Cyborgs' Greetings

This is hilarious.
For those of you who are too uncommitted to check the link, it's an article about Harper's Christmas card this year.
Turns out Harper and the two kids are wearing the exact same outfits as they were in last year's card.
I don't understand how you could make a fuss about such a thing.
Of course they're wearing the same outfits; they're painted on.
If the engineers had allowed the three of them to leave the factory with a standard, stainless steel finish on their robot, animatronic chassis, that would have reflected poorly on Canada's craftmanship (Robotics Division). 
Sure, the "children" aren't programmed to feel sadness or embarassment, but shame on the reporters for wasting everyone's time anyway.
Laureen (if that's a name) is the only human of the group, having married into the robotic family.
That's why they had her show a little gam in the photo.
To give it that human touch.
I feel the worst for her.
Sure, there's a lot of glitz and glamour, but I'd imagine that it's a house without much love
(Unless, of course, they've been programmed to feel it).

My Inner Child

Please Notate:
This is one of those self-reflective, "Who am I? Who would I be in other universes?" sort of posts.
If you want something a little less dramatic, read this one about my brothers and I causing a scene in Burger King.

After my show, I eventually leave the yacht club.
Knowing I'll never return.
But I'm happy about it because then I won't have to speak to Leroy any more.
That's not his real name.
That's the name he gave me before proceeding to continuously interrupt me during the show.
People are dressed in finery.
All of the men, by the way, look like they would be at a yacht club.
Portly, middle-aged. Dark sport coats over pinstriped red and white shirts.
No ties.
And Leroy is wearing a Fubu shirt that looks ridiculous.
It's black and has playing cards or...something all over it.
A lot of gold colouring.
It looks like your first junior high silk shirt
(Which typically wasn't even made of silk).
$250 he paid for this thing.
He told me afterwards.
If I lived in an alley I'd have a hard time using it as shelter.
He pays $250 for it.
None of this has anything to do with anything.
After all of this, Josh was having a party.
So I went.
Primarily because the club gave me free drinks, so it seemed like a logical step to take.
Everyone's more or less wasted when I show.
People are trickling in.
I introduce myself to people and begin moving around the room.
Speaking to individuals.
It feels good.
I yammer on to you about missing something I once had.
And really, this is it.
I used to love meeting new people.
I don't know how I came to hate people as I tend to do now.
I sort of blame Banff and its populace of wiener tourists.
Rather than blaming myself.
At the end of the day, it is this thing I am missing.
This desire to meet people.
And the party felt great because it was back.
It felt like it was back, anyway.
I guess it could have been the gin.
This woman showed up later into the night.
And I really liked her earrings.
I feel compelled to compliment women if they are wearing something that I would wear.
If I were a woman.
Or, y'know, if I were a man (if only).
They're triangular and sparkly and neat.
I want to compliment them.
But complimenting women is far more complicated than it was when I didn't have a sexuality.
Complimenting a woman and have them respond to it as though it were an actual compliment is rare.
It's more common to receive looks, shoulders or boyfriends' fists.
I don't want to make this woman uncomfortable.
I don't want her to think I'm flirting with her.
...
But I really like the earrings.
So, here I am.
Standing in this kitchen.
There are people sitting, people standing.
Everyone's talking, laughing. Whatever.
I don't hear any of it.
Cause in my head I'm thinking to myself, "Mention the earrings, mention the earrings, mention the earrings, mention the earrings, mention the earrings..."
But I won't.
When I talk about me now versus me in high school, this is the sort of thing I'm getting at.
I really was more an entertainer then than I am now.
Sure, my memory's not the best, but I know who I was then.
It might be sex...
Sex may have ruined it.
The me in high school never hesitated.
He would have said, "I like your earrings," the second he met Liz.
He really would have.
Now I can't do it.
Eventually she's sitting next to me.
She has just kissed a roommate of Josh's.
She's not available. I'm not available.
This shouldn't be so complicated.
"Mention the earrings, mention the earrings..."
I break and eventually tell Josh that this is bothering me, and why.
(Josh knew this mysterious former me also).
"Fuck it, man.
Now that I'm 30, I tell women whatever.
'I like your earrings,' or 'Your ass looks good in that dress...'"
He keeps talking and I have stopped listening.
Because he's right.
"Your earrings," I say.
Liz says, "What?"
"I like your earrings."
Liz and Josh's kissy roommate (Corey) begin to laugh.
"I just bought these today. He told me that they were stupid."
Corey now, "I didn't see you wearing them, though. It's different when you're wearing them."
I point out that, "She did the hold-up, though. She held them next to her head to show them to you before buying them."
He admitted that she did.
"It's funny you would mention that," Liz said.
I had to agree.
It was funny that I would mention that.
You should never hesitate.
Neither should I.
I left the party, wasted, realizing that I remembered the name of everyone at the party, and a detail or two about them.
In high school, this would have been the case also.
What I miss about my former self?
He was a good listener.

