't share.
We can't share space. We can't share food. We can't share wealth.
We can't share sexual partners.
We're doomed.
In place of sharing, all that remains is to take.
I've always said (in my head) that racists are just people who were never taught to share.
It's just climate.
Like, the squinty eyes and the dark skin?
It's an animal's way of evolving to a climate.
That's all race really is.
Unfortunately, racists can't get that, which is what makes them racists.
Besides, arid heat may be the reason the middle eastern crowd looks as they do.
But that doesn't explain the funny way they talk.
You've got me there.
What was I talking about?
Right.
Doomed species.
That's us.
And we're doomed because I was relieved to see that Lance Armstrong is being stripped of all of his stuff.
They found a bong in Phelps' sock drawer?
Great.
They have his mother weeping from the shame on CNN?
Perfect.
Let's check that out.
It's an ugly thing, y'know?
Being in the middle.
Those above seem so much higher.
Those below just seem frightening and dirty.
I've heard that Lance has been hounded for years.
(America loves to hunt their witches, too).
Who can say?
All I know is this:
Those rubber bracelets are really annoying.
If we give Lance the benefit of the doubt.
If we maintain that Lance didn't inhale, or he has glaucoma, or whatever.
The fact still remains:
He started the bracelet thing.
Now people support everything through items rather than words or...upheaval.
Jesus.
Blondes.
Anarchists.
Everyone.
They all have their own bracelet.
What would your bracelet be for?
Who do you stand for in the laziest way possible?
Mine is a bracelet that supports bracelets
(I've made this exact same joke in another post about ribbons).
It might not be the same joke.
I'm too uninterested to re-read the post right now.

Anyway.
Get out there and enjoy your weekend.
But play it clean, okay?

Real Childish

It must be tough to be a pedophile.
Like, if you enjoy ejaculating onto...car hoods.
That's fucked up, sure.
However, so long as you have a garage and a consenting studebaker, no one will know about it.
Pedophilia is such a give-away.
If I stop by a Jag dealership and someone catches me-
I have to interrupt myself for a second.
Sometimes I really wonder about the state of my brain.
It's so common for me to wonder, "This can't be just me, can it?"
The loud-spoken woman at the table behind me has been describing the itinerary of some wedding.
How each person did on the speech.
Lemon cake (three-layer) with pickles for dessert.
This was at six and she was exhausted.
They wanted to play cards, and Fern didn't take off her jewelry the entire time.
She has these earrings that just go with everything.
They had this unbelievable house. You could see Ohio, but we didn't go there.
I'm eavesdropping and typing this as she says it
(I could be a stenographer, maybe).
Now, I'm listening to her yammer on about this.
And the more she talks, the more I want to throw up all over myself.
I don't feel nauseated, you understand, I just feel like that's the most appropriate reaction.
That's just me, right?
Fuck this woman.
That's the other thing I think, and I guess that's bizzare, too.
It's hard to know that this woman is probably a grandmother, and a human who means well.
And yet, despite that, fuck her.
Because this is a small space and she's saying this to everyone, rather than just her bored friend. 
And I believe it's on purpose.
My new-found, old news idol George Meyer said that comedy writers need to experience reality.
And I understand that Betty's story about absolutely nothing is reality.
I just can't do it.
This is why I always listen to music in public. 
Anyway.
If I stop by a Jag dealership and press my thigh against the passenger door, no one will notice or care.
However, if I spend an entire day perched against the chainlink fence perimitered around the ballfield during a little league tournament.
...
No matter how fucked up a pedophile is (and, let's face it, we've all watched SVU), you can't help your sexual preferences.
It's a tricky predicament.
Pedophilia.
Pedophilia is a tricky predicament.
Oh my fuck, she's talking about turning soup into a casserole now.
People do fucked up things behind closed doors.
Latex this and heated lightbulbs that.
Yet, all of this is, relatively speaking, acceptable.
But, if you're less into women and more into little women...
I'm not sympathizing with pedophiles in this post.
"Is Paul just working his way to this slowly?
Just whose side is he on, here?"
I'm not sympathizing with the pedophiles.
But I am certainly empathizing with them.
At least for the sake of today's conversation. 
Don't take candy from strangers, guys.

