I have to give you all of the information from our trip before I forget that we went on a trip.
This is an easy place to start because it's already written (though it's not terribly chronological).
I knew a guy who was terribly chronological once.
On time for everything, and he was always a prick about it.
Always knew what the day's date was and he had a real attitude about timelines.
Anyway, we went on a tour of The Cliffs of Moher (pronounced 'Mo-Hair', 'Mo-Er', or 'More'. I have no idea which).
Perhaps our most tourist-y gallivant, we boarded a sightseeing coach that we managed to get on within seconds of their leaving.
Andie and I are not terribly chronological, luckily.
Here's a rundown:
9:55 - Due to leave at 10, Andie and I avoid traffic as we run (twice in the wrong direction) to catch the Galway Tours bus.
10 - Eamon convinces us to buy tickets, at 25€ apiece. With no bank machines in sight and no time, we now have our tickets and 15€ between us.
10:05 - Eamon starts the engine and unsuccessfully tries to endear himself to the full bus of tourists. Andie and I are forced to sit separately. Some guy asks me what my shirt says (it says "Uncle Paul Fart Face").
10:10 - I begin listening to music on my phone to tune out Eamon, who is not charming enough to endure this early in the day on no food. With 7% battery following a non-breakfast, tensions are high.
10:27 - Eamon describes the water tower.
10:28 - I see a cow that looks suspiciously dead. Eamon asks if we believe in faeries.
10:40 - I worry the lady in the seat next to me is not enjoying the tour.
10:45 - Eamon somehow reverses our bus into a parking lot. During our first stop he encourages us to photograph an ancient ruin while Andie and I instead look for coffee and food. We find neither. We pat a German Shepherd and get back on the bus.
11:01 - Sheep!
11:20 - Eamon continues to unimpress the passengers--myself included.
11:33 - We visit an ancient abbey and Andie asks Eamon about a coffee break; one is forthcoming. Meanwhile, sparks are flying between myself and the utterly silent woman sitting next to me. As a consequence, everyone's spirits are improving.
12:16 - The bus possé halts in The Burren for snacks and the fascilities. With no card services at the café, we spend all but four of our euros on a bacon sandwich and carrot cake. I hold brief conversation with a presumed lesbian from California.
1:02 - We pause in a dale of sorts and walk in a full circle around the area, noting its beauty while avoiding its many tripping hazards. We do this as a group, but we do not hold hands.
1:13 - The fellow wary of my t-shirt informs some dames from North Carolina that he is from Texas. I admonish him for owning guns (in my head). I continue to notice the sad countenance of my seat-mate. I also take first notice of the size of her breasts and try to get a better look at them.
1:15-? - I nap.
2:00 - We take lunch at Gus 'O Connor's, which ends up being a wonderful meal. We browse overpriced knitwear before returning to the bus.
2:43 - Eamon drives away from the rest stop, noting that we are "short one person" while doing so. Bus passengers exchange sideways glances at this news as an American fellow presents himself behind the bus by waving his arms frequently. Eamon continues to drive away to the delight of the other passengers--myself included. He eventually stops and collects the stray idiot.
3:00 - We arrive at the Cliffs of Moher and vacate the tour bus, but not before Eamon's stressing that he would be leaving the parking lot at 4:30 sharp, with or without any of us. Andie and I note the beauty of the cliffs and take many photos.
3:05 - She and I notice a coast guard helicopter in flight, as well as a coast guard boat in the harbour. I dismiss this as a 'drill' while Andie suggests they are in search of a human body.
3:30 - We pass many wide-eyed cows and tourists. I feel greatly intimidated by the depth of the cliffs and keep great distance from their edging. We pass buffoons standing at the cliff's precipice who are posing for photographs. I accuse them of likely being arachnophobics who do not know what they should be afraid of.
4:05 - We note our nearing the 4:30 departure time and decide to begin the hike back, taking Eamon at his word. The returning trek, uphill, proves far more challenging than the walk down had been.
4:15 - We stop at the gift shop for iced cream. The Texan gentleman asks for a euro coin to smoosh in the Euro Smoosher, giving us a 2€ coin in return. I decide I should be less hard on strangers.
4:30 - We return to the bus and depart. I make more attempts to view my seatmate's breasts through false stretching, etc.
