Take A Minute

Morning everybody.
Everyone seated?
Is someone taking the minutes?
Deb? You got this?
Deb?
...
Ever since Deb met that scuba diver guy she's become really unreliable.
Topher, this is your big day, buddy.
Take Deb's minutes.
Alright.
That's the minutes.
Where's our treasurer?
This is stupid. Let's move on.

If you have a kidnapping sex fantasy that means you hate your boyfriend.
When you stop to think about it, what else could it mean?

My brother and that wife of his are sending ultrasound photos of my tentative niece.
I have to be honest, while just writing that I realized I didn't even look at the pictures.
I'm going to tell them that I saw a pig's fetus recently that looked just like her.

I'm writing new angles on old blog topics now.
I'm not sure if that's a sign of refinement, or doom.

If you're the sort of parent who hears about negative youth behaviour and you think:
"Well, not my kids,"
Then it is your kids, and your kids specifically.
And when you were young, it was you.

In Lu of Common Sense

You know where the bathroom is.

It doesn't matter that you've never been in the house before. 

You know where the bathroom is. 

You don't need to ask. 

"These daiquiris are just working through me. 

Where is your bathroom? 

No wait! 

Don't tell me.

It's at the top of the stairs. 

It's at the end of the hall. 

It's the room with the soap and q-tips in it. 

It's the only room with an open door right now because you don't want me to see how unkempt you slobs keep your laundry room. 

It's the room that is in the same general location in every house built in the last two centuries. 

Let me know if I guess it."

How timid we all are. 

It could only be more obvious if you were sharing a prison cell. 

I think we ask where the bathroom is because we're secretly asking for permission to use it. 

Which may be the fault of our education system. 

What answer do you expect?

"The bathroom? It's in the basement, past the treadmill we never use."

"It is a hole in the backyard. 

And it's not a room. 

It's the backyard. You're looking for our bathyard. 

Which is obviously outside, stupid."

We've conquered irrigation. 

Grow up and just leave the dining table. 

Jimmy handles until you find it. 

What happens if you don't ask? 

Or they mistakenly tell you the third door instead of the second?

You drop a shit on their child's bed?

"It's not rude! You gave poor directions, frankly." 

I don't think so. 

I need to say this onstage, I think. 

That's why I seem so aggravated. 

It's not meant for you guys. 

It's everyone else. 

(And you guys).

Josh let me know about this band.
I'm only mentioning that because I just told him to drop by the blog.
Otherwise I would take credit for telling you about this disgusting band.

Hair. Plug.

Even though I feel awful every time I have a cigarette, I think there's a real market for them.

If only there was some way to have a child, get them to roll them, sell them at school, and reap the profits...

That's a back burner idea. 

Until then, it's sneakers and Gucci bags. 

I don't know why I walk to Starbucks to write these. 

It's pretty far from tranquility here. 

This place is jammed with monkeys and these machines make such a racket. 

So many women wear moccasins here. 

And not a one of them is Eskimo. 

It's fucked, y'know. 

The footwear women get away with. 

Hideous footwear. 

But I already talked about that. 

Searches I used to find this old blog post:

"I probably don't know what I'm talking about" (unsuccessful [though accurate]).

"dart my fucking eyes out" (for the win). 

Good thing we have those cell phones. 

Used to be that only doctors and drug dealers had to be on call. 

Now it's all of us. 

On call for absolutely nothing. 

When you reach a mature age, you begin keeping all of your spare change in a huge jar. 

And unless you bust it open to buy the re-re-release of The Lion King, you keep that jar. 

Until you turn 70. 

Then you use all of that accumulated change to pay for absolutely everything. 

Is that funny?

I said that onstage and got nothin'. 

The Internet is literacy's undoing. 

Don't believe me, ask the lolcats about it. 

They solved impotence. 

But they're still working on hair loss treatments. 

These bald dudes can't prioritize. 

As long as you can have sex when you're seventy, who gives a shit, y'know?

Who cares? Women will sleep with you anyway. 

Some woman will. 

You've had sex since you've been bald, right?

And it's not like baldness is your only problem, right?

There are worse physical afflictions. 

Half of the NBA surrenders their hair on purpose, and they fuck everything. 

Of course, they can drive to the net better than you can. 

But still. 

Indian women give up their hair for spiritual purity. 

And, unbeknownst to them, for bitches in L.A.

You don't hear them complaining. 

Buy some of that, graft it to your head, and fuck off with all your creams and gels. 

Scalp buffers and satellite, hair-growth laser beams. 

None of it is going to work. 

You're bald. 

But at least you can keep your penis hard. 

By the way, if you're a 30-something balding man, and you still mousse and gel what little remnants of hair (dignity) that you have, you're going to your death bed not understanding how to be cool. 

