Troubleshoot Yourself

It's not often that Sarah Turpin can make me feel anything besides overwhelming confidence.
It's the same reason that pretty girls always have a fat, gross friend.
The exception to this rule occured on the day she was over my shoulder while I was interneting (porno).
And she exclaimed, "You still type w-w-w?!"

I don't know how to fix your computer, alright?
I have no idea.
I only began using torrents (porno) last month.
When my iPod syncs, I have no idea what is truly happening to it or my computer.
I find it tricky using Twitter.
Look at the blog's layout, for Christ's sakes.
Does this look like the blog of a guy who chews code?
Obviously not.
"Paul will know what to do with your laptop.
We'll wait until Paul comes home."
"Is he good with computers?"
"'Is he good with computers?!'
Look at him!
Glasses. Small frame. Plays video games.
Paul knows computers, okay?
In fact, if he says that he doesn't know computers, I elect that we choose not to believe him."
Windows doesn't care if I look the part.
It takes more than that.
And before you ask, I'm not great at reciting algebra formulas either.

Most Unwelcome OR The Cheese Stands Alone

I lost a block of cheese last night.
Midnight snack, I swedge off some cheese.
I know it's not a word. That's not important.
I get up this morning, go to get some cheese.
Cheese isn't in the fridge.
Isn't in the freezer, oven, microwave...
Eventually, I find it next to the tin foil, in the tin foil drawer.
This is what my life is like. Every day is like this.

So, I wasn't going to mention it.
And I don't want everyone getting excited here.
Because it seems like a breaking point, I suppose.
And I haven't reached any sort of breaking point.
However, I do appreciate a good shortcut when I can use one.
Therefore, I made an account for Plenty of Fish.
Solely for the purpose of contacting women who interest me.
Of whom there are a whopping two.
Out of about a hundred or more.
Anyway, that's the motivation. 
Not so much for attracting the bass to my boat.
I wouldn't have brought this up because I want my exes to (continue to?) respect me.
But I had to bring it up.
Because I sent one message to one woman.
Minutes later, I get two messages back, both from the same user.
A man. 
"Yeah, I'll be around to chat, but not til later."
That's the first one (minus the spelling mistakes).
The second one goes on to explain that the guy meant to send the message to someone else.
But, since we're talking, would I care to masturbate with him.
I haven't responded yet.
I intend to decline.
It would be my fortune to receive the equivelant of a wrong number minutes after joining a dating service.
I never get to rebound, y'know?
Everyone else gets to rebound.
Everyone else wakes up in other people's beds.
In other people's pajamas.
Why can't I make some idiot choices, too?
A fellow comic met a Halifax woman on Plenty of Fish.
She ended up burning his cheek with a lit cigar.
Now it's my turn.

Among other mildly embarrassing news, my home has a mouse in it.
Or dozens of mice who all look the same (genetics).
I didn't particularly care at first.
He's not the only one who has had to squat somewhere during the winter months.
He has since lost the sense of fellowship I shared with him.
I've had to stay in other people's homes, sure.
But I never pooped near their garbage cans.
You just can't do that.
If I did do that, I'd understand if my hosts lured me onto a platofrm that released a strong metal bar that snapped my neck.
I want to catch him alive.
I do.
I fantasized about herding him into a shoebox in order to later release him in Shitty Dartmouth.
However, my landlord does not share my compassion.
Besides, I'm too much of a pansie to catch him alive, really.
And I'm not Wile E. enough.
I refer to the mouse as a 'he' because shes get pregnant.
Happens in high school all the time. 
I want he-mice.
Did you know that mice are the most adaptable mammal on the planet?
I figured it was Justin Timberlake (he can sing, he can dance, he can host SNL...)
I've been reading up on my new adversary.
Know your enemy, that sort of thing.
I consulted Sun Tzu on the topic.
But he just told me not to engage an elevated enemy.
The only other thing his scrolls offered were metaphors for starting a small business.