5:00-5:45 - Eamon describes the coast as I try unsuccessfully to nap again.
5:38 - Alpacas!
6:01 - A black and white dog comes out of a house on our route to do a little dance. This appears to be the highlight of the tour for most passengers.
6:01-6:30 - We continue to the bus depot. En route, Eamon mentions the circling helicopters and boats, saying it was rumored someone jumped from the Cliffs of Moher that day. The bus quieted, yet I myself felt nothing new. Tripping over one's own shoelace to plummet 702ft is one thing, but as for jumping, well...we all must make our own choices. Personally, I would choose not to waste the time of the national coast guard when I didn't need saving, but then, some people are very selfish.
Showing posts with label me being late. Show all posts
Showing posts with label me being late. Show all posts
Friday, July 3, 2015
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Odd Man Out
My friends-my penis friends, that is-they think that I'm different on purpose.
That I just look at what they're doing and then I do the opposite.
To, y'know, stand out.
I don't need to put in effort to stand out.
My gap-toothed, hee-haw appearance gurantees that.
When I'm the guy on the flight who spills his shot-sized cup of coffee on his lap.
While the plane's still over the island.
I don't need to work at it. I stand out whether I like it or not.
I like it.
But still.
I don't avoid Wal-Mart because it's trendy to avoid Wal-Mart.
I avoid Wal-Mart because when I walk in there my brain immediately begins slamming itself against the wall of my skull.
Until I leave.
Because it's trying to escape.
It's a breeding ground for people who wear black jogging pants to 'dress up.'
Who communicate with their families by shouting obscenities.
I don't give a fuck if I'm saving 85 cents on orange juice if I have to buy it in that environment.
We did Cora's last monthish.
I showed up last.
Cause I'm always late.
I am punctuality's anti-Christ.
My penis friends are right on that one. No arguments here.
Anyway, I show up last.
They're already seated.
And all of 'em. Missuses. All of 'em.
They start laughing as soon as they look at me.
And I don't know why.
Turns out it's because I looked so gross.
Which is why I ran into my ex-girlfriend's entire family during the same breakfast.
Existence isn't a treat for me.
But at least there's fresh fruit.
Don't get me wrong.
I'm just whinging, as the Australians say.
I wouldn't trade 'em for all of the gold in Ja Rule's mouth.
That I just look at what they're doing and then I do the opposite.
To, y'know, stand out.
I don't need to put in effort to stand out.
My gap-toothed, hee-haw appearance gurantees that.
When I'm the guy on the flight who spills his shot-sized cup of coffee on his lap.
While the plane's still over the island.
I don't need to work at it. I stand out whether I like it or not.
I like it.
But still.
I don't avoid Wal-Mart because it's trendy to avoid Wal-Mart.
I avoid Wal-Mart because when I walk in there my brain immediately begins slamming itself against the wall of my skull.
Until I leave.
Because it's trying to escape.
It's a breeding ground for people who wear black jogging pants to 'dress up.'
Who communicate with their families by shouting obscenities.
I don't give a fuck if I'm saving 85 cents on orange juice if I have to buy it in that environment.
We did Cora's last monthish.
I showed up last.
Cause I'm always late.
I am punctuality's anti-Christ.
My penis friends are right on that one. No arguments here.
Anyway, I show up last.
They're already seated.
And all of 'em. Missuses. All of 'em.
They start laughing as soon as they look at me.
And I don't know why.
Turns out it's because I looked so gross.
Which is why I ran into my ex-girlfriend's entire family during the same breakfast.
Existence isn't a treat for me.
But at least there's fresh fruit.
Don't get me wrong.
I'm just whinging, as the Australians say.
I wouldn't trade 'em for all of the gold in Ja Rule's mouth.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
"Telefonda!"
Chew your coffee beans, everyone.
I don't really have a whole lot to talk about, I suppose.
My set on Sunday was killer.
I had sex with three women from the audience.
And two men.
This is what comedy affords you.
That, and a penchant for suit jackets.
I can't remember Monday, but I'm sure that it happened.
Yesterday I had a wee guitar lesson with Shandera.
Smoothed his cats.
I like his cats.
One of them desperately needs my attention (specifically) as soon as I arrive at Shandera's.
Of course, it's tougher for her now.
Cause she has to get around the dog first.