Stop trying. 

Well. 

That felt good. 

Sorry, Coombs, if you're reading this. 

You kind of got hit by the crossfire there. 

Coombs on CBC, everybody!

Airs November 19, the New Screech Comedy Festival!

Check out his jokes as the sheen of his polished, flawless scalp takes your breath away. 

Also on that show are John Sheehan, Trent McClellan. 

Hot stuff Sean Cullen. 

And Dan Akroyd says a few words before he goes out and gets fucked up on his own brand of wine. 

Unchained Malady

I don't really have a whole lot to give you people right now.
I just finished having some lunch with Nadders and Steph.
Nadine is from Elmsdale and she likes softball and highland dancing.
She's a Scorpio (possibly) and her birthday is exactly one month before mine.
Stephanie Rogers was once in a gang based out of Bridgewater.
She's from Lunenberg and she enjoys wrecking cars.
I'm writing this for their benifit.
Which is sort of silly because I'm confident they don't frequent this blog.
Their loss!

The day we live in a perfect world is the day they remove the post office pens from their chains.
I'm not sure that day will ever come.

You wish you had more anal sex analogies that had to do with professional sports?
Paul's here for ya.
"Lacey in receiving? I hear she takes it in the endzone."
I'm just writing down portions of things that-holy shit, that guy looked just like Matthew Broderick.
Being maried to Sarah Jessica Parker must make you feel like not wanting to have sex with your wife ever again.
Anyway, as I was saying, I don't really have any actual thoughts coming out of my head today.
So I'm regurgitating those I have thought of and written down beforehand.

Do you know why you hate your husband?
Because courtship isn't supposed to entail getting drunk and fucking some guy you met that day at the gym.

I saw some real, live Green Peace vest-wearers the other day.
I detached a wrist-thick piece or birch from a nearby tree and beat them mercilessly with it.
Shouting, "Here's some green piece for ya!"
Felt great.

Saving Some Scratch...

Don't ask me why I have the Baby Orajel.
I don't want to explain.
Just know that I have it. In my little laptop satchel.
I'm in Starbucks currently, and the woman sitting punching-distance behind me just said:
Well, I don't know what she said, exactly.
But it pertained to having a fussy baby.
And I felt an urge to reach into my bag, turn around and say:
"What your baby needs is Baby Orajel for babies.
Guaranteed to make your baby less irritating for at least an hour or two."
I have the wrong job.
Which is, well, no job, I guess.

"Spinning" is a generous term for spending an hour on a bike that doesn't go anywhere.
Have I said this before?
I feel as though I have...

The really attractive woman from American Pie is in a dandruff comercial.
She's the one that only I would have found attractive in American Pie.
The flute one.
Buffy.
She was on there, too.
And now she's doing that How I Met Your Mother.
A popular show.
It has Bob Saget.
It has Doogie Howser.
Some people who aren't really passionate about The Big Bang Theory still watch it.
So, why is she in the dandruff commercial?
Protocol is: Your career tanks, you do the Proactive informercial.
Shatner is selling cars.
Christ. Shatner isn't struggling.
Sure, the world needs resturant servers.
But the world will eventually need new actors and actresses as well.
Christopher Walken, against all logic, will die eventually.
Give some new up-and-comer the dandruff commercial.
What else do you do, Willow?
Go to the corner stores in your area every day and buy all of the scratch tickets that they have?
Share some with the rest of us.
As if you would ever have dandruff.
Like that's even possible.
Like you would ever actually use Head & Shoulders.
Your personal shampoo probably has rhinocerous extract in it.

Women. The Pitts.

Take the afternoon off on the secretary.
It's Friday.
It must be rough for Brad Pitt.
When you think about it.
Because he's fetching to all women, everywhere.
So, when Brad sits down and has a relaxing evening with his buddies (and he does do this.
Sometimes.
He has to)
Brad has to provide some astronomical number for sexual partners.
He can't count out three or four women.
"Well, there was Jennifer. And that one with the lips.
What's-her-name.
Looks like John Voight."
No good.
Brad Pitt isn't cool unless he's slept with at least thirty or forty women.
And those are generously low figures.
If he doesn't give the right answer, all of his buddies can and will mock him.
Causing Brad to storm out in a huff.
Get in the jet and fly away from the situation.
Hey, is Michael Pitt related to Brad?
He has the same delicious eyeball color...