The Turning Seasons

Let me give you some insight into my mother's subtle dimentia:
She has this tole painting - in fact, she has dozens of them, but this one is special.
It has all four seasons depicted in a circular mosaic.
Each picture's section has the corresponding season written above it.
With me so far?
She rotates the painting 90 degrees each solstice.
So that the current season is at the top.
Turpin pointed it out to me.
Mom had my father fasten a hanging bracket thingy on all four sides of this thing.
That was a task that he had to do at some point.
Likely wondering all the while where he went wrong. 
She's a lovely woman and a fantastic mother.
But she possesses a set of standards that baffle and confuse me.

Blue Belles

The first dance I ever went to, I requested my date wear a specific dress.
Then I forgot to bring the blue suedes, and consequently had to wear my boots.
I was in grade two.
Leanne Badcock had a sparkly blue dress I really appreciated.
No one has a sexuality or figure in grade two, so I'm not sure why it mattered to me.
Though kids do have a favourite colour in grade two.
Mine was blue.
Leanne also wore the dress to a birthday party of mine.
(At the Jambowl. You bowled there).
During which I cut the cake, made a crumb, named her my girlfriend, and watched her run out of the building.
While crying.
I tried to play it cool.
"She'll be back.
She has to return the shoes."
If you're wondering why I chose Leanne, it's because Natalie was with Trevor.
That joke will make sense to about 16 people.
None of whom read this blog.
Knowing Leanne as an adult, I'm not sure it would have worked out anyway.
I asked Turpin for a reason for why we wouldn't work out (without specifying why I was asking).
She said, "Her voice."
Not a bad answer.

I only mention all of this as a way of explanation for all of my former lovers.
Who are reading this saying, "So that's why he made me wear that."

There's a lingerie store in Halifax that featured living models during Christmas.
Upon seeing this, my first instinct was to set up a lawn chair in front of them.
On the sidewalk, in front of the window.
Cover myself with a blanket, and stare at them with binoculars.
That's not true.
There were living models.
But everything else I only made up today.
It came to me after walking past the lingerie shop.
Thinking, "I wish those living models were still in there."

City Slacker

Kyle and I are in the coffee shop.
Red ink. Purple ink.
Just a couple of eligible bachelors.
I did comedy at a new venue last night.
Which is a great way to meet new people and decimate your confidence.
Felt good.

If I was a woman, I'd be flat-chested.
I've never had any doubt about this.
High school as a woman would have been as exactly as sexually worrying as it was in this body.
Coupled with menstruation.
I don't get fake breasts.
Or, I don't get dudes who dig fake breasts.
Prefer, even.
I've heard men say things like:
"And she had these awesome, big fake tits."
If you ever see a truck with a bunch of useless shit attached to it, and you wonder:
"Who would drive that?"
The answer is this guy.
The bigger the tit, the better the tit.
No matter the cost.
These are the same guys who determine the quality of a film by the number of explosions in it.
I'm boring myself.

I really like "No Scrubs," but I wish the lyrics didn't apply to me so vividly.
So, I'm gonna go to Toronto for a bit.
For real this time.
Though I was likely too embarrassed to tell you, I booked dates to go before.
Then I didn't go.
Because I didn't want to end up a big success.
"Paul's back with a new suit and a cocaine problem.
He still doesn't own a car, but he looks as though he could rent one now."
I'm not as worried about that these days.
I think I can avoid success, even in Canada's busiest city.
I'm not sure what I'll be worried about this time around.
But I'm bound to cook up something while I'm on the plane.
Offending a black person, maybe.
Though I have absolutely no racial material whatsoever (for this very reason).
Getting lost, perhaps.
I could see that happening.
If I got lost in Toronto after dark, I'd begin crying.
And I wouldn't stop until a policeman helped me.
Stand in the middle of the subway terminal.
Arms hanging by my sides.
Just bawling.
"Are you lost, son?"
(Sniffling) "Uh huh."
Hey, it's what they get paid for.
What else?
Blending in. 
That's the scariest one of all.
However, with my polite nature and bumpkin wardrobe, I doubt this will happen.
Here are the places I am going to, and why:

Vaughn: Reminds me of Vince Vaughn. Whom I love.
Whenever I get my haircut, I say, "Give me the Vince Vaughn."
Kitchener: No one else is willing to go to Kitchener.
Ajax: I want to see where the members of Sum 41 grew up.
Downtown Toronto: It's close to Toronto.
Calgary: Memories.
Edmonton: Crack and Oxycontin.