The other cat I almost like more because he just seems like he can never really be fucked to do anything.
Am I talking about other people's pets?
I used to be an interessting man, you know.
I used to live next to a guy from Turkey.
He yelled, on the phone, in Turkish.
It was terrifying.
I had coffee with Martin yesterday evening.
I was half an hour late.
She would have known that I was behind schedule if I'd remembered her phone number.
But instead of calling her I called some confused woman.
I also drove in the wrong direction for a while.
Then I had to buy some gas because I really thought that I might run out.
Ever experience that?
Or are you people too organized?
You're driving, and you're incessantly eyeing the gas gauge.
And you're starting to mull contingencies in the back of your mind.
Cause 'this might happen'.
Erika Tuck walked in while we were seated.
Makes sense.
Artsy kinda place. She reads books.
I assume.
I don't really have a whole lot to talk about, I suppose.
My set on Sunday was killer.
I had sex with three women from the audience.
And two men.
This is what comedy affords you.
That, and a penchant for suit jackets.
I can't remember Monday, but I'm sure that it happened.
Yesterday I had a wee guitar lesson with Shandera.
Smoothed his cats.
I like his cats.
One of them desperately needs my attention (specifically) as soon as I arrive at Shandera's.
Of course, it's tougher for her now.
Cause she has to get around the dog first.
The other cat I almost like more because he just seems like he can never really be fucked to do anything.
Am I talking about other people's pets?
I used to be an interessting man, you know.
I used to live next to a guy from Turkey.
He yelled, on the phone, in Turkish.
It was terrifying.
I had coffee with Martin yesterday evening.
I was half an hour late.
She would have known that I was behind schedule if I'd remembered her phone number.
But instead of calling her I called some confused woman.
I also drove in the wrong direction for a while.
Then I had to buy some gas because I really thought that I might run out.
Ever experience that?
Or are you people too organized?
You're driving, and you're incessantly eyeing the gas gauge.
And you're starting to mull contingencies in the back of your mind.
Cause 'this might happen'.
Erika Tuck walked in while we were seated.
Makes sense.
Artsy kinda place. She reads books.
I assume.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
A Brunch of Strawberries
Here I am.
Abolish Sundays.
How is everyone doing?
I'm dressed well and cleaning my apartment.
That is to say, I'm making the apartment look more like a messy two bedroom and less like some hasbeen bachelor's pad.
Yesterday morning.
There's a brunch (whatever that is) at Cora's.
Because Bussey is going to some part of Newfoundland that people in St. John's only hear of, and never actually go to.
I have no idea where it is. South coast, I think.
Now, first of all, assholes, yes, I was late showing up.
But, only for beverages. I was on time for the ordering of food.
That's the first thing anyone mentions when I try to re-tell this.
Me and my predictable behaviour.
Anyway, I order a waffle, alright? With strawberries on it.
We're a table of nine.
She eventually brings out everyone else's food.
And I'm sitting there.
Everyone starts eating.
I'm waiting.
Eventually, and I'm talking ten minutes later, she swings by our table, looks over the crowd, sees that someone at her table isn't eating, and she takes out her pad and starts looking at it.
This is a shitty waitress, everyone (a lot of the time it's the cook's fault).
I call to her, "Waffles!"
Anyway, whatever. I get them.
I start picking at my strawberries.
I glance at Butler's plate, and it's empty.
French toast, sausages. All gone.
That's how long I was waiting.
And I'm so shocked, I exclaim, "You're fucking done?!" with no sense of volume control.
There was an elderly couple sitting very close to us.
Two of em.
Or a 'deuce,' as they say in the industry.
In other exhalations, today is international weed smoking day.
I only learned this after my stint in Banff.
...Where I lived with potheads.
Alright, I'm gonna go pack a bowl.
And play 'Marco-Polo' with my cordless phone.
Abolish Sundays.
How is everyone doing?
I'm dressed well and cleaning my apartment.
That is to say, I'm making the apartment look more like a messy two bedroom and less like some hasbeen bachelor's pad.
Yesterday morning.
There's a brunch (whatever that is) at Cora's.
Because Bussey is going to some part of Newfoundland that people in St. John's only hear of, and never actually go to.
I have no idea where it is. South coast, I think.
Now, first of all, assholes, yes, I was late showing up.
