Who's the Fairest of Them All?

You know what's depressing?
How these Chilean miners are getting so much press time.
And I can't get on NTV.
They're heroes, y'know.
Every one of them.
The engineers who came up with the contraption to get them out are not, mind you.
What did they do?
But these guys who were in the mine.
They went without internet for a long time.
What was I talking about?
Oh yeah!
You know what's depressing?
When I look at my behind in the mirror.
While I wait for the shower to heat up.
I never look in mirrors, to be honest.
It's commonplace for me to show up (late) with toothpaste still on my face.
Or shaving cream in my ear.
I don't know why it is that I never look into mirrors.
I'm appropriately meek about my appearance, I guess.
Ashamed.
Appropriately ashamed.
That, and I'm afraid that if I look at a mirror for too long...
...Well, you know...
I'm afraid that Bloody Mary will pop out of there.
And yell, "Cocktails!"
Then she'll get loaded, refuse to leave, and dad will have to drive her home.

There Goes my Hero

Taught grade fours today.
Taught them how to receive a proper beating.
They were fast learners.

Colin's birthday is coming up.
I don't know how old he's going to be, exactly.
But I know it's old enough that he's probably not excited about it.
I'm going to buy him a video game.
Because I guess I feel bad about it.
Not that it's my fault, or anything.
Y'know, it's funny.
I guess because he was the oldest.
And perhaps because Brian had a tendency to give me daily beatings...
I always admired Colin when I was a kid.
He was a real hero.
All of his friends were hockey players.
He was a good swimmer.
He worked hard jobs in scary places.
He had abs! Real abs!
Colin!
Then he got fat.
And things went downhill from there.
He used to come home from 12+ hours at the fish plant.
And he'd sneak up behind me and cup his hand over my mouth.
Leaving it there for a while.
Have you ever worked for 12+ hours at the fish plant?
I haven't, but it's gotta be a putrid place. 
I saw him fall off of his bike and break his arm one time.
It was awesome.

Avril and I watched The Bonavista Chain Locker recently.
A real group of lookers.
Not much upstairs, though.
Anyway, I forget the name of their opening band.
But I know that they covered this song.
And that it was fabulous.

"Beer From Fridge is Falling Down (Falling Down, Falling Down)"

Originally written Thursday, October 7th:

I'm in a van in da missus' driveway.
I don't know where she is.
But that's where I am.
She might be inside her house, actually.
I went to Placentia (Placenta) for the first time in my life just the other day.
Do me a favour for a second while you read this.
Put your hands in front of you, parallel to your chests (luscious as they are).
Palms down.
Now, touch the tip of your middle finger to the tip of your other middle finger.
Now raise your hands at the tips away from one another.
It was my understanding that Placenta had a bridge that did that.
But it does not.
Hold one hand in front of your chests again.
Parallel.
Now raise your hand up towards your face.
They have a bridge that does that instead.
Like a hotel elevator used to move bins of garbage.
Which is far less romantic.
A little less Thomas the Tank Engine and a little more Placenta.
Turpin and I went to a gas station to get beer.
But they only had various motor oils available to drink.
One of the local savages directed me, around Doritos, to a corner store.
Across the bridge.
She stayed in the van, churlish and awful, while I went inside.
She soon noticed from the passenger seat that everyone in the store was staring at me.
This is because the first half-case I removed from the cooler was missing a bottom.
So all of the bottles fell onto the floor, smashing into bits.
Then I had beer on my pants.
I immediately thought to myself: 'Aww, come on! I just got here!'

Day Tryppin'

Happy pagan affront to gluttony, everyone.
I have eaten two turkey dinners, and the tryptophan is making me lucid and apathetic.
More so.
Thanksgiving is such an inconsequential holiday.
I don't understand why it is that we still celebrate it.
Well, I do.
People who work for the government don't have to go to work.
People who work for the government love not going to work.
On the bright side, anyone working in Baby Gap today will be getting time and a half.
That's 1.5 times as much mouthwash that they can afford on their next paycheck.
Which is how I measure wealth.