I'd intended to post a clip of To Catch A Predator, but it was too depressing.
So, instead I'm providing a clip of Jim Hensen's 1986 fantasy classic, Labyrinth. 
http://youtu.be/ViftZTfRSt8

Submitted For Your Perusal

Hatching my most recent get-rich-quick scheme, I've decided to submit posts to publications.
In the hopes that they may be selected.
Resulting in my getting money, or, at the very least, legitimacy.
Yet, like every endeavour up to now, I'd rather that someone else do it for me.
Is there a favourite post of yours?
If there's one that sticks out for you, please point it out to me.
All of you are welcome to comment, and I would urge you to do so.
Particularly if you're reading this and you're Stuart McClean.
If you're out there, Stu, your input could help a lot.

Strap Yourself In

Don't have children; have affairs. 

It’s not the weekend anymore.

It was the weekend recently, and we’re all cognizant of that.

I’d prefer you not fret, though.

It will be the weekend again.

Do you practice any sort of escapist tactics while at work?

Like, do you try to trance yourself into believing that you’re actually in a jacuzzi?

Alright, that’s impossible.

I’m all for mentally projecting your psyche (especially [exclusively] at work).

But I have to curb my own philosophies here because no one can project themselves into a hot tub.

None of us have the mental wherewithal for that.

I feel as though someone or something is to blame for that.

Perhaps if we all threw our phones into the ocean…

It’s not true what that dead guy said.

There isn’t an app for that.

There are no apps for the things that are most important (foreplay).

Anyway, what was I talking about?

Myself, surely.

No matter how veiled, let’s not tiptoe the reason we’re all here:

We’re more interested in me than we should be.

Speaking of me, I bought a belt recently.

I had to retire my former belt because I stepped on it the exact wrong way.

And, poor at extrapolation, I assumed that all belts that looked like my old belt would behave like my old belt.

Looks can be deceiving.

I went into my favourite transitioning-to-adulthood clothing store, RW & Co.

I pick up this belt that has a metal flap sort of thing on it.

At a glance it looks like an airplane seat belt that isn’t thick enough.

And, like an airplane seat belt, I could have used a demonstration on how to use it.

I thought you had to lift the thingy and then clasp it down after passing the belt through (like the old belt, and surely all other belts).

This belt didn’t work that way, but I was too inept to realize that.

I’m turning it in my hands, pinching this, pulling that.

Like a monkey. Like a real monkey.

I’m doing this long enough to know that employees must be watching me by now.

Sure enough, I look up and two women are observing me rather frankly.

While I’m trying to coconut my way into this thing.

One of them begins to approach and I stop her, saying:

“No no, if I can’t figure out how to use it, I don’t deserve to have it.

Eventually, she explained the process to me.

Humbled and sweaty, I tried the belt on with a new, brash confidence.

Then I couldn’t get it off.

The clasp thingy had gotten stuck, and I couldn’t unstick it.

I’m pinching this, I’m pulling that.

Nothing is  budging.

And I’m thinking to myself, “I’m going to have to hold my waist up to the counter and have her scan this while it’s on me, and then walk out acting dignified.”

I fiddle with it long enough to know that the employees must be watching me again.

Sure enough, when I look up that's just what they're doing.

And they look more concerned this time.

I overhear one of them whisper to the other, “Do we have scissors?”

This is why I haven’t had sex with more women.

That exact question explains everything.

So, the nice lady comes back over.

Things are about to get airport security search unless I can bust myself out of this thing.

She hesitantly does a clasp grasp and gives it a little shake.

It’s just tough to figure out the next move, socially.

The three of us as are in this now.

“He can’t get out of this belt alone, but it's too close to his dick for us to help him.

What do we do?”

I said that I would have gotten my mom to come in and help, but she wasn’t in the mall.

Which I thought was a little funny, but they didn’t laugh.

It wasn’t until later that I surmised they weren’t laughing because they thought I was serious.

“Oh, usually his mom is with him to help. That explains it.”

I had to use my house key to eventually pry myself out of it.

Then I forgot my headphones on top of the clothing rack, knocked over my coffee with my backpack while turning to retrieve them, and then I promised the women I would never return to their store.

Then I bought the belt.

Because I could use the challenge in my life, and it cost eight dollars.

Good luck with your own struggles today.

Try not to over-exert yourself.