But, only for beverages. I was on time for the ordering of food.
That's the first thing anyone mentions when I try to re-tell this.
Me and my predictable behaviour.
Anyway, I order a waffle, alright? With strawberries on it.
We're a table of nine.
She eventually brings out everyone else's food.
And I'm sitting there.
Everyone starts eating.
I'm waiting.
Eventually, and I'm talking ten minutes later, she swings by our table, looks over the crowd, sees that someone at her table isn't eating, and she takes out her pad and starts looking at it.
This is a shitty waitress, everyone (a lot of the time it's the cook's fault).
I call to her, "Waffles!"
Anyway, whatever. I get them.
I start picking at my strawberries.
I glance at Butler's plate, and it's empty.
French toast, sausages. All gone.
That's how long I was waiting.
And I'm so shocked, I exclaim, "You're fucking done?!" with no sense of volume control.
There was an elderly couple sitting very close to us.
Two of em.
Or a 'deuce,' as they say in the industry.
In other exhalations, today is international weed smoking day.
I only learned this after my stint in Banff.
...Where I lived with potheads.
Alright, I'm gonna go pack a bowl.
And play 'Marco-Polo' with my cordless phone.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Everything Important
See? I told you. Once classes begin, I'll have more to say.
So, I'm heading to my modern revolutions class.
My first.
Everyone else's second.
Because, as I always claim, that first class is mostly formality, really.
I enter the classroom. And I'm late, I'll admit. But by seconds.
Two minutes, tops.
I prepare to sit, but the professor, who is a (very) petite Indian woman whom I have never encountered, speaks to me before I get the chance.
"Young man...? Were you here for Tuesday's class?"
I am the centre of attention.
This is fine.
"No, no I wasn't."
"Come here."
I am wondering if the rest of the class is finding this as questionable as I am.
I go there.
She says, "You have missed the readings, you have missed the assignment sheet, you have missed everything that is important."
My first class with this person.
I have been in the room for about thiry seconds, and this is what she is saying to me.
It goes on. She asks if I know anyone in the class, and get their notes, and blah blah.
I just enjoy the way she worded that sentence.
Later, on bibliographies and internet citation:
"...and don't just give me a bunch of www dot whatever, or you'll get a www dot fail dot com."
I was barely paying attention by this point because about two minutes after my introduction to this person, I'd said to myself, "Well, I'm dropping this class."
After the dot com comment, I have decided to stay in it.
So, I'm heading to my modern revolutions class.
My first.
Everyone else's second.
Because, as I always claim, that first class is mostly formality, really.
I enter the classroom. And I'm late, I'll admit. But by seconds.
Two minutes, tops.
I prepare to sit, but the professor, who is a (very) petite Indian woman whom I have never encountered, speaks to me before I get the chance.
"Young man...? Were you here for Tuesday's class?"
I am the centre of attention.
This is fine.
"No, no I wasn't."
"Come here."
I am wondering if the rest of the class is finding this as questionable as I am.
I go there.
She says, "You have missed the readings, you have missed the assignment sheet, you have missed everything that is important."
My first class with this person.
I have been in the room for about thiry seconds, and this is what she is saying to me.
It goes on. She asks if I know anyone in the class, and get their notes, and blah blah.
I just enjoy the way she worded that sentence.
Later, on bibliographies and internet citation:
"...and don't just give me a bunch of www dot whatever, or you'll get a www dot fail dot com."
I was barely paying attention by this point because about two minutes after my introduction to this person, I'd said to myself, "Well, I'm dropping this class."
After the dot com comment, I have decided to stay in it.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Idling
I am in a library. A large one.
I was late this morning. When a procrastinator shares a car, it is a considerable deterrent from even bothering to try.
I snooze. My cell phone has a five minute snooze. This is an insufficient amount of time.
Ideally, you want your snooze to be between 8 and 12 minutes. Less than that and you feel unfilfilled. More than that and you are too asleep. Dreams start to surface and take shape, and you'll just start to get into the plot. Of the dream.
I prepare myself. I forget that I have to collect the car from the CONA parking lot. To reach this parking lot it takes ten minutes.
I do not have my backpack. I assume it is in the car which is in the parking lot (and the bog down in the valley-oh).
I begin walking. About three minutes.
I go back to get coffee change and nutrigrain bars.