They're not singing this song.
Makes you wonder if they ever sang it.

Race Unrelated

Pray the tests come back 'negative.'
It's Friday.

I just had a scary conversation with a woman at the bank.
Though, ultimately, it's a happy ending.
She said that if I ever decide to quit comedy and become an actual person, I can still get a car.

Square Dance

Get a spouse

Get a 52"

Get a Camry

Get a Pug

Make a kid

Be successful

Anyway, I have a few posts to upload.
I've been writing them, but not teleprompting them.
The first one was written on...we'll say Monday, February whatever. 

It may have been Tuesday:

I just want to sit, y'know what I mean?

Sip my coffee, write a passably passable blog post. 

Go home. 

Lift a lot of heavy weights for a few hours. 

Take a steam. 

Go to bed. 

There you go. That's a day. 

That's not too complicated. 

But I can't do that because I'm in public. 

And women are in public sometimes. 

So, instead of having a nice day 

(3 sets at 10 reps)

I have to sit and think about how I'd like to have sex with a black woman some day. 

Fine. 

But not terribly productive, or even relevant.

I wouldn't even know where to go to meet a black woman. 

I can't suggest any places because they'll all seem racist

("Watermelon factory!")

Everything is racist now. 

I do a joke on how generic ultrasound baby photos are. 

The parents are excited about the first photo of their baby. 

I used to say, "This is your baby?

...Are you sure?

Maybe the nurses fucked up the envelopes in receiving and this is actually some Indian couples' baby."

Couldn't continue saying it. 

When I said, "Indian," the room would always tense up. 

I'd ask, "Are you quiet because I'm saying 'Indian' and you think that that's racist?"

No response (which is a 'yes'). 

It's not racist to mention a race. 

Goddamn I hate TV. 

Have you ever seen that Hoarders show?

Jesus Christ, what a mess (pun intended). 

It really must be something. 

Tracking down a 70-year old woman who keeps jars of possum fetuses. 

That's no reason to televise her, though.
It just seems like it is. 

Sure, she threw away her dignity long ago. 

But perhaps you'll find it somewhere underneath all of the wigs and belt sanders.
Hire some people to help her dig around for it. 

Showcasing how disgusting she is won't help anyone. 

Watching families collect in hotel rooms, trying to corner the family crackhead. 

This is passing the time?

This is an evening spent?

I'd sooner take the Urban Peasant any day of the week. 

Snooki needs to be beaten with a broomstick handle until she begins thinking of someone besides herself.

She doesn't need air time. 

Kids watch this stuff. 

I can't see a woman's breast on any channel at any time.

But I can watch this bitch get piss-herself-drunk at 2 p.m.

Suspended in Time

Written yesterday, somehow:

I drank way too much wine last night.
I still feel gross when I think about it.
I was at that casino again.
You're stuck in an elevator with a person of whatever gender you like to have sex with.
After a meal of the snacks and cat food you were returning home with, you get to talking.
An organic, easy conversation that lasts the entire twelve hours.
Discussing and laughing until the repairman finally shows up
("Jesus, I though it said St. John, not St. John's. Terribly sorry.").
He explains that he'll just need another half hour, and then he can let you out.
After the repairman calls down this information, your liftmate locks eyes with you and says, "I love you."
Do you believe it's possible you'd ever say it back?
Bear in mind, by now you've urinated in front of this person.
Hard part's over. 
Rewind.
He doesn't say "I love you," but he was out for cooking sherry before this whole ordeal.
You begin drinking it half an hour before the repairman's requisite half hour.
The liftmate says nothing this time, but takes off their shirt. And pants/skirt/leotard.
Do you think it's more likely you'd say "I love you, too."
Or bone this person in the elevator?
I know my answer.
I know yours, too.
We're all monkeys out there.
Monkeys looking for a friend.

