Sour Grapes

Now is a good time to talk to you, I think. 

I have two folders, jammed with tests, that I need to correct. 

Now's a good time to tell you how I've been doing. 

"I'm miserable." 

That's what I tell people at school when they ask me at the coffee machine. 

They think I'm joking. 

I went to a party this weekend. 

There was a french man, and lots of guys who were broader than me. 
And likely still are. 

I smoked drugs by a hot water heater. 

Then I went upstairs to see that more guests had arrived. 

Women guests. 

Guests with breasts. 

I entered the living room and had a minor panic attack about where I should be standing. 

Then I drank more beer. 

Then I was fine. 

I can't remember any real highlights.

I was halfway through a cigarette with some man in a green shirt before I realized that he wasn't interesting enough, relative to the temperature, for me to continue talking to him.

I know I made a witty comment about almonds. 

And was immediately glad I had opened the tub. 

It was the first thing I tasted the next morning. 

The next thing I tasted was defeat. 

Just like every other morning. 

Peter and Turpin and I listened to portions of songs and drank portions of beer. 

I did not enjoy myself. 

And so I drank fewer portions. 

Then they yelled at me. 

Later they vomited and I didn't. 

I enjoyed myself a little more, then. 

Shoyden frauda. 

That's why. 

Who's up on their German? Who can spell it for me?

I know that Germans don't use 'Y' very often when they spell words. 

So that's probably wrong. 

They like 'O', though. Especially when it has little dots over it. 

Alright, this was stupid. 

I'm going to tell 60 students or so whether or not they know what 'tone' is. 

I barely know. 

The Sweetest Plum

Stupid fuckin' contest.
I didn't wanna win anyway.
Okay, fine, I did.
If John Sheehan had beaten me I would've been fine with it.
But then John Sheehan got in second place.
It wasn't until then that I thought, 'Jesus Christ, maybe I won this fuckin' thing.'
That's what bothered me about it all.
Because I was duped by the Warfords' greatest enemy:
Hope.
Then some other guy won.
So, then I not only didn't win, but I also didn't place and win a Molson bag.
He was funny, sure. He yelled a lot, but he was funny.
But he has never done comedy before the contest.
We paid dues.
I've had fat drunk men yell at me.
That's the thorn.
I'm gonna get some Thursday night 'spots', so I guess that's okay.
I wanted to ask if 'spots' meant 'paid', but figured that would be in poor taste.
And after already making a joke about 'boning the waitresses'-
a second time-
I figured I'd better scale back.

On the bright side, I wore bloomers today.
And delivered Shakespeare to a room of people who couldn't possibly be less interessted in Shakespeare.
Some heads looked up.
So that was nice.
And all it took was for me to wear a cape and some tights.

Of Banff

I appreciate that they look like assholes in the photo.
Listen to it anyway.

Chromosexual

The first caveman and woman to discover kissing must have been so satisfied with themselves.
Or first two women?
Because the men would've been hunting and gathering.
The women would've been grunting to one another:
"Let's put our lips on things."

...I just really wanted to use this title for a post.

Underbelly

I'm not even exaggerating.
Sometimes, though I've never really admitted it before, this song gets me choked up.
I have no idea why.
It might be the piano.
It might be because I work hard to get my fill.
And I, like everybody, want a thrill.
Now you know.
I'm really quite serious.
We had some assembly on Friday, and the student/teacher band performed this.
And I thought I was going to cause a scene in the gym.


I'm giving you the softer side of Warford this week. Not the softer, 'I'm-not-that-good-at-sports' side of Warford.
But the 'He-really-is-as-deep-as-he-is-in-my-dreams' side.

Two Bits

I never shave my jawline symmetrically. 

And doesn't that say it all?

Beyond The 'Old Apartment'

I have thoughts of learning this song.

And singing it off-key to some deserving female.

In our shared bedchamber.

But who, of who, could that be?

(And what are the chords?)

I'll do it tomorrow

I just sent Sarah Turpin a Facefuck message.

And, after telling her that the Doomsday device production is on schedule, I said:

"I'm so lazy. Oh my God, I'm so lazy."

Which is true.

I'm also becoming incredibly...shaded.

From the sun.

I could be a man in a cave. It's in me.

I don't mind being referred to as lazy.

As much as I don't mind being referred to as 'gangly.'

You call a spade a 'spade.'

I just wish that the term didn't sound so dirty.

Am I that unsavory?

"Yes," would be the short answer from the stock brokers and salmon sexers.

Who go out there every day and give it their all.

I give it my all every day as well.

To relaxation.

You tell me who's the dirty one.

(I know. It's still me).

Like most young lads, I too used to fantasize about my wedding day.

The song that would be played during the bride's eventual fleeing of the church.

For a while, and I'm embarrassed to say it, I was going to use 'There She Goes.'

But I think a lot of boys in junior high went through that phase.

I've somewhat settled on 'Take the Money and Run.'

There will be no money-taking involved, of course.

But it just seems to fit.

Anyway, I also decided from a young age:

I'm having my wedding on a Wednesday.

In February. Or January.

One of the shitty months.

Because everyone has their wedding during the summer on a weekend.

And that's bullshit.

It's clogging the nuptial industry.

But a wedding party's like an asshole group of tourists.

It's all 'me me me.'

Well fuck them.

Wednesday in February.

You can book the day off from work.

Because if there's stiff competition for a reservation at Fong's...

...something has gone wrong.

Teaching Starts in the Washroom

I'm trying to borrow a Shakespearean outfit. 

I've learned that jeans really do nothing to make my buttocks look supple. 

But maybe pantaloons...

My public life has shifted marginally. 

I can't wear shirts that say 'fuck' anymore. 

And that used to be my whole wardrobe. 

I still don't know how I'm going to get through this summer. 

There are so many strangers that I want to offend. 

But what do I do if those strangers come to parent-teacher night?

One of my students was in the bathroom last night. 

At the mall. 

One of my female students. 

"Hi Mr. Warford!" She's giggling. 

What else can I say? 

"Hi...you're in the wrong bathroom," I tell her. 

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to urinate after an encounter like that?

Relatively. 

I'm washing up (I wouldn't have bothered, but she was there), and she says:

"This must be very awkward for you." 

I say, "It's not that bad." 

And it wasn't. 

Because they're surprising me less and less these days.

While getting paper towels, I add, "Bye. Maybe I'll see you in a change room later."

Bottom Fed

This post had to be cut so I could get this blog back onto the public circuit.
Where I can offend globally once more.
So I'll keep the only line in the post that I really liked anyway.


Poor lobsters.
Only animal in the kingdom that tastes most delicious when boiled alive.

"Under the 'O'-old."

Where is your life when your proudest accomplishment is your Romeo & Juliet unit plan?

In the toilet. That's where. 

Sometimes I feel like I'm a unit. 

My grandmother turned 94 over the weekend. 

For those of you who haven't met her, she's frail. 

Which makes it all the easier to lift her during the keg stands. 

Ever attend a birthday in an old folks' home?

It's like attending a birthday for an infant, but with less balloons.

The room that the women in the floral shirts cleared aside for us had a bingo machine in there. 

Dad and Colin, needing to know how to fix whatever they encounter, poked at it and discussed its mechanics. 

"D'ere's a fan here that must suck the balls up out of it."

"Where's the motor to? Oh, there it is."

And so on. 

Then Dad turns it on, and bingo balls go all over the floor.