A Little Grilling

I don't really think that it's a barbecue cover.
Sure, everyone says, "Cover the barbecue!
Gotta get the barbecue covered."
We don't need to cover our barbecues.
They're the heaviest appliance that humans have, next to the fridge.
Dishwasher.
Clothes dryer.
Hitachi magic wand.
They're the only things left outside that always survive hurricanes.
"The patio's gone!"
And the Landcruiser! How's we gonna live?!"
"Hey, lookit! The barbecue's still okay."
Steaks for everyone.
Steaks among the rubble.
Barbecues don't need a cover.
I think it's a barbecue hider.
That's why people use them; they don't want thieves thieving their barbecues.
Doesn't work, though.
Just makes it look like you have a barbecue with a custom-made tarp over it.

Small Package

The ineternet has few uses, sure.
But I have seen the fat person have sex.
And I have seen the midget have sex.
If you're curious to know which is less appealing, I'll say this:
Proportion goes a long way.

Home Aloners

Seth Green is a Macauly Culkin who made it.

It's not really wrong to have sex with your cousin.
It's just wrong to have children with them
(this is the most insightful thing I've thought of in months, by the way).

The Royal Family are really professional visitors.
They just dress up nicely and go to events.
Stay until it's acceptable to leave.
And then they leave.
They never outstay their welcome.
They never have you over to their place.
People make every effort to make sure they're comfortable.
So far as I can tell, this is all they do.
For a Royal child, every day is like visiting an aunt that you just met.
The CBC once televised a how-do with a bunch of traditional Natives that the queen was at.
I watched the report with my parents over supper.
And there she was, in her mint green old person dress, smiling politely, while dudes in feathers danced around and beat the drum and so on.
While on camera, she leaned over and said something to one of her bodyguards.
And I said to mom and dad at the time:
"Guaranteed she just asked him what time this is supposed to be over."
Can you think of anything else they do?
They're celebrities that don't do anything.
At least normal celebrities do something.
Talentless celebrities. That's the royal family.

The Test of Thyme

Do you people dislike the adult content warning when opening my blog now?
Tough!
Tough for all of us; I have to personally bypass it every time also.
You're probably more irritated that every time you log on there's no blog to look at.
And here I am!
There's always the archives, people.
Want to find out how much I hated my job in 2008?
Whatever that was...
It's all there.

I made vegetable stock yesterday.
If you don't know what that means, think of vegetable water.
It's vegetable water.
I've bought thyme twice now to make it with.
A sprig. That's what the recipe calls for.
And twice I had it go bad because I take so frigging long to do anything.
My parents are away again and so I'm acting like an adult
(though I'm really at my most juvenile; using their paper towels
swallowing their prescription medicine).
Really they're the ones who took too long.
Not me.
Cooking is frustrating when mom and dad are here.
Because I can't have pornography on in the background while I do it.

Speaking of things I haven't done, I'm writing now.
I haven't been.
I haven't been.
I want to move to Halifax soon.
In order to do some writing, have some infidelities, or get mauled by a deer in a coffee shop.
Though I'd rather watch Peter White take the antlers than myself.
We can chalk all of this up to a relatively lax summer.
And a crippling video game addiction.
Which has only become so literal lately.
My thumbs kinda hurt.
25 years I've been playing video games.
Only taking breaks to lose my virginity, get an education, and check on the egg rolls from time to time.
My thumbs have never hurt before.
I suppose I'm not too surprised.
You play guns for a season's length and that's bound to catch up to you.
My colloquial (I can't pronounce this word out loud) term for this game.
I single-handedly convinced six people to purchase and begin playing it.
Alas, I believe it's time to take a step back.
Fun is fun, but that's long enough not making the vegetable water.
That being said, I'm no less afraid of doing things that involve money.
If someone wants to find me an apartment in Halifax so that I don't have to do it...
...You know the rest.

Do you stop being nice when you lose your virginity?
Did I?

The Cold. Truth.