While you're screwing, the elevator man is on the phone.
That's why he needed the half hour.
The story is too funny to wait.
He has to call his elevator buddies and tell them about it.
St. John.
St. John's.

It's an easy mistake to make.

Two Wrongs Make A White

Ooh hold me now.
Whoa-oh warm my heart.
Sorry I haven't been around.
I already explained myself, rather honestly, in the previous post.
But when I originally wrote this I assumed this one would be going first.
Just go with it. We're all going with it.
Anyway, sorry I haven't been around.
Just once I'd like to tell a woman that I'm shipping out with the Navy.
"Baby, the truth is...I'm shipping out tomorrow. And I don't know if I'll ever be back."
It's called shore-leave, dick!
You should visit MSF.ca.
Because I told some blue-eyed man that I was going to do so.
And I'm not.
This is the best that I can do for him.
Doctors Without Borders.
I haven't even finished my practicum yet
(I don't even know what a practicum is).
After telling me why pharmaceutical companies are run by jerks, he asked me to volunteer.
I thought he was going to wine and dine me a shade more.
Sort of caught me off-guard.
To reply, I said, "Nah."
"May I ask why?"
"I only spoke to you initially because I'm too nice to act like I didn't see you.
It's the same reason homeless people get all of my coffee change."

To review, The Roast of Peter White was last Wednesday.
After weeks of assuming my jokes were sub-par, I had a great time.
The comics who actually like me in this town insisted that my lines stood out.
I'm not sure about that.
But I do know that I like comparing Kyle's head to half of a loaf of bread.
It's a privileged thing, running errands with your friends. 
A sunny day.
Three-quarters of a tank of gas.
Chilli Peppers.
You combine those with some buddies.
Suddenly, a tux fitting doesn't seem so bad.

Today I run errands with Peter White.
Before his eveningtime flight to the U.K.
I couldn't explain my relationship with Peter White.
I don't remember ever meeting him.
No surprise there, I know, but I remember meeting most comics.
I can't remember if we initially worked together during a weekend.
Regardless, fueled by mockery of the general public, our relationship has grown (festered).
He has a Turpinesque capability of thinking what I'm thinking.
That being said, I don't want Maggie or anyone else to worry.
No one could replace that coat rack in my life.
When the three of us go to brunch, he's the third wheel.
But in an industry fed by wariness and disdain, he's someone I trust.
Except with any girlfriends I may have.
Hide your girlfriends from him.
Say she's your cousin. He'll keep his paws to himself then.
As for Peter White the comedian, I have to grudgingly admire his capabilities.
What choice do I have?
He was in a scene with Pierce Brosnan. 

And Iiiiiiii-ee-iii-ee-iii Will Always Love True

It's not too late.
You can also be eating Valentine's Day dinner with someone barely tolerable.
Please visit the following sites for more snippets of hope:

• Plenty of Fish
• Match.com
• eHarmony
• Prisoners from Canada Pen Pals

Nothing says, "Maybe we shouldn't see each other again" like a case of hepatitis.
If you're telling yourself you're in a decent relationship, then happy VD.
If you're single and loading the revolver, just tough it out until Paddy's day.
Go out, play some miniature golf with your cousin and remind yourself:
Drunken love has no calendar or schedule.
Sounds like someone I know.