I begin walking again.
CONA requires a much larger parking lot.
My backpack is not in the car.
So much for handing in that loan info today.
I have one pen. That's it.
I park where I'm not supposed to.
I remove from a bulletin board a posting some math tutor put up.
I write notes on the back of it.
I leave.
I remove the parking ticket from my windshield.
I park more discreetly.
I have awkward conversation with an ex-girlfriend friend.
I talk to Tracey and Aaron (he invented bluekaffee. He is smart).
I talk to Martin. I tell her that I need deoderant. She agrees that it is probably a good idea. Because I have no classroom friends yet.
I'm not really looking for them.
Hippies don't wear deoderant.
I buy coffee number two. I spill coffee over my hand.
Coffee is hot.
All men dress the same.
My sock choices make sense, really.
I was late this morning. When a procrastinator shares a car, it is a considerable deterrent from even bothering to try.
I snooze. My cell phone has a five minute snooze. This is an insufficient amount of time.
Ideally, you want your snooze to be between 8 and 12 minutes. Less than that and you feel unfilfilled. More than that and you are too asleep. Dreams start to surface and take shape, and you'll just start to get into the plot. Of the dream.
I prepare myself. I forget that I have to collect the car from the CONA parking lot. To reach this parking lot it takes ten minutes.
I do not have my backpack. I assume it is in the car which is in the parking lot (and the bog down in the valley-oh).
I begin walking. About three minutes.
I go back to get coffee change and nutrigrain bars.
I begin walking again.
CONA requires a much larger parking lot.
My backpack is not in the car.
So much for handing in that loan info today.
I have one pen. That's it.
I park where I'm not supposed to.
I remove from a bulletin board a posting some math tutor put up.
I write notes on the back of it.
I leave.
I remove the parking ticket from my windshield.
I park more discreetly.
I have awkward conversation with an ex-girlfriend friend.
I talk to Tracey and Aaron (he invented bluekaffee. He is smart).
I talk to Martin. I tell her that I need deoderant. She agrees that it is probably a good idea. Because I have no classroom friends yet.
I'm not really looking for them.
Hippies don't wear deoderant.
I buy coffee number two. I spill coffee over my hand.
Coffee is hot.
All men dress the same.
My sock choices make sense, really.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
For Par
I'm not even joking.
I know that it would likely seem, after my saying "I'm a natural golfer", that I would be joking.
I got par on a hole. Aparantly that doesn't happen the first time that you hit the links.
Why do they call them links? I can't understand that.
Topless picture to the first person to tell me.
I was outrightly disturbed and unsettled at how much fun I had.
Which is why I went again a few days later.
It is 11 in the morning. I am awake, despite being awake until 5 in the morning some hours prior.
Due to Bioshock. Going to get game of the year. Mark my words. And the words of thousands of other shmucks.
My parents are to come into St. John's because my brother and I have to move from our upstairs apartment to the downstairs apartment in the same house.
My brother is very passionate about seclusion.
I move my entire room by myself rather than waiting for them to get here.
Because our tee time is 2:57. And I do not want my mother to attempt to stop me from golfing.
So, I move an entire bedroom in the span of two hours on my own.
There is a dresser. And a shelf. All that is left at the end is my bed.
That sticky tac shit that I use to paste photos to my wall? I'm scraping it off with a butter knife.
I just want to play golf that desperately.
My parents show as I finish moving our frozen goods. They start as Peter shows up.
I make us late.
Winds are 30km/h, gusting to 50.
There are few people on the links on this particular day.
My thoughts on golf, if you're waiting for them:
It makes me sweaty enough, and stiff enough to be considered a sport.
However, we choose to walk, and my first round is on a very hot day.
If you golf with a cart, and it's overcast outside, the game qualifies as a passtime, at best.
Alcohol is allowed on the course.
Come on.
As a general rule, sports will restrict the consumption of alcohol to spectators rather than participants.
Shandera calls it "whack-fuck" because that's what he says when he plays. My brother laughs every time I use the term.
It's the only instance I have encountered in which a light (or 'lite') beer is the better avenue. Because a heavier beer would make you bloaty during your drives, and you don't want to get too tipsy before the last few holes.
The eighth is a doozy, and the ninth is a real bastard.
Peter usually throws a club on the ninth.