I need to watch a documentary every day.
Whether they're good, or they just depict a guy eating a lot of Big Macs.
Documentaries always put me in the mood to write after I see them.
Probably because they're well-narrated and they have upbeat songs during the closing credits.
So I've been...not around.
For the longest period since I began writing this blog in the first place.
I began writing this blog because Turpin convinced me to.
Did I ever mention that?
Oh! Speaking of.
She and I went on Maury Povich last month.
Turns out that I'm not the father of her child.
No, the father of her child is in fact a Western Lowland Gorilla living at the Woodland Park Zoo in Seattle, Washington.
He won't return her calls.

I don't know why I've been gone for so long.
Mom and Dad went on a three-week vacation.
Which meant that I went on a three-week vacation.
It was okay.
I made my own pizza dough.
After that, I guess I just sort of reveled in my own sloth.
As I tend to do, given a chance.

I don't know about those bike lanes that the Doc stuck in St. John's.
To me, and I'm no transit expert, they seem like pictures of bikes and arrows painted on the road.
I guess those are the bike lanes.
Oftentimes when I'm driving (polluting!), the vehicle occupies the space in which the bike is supposed to be.
I haven't encountered a cyclist yet, but when I do, I'm going to assume I have the right-of-way.

When they invent robot maids, all human maids will have jobs assembling and maintaining the robot maids.
And they'll scoff these machines for being unable to feel love.
And for not stealing loose change when it's right there in front of them.
With their robot maid vacuum arms.

I missed you while I was gone.
And I felt as though I was doing the wrong thing.
Not writing.
Not texting.
Not looking at photos of you on the beach on Facefuck.
But that's changed now.
In truth, I'm fever-y and snotty and sick and I need you.
And whenever I need you, I'll always be there.

(This one's genius):
I tried an oxygen bar not that long ago.
I found I could get as good at home.

Hard to Follow (Up)

Comrades!
It's me again.
I'm writing my blog post in Starbucks.
Just as Starbucks intended.
What is a Starbuck supposed to be, anyway?
Perhaps they refer to their revunue as Starbucks because they intend to use it to buy a planet.
Or solar system.
Doesn't matter.
Doesn't matter.

I'll be on stage within a couple of hours.
I'm doing a weekend with Allyson Smith.
Sorta looks like a teacher who wanted to be a writer.
I have to speak to her before we get started because I think I accidentally flirted with her last time she was in town.
Despite the fact that I know they have self-esteem issues, I can't think of a more terrifying woman than a comic.
Like myself, Allyson Smith did Just For Laughs early into her career.
I mistake this coincidence as kinship of some sort.
I asked her what I should do after the fact.
She advised that I 'follow up on it.'
I nodded while realizing that I didn't know what that meant.
While she was in town I offered to stop by because I wanted to ask her about it.
This is the situation.
You people don't need to know any of this.
I'm just practicing my apology which I'll be spewing at her in a couple of hours.
I still don't really know what it means, by the way.
Move out of your parents' house, probably.

Speaking of empty nests, mom and dad have flown the coop for a few weeks.
Some Winnebago extravaganza that leaves me man of the house.
I babrbecued everything I ate yesterday.
They're gone for what will be the best three weeks of my summer.

Gandar is over (but not forgotten.)
I performed to a room with an odd shape and a lot of quiet, middle-aged people in it.
I went too long and then Sheehan made me look bad.
In the best possible way.
He didn't like it when I said that he had a square head.
If he dislikes the things I say about him publicily, he'd hate the things I say about him behind his back.
Kidding John!
Kidding.
He drove myself and Avril home to Bay Roberts.
We talked shop, he gave advice, and we listened to Appetite For Destruction.
It was a good gig.
We stopped at a flea market.
I was about to haggle with a round woman in a cowboy hat and fanny pack.
Over a game.
But then she had a frank and terse discussion with a guy who ran another flea market table.
It seemed like he was talking about how wrong all of the flea market "staff" was to dislike him.
She seemed to think that they were all on to something.
I chose to eavesdrop on that instead.

Maybe I'm the coolest loser out there.