I'm not really hot into debating.
Despite the number of women I date who are passionate about it.
But I do love debates that have no bearing on anything.
For example, Peter White and Bryant Thompson invited me into this one:
How many babies do you think you could kill if you were faced with hordes of babies...
...before getting tired?
That's a worthwhile discussion to me.
It really is.
Anyway, Family Feud may be my outlet for further questions.
The other day they posed this one:
Name something only an infant can fit into.
My answer was 'roasting pot.'
But, to challenge myself, I'm going to try and write a new answer every day.
Day two I came up with 'bread box.'
And today...
Shoebox.
I think you could get an infant into a shoebox if the baby was fresh enough.
It's a coincidence that both of these debates involve discomfort for babies.
I'm open to discuss any ludicrous situations you may want to delve into with me.

Speaking of ludicrous situations, Hallowe'en is approaching.
For all of my fellow drifters out there, I'll supply you at least one affordable costume idea:
Get a blanket.
Cup of cocao.
Don't shave for several days.
Wrap the blanket around yourself and carry the cocoa.
Tell people that you're a guy who got lost in the woods, and has just been rescued.
Not bad.
You could knock on a few doors with that one.
Get some Lays.
Some tiny, individually-wrapped orange gumballs.

The Last of Barrett's Privateers

I know.
I know.
I should have written before now.
You've been worried sick since I packed up all of my pairs of pants and moved to Halifax.
The coffee maker drips in your languid apartment.
And each 'plink' seems to say, "Paul...Paul...Paul..."
You need to get out more.
As I have.

I didn't want to write until I could communicate something truly Halifax to you.
I wanted to prove that I'm truly a Haligonian, properly embarassed by the stupid title.
'Haligonian' sounds like an extinct reptile of some sort.
It's not an appropriate name for a group of people who really enjoy used furniture.
Which doesn't coincide with the Halifax tidbit that I had fabricated to tell you people.
As I was getting my morning apple (Sobey's apples are shit) I thought:
I'll tell everyone that the people of Halifax all enjoy inflatable furniture.
And that is all there is to know about them.
But I just ruined that.
We're moving on.

Next paragraph!

So, I have a room in a house.
I have a bed.
I have a weed contact.
I do not have a job.
I do not have anyone to have sex with (yet).
I do not have an end table.
It has been great.
It has been okay.

This city is tiny and so I walk everywhere these days.
I take the bus sometimes, but only when it's raining a lot or I have actual, physical change.
Bus passes cost a pissload of money.
I'm considering an attempt to have someone forge me a university I.D..
Those get you past the bouncer for free.

I did comedy with Scott Faulkenbridge and Dom Paré when I first got here.
That was fun.
Dom made chicken pot pie and Stove Top for Thanksgiving dinner.
The three of us met some strange man who claimed to be a comic.
He struck me more as a T.V. vaccuum salesman.
He was suddenly there and then he wouldn't go away.
He was issuing me business cards and shaking my hand.
Next thing I knew he was peeing in the toilet I'd been peeing in the past number of days.
It was terrifying.

I've been meeting the comics here and studying the dimensions of their girlfriends.
Mike MacQueen (Night Train) has driven me home a few times.
Thompson (Four-Eyes) learned from me that he has birds roosting in the eve of his house.
Mark (Merv) almost went to a reptile show with me.
He also found out about birds in his eve from me.
They live in the same house.

Robert Shandera had a baby just before I left and -
Wait.
Scratch that.
His wife had the baby.
Now I'm Uncle Paul.
I've been buying an appropriate amount of pornographic magazines as a consequence.
Every family has 'that uncle.'

I have done an open mic since getting here.
I had a great time.
I explained that Halifax has more cultrure than Newfoundland.
Which I figured out after passing guys spelling out 'TITS' and 'CLITS' in the infield sand of the public baseball diamond.
I also let them know that I have this strange fascination with seeing women change in the top floors of Halifax houses.
I keep expecting to see a topless woman in some window if I just look up often enough.
What's silly is that this would be true of almost anywhere.
What makes it strange is that I really expect to see her in Halifax.
That's 100% true.
I can't explain it, though.
I suggested to the audience that perhaps we're all in the wrong place at the wrong time.
No one laughed at it, but I didn't give a shit.
It was my favourite thing that I said.
Open mic again tonight.
Who knows?
Maybe I'll tell you how it went.
Probably not well.
All I've written in the past week is an anecdote on how difficult it is to have a pet elephant.
Walking it.
Because once it poos, I have to carry around a garbage bag full of shit, not unlike Santa.
Which is really stupid.
I just like picturing it.
Standing off-balance with this large bag.
Speaking to someone at the bus stop.
And having them say, "Do I detect a slight odour?"

It should be legally permissable to kick pigeons when you're having a bad day.
I love all of you.
http://youtu.be/-Gu3gDhESRY

Take A Shit. On Me.

