"So the bear wiped his ass with the rabbit."

Morning.
I'm preparing to cram for an exam in what the Spanish call:
Des All-Nighter.
Not because my exam tomorrow will be that difficult.
Simply because I don't sleep the evening before exams anyway.
Why not put my worsening affliction to use?
Like the people with rickets who beg for change.

You know what I like about the Charmin company?
They managed to take the expression, "Hey, does a bear shit in the woods?" and turn it into an ad campaign.

Junk Post

Even the most anal of people have a junk drawer.
Granted, anal people have organized junk drawers, which sort of goes against the whole concept.
But it's not as though anal people exist on the same plane as us anyway.
Speaking of which, my junk drawer (more of a junk compartment) is due for a cleaning.
I intend to do this over the next few days.
And when I do, I have decided to itemize its entire contents.
Just to send the anal bozos reeling.
Upon initial examination, the compartment contains, minimally, at least one chicken bone.
I have absolutely no idea how it got in there.
I don't even have any guesses.
But it's there.
Along with who knows how much dated pornography?
Stay nearby.

The Most of Christmas Past

So, I finally bought a plant.
This happened two or three weeks ago now.
Made a trip to Home Depot with the missus and picked out a nice little ivy.
I think it's ivy. The tag said ivy, with another word in parenthesis.
We tried to look up the name, but were wholly unsuccessful.
I care not.
Whatever it was before, the plant is now a Warford.
I named it Huey.
It looks like a Huey if you get close enough to it.
I'd take a picture of it for all of you, but that would involve finding my camera.
Finding batteries for the camera.
And then remembering what it was that I wanted to take a picture of.
It's all a little bit too much for me right now.
Cause I'm in the middle of exams.
Talk about exercises I'm vehemently opposed to.
Ditto for 'squats.'
I don't care for the name of that exercise, by the way.
To me it's perverse.

To dwell on seasons that I'm vehemently opposed to, it's winter now.
There's snow on the ground.
It's falling from the sky.
It's winter.
My mother and I have few things in common, but we both think winter is horseshit.
No matter how many we experience.
A Newfoundland winter is something that you simply cannot adjust to.
Who can adjust to being damp for seven months straight?
You know that stinging pain that you get in your ears when you walk in the wind for too long?
There's no getting used to that.
A pox on this place.
Some people actually prefer winter to other seasons.
Sick motherfuckers.
I think that if you legitimately enjoy winter, you should be legally required to shovel my driveway.
Maybe after this coalition (whatever the hell that is) business is over, we can get that into the legislature.

Did you know that there's a snack called Fiddle Faddle?
If you want to give her that special something this year...
"We Fiddle Faddle'd under the tree all night long."

So, I know what you're wondering:
"If I sell my old shuffle, can I afford a touch?"
No, you can't.
Besides, you should be wondering what it is that I want for Christmas.
Shirts and ties.
Well, it's not what I really want.
But it is what my future occupation dictates that I should want.
What I really want (and I know I've been over this) is a paintball gun.
Some paintballs.
And my youth back.
If I get what I want for Christmas, there are some things that I'm going to do differently.
First of all, if I relive my youth-no CLB.
No swim team (what a waste of my time. Have you seen me swim?).
Besides, swim team put me into contact with Sarah Turpin.
And now I can't get clear of her.
Finally, I think I'd grow my hair out in junior high, instead of waiting until university.
I think I could have been getting handjobs earlier, and more frequently.
Another item on everyone's wish list.

"One!...Two!...Three!..."

I'm kneeling on a kneeler.
I feel pious.
And uncomfortable.

Well, I just endured three weeks in a 5-day period.
Sarah Turpin is mad at me.
Tina Turner won't write me back.
It has been trying. That's all I can say.
It has been trying.

I ran into a maple tree once, did I ever tell you about that?
It was in Adam Powell's yard. We were playing tag.
I was 'it.'
I was always 'it.'
I hated being 'it.'
Because I was inferior to everyone.
Which caused me to do things like run head-on into trees.
Precisely what I did on this day when Justin Oates weaved out of the way.
I looked ridiculous because of the bump.
Adam's mom told me to stay awake because I might have a concussion.
And then I suppose she fed me something.
The boys stood around and taunted me until it was time for them to go home.
Then Adam taunted me. Until he fell asleep.
The same group also tricked me into eating dog food once.
I thought they were mints.
Because I was told that they were mints.
Dog food tastes awful.
No wonder they're always after our sausage links.
After I spit out the (second) piece, they laughed and laughed.
Like I said, I was always 'it.'
Especially when we weren't playing anything.

Put in my Place

I bought a Woody Allen book.
My justification being:
People say I look like him. I may as well study him.
I have learned from buying a Woody Allen book that I am too stupid to read Woody Allen.
I'm sure that he wouldn't be surprised.

Old dog. New licks.

If you think crows in the yard is a bad omen.
I speant the entire day with Sarah Turpin.
I slept during some of it, sure.
But I dreamt of her during that time.
It was a raw deal. Today was a raw deal.
School garbage is coming to its inevitable crescendo, during which I eat less.
And sweat more.
When it is all said and done I plan to either learn the accordian, or learn that I'm just not cut out to learn anything new.
Neither result would surprise me these days.

I learned this week that it is incredibly refreshing to curse in front of a baby.
The mother was eating pizza while the baby was near her...her teet.
And I asked her if she often got crumbs on her baby.
I'm wondering if that's bad for them.
Because I'm sure that my babies will be full of crumbs.
Especially when they're jammed between the seat cushions for a couple of days.