I See A Little Silhouetto of a Man

Anyone who has dated me for a long enough period of time knows.
I'm not into skinny jeans.
They're not designed to make someone look good.
Though they did end up being designed to make someone look like they're fitting in.
Almost as important.
I don't understand how this catches on in a society of eating disorders.
They make even my thighs look huge.
And I don't have thighs.

Pot and the kettle, I sort of bought a pair.
Well, I didn't.
They're not 'for real' skinny jeans.
I can sit down in them.
They are, however, the tightest pair of pants I've ever owned.
If you know where to look, you can see the outline of my penis in them.
That's too tight for me, emotionally.
Though, to be honest, I'm not concerned about people seeing the outline of my penis in these jeans.
I'm concerned about them mistaking things that aren't my penis in these jeans.

The Space Between

I've been meaning to go see the dentist for some time now.
Which is an absolutely terrifying thought.
Because "for some time" translates to be about a decade or so.
How could the dentist possibly have good news for me?
Do you have any idea how many Fun Dips I have opened in the past ten years?
Zero!
But I'm still concerned.
When I go, I'm going to ask him or her which toothpaste they recommend.
Oh sure.
Dentists are recommending toothpastes on TV all of the time.
But I worry that some of those people may not even be dentists.
They might be stand up comics instead.

Speaking of pulling teeth, I have a gig coming up in Gandar in a week.
With John Sheehan.
Nice guy, probably. Has a square head.
Fights fires.
I offered him a ride on the way to Gandat.
Warning him that it was "a little unorthodox."
He seemed interested.
But he must not know what 'unorthodox' means.
He was surprised and dismissive when he found out that my ride was with my parents in their motor home.
He said that he'd "just take his van."
I don't know why he was so put out; the vehicle is a class-A.
It's a very spacious machine.

He announced as he hosted the Screech Comedy Fest open mic that I would be on next year's gala.
'Gala' means 'festival's final show with the largest venue'.
This is good news.
He mentioned this as I was getting on stage.
Pete Soucy mentioned it earlier in the evening.
But I was in the bathroom at the time.
So everyone in the room knew this before I did.
Avril told fellow comics not to mention it to me.
Which proved to be a neat idea.
It's nice to get good news seconds before you're about to do comedy.
I opened by saying, "I didn't know I was on the gala next year.
I don't have to worry about doing well now.
Fuck this show."
Then I talked about haircuts for six minutes.

I hate the gap in my teeth, by the way.
I always have.
I don't even like referring to it.
I'm forcing myself to do so right now.
And even now I'm not mentioning it therapeutically.
I just won't have a title for this post otherwise.
I guess it's supposed to provide my face with character (faults).
But I would argue that my face has more than enough character already.
If anything, I need less.
Though, to be honest, I'm not as hung up on this aspect of my physical appearance any more.
Not with my body hair growing in the way it has been.

Fantasy of the Opera

I'm not thoughtful enough to actually remember gift ideas.
I always write them down.
Like when I'm in the toy aisle at Zeller's and I see Colin eyeing the Legos.
Avril mentioned the opera to me yesterday.
We've all been there, right fellas?
And that reminded me that I had once intended to buy her opera gloves.
To go with the pairs that she already has.
Anyway.
Even though she didn't really ask me to go, I responded to the idea just the same.
And, since I'm obviously too lazy to come up with new posts these days...
Enjoy!