Home is Where the Light Is

I'm in a coffee shop right now because, really, where else am I going to be?
I watched a cute film last night.
It was called Friends With Kids.
I give it three and a half Paul Warfords.
Out of a possible five Paul Warfords.
Or The Car Load, as I call it sometimes.
It would have gotten four Paul Warfords because the movie was really witty.
That stopped being the case, however, in the last two to four minutes.
Which are, some would say, the most crucial minutes.
Alas, three and a half.
What films get The Car Load, you ask (because I'm saying that you do)?
I can't really think of any. 
I could tell you a Car Load for food, maybe.
...
...
No I can't.
Picking favourites can be tricky.
Oh shit. I'm beginning to hate this post.
Rich people have such large houses.
I'm not talking about your suicidal dentist down the street.
There are wealthy people in any neighborhood (except ghettos and everywhere I've ever lived).
But I'm talking about the rich people who are wealthy enough to hide the fact that they're rich.
Which is, I assume, very difficult to do.
But then, anything is possible with a budget.
These people live in the cul de sacs you hear of, but could never locate.
These dollar havens always have telltale names.
Usually the word 'Court' is in there somewhere.
Or, continuing the regal theme, 'King Something'.
Other popular words might be, 'View'.
'Breeze'.
'Harbour'.
'Country'.
'Club'.
Such regions have houses that look like one house was glued to another.
Palaces.
And as I pass these places (after rummaging through their garbage), I feel compelled to knock on their door, and just say:
"What is it that you do?
What do you own?
Who do you own?"
I'd love to try that just once in my lifetime.
*knock knock* (this is stage direction)
"Speak, peasant!"
"Yeah, hi. Sorry to bother you or whatever.
I'm just wondering how you came to buy this place?"
"I killed everyone I know for the insurance money."
What would you do with your own lighthouse?
I don't have a lighthouse, but this guy does.
Simply because he's the best at throwing an oversized toothpick on his continent.
If I had a lighthouse, I'd shine it into my neighbor's eyeballs.
Just to lord it over them.
"Bright light earlier this morning?
You think that was me?
...
Oh, ooooh. Yeah, that was me.
Just thought you'd like some help guiding your car into your driveway."
Alright, this has gone on for long enough.
Have a good day, alright?
Wherever you happen to hang your hat. 

Hard to Swallow

I almost vomited today while chewing prosciutto.
Like a pregnant woman.
Though I've eaten it before, and I think it's delicious, this morning it tasted like...meat goo.
Scrambling to the bathroom in disbelief, I felt sympathy for every vegetarian who has every lived.
We all make mistakes, I guess.

I puke all of the time.
It's not an eating disorder thing - if anything, I'm popular enough as it is.
No, I vomit all of the time because people with weak bodies have weak stomachs.
Also like a pregnant woman.
Or a newborn.
Help me figure this out:
The only thing a baby consumes, besides the wayward rattle bead, is milk.
Either the version that comes from mothers, or the version that comes from tins.
Whenever I see babies being fed, they tend to yak up whatever dairy they swallowed minutes before.
Which begs the question: Why must babies be so stupid?
I know that they digest most of it, but I do think it's weird that they have one staple and they have trouble keeping that down.
One day we'll evolve so that we all survive on pellets.
Babies. Old people.
The fortunate who are in between.
Everyone.
I know that purists will insist that it's going to be pills.
But some people are really awful at swallowing pills.
As a consequence, when we switch to the mighty all-in-one-meal capsule, these humans will die out. 
Which would be fine with me, but I think the better solution, from a sanitary standpoint (dead bodies require maintenance) are pellets.
Then, we too shall be as happy as the petting zoo goat.
Who will tell you that pellets beat eating a can any day.

In true me fashion, I went on a hiatus from this blog in order to write a book.
Only to write nothing.
Aside from the occasional swear on the occasional bathroom stall.
...
You'd think that the sort of guy who would write vile language on a bathroom stall would also be the sort of guy unlikely to have a pen on him.
Then again, these delinquents are probably more organized than I am.
"Light vandalism today. Think I'll take...the blue Sharpie.
I can draw some dicks on stuff with the blue for sure."
Right!
That's what I was getting at, sort of.
Unorganized by nature, I claimed I'd start a book and then I didn't.
Now that I'm back, I've also started the book.
Which I had not intended to mention today (or ever).
But, my blog only thrives on honesty.
And honesty, in this case, is admitting that I've started a project I'll likely never finish.
It's about me.
Solely because I haven't had enough experiences to write about anything besides myself.
I guess, should it ever exist, it'll be toted as a memoir.
Or whatever you call a memoir that is produced by someone who can't remember anything.
Unmemoir?
Non-Memoir?
Can't Rememoir?
Oh, I like that one.
Anyway, I'll never upload any portions of it to this blog because, if I play my cards right, I have already done so.