When I was at Ascension, I sometimes received special treatment.
I'll admit it.
For example:
When I sat in on my first Chemistry class ever, Mr. Clarke-
a man I had never met before-
said my name in role call, and then said "Alright Mr. Warford, I've got a seat right up front for you."
I received the exact same treatment in Mr. Keefe's first Physics class.
The question is, did they do this because they liked dad?
Or because they disliked him?
You know why I never started smoking while I was in school?
Because my brothers had eyes everywhere.
Being the youngest in a home-grown legacy has very few 'up' sides.

Jellybeans

Here's a fun idea:
You know those songs that you share with a girlfriend?
Boyfriend?
Group of European travelers that you fooled around with while drunk on Tequilla in Cancun?
The songs that immediately make you think of them?
Take all of those songs from all of your relationships.
Put them on a mixtape (or CD. You kids are into CDs these days).
Write on it, in magic marker:
MISTAKES I'VE MADE.
Then listen to them alone in your bedroom in the dark.
Accompany the activity with Scotch, if you think it will help.
It has helped countless others.

Da missus and I are sitting in Ches's.
At 1 a.m. on a Saturday (I think).
While we're waiting for our feeds, I turn to her and I say:
"It's over."
And she says, "No it's not."

I'd like to play a game of ice hockey before I die.
A slow-paced one.
Twenty bucks says that after someone helps me into all of my padding I'll have to go to the bathroom.

While I have them seated around me under the oak tree, I'll tell them:
"Things are different now than they were when I was your age, little ones.
When I was a kid, the red light next to the TV's power button meant it was 'On.'
Now it means that the TV is 'Off.' But these days people don't say 'Off.'
They say 'Standby.'"
But none of them will be listening.
Because they're the generation borne of the 'TV generation.'
Which, on the whole, makes them very inattentive.
Especially to old people.

Still Got It

One of the members of Platinum Blonde died today.
Platinum Blonde fans around the planet have donned black pirate shirts.
I happened upon a memorial earlier today in my travels.
It was a sad sight.
The stench of hairspray was overpowering.

You had to be there.
Let me point that out first.
But I'm in the CMC (Education library) yesterday.
While Turpin was reapplying her eyebrows.
Sometimes the glue gives way when she sweats a lot.
Anyway.
I see a girl from my observation day school.
I didn't attend on Friday.
So, I thought I'd ask her how the day went.
If there were any school shootings, or other occaisons of interest.
Turpin gets back (right brow askew) and I tell her the situation.
Then I approach the girl and start with, "Hi-"
And she says, "Hello" politely and walks away.
You had to see it.
But she gave me the brush-off like I was handing out hooker fliers.
Or coupons for a fried chicken place.
We were in the car before I had stopped laughing.
At myself.

Some Shockin' Good

Well, at least I've eaten.
This education mumbo jumbo has kept me effectively downtrodden since Sunday.
How bad has it been?
I woke up this morning saying the word 'fuck.'
Before I'd even opened my eyes.
The alarm went off and I just said it semi-conciously.
Like Pavlov's cracky.
It's not over yet.
But my capacity to care is dwindling forthwith.
I'm just biding my time 'til the next mixer.
Which I'm going to attend.
And I'm going to get piss-wasted.
Because I think I can really stir up these doe-eyed collegues of mine.
After a few white wine spritzers.
We should just start calling mixers what they really are:
Sexers.
Is that only funny to me?

In other mentoring, I've been e-mail fencing with Pete Soucy lately.
Don't let his frail appearance fool you; he's quite the firecracker.
Aren't these wicked?
Note: the kids' costumes in the Halowe'en picture.

An Arrr!gument

Alright.
Now, I know that this isn't something that I should glamorize.
They don't necessarily deserve to be applauded for their crimes.
Unlike, say, the Mafia.
But for some reason I find it refreshing that pirates still exist.
And they're still boarding ships and pillaging swag.
Sure, they use machine pistols these days, and they probably all have their limbs.
Instead of wooden appendages.
But, for the most part, and you'll have to agree, pirates are keeping it real.
If that expression even means anything.
How long has it been since mercantile shipping?
Trade routes, and sloops, and spices that cost a fortune and all of that?
Five centuries? More?
And yet, pirates have kept up with the times.
That says a lot about a criminal entity, I think.
It's not like bootleggers kept going after prohibition.
"Oh, people can buy booze again? Well, we had a good run."
Why didn't one bootlegger pipe up and say, "What if we bought beer for minors?"
That kinda thing.
But pirates. They sat around with their various parrots, and they discussed.

Pirate 1: Well, we're in a bit of a slump. Swashbuckling is down considerably.
Pirate 2: This is cause of that friggin' Internet! Everyone's trading with that now.
Pirate 3: And airplanes! They're using airplanes.
Pirate 1: Well, people still take cruises.

That's business sense.
That's integrity.

Set! ...Set?

You know how you spot the gym teacher?
When a volleyball hits the wall two inches from their head, they don't even look up.
Another observation day down, another path of molested children.
That's a joke.
So was the day.
I did some photocopying during a prep period and then I watched a volleyball lesson.
Three times in a row.
I could do an underhand serve for you no sweat.
Bump passes? Don't even worry about it.
You bend your knees to absorb the shock.
I don't have any advice for volleys, though.
That's next week's class, I guess.