So are you asking me to go to the opera?
That's a little TV clichéd, isn't it?
Well, it isn't.
But if you asked me to go on the same night as the big football game match it would be.
And all of my football buddies rented a big screen TV just for the big game.
And I have to go and see it. I just have to.
But I don't know what to tell you, and I promised you the last time that there was a big football game during the opera that I would go with you this time.
And it's our anniversary.
But I really want to watch the game.
Then it dawns on one of my football buddies that the opera starts a couple of hours earlier than the football game does.
So, we can do this:
I could go to the opera, but wear my football TV game clothing under my tux.
Then, during the opera's intermission, I could fake a seizure and have my football buddy, who is also a paramedic, come by and get me from the opera house.
He'll assure you that I'm fine and that you should enjoy the rest of the opera while they tend to me.
Then I can get changed in the back of the ambulance.
And we can make it to kickoff just in time because my football buddy can drive with the sirens on.
And I say to my football buddy "that's perfect!"
But when you and I go to the opera, you surprise me by telling me that your old college buddy Dennis is in town for one night only, and you have asked him and his wife to join us for the opera.
And it turns out that Dennis and his wife are both medical doctors.
So, now I don't know what I'm going to do because I'm concerned that I can't fake a seizure convincingly any more.
And I'm sweating under my tuxedo in my football clothes.
So, I decide that I'll be really crude during the first portion of the opera in the hopes that I'll offend Dennis and his wife away from our seats before the intermission.
I caress and fondle Dennis' Wife's arms and thighs during the performance.
And I shout at the performers that I can't understand what they're talking about because I don't speak Italian.
And I tell Dennis that he needs to lose some weight.
Then I excuse myself and phone my football buddies from the bathroom.
To tell them that the plan has hit a snag.
But it turns out that Dennis' Wife is really into me because I'm forward and take-charge and so she follows me to the bathroom.
And tries to undo my belt buckle.
And I've been watching a lot of classic pornography lately (I really have), so I just sort of go with it and let her take my pants off in the bathroom.
And she begins performing on me orally.
And I say into the phone "I gotta go," and then hang it up.
Then Dennis comes into the washroom because he has to use it and he's wondering where his wife went.
He sees her fellating me and gets really angry, but then he sort of calms down really quickly and begins undoing his belt buckle.
And then you come by because you don't know where everyone else is.
You start touching and caressing Dennis' member and that's okay because you're wearing opera gloves.

I guess what I'm saying is that I could go with you, but you might be able to find another friend who will appreciate it more.
Maybe I'll turn this into a blog post...


And scene.

I hate these little videos that everyone has to watch these days.
These litte...y'know...videos.
YouTube is infested with these videos that you've 'gotta see!'
This might turn into one of those.
If it hasn't already.
But, I hate to say, you gotta see it.


The real question is:
How did the young couple get their hands on what looks like an endangered animal?
The camerawork, disembodied hands, and whispered tones remind me of amateur porn.

No Dogs Go To Heaven

I don't fear car crashes, necessarily.
I just don't want to die while I'm listening to Oh What A Night.
Eerie.
That's not even the name of the song.
The name of the song is December, 1963.
It's like they knew they wanted to name the track after an early line in the song.
And they just didn't realize which one was going to catch on.
Anyway.
Careening into the woods while that's playing.
Boughs ripping out the windshield wipers.
I'm okay with dying in a hilarious way.
But I'd prefer someone was around to witness it.
For example, I'd be mad at the piano movers for losing their grip on the rope.
But at least they'd have a good story to tell after the police reports.


While we're on the subject, music can fascinate me in some ways.
How it affects our brains and bodies.
Try listening to Ahead By A Century in a vehicle by yourself.
And see if you get to the end before you start bellowing the lyrics.
Can't do it, can you?

Sometimes people ask, "What will become of me when I die?"
Someone needs to be compassionate enough to tell them that the answer is "Compost."
So these people can move on with (what's left of) their lives.
I knew my thoughts on the afterlife when I was very young.
I would say, "What was it like for you in 1812?"
Response.
"Exactly."
Nothingness is nothingness is nothingness.
Sure, that's a real downer of a concept.
But that's not to say it's an irrational one.
We insist on afterlives and whatnot.
But I can't fathom why.
Eternity wouldn't be so selective.
If humans were granted an afterlife, so too would ants.
And skunks.
And Jack Thompson.
Just doesn't seem right.
Our souls don't transcend fictitious borders after we fall off of a cliff.
We're just really smart.
Relatively speaking.
Life is now.
Keep that in mind while you're eating ravioli in a veal stock.
Or you're fucking your sister's friend that you've been keen on for a decade.
Of course, I sure hope that I'm wrong.
But, as always, I doubt it.

Y'know, I once sent Jack Thompson an e-mail telling him to go fuck himself.
Wonder if he got it...

A Little Bird Told Me

It took me some time, but I have finally figured out the purpose of Twitter.
It's to justify not writing in your blog for a couple of days.