Gut Feeling

I started a post that explains why the site looks so stupid right now.
A large-ish paragraph that could be summed up like this:
We're under construction.
If I had to look at the old template once more I would have puked.
Because I need to see images of myself during most or all times.
Otherwise I get all wobbly in the tummy.
I am so incredibly queezy as a person.
Still.
When I was four I threw up over my swim bag after an hour-long trip to the Aquarena.
(Newfoundland readers: would you believe that this is not the first time I linked the Aquarena?)

25 years later...

I was leaving a gig with Peter White and Bryant Thompson (T-Burger) the other night.
Driving away from Bridgewater to Halifax, which is where I live now.
And I couldn't help but notice that I was getting mildly carsick while in the back seat.
I was high, so it took me some time to realize that it was because I was playing a game on my phone.
Turns out I can't do that in a car.
In retrospect, kind of makes me wish I hadn't bothered buying a game for my phone.
But then, there are still ferry rides and church services that I'll have to while my way through.
Anyway.
The gig didn't suck, necessarily.
But I still managed to hate it somehow.
Ditto for the gig I did Saturday.
Sure, it wasn't awful. It was good, even.
Yet I still hated myself when it was over.
This is normal.
This is "the biz.."
It's exciting to know that I'm progressing on schedule.

Speaking of hating me, I have my first headline set coming up soon.
End of the month.
I guess this is good.
It's good.
It is.
I told Peter White ("this guy again?") when I moved here that I wanted to be headlining within a year or two.
This is not headlining.
I am not and will not be a headliner after doing these shows.
But it's a start.
I'm trying to concentrate on-
Here's the problem.
It's incredibly difficult, at times, to be yourself onstage.
All I want to do is go up there and be myself.
Two issues with that:
1) I can't relax enough to do this (generally), and
2) I have no idea who that is any more.
I don't want to have jokes.
I want to have conversations.

Speaking of which, I have to tell you about Liz' earrings.
But I'll do that in a separate post so that it seems like I'm writing more.
No jokes or pissing around right now, I had no idea that 'separate' was spelled that way until this second.
That's being real with you people.
'Separate' doesn't even look right.
It explains that song by Elliot Smith where he sings this word and it sounds just as it's spelled.
As it has always been spelled.
The song just popped into my head when the auto correct gave me something to talk about for another few lines.
That's another problem, you know.
Now I worry about time.
How much time I'll take up (we're talking about comedy again), how much time I can do.
It's how long I can stretch myself.
I used to do this kind of thing and wish I had more time.
Because I never wanted to get off.
I'm talking about an era before I ever did a comedy set.
See what I mean when I say that I just want to be myself?
Me neither.

For the Like of God

Lick all of the community wafers and then put them back in the goblet.
It's Friday.
(That one is for the diocese boys).

Parents beware!
If you employ a really stringent bedmaking rule with your kids, they may eventually join the army.
Because they'll have developed a taste for doing it regularly.
And for having someone provide their outfits.
So let them choose their own clothing, also.
Don't force them to wear overalls despite the fact that it makes them cry and cry and cry.
That last part was me.

I'm doing a show at Rodeo's tonight.
I did one there a few weeks ago.
A lot of inflatable cacti...
I know that it's pronounced 'rodeo,' like the horse party.
But I say 'Roe-day-oh' in my head.
Like the street that has a lot of botax clinics on it, probably.
I spoke to the audience and staff about it last time.
They have amateur stripper contests there.
I intend to go.
Not for the male contest.
But rather the female one.
So I can hoot.
And remember readers: when you enter those amateur stripper contests, make sure you remove the nicotine patch from your inner thigh before you lace up the knee-highs.

The sad truth is that we no longer need churches.
Sure, Bingo used to be popular, but now it's just something for the older crowd.
And since they've started putting up their own halls, the churches are even less necessary.
These things happen.
The post office.
The wagon wheel maker (the sort that goes on a wagon; not the cookie snack).
Little Bow Wow.
Trends come and go.
My suggestion would be to turn them into yoga hothouses, or sell them to the Staples people.
So that they can be turned into Stapleses.
"Where can I find the ink cartridges?"
"Oh, they're aisle 3, right under the stained glass depiction of The Last Supper."
...
"I dunno what it is, exactly.
I think it was like, the last big meal that was cooked over an open fire or something...
I couldn't say for sure cause it has nothing to do with Staples.
It might be an annual supper that bingo players have, maybe.
Ccause this place actually used to be a Bingo hall before.
No, it's true."
Nietzsche once wrote the part of a raving man who ran through town with a lantern, declaring:
"God is dead! And we killed him!"
That guy has a sucessful webcomic now.
Salvation doesn't have the same appeal any more.

But don't fret!
I'll tell you why.
As I was walking here, I was jammed up behind three guys walking abreast on the sidwalk.
I was hating them in my head for moving so slowly and speaking so loudly.
But then one of them noticed I was there, and he moved himself and his buddy aside.
"Thanks," I said.
"You're welcome," he said.
I eventually get here, to this Starbucks that isn't big enough.
I'm getting in line, and someone has two drinks and he's trying to break through the crowd of scarves.
I stand aside to let him through.
Same guy.
Who's to say what is and isn't connected?
Anyway, live your life
Commit your sins
Monday, repent
Your weekend begins

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