Speaking of earning your inebriation, what a weekend I had at Yuk's.
Thursday I went over my time by 15 minutes and an old comic (Bobby Keele) yelled at me.
I really, truly deserved it.
Friday I slammed it. Dominated.
I told all of the teachers in the room that I wanted to have sex with them.
Jennifer Snow was there.
I stand by my statement.
Saturday night...
I can't really describe it effectively.
I have never been hugged so many times after a show.
Strangers were offering to hug me.
The wait staff...
But it wasn't me.
It was them.
I would have been good.
If they had let me.
So, I was able to focus entirely on the sexuality of the hugs.
Because I didn't really need the comforting effects of them.
I told the crowd that I had been to more sophisticated cockfights.
Someone may have laughed at this if the audience had been able to hear me.
Sometimes tables of nimrods need to be escorted to a parking lot.
Increases the likelihood they'll be struck by cars.
And there were no employees willing to send the drunk men to the parking lot.
I miss Bill.

Ring My Bell

I purchased a phone today.
Against my better judgement and my own wishes.
My old phone never received phone calls.
This may be because I'm a massive loser.
Either way, I need something new.
It's growing on me.
It is now far easier to use punctuation when I text.
But the phone is black.
Which is a super gay colour.

I'm hoping that Peter can fandangle it to play specific songs when people call.
Here are a few ringtones I already have in mind:

Avril:


Mom:


Turpin:


Robert Shandera:


Colin:


Bussey (inside joke):


And I might include this song for Pete.
Because it was on CBC Radio 2-Drive.
Which he suggested I listen to.
I'll include it regardless because it has been stuck in my head:

Look Who's Talking

Well, Shia LaBeouf and Frankie Muniz have returned to their twelve-year feud, apparently.
"I'm taller!"
"No, I'm taller!"
They're the same height, really:
Below average.
As though Shia LaBeouf has the right to mock anyone.
His name sounds like some sort of an egg dish.

Thanks to my shopping cart, I am ready for parenting.
It told me to never leave my child unattended.
Now I just need to read the labels on some baby food jars.
Program the number for poison control into my phone.
And I'll be set to start impregnating (more) women.

N'est-ce Pas?

Talk about going down with the ship.
Steve Coombs brought my attention to this tasty little tragedy.
Did the Segway survive the fall?
That's the question marketers should be asking right now.
'Reliable! Resilient! Survives the fatal plummets to the Earth that your body cannot!'
Perhaps this will convince shareholders that Jimi's suggestion to install rockets on the Segways may not have been such a bad idea...
Puts a spin on that classic mother-son argument, doesn't it:
"Mom, I want a Segway!"
"Who let you off of your shackle? No way, go back to the basement."
"But mo-om! Everybody else has one!"
"If everybody else drove their Segways off of cliffs, would you do it?!"
Okay, are we good? Is that enough making fun of this guy now?
Alright.
We'll move on.

I have been dropping by schools today.
Trying to convince them that I'm not as wayward as the townsfolk say I am.
At one place they confirmed that I couldn't speak French.
Immediately.
"And no French, right?"
"Right."
Then he proceeds to mark 'NO FRENCH' on my resume.
And underline it.
He could have dazzled the both of us and at least set fire to it in front of me.
There are other subjects.
I went to school.
We didn't do French for five periods and then go home.
Laughing, surrendering, our berets askew.
Special education and French will get you a teaching job anywhere on the island.
Every other subject area is like some sort of scarlet letter.
Perhaps photocopier instruction manuals are only printed in French.
And they need the teachers to read them in order to fix paper jams.

Baby, Shower!