If you want my definition of love, I'd say that it's never going to the cops.
Love is a tremendous amount of circumstance.
Really, I'd say that love is an inability to lie to a person.
Or, it's a compulsion for sharing truth with a person.
Perhaps that sounds nicer.
Surely I don't know.
But I do know what love is not.
Love is not beating the shit out of your partner after hooking them on coke.
Bobby. Love it not that.*
Instead, I would qualify such behaviour as poor spousal communication.
Battery. Assault. Battered. Battery.
So, on this Valentine's Day ("Is he still talking about this?") keep your backhands to a minimum.
And your sweet, Grammy-winning powerhouses to a maximum.
Next year, it may be you overdosing in a bathtub.

...I haven't been online to write a post because I've been watching too much of The Wire.
I've also been playing a lot of Battlefield 3 with my brother.
I also spent a dark and stormy night in a rental vehicle with Adam Delorey.
Adam's a good guy. He's the fat dude in every beer movie you've ever seen.
But with a (faulty) heart.
I've been putting this post off for some time.
I just felt a compulsion to tell you that...


 *I meant to say 'Ike' here. Bobby is some other guy who beat some other R&B girlfriend.**
**I was right the first time. I meant 'Bobby,' and I wrote 'Bobby.'

Close Enough(?)

Sure, my mom was great.
But every mom is going to get worn down some days.
Oftentimes, when my mother would call me, she'd yell, "Paul!"
On an off day-and there were off days-she'd call, "Colin, Brian, Paul whatever your name is!"
Hug your mother.
If you go to jail, she's the only one who's going to believe that you're innocent.

Err...On Caution's Side

Dad always tells me to be careful.
Ever the desperate, chronic worrier, he used to watch me cross the street from Shandera's house.
Inspiring when I'm six, it got less normal by the time I was in junior high.
Whenever he says it, I provide him time and again with the same reminder:
"I'm always careful."
I always have been cautious.
Other words that you may want to substitute here would be...timid.
Frightened.
Nervous.
Anxious.
Going home now.
All of those work.
That's why, after Dennis and Pete had finished building the ramp, I would always go last.
Didn't matter what the ramp was for.
Bicycle. GT Sno Racer. Water skiing pyramid.
Whatever.
It took later in life to realize that I missed some things earlier in life.
Most of those things were injuries.
But with that, perhaps a certain resolve.
A steeling of myself while hauling out the splinter.
A certain sense of risk that many people might take for granted.
These days I'm getting better.
Cooking helped.
When you burn your knuckle on the stupid toaster conveyor after making your tenth clubhouse of the night, you begin not to notice.
At one time, I had decided that I wanted to cook at the hotel.
Initially, I did it while I wasn't supposed to as a dishwasher.
If I could keep the staff in plates while also making grilled ham and cheese for them...
...Why not braise lamb shanks for some German snowboarding families?
Really, I just wanted an excuse to buy the knives.
Andrew taught me how to chop.
If you want to begin cooking in an environment full of pro cooks and expensive food, initiative can't hurt.
So, we used to practice in the staff accomodation lounge.
On the washer and dryer.
We eventually had to stop when people complained about carrot peel on their clothes.
Which is fair. No one wants that.
Anyway, one time I was dicing this onion.
And Andrew, between beer swigs, was saying, "Oh man, watch it," and so on.
Cause I didn't know what I was doing, and I was doing it with something extremely sharp.
Finally he said, "I think you're going to cut yourself on this one."
I looked at him, paused, then continued.
Marking the first time that I ever willingly put myself into the path of an injury.
Many have come and gone since then; I spent a summer working with dad.
I didn't cut myself on that day.

I climbed my first tree (ever) last year.
Neil convinced me to join him at the top.
And sure, as I continuted to find footing and gain altitude, I envisioned falling.
Doing a Plinko on every branch on the way down.
But, like the onion, I didn't fall that day.
And man oh man. What a view.

"Aw Man, This Is A Bold One!"

Written two days before today. I can't even remember where:

It's today now.
Except in Australia.
In Australia it is likely tomorrow.
Not sure about Japan.
Might be tomorrow there, too.
Or, as the Japanese call it, Kyo.
I have no idea why, but Japan is the only country in which I'd consider hiring a prostitute.
That is to say, I would. I would hire a prostitute.
I'm not exactly sure why.
Maybe because I think that I'd have a positive experience there compared to elsewhere.
(Asian women intimidate me less).
(Asian women like me).