They'll give you a look, you know.
Women.
If you can prove you're competent.
I know.
Because I spent the vast majority of my life being incompetent.
Getting no looks.
So when I get them they're ultra-apparent.
Like when I made toquitos and salt & pepper wings for da b'ys?
I told you about that one, I think.
For some occasion or another at Bussey's place years back.
I made all of the food for everyone and it only took me three hours.
And when it was finally dished out I remember thinking:
Why are Miranda and Christa looking at me like that?
And to my horror I realized that it was because they wanted to do me.
Now I have a new list of chores I can blindly manage.
Having spent a summer (or two) working with dad.
Yesterday was plumbing.
He and I installed my brother's toilet after my brother and he installed bathroom tile the day before.
If you've never installed a toilet, I don't recommend it.
For fun, anyway.
Don't install toilets for fun.
My knees were wet for the entire afternoon.
Toilets weigh several many pounds.
"Get the matt under it, quick! It's heavy!"
Whenever Dad gives me direction with a sense of urgency I forget how to do everything.
Next time you're on a toilet and you have a minute, notice that it's bolted down.
With two bolts.
Dad dropped both of these down the drain (individually).
At the end of it all the little water-tube thingy was leaking.
There was a plastic nut involved.
Dad's tightening it with the wrench.
"It's almost good there now. Maybe another half-turn," this is dad.
My head thinks, "Tell him not to do it!"
But it's too late.
There's water spraying everywhere and dad is saying "Jesus! Jesus!"
It looked a lot like TV.
We fixed it eventually.
One day perhaps I'll install your toilet.
With you looking on with The Look the entire time.

Oh, P.S.:
I know the title's kinda crass, but I still think it's pretty funny.

point three three three three...

We climbed out of the ocean.
A bunch of other stuff happened.
In time, mathematicians were considered to be wise, rather than philosophers.
Because mathematicians can calculate profit yields and key demographics and whatnot.
But if you try to discuss the idea of infinity with a mathematician, he'll just tell you that it's an eight on its side.
And that answer is wrong.

Orgy of the Species

Have sex with the bridesmaid.
It's Friday.
Oh, remember when I used to say that all of the time?
"Something cutting edge.
It's Friday."
I haven't done that in so long.
Because I forget even the things that I regularly remember.
Here's a feel-good tune for you.


You play it, you listen to it, you feel good.
Also, it reminds me of having sex with bridesmaids.
You people ever sleep with bridesmaids? Groomsmaids?
What songs make you think of these experiences?
Post 'em!
Let's all remember our indescretions together today.
And here are some past Fridays to take a look at.
I wonder where orgies are most likely to happen spontaneously.
Amateur orgies fascinate me.
It's too bad because most of them are likely conducted by our parents.
And their friends, of course.
They can't have an orgy alone.
Well, not necessarily their friends.
Might be with total strangers who happened to answer the ad on Kijiji.
While young people should be having the orgies, we're not.
And I can't understand why.
We're all so sexually permiscuous (even the bashfull of us).
And we're matter-of-fact about it.
Doing bridesmaids left and right.
No orgies.
If tonight there are hundreds of thousands of pairs getting drunk and having sex with one another.
Having never met before.
How is it that there aren't tens of thousands of pairs of pairs of pairs doing the same thing?
I'm guessing cruise ships.
I'd say a lot of orgies happen on cruise ships.
All of the booze is free.
You have a cabin all to yourself.
Everyone's wearing revealing clothing.
Your neighbors aren't around.
That would be my first location choice.
Anyone have other theories?

edit: I have more Fridays to tack on later, but for now I have to go bathe.
I have an eye appointment with the optometrist.
Then I have to see Meaghan Whelan
(I'm giving her her life back one meeting at a time).

In the Neighbourhood

I've tried to start a post about Ice T three times now.
It was two times when I first wrote this.
Now it's three.
I made a note about him in my book, and now I just want to put a check mark next to the note.
And forget that this happened.
I made the note in the first place because he's a video gamer.
So says Spike TV.
He's like a little spokesman for the mainstream.
It's strange.
I follow Ice T on my Twitter account, for fuck's sakes.
What an odd twist.
And I just thought it would be funny if he never actually plays anything.
He just saw an oppurtunity and went for it.
"Sure, I play video games from time to time, when I'm not banging women."
It's not funny unless you really visualize Ice T saying it.
Here's how ganster I am:
In my book I referred to him as "Iced Tea."

I have an apartment lined up now.
Cork Street.
If you want to visit me, it's the one that looks like a haunted mansion.
Because it is a haunted mansion.
I hate this blog post so far. I really do.
It actually looks like every house that you lived in until you finally settled into a place of your own.
At least, I think that that's what it looks like.
Mom used Google Postman so that she could see the street that it's on.
I'm not sure which house it is.
But I can tell you that someone living nearby drives a Volkswagon.
 My future roommate is a fellow comic.
He's tall and he looks like he sleeps with a lot of women.