Eating a meal with a baby is sort of like eating a meal with a homeless person.
It's fine to do so, but they tend to get messy and not say a great deal.
It also doesn't take a huge amount to fill them up.
Two weeks ago? Maybe?
Whenever it was.
I ate a meal with a baby at some new-aged parents' house while Turpin smothered demons beside me.
She dragged me there.
It was a good time. Don't get me wrong.
The co-owner of the sprout is also a co-owner of the house.
And the baby.
So, the meal was flagrantly vegetarian.
And I ate the whole thing!
There wasn't anything left on the plate and I didn't whine about it or anything.
Though the meal hit a brief snag when the baby tried to touch me while I was sipping my coffee.
All covered in melon and youth and God knows what else.
So I told the baby.
I said, "Don't touch me with your mangy (pronounced 'mang-ee') ol' hands-get away from me."
I think Peter Miles (the father) was insulted.
Which is ridiculous.
I wouldn't have believed that Peter Miles could be insulted.
Some years ago we celebrated his sister's 30th in their parents' home.
And he laughingly suggested I have sex with her while there.
Because it would have been hilarious.
For everyone but me.
Anyway.
The baby was alright other than that.
I'm cool with feeding him squash.
But I would like to think that he'll be offered a carnivorous option when he's done teething.

A-Brewin'

Get your duckie boots out of your childhood closets.
As my parents would say, "It's blowin' a gale."
Hurricane Igor is ambling through our province and threatening our barbecues.
I'm here to boost moral and give everyone up-to-the-minute reports on how I'm doing:
I'm okay.
Usually I enjoy a good storm.
No one really expects anything of you.
You can put on your pajamas in the morning and leave them on.
You have a decent excuse on reserve for anything that you may forget to do or not do later that week.
"Sorry I forgot to get my greyhound registered for the race-
that storm on Tuesday was something else.
Lost my rain gutter.
Can I still enter him now?
He has been eating raw eggs all week. He wants to get in there."
You can buy aging greyhounds, y'know.
They have all of their shots, they have all of their papers.
They're well-trained.
They're sleek.
In a storm like this they can be used as a weather vane.
And from what I understand they're rather inexpensive.
What a bargain. 
The only problem with these dogs is the obligation to name them all Santa's Little Helper.I'd ask for one that didn't win any races.
So that the dog and I would have something in common.
I don't need a pet with a blue ribbon mentality.
That's why I left that cocky Wilbur on the farm.

Colin has begun concocting his own beer.
I may aid him in the process in the near future.
Then I won't feel so bad about drinking all of his hard work at Christmas time.

Killing Time

I really can't put into words how I am dressed right now.
Just know that I'm wearing my mother's lime-green capri pants.
Turpin has a bottle of champagne that includes wine glasses and everything.
So we decided to turn it into a date.
While drinking the champagne at three in the afternoon.
We're having trouble keeping ourselves occupied here in Bay Roberts.
I can't wait to see what she's wearing.
I hope she's not in the same outfit.
That would be embarrassing.

If you said, "How's it hangin'?" to a puppeteer, it would be a perfectly genuine question.

Turpin and I rented a film last night.
But this time I picked it out.
First of all, let me tell you something:
This is the first shitty horror film I have picked out in the course of our relationship.
And it is by far the best one that we have watched yet.
It is entitled Bikini Bloodbath Car Wash.
It was written and directed by Who the Fuck Cares.
That's really what it says in the opening credits.
The film didn't have nearly as many exposed breasts as I thought it might.
But then, it has 'bikini' in the title.
And there were lots of those.
I enjoyed the cinematography.
I spelled 'cinematography' properly on the first try.
Anyway, you should all watch the movie.
It's a hell of a lot better than Mongrel.
I meant to tell you guys about Mongrel but never got around to it.
Some other time.



Alright, I believe I hear my fair maiden.
Wish me luck.

A Lump In the Throat

When the mourners huddle around my coffin, reeking of booze, I hope they can say:
"Well, at least he died the way that he lived.
In the jaws of a hippopotamus."