Rearing children has gotten to the point where they're spoiled before they even know what stuff is.

Wow.
Once you type all of this out, it seems a lot less impressive.
It looks like a much longer post in my book.
Guess I'd better fill it out a bit.
...
...
...I braised carrots today.
They tasted mooshy.
...
...
...Oh!
Here's something:
Cats' whiskers are there so that they can use them to measure width.
So, don't be surprised if you clip your cat's whiskers and then find them jammed inside a sandwich maker.
Does the post seem long enough now?
What if I TALK IN ALL CAPITALS AND TURN THE BOLD ON. 
SOME STUDENTS DO STUFF LIKE THIS. 
FOR PAPERS THAT THEY COPIED AND PASTED FROM WIKIPEDIA. 
I DON'T WANT YOU TO THINK THAT I'M SHOUTING AT YOU. 
I JUST HAVE THE BOLD TURNED ON. 
I'M TRYING TO SEEM LARGE AND INTIMIDATING. 
THIS IS ALSO HOW YOU SCARE OFF COUGARS. 
What a load.
Scaring off cougars.
Apex predators can't be scared off; that's what makes them apex predators.
All they can really do is lose interest.
When I was in Banff, during orientation, they went over cougar attacks.
This is already in the blog, I'm pretty sure, but whatever.
Here goes:
Rule #1:
Cougars always attack from behind.
Seems like that should have been the end of the rules, really.
It's the only one I paid attention to.
Like we'd have better chances than a deer.
Though I guess a person might TURN ON THE BOLD AND SCARE THE COUGAR AWAY.
Queen Elizabeth has announced her sixtieth year on the throne.
She said that we can wrest it from her cold, dead talons if we dare.
She then went on to say that she is ageless, nothing can kill her, inject her with Ebola, she fears no one.
She then said that when things get slow in her cubicle at around 2:00, she likes to visit this site.

Should've Seen Me

I'm going to label this post as a calendar day.
Which I do for all significant events.
Like Klu Klux Klan day.
And my birthday.
I know (and you don't?) that this happened yesterday.
But I'm making the label anyways.
Besides, today is the super bowl.
You want my prediction?
It's going to be the blue guys by six. Maybe by seven.
I meant to write yesterday and remind you to pay attention to me.
I've spent the past number of days meeting and sitting with people for coffee.
I've spent them mentally ostracizing old people in a Casino.
I've spent them refusing to dance with women (that was a good one).
I've spent them drinking gin, but not enough gin. Smoking weed, about enough weed.
Yesterday I sat down for a long time.
I stayed indoors for far too long and tried to determine what it was that Paul wanted to do with his birthday.
He never did get to the bottom of it.
But he did figure out what he didn't want to do.
He didn't want to clean his kitchen.
So, I (he) walk down to The Keg to use my The Keg gift certificate.
I had to stand in line, outside, just to wait to eat my birthday supper by myself.
I've had more pitiful birthdays, I'd imagine.
But it's probably the best one that the bartender had seen.
Really, the night was fine.
I left there and met up with Joshua White and some of his roommates/friends.
I got a strawberry shortcake to go.
These people jammed a candle in that and sang to me.
That was enough, really.
I hate this post so far. It's so boring.
I visited Halifax's casino on Friday.
The coat check guy couldn't see anything.
All of the coat check tabs had Braille on them.
You didn't have to pay to check your coat, either.
There was a donation thingy for the coat check man, but you only had to put small change in there.
Just enough to make a sound, really.
Awful. I'm so awful.
There was a battle of the bands show.
Shawn (Shaun...it might be Shaun) Burke played in one of the bands.
An old college buddy.
We used to call him "Cam."
Cause he'd get drunk and try to swallow cam shafts, after removing them from vehicles in our parking lot.
Not true.
We used to call him Shawn (Shaun).
In my...third year he lived next door to me in residence.
One time he locked himself out of his room and he was in his underwear and it was adorable.
A woman I'm attracted to suggested that we should dance.
I was already dancing in my chair.
I don't know what I said. I guess I blacked out for a second.
Whatever it was, it involved continuing to not dance with her.
Josh asked (sort of within earshot) "Why didn't you dance with her?"
Not sure what I said there either, but I'm certain that I mumbled it.
Women love confidence.
Unfortunately, everything I've accomplished has relied entirely on my complete lack of confidence.
That's really true.
Socially, anyway.
If you ask me what I might think of that, I'd tell you this:
I don't know.
 I only realized this about myself just now as I typed this out.
This is what this blog is all about.
Self-discovery; questioning how I got this far; spelling friends' names wrong.