I like reading Klosterman.
Only Klosterman and Eggers make me feel as though I could write a book
(one that would likely smack of Klosterman and Eggers).
Neither, technically, write memoirs.
One writes pop culture essays.
The other writes Heartbreaking Work(s) of Staggering Genius. 

A celebrity cleans for spring.
They gather up all of their wardrobe that they're tired of.
Box it and tape it and label it (blue Sharpie):
FOR THE PEASANTS
Then they place these items on the side of the road just before you walk by.
Whose wardrobe would you like to discover and claim as your own?

Under Your Hat

I think I've figured out why the pope wears such massive chapeaus.
It's under these that he hides all of Christianity's lies.
Slaughtering and fucking a whole countryside of people for the sake of purifying them.
Tell us another one, fellas.

Sports Day

If you’re sitting there, amongst your rabble and filth, and you’re wondering:

Just how many babies are too many babies, philosophically?

The answer is however many babies are in this coffee shop with me right now.

You can dress them up, but…

I don’t care if the babies are Australian or some other adorable nationality.

Too many babies.

Speaking of too much of a good thing, The Olympics are happening right now.

As I type this, in fact.

My opinions and emotions that are reserved for this sham shift slightly with each new opening ceremony (not that I ever watch them. Get Metallica to open the show and I’ll check it out).

Being the counter-culture juggernaut that I am, the easy answer on what I think of The Olympics is as follows:

I hate them.

But I don’t hate them, I suppose.

They’re not for me, of course.
As far as participation goes, they’re not for me.

I’m not an Olympian, and perhaps that’s my problem with them.

It’s not my problem with them, though. 

It may be the fancy.

All of the goddamned advertising and hoopla makes me want to vomit into my toilet, certainly.

Everyone will argue that The Olympics are the only happening that truly brings the world together.

And, since (the original) Guns N’ Roses have stopped touring, this is relatively true.

Yet, I wouldn’t be in a rush to suggest that The Olympics brings the world together in a good way.

I don’t know how that ever came to be assumed.

I mean, it’s not like every country on the planet gets together at The Olympics in order to get drunk.

Even after the closing ceremonies are complete (Metallica again), there’s no dance.

Of course there are behind-the-scenes parties that only Michael Phelps gets invited to.

But none of these after-the-fact celebrations intertwine cultures, I’m sure.

The Olympics are like the subway is like your university’s business faculty.

Birds of a feather flock together.

The Chinese birds peck about with the other Chinese birds, and so on.

The Olympics brings all nationalities together so that they can be just as separate as they always are.

Then they rank this disparity based (generally) on wealth and population, stress its importance, and televise it on a global scale.

Tell me when all of this is supposed to be good for humanity.

This striving to best one another is what we’ve been doing all along, and it has never been to our benefit.

The parents are in The Olympics this time 'round.

The moms are throwing the javelins.

The dads are synchronized with the synchronized swimmers.

The (white) parents in the stands are getting as much attention as the athletes themselves.

Despite their support (which I don’t doubt is considerable), the parents have little to do with it.

“It’s their event, too.”

Give me a break.

If it was 'their event too', the child/parent teams would all fail because the parents are in their fifties.

What a preposterous fabrication. 

Put them on camera if they happen to be in the crowd.

Sure. Why not?

They’ve contributed enough to deserve that.

“So and so’s parents looking on as she prepares for her dive.

The mother looks to be as physically attractive as the daughter, and that’s something the Canadian team should be proud of.”

Fine.

But interviewing them, or putting them in leotards and sticking them in VISA commercials is fucking lunacy, if you ask me.

Did anyone ask me?

No?

Well, you should be asking me.

As someone without a real job, I can spare a great deal of time to think about this stuff.