I once finished a round of sex with a girl, and immediately said "That was a doozy" afterwards.
I may and will say random things after intercourse. I feel obliged to be immediately entertaining because the girl in question has to put up with my feeble lovemaking attempts.
And she didn't know what 'doozy' meant. So, naked, hovering over her, somewhat sweaty, I explain the expression to her.
If you have someone shooting in front of you, you're supposed to lean on your club and look impatient as you wait.
Because that is what all of our predecessors do. ...Our golf predecessors.
I have meant to exercise a little. And I have been trying to at least run into nature in passing, from time to time.
I am lining up a putt, with my cheek to the green, and I have my three idiot childhood friends cursing and mocking in a circle around me.
I am laying on the ground. It's manicured, but it's very real.
And I decide that golf isn't so bad.
Don't worry. I washed the butter knife.
I know that it would likely seem, after my saying "I'm a natural golfer", that I would be joking.
I got par on a hole. Aparantly that doesn't happen the first time that you hit the links.
Why do they call them links? I can't understand that.
Topless picture to the first person to tell me.
I was outrightly disturbed and unsettled at how much fun I had.
Which is why I went again a few days later.
It is 11 in the morning. I am awake, despite being awake until 5 in the morning some hours prior.
Due to Bioshock. Going to get game of the year. Mark my words. And the words of thousands of other shmucks.
My parents are to come into St. John's because my brother and I have to move from our upstairs apartment to the downstairs apartment in the same house.
My brother is very passionate about seclusion.
I move my entire room by myself rather than waiting for them to get here.
Because our tee time is 2:57. And I do not want my mother to attempt to stop me from golfing.
So, I move an entire bedroom in the span of two hours on my own.
There is a dresser. And a shelf. All that is left at the end is my bed.
That sticky tac shit that I use to paste photos to my wall? I'm scraping it off with a butter knife.
I just want to play golf that desperately.
My parents show as I finish moving our frozen goods. They start as Peter shows up.
I make us late.
Winds are 30km/h, gusting to 50.
There are few people on the links on this particular day.
My thoughts on golf, if you're waiting for them:
It makes me sweaty enough, and stiff enough to be considered a sport.
However, we choose to walk, and my first round is on a very hot day.
If you golf with a cart, and it's overcast outside, the game qualifies as a passtime, at best.
Alcohol is allowed on the course.
Come on.
As a general rule, sports will restrict the consumption of alcohol to spectators rather than participants.
Shandera calls it "whack-fuck" because that's what he says when he plays. My brother laughs every time I use the term.
It's the only instance I have encountered in which a light (or 'lite') beer is the better avenue. Because a heavier beer would make you bloaty during your drives, and you don't want to get too tipsy before the last few holes.
The eighth is a doozy, and the ninth is a real bastard.
Peter usually throws a club on the ninth.
I once finished a round of sex with a girl, and immediately said "That was a doozy" afterwards.
I may and will say random things after intercourse. I feel obliged to be immediately entertaining because the girl in question has to put up with my feeble lovemaking attempts.
And she didn't know what 'doozy' meant. So, naked, hovering over her, somewhat sweaty, I explain the expression to her.
If you have someone shooting in front of you, you're supposed to lean on your club and look impatient as you wait.
Because that is what all of our predecessors do. ...Our golf predecessors.
I have meant to exercise a little. And I have been trying to at least run into nature in passing, from time to time.
I am lining up a putt, with my cheek to the green, and I have my three idiot childhood friends cursing and mocking in a circle around me.
I am laying on the ground. It's manicured, but it's very real.
And I decide that golf isn't so bad.
Don't worry. I washed the butter knife.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Of Horus
My brother once commented on Kirk Bussey by saying that Kirk "doesn't really seem to say much."
Which is true.
But I told my brother that Kirk is easily one of the funniest people that I know. And you would swear he never tries.
If I found out after dying (we're entertaining the idea of an afterlife here, for a moment. My apologies to the particularly surly atheists) that one of the friends I grew up with had been an angel all along, Bussey would be my first guess.
It's his birthday. I am late. Appetizers have already been ordered, prepared, and delivered. I have just gotten off of work an hour and a half beforehand, you see.
We are in Swiss Chalet. A lot of families eat at Swiss Chalet. We are fortunately seated away from them.