Since You Asked...

I haven't the energy today, really.
It's awful, I know.
It's one thing to purchase vitamins.
It's another thing entirely to swallow one every day with a meal.
Or to have meals in general, for that matter.
Gonna slow things down for a minute here and get Mr. Jim Cuddy to play us out.
Tomorrow's a new day.
Hopefully it will be one in which I produce something.
I do have an imaginary conversation that a person has with another person over the phone at an airport.
Which I had been keeping for this exact rainy day specifically.
But since you people have all finished work for the day anyway, I'll save it.
They don't care about Blue Rodeo in the United States.
Mostly because they don't know who Blue Rodeo is.
The words "Blue Rodeo" would likely get some of them excited.
But only because it sounds like something that Larry the Cable Guy might be performing at.
An overnight flight to a nearby province just to watch Jeff Dunham.
Jesus Christ.
Jeff Dunham gets to be racist onstage, and he isn't even some colour besides white.
Hopefully some misguided confederate fuck will shoot Achmed the Dead Terrorist-
"He don't seem dead enough t' me."-
And that will irreversibly injure Jeff Dunham's hand and end his career.
He won't have an asshole to turn to at that point.
Cause the puppets...he puts his hand up into their...
Anyway.
Jim? You still back there?
I could be involved with a show that involves Jim Cuddy some day.
That's not impossible.
The only thing about sacrificing oneself to comedy that is neat is to think of what is no longer impossible.
Me in a Kotex commercial?
Not impossible.
Hosting an amateur stripper contest in Shitty Dartmouth?
Not impossible.
Writing snooty blog posts about millionaire ventriloquists?
Well.
Turns out I have slightly more energy than I thought.

I'm as capable of saying "fine" as the next English-speaking human being.
Now, are you actually asking me how I'm doing?
Or are you asking me if I'm physically capable of saying "fine"?
Or "good"?
Because that's what some people (grocery clerks, primarily) are asking me when they ask me how I'm doing.
They're asking me to say "fine."
Just ask me to do that and I'll do it.
"Can you say fine for me, please?"
"Fine."
"Thank you. I'm fine, too."
Fine isn't even a feeling.
Fine is sort of like how you are when you're not feeling any feelings in particular.
You're not sad. You're not happy. You're not blood clotting.
You're fine.
I'm rarely fine.
I'm usually something else.
People constantly say after asking me how I am that, "You took a minute to think about that."
Why wouldn't I?
I'm trying to answer a question truthfully. It might take a second.
They're even more taken aback if I say that I'm terrible (which is, to be fair, usually a lie).
Can't I be terrible?
I'm a complete stranger to a lot of people who ask me how I am.
Maybe I'm terrible all of the time.
"How are you?"
"I haven't had a pleasant day since 1998!"
It's an answer.
I might be reading too much George Carlin.
I'm gonna go.
Jim? Where are you, Jim.
Jim's only here because I wanted to use that line about Larry the Cable Guy.
Thought of it while I was unloading the dishwasher.
Dunham came out because those two are the same thing.
A joke on nationalism.
Hope you're all feeling fine out there.
Or something a little more descriptive.