A Job (To Do)

Is this a hurricane?
I can't tell if this is a hurricane or  not.
I know it's not a day to look at women while I pretend to enjoy the beach.
So I'm staying inside.
Are all of you people at work?
You are?
Drag.
I'd bet you can afford a can of Coca-Cola from time to time, though, can't you?
Well, that's not bad. 

I participated in a comedy contest last night.
The only way to be a cool guy in one of these things is to act like it's no big deal.
Which it isn't, really.
The winner of this particular contest is chosen through online voting.
It's the sort of thing that's going to go to the Mark Days of the world.
Talentless, big-headed men with too many friends.
I had to do five minutes.
I opened by equating participation in a comedy contest to sticking your tongue on a battery when no one's looking.
And then swallowing the battery.
Then I asked how much time that ate up.
Felt great.

I have an apartment in Halifax now.
Which is really something.
Guess I'm doing this.
All that remains now is a job.
Just once.
Just once in my life I'd like to have a job like the ones you people have.
Where you surf around on the internet for half of the day.
Because no one's truly paying attention to you.
And several of your co-workers don't even know what your job is.
Or theirs, for that matter. 
Perhaps a situation where I can read all day.
A used bookstore near some train tracks that no one ever goes to.
Except for that one fair-skinned woman with the long cardigans.
And leather bodice!
Looking for mint copies of Harry Potter to sell to people in Africa via Ebay.
I'll probably be pumping gas.

I went to Trapper John's last night with Peter White, Brian Alyward, Andrew Ivimey, and herself.
Ivimey's ego had to get the bus down and meet up with us later.
Crammed into my mother's car, we jammed to Lauryn Hill on the way down.
Don't blow away out there today.

On the Other's Land

It's hard to concentrate because I'm listening to Enid right now.
And that song always gets me.
"...and every time I remember the taste of your lip gloss."
That's me.
I'm enid.

The internet, when you size it up, is the sum of humanity's knowledge this far.
It's everything that we have.
Whatever we have done or intend to do. That's the internet.
So, is it just me that considers it fucked to see that the most important search of the day is:
Smoking Orangutan.
I am the only one who thinks that's fucked, aren't I?
Sure, it's adorable because it's a monkey doing something
(Kind of how evolved versions of us will look at current versions of us),
But couldn't they have had the monkey do something healthier?
Like chewing gum.  
Ever feel like you were born in the wrong century or decade?

Coincidence can be so tender sometimes.
I played some Randy Travis for Avril the other day.
For no real reason, particularly.
Aside from Randy's being the fucking man.
All of these Tim McGrath cowboy hat jerkoffs don't deserve to tie Randy's bolo.
Anyway!
Avril has this unit nextdoor neighbor who enjoys playing Kixx Country at full blast in the middle of the afternoon.
He probably enjoys a bunch of other things that I'd consider intrusive.
I think he deals drugs.
Whenever he walks up the steps to his front porch, he does so really slowly.
While glowering and glancing up and down the street.
That's not a normal way to enter your house.
Also, he has a small motorhome.
People who own and maintain small motorhomes either deal or grow drugs.
We've all seen Breaking Bad.
Avril and I have sex and then we stop having sex.
She's loosening the ball gag when it dawns on me:
"Randy Travis!" I shout.
And then I point at the ceiling.
Because that's what I do when I'm referring to music currently playing.
And if I think Jesus is nearby.
I point at the ceiling then too.
The very same song I had played for her.
Now for you...

Kids' Stuff

They say that accidents tend to happen in the home.
But I usually knock up women behind the mall.

I'm going to have a kid alright.
I might have dozens of them, just for the sake of racial and language variety.
The spice of life, you know.
Because if I have a kid, I can go into women's change rooms.
I see people taking kids into change rooms all the time.
No one ever seems to notice or care if the kid is the opposite gender to the ol' silhouette.
I can only assume it works if the parent is the opposite gender.
Mom used to bring me into the change room at the Aquarina.
Up on the counter, she'd turn me around so I wouldn't watch the women.
But then I'd just ogle them in the mirror.
Three or four years old.
Perversion is something ingrained.