Our waiter/server (whatever) is very good. I tell him I want only dessert. He informs me that I want the chocolate eruption cheesecake.
Perhaps I do. I have a penchant for cheesecake, after all, as any friend of mine worth his or her salt would know. Furhter, My rapture for chocolate has grown considerably since my time in Banff, which I contribute to great quantities of refer and individually wrapped brownies always being available at the 24 hour Mac's on Wolf Street.
So, perhaps I do. I peruse the fattness menu some more as everyone patiently waits.
The balls on this guy.
He says, "You want the chocolate eruption. I already wrote it down for you." Then he shows me his little pad thingy. And he has. I am so impressed that I agreed with him. This is how many men talk women into sex, I think.
"Of course you want to sleep with me. I bought condoms earlier today and a flask* of peach schnapps, see?"
None of this has anything to do with Bussey. I just wanted to mention that gutsy move with the cake. I'm going to marry that man, someday. Greg. Greg is the one I'm going to marry. I don't know his last name, but his eyes are blue. He works evening shifts.
Later, we are in Bussey's apartment. Men are sitting about. There is another cake. For Bussey.
Some of us suggest he cut the cake, make a crumb, and tell us who he is into**.
Bussey: "Why do I have to cut the cake?"
Us: "Because it's your birthday, b'y!"
Bussey: "Shouldn't someone else do it for me, then?"
Us: "No man! You got to make a crumb and tell us who your girlfriend is."
Bussey (as he gets out of his chair. more to himself than to us): "I think I'll get Miranda to cut it."
You would have to have grown up with him to get it. But Bussey sees and knows everything. He was likely a pharaoh in a past life.
One of the good pharaohs who used slaves as infrequently as possible.
*Flask is Newfie nomenclature for a 375ml bottle of liquor. For anyone who may not know.
**Is this birthday practice done everywhere? Or is this a Newfoundland thing as well?
Which is true.
But I told my brother that Kirk is easily one of the funniest people that I know. And you would swear he never tries.
If I found out after dying (we're entertaining the idea of an afterlife here, for a moment. My apologies to the particularly surly atheists) that one of the friends I grew up with had been an angel all along, Bussey would be my first guess.
It's his birthday. I am late. Appetizers have already been ordered, prepared, and delivered. I have just gotten off of work an hour and a half beforehand, you see.
We are in Swiss Chalet. A lot of families eat at Swiss Chalet. We are fortunately seated away from them.
Our waiter/server (whatever) is very good. I tell him I want only dessert. He informs me that I want the chocolate eruption cheesecake.
Perhaps I do. I have a penchant for cheesecake, after all, as any friend of mine worth his or her salt would know. Furhter, My rapture for chocolate has grown considerably since my time in Banff, which I contribute to great quantities of refer and individually wrapped brownies always being available at the 24 hour Mac's on Wolf Street.
So, perhaps I do. I peruse the fattness menu some more as everyone patiently waits.
The balls on this guy.
He says, "You want the chocolate eruption. I already wrote it down for you." Then he shows me his little pad thingy. And he has. I am so impressed that I agreed with him. This is how many men talk women into sex, I think.
"Of course you want to sleep with me. I bought condoms earlier today and a flask* of peach schnapps, see?"
None of this has anything to do with Bussey. I just wanted to mention that gutsy move with the cake. I'm going to marry that man, someday. Greg. Greg is the one I'm going to marry. I don't know his last name, but his eyes are blue. He works evening shifts.
Later, we are in Bussey's apartment. Men are sitting about. There is another cake. For Bussey.
Some of us suggest he cut the cake, make a crumb, and tell us who he is into**.
Bussey: "Why do I have to cut the cake?"
Us: "Because it's your birthday, b'y!"
Bussey: "Shouldn't someone else do it for me, then?"
Us: "No man! You got to make a crumb and tell us who your girlfriend is."
Bussey (as he gets out of his chair. more to himself than to us): "I think I'll get Miranda to cut it."
You would have to have grown up with him to get it. But Bussey sees and knows everything. He was likely a pharaoh in a past life.
One of the good pharaohs who used slaves as infrequently as possible.
*Flask is Newfie nomenclature for a 375ml bottle of liquor. For anyone who may not know.
**Is this birthday practice done everywhere? Or is this a Newfoundland thing as well?
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