Because more associates of mine are having babies, there are more things I have to act interested in.
The trickiest is definitly those ultrasound photos.
"Here's a picture of my baby."
Are you certain?
Maybe they mixed up the photos in the outbox and that's actually some Indian woman's baby.
How would you know?
Why would you even show these to other people?
"This is a picture of my fetus taken by the Mars space probe."
I just cannot feign enthusiasm over what looks like a photocopy that used too much ink.

I Can't Pretend

Peter Russell frightened me in the shower today.

With my parents away and my inhibitions skyrocketing, I showered with the door open.

Generally I shower with the door locked and the lights off.

It's just common curtosy.

Anyway, I'm singing the second verse of En Vogue's Don't Let Go.

Suddenly Peter's arm juts in front of me, holding a bar of soap.

Then he asks me if I want it.

Showering in front of other men has always terrified me.

I couldn't possibly act like I was comfortable while it was happening.

Which means I have something to hide.

Maybe I'm concerned that my penis will be larger or smaller than everyone else's.

(Smaller).

Domain Game

How about this, huh?
A new web address for a tired, broken old man.
This domain name may be just the ego-centric, Paul-centered shot in the arm this blog needs.
Avril surprised me with it.
While wearing one of those lingere pieces?
You know the ones.
All women wore them at all times in the 80s underneath their normal clothing.
Or so porno would have me believe.
Anyway, that Paul Warford football guy can go fuck himself.
He missed his chance.

Things are going to be different here at paulwarford.com.
I'm going to change this damned blog design for one thing.
I think I'll get some photos of those lawn ducks, y'know?
Those ducks that are made out of wood, and when it's windy their wings spin (flap) around?
Some of those would be fun.
And a picture of me...inside a fridge would be neat.
That could go across the header.
Where can I find an empty fridge, I wonder?
Besides the dump.
Leave comments to suggest design elements the new blog could have.
Then I'll find one of my friends who's talented at web design to make the changes for free.
A search for 'wind propeller ducks' yielded this.
This isn't it.
But you know what I'm talking about.
Especially if you're from Newfoundland.
There's a house in Victoria that has a lawn full of them.
Anyway, we'll dig up some pictures somewhere.
Maybe me posing with live ducks...
Sorry.
These are things I could be thinking to myself, rather than mentioning them now.
I really like ducks, is all.
Leave your comments, goddamn you!
I distract all of you people from your miserable jobs on a regular basis.
It's the least you could do.

Mother's Milk OR Milking It (For the Time Being)

Always on the forefront of trends, some five years later, the NTV news will soon be broadcast in HD.
When this happens, viewers will finally learn that Lynn Burry is just Fred Hutton in a wig.
If I had any passion for photoshop, I'd find a picture of Fred Hutton and make that image for you.

So, I'm moving to Halifax.
Don't ask me why.
Well, I can tell you why.
Same reason teen pregnancy is on the rise:
Peter White.
He stole my mom's spare set of car keys, and he told me that he'd only give them back if I moved there.
October 6th.
As good a day as any to leave your parents' rec room and start having sexual experiences.

Every night that I go to bed, I take a giant glass of milk with me.
Bunch of reasons:

Reason Number One:
I love eating in bed, and that piece of chocolate cake isn't going to wash itself down.
I also love milk more than most liquids (piss!).

Reason Number Two:
I hate ending the day because it might be my last one.
If I have a glass of milk, obviously I can't go to bed before drinking it or I'll waste the milk.
So, I have to stay up until the milk is gone.
Thus, therefore, or those three little dots, I can garner five extra minutes every day with which to live.

But here's the problem: I don't pay for the milk.
I don't pay for the chocolate cake.
I don't earn anything that I have.
It was great when I was a kid.
It's great now, by the way.
But it is getting old.  
I am getting old.
So I'm moving to Halifax.

*This post brought to you by Bell Media.
Watch Peter White's Comedy Now! airing tonight, September 2.
Also brought to you by Schneider's Naturals.
Enjoy Schneider's Country Naturals Bacon while watching Peter White's Comedy Now!

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.