Why Weight?

Convince her to (finally) try anal.
It's Friday.

**WARNING PUSSIES: THIS POST CONTAINS THE 'N' WORD**

A breakup is the exact moment that two people get to know each other.
Frig, this place is always full of children.
Every day there are children clamoring all over this coffee shop.
Wouldn't bother me, but they always drag their parents along with them.
Alright.
Where are we, here?
Let's get organized.
Food for thought? Sure, I've got it.
My roommate and lover (two separate people) insist that I 'fret' over my meals.
I concern myself with what I'm going to eat and when I'm going to eat it.
I line up all the particulars of my three daily meals a night in advance.
Not generally my style.
That being said, we're not talking whiteboards, here.
We're not talking food schedules ("Spaghetti on Thursday!").
But I suppose it's true.
I do sort of obsess over what the next meal is going to be.
After dwelling on it a bit, I've concluded on a possible motive for this.
Maybe I ploy over my meals because they're the only events I experience in a day.
Think I might try to get a job.
Like, a real one.
Well, not a real one, per se.
Just one that has a schedule.
There's that, and, y'know...I lost five pounds.
My losing five pounds is sort of like a normal person losing whatever amount it takes for them to reach 135 pounds. 
I'm back up to where I belong now, thanks.
A safe Turpin weight (when  she's not full of babies, that is).
All-Sumo diet.
A fish stew and beer.
That's all I consume.
They treat the lower dan guys like cattle, y'know.
Far from the WWE, these guys have to really pay their dues to reach the top.
Did you know that Yokozunas have special vestments that they wear publicly to denote their sumo status?
They're huge celebrities.
Sure, they have a lifespan of about 45 years, but it's my understanding that they fuck a lot of women.
Any athlete would tell you that that's a good deal.

So, I don't wish to talk smack, but I have to mention the new living situation.
It's about the same as the old living situation, but there's a new roommate.
Seems like a good guy so far.
...
...
It's just that, well, I was living with one dude who was a little beefy up around the noggin.
And that's fine.
Now, however, it's sort of...well, there's two.
I'm sure they'll work out.
Because I'm in the midst of a project in which I convince myself that they'll work out.
Preparing for one of my usual wayward constitutionals, the new one bid farewell by saying:
"Enjoy the fuckin' walk, son!"
Now. There's no need to make a big deal out of this.
It's positive, y'know?
That's a positive thing to say.
I just don't know how to respond to something like that.
Anyway, I'm a modern man and I'm going to roll with it.
It's like Napoleon always said, "If you can't beat 'em, outdo 'em."
Of course, Napoleon said it in French.
We're passed the tricorner hat, but I can certainly get some FUBU caps.
Trimmed with graffiti-style writing that doesn't actually say anything.
Loose jogging pants.
I'm going to listen to lots of music that has the word "nigger" in the lyrics.
Eat my cereal with Cretin.
Start fights with guys simply because I have made eye contact with them in a bar.
I'm going to show these guys who the real numb skull is.
I'll see you on the other side.

Writer's Cock

Uh oh.
This can't be a good sign.
When I sit and I stare at my keyboard, wondering what I could possibly talk about, it generally spells a stink post.
A real bellyflop of writing.
When I was in grade whatever, we were supposed to write some story for Thanksgiving.
Knowing what I now know, I understand that this was grade three (think it was three) busywork.
What an insult to education and humanity in general, by the way.
Busywork.
The word alone makes the spittle froth about my lazy jaw.
Work's bad enough.
No one needs work for the sake of doing work.
This is why I could never work in HR.
I almost applied for an HR job at the hotel.
Pretty weird.
I could have gotten the position, probably.
Moving around within a hotel is easy after you've punched some time.

HR (unlikely) Pros:

1. I would have gotten to wear a suit every day.
2. I would have been paid more.
3. I would never again have to extract brocolli stems or broken glass from a drain.
4. Free recruitement trips to Australia (that was the big one).

HR Cons:

1. I'd have to frequently smile illegitimate smiles.
2. I'd no longer be able to look myself in the eye.
3. I wouldn't have been able to steal food so readily.
4. I'd be working in HR.

I'm here now, so none of this matters.
Anyway, it was grade three busywork, likely organized solely because my teacher at the time had found lined sheets of paper shaped like a turkey.
I wrote some...thing that spanned 20-something of those turkey sheets.
I think mom still has the original manuscript.
Because my mom is the relic keeper.
That was then.
Full of promise. Wonder.
Words, apparently.
Now here I am.
Old. Broken down.
Hairy.
Even back then I had such a desire to write, with no limitations due to all of these silly adult fears.
Now, I worry about being able to fill the turkey sheets, and I hate that.
I once wrote in one of my ass-pocket books:
I never thought, "this isn't good enough" about something I wrote until I started doing comedy. 

edit: When the title popped into my head, I thought, "Oh, this post was worth it after all."
Took me a second to remember that roosters have sex with chickens, not turkeys.
I'm going to keep it up there anyway, okay?
Because it was inches from being really clever, instead of what it is now:
Nonsensical.

Jurrasic Lark

I'm sad, everyone.
Well, I'm not sad, but I'm certainly contrary.
I'm not contrary, really.
Ever have a day in which you can't figure out how you feel, you just know that you don't feel well?
I'm like that.
I'm not really like that.
I'm kidding. Yes I do.
I probably haven't been sleeping enough.
I might be spending too much time in the sauna.
Too wrinkly.
Too sweaty.
Do you get wrinkly in a sauna?
I know, I know.
I'm getting too personal again.

That guy who looks like me is in cahoots with myself to open a comedy room.
Don't tell anyone.
I hadn't intended to tell you, in fact.
The only reason I do so is because one of the venues we considered serves tacos.
Dave: Tuesdays is fifty cent tacos. Pretty sweet.
People could be coming by and getting tacos, checking out jokes.
Me: Yeah...tacos are distracting though. They have a lot of crunch to them.
You can't hear fuck all over tacos.
Dave: They might be soft shell!

My sex partner, the ol' ball 'n chain, as she likes to be called, has been running her yap again.
Says she's not in the blog enough.
Which is sort of true.
If we are to consider the amount of time we spend together, grossing out the locals, I guess she's right.
She once mentioned that some people don't believe in dinosaurs.
"Isn't that interesting?"
I guess I just stared at her blankly because she followed that with, "Don't worry; I believe in dinosaurs."
She said I looked incredibly relieved to hear it.
She met my Aunt Barb and they hit it off immediately.
I suspected as much since they have tremendously similar interests.
As I watched them discuss one of Barb's rug hookings, I felt an overwhelming sense of this weird pride.
A sort of "you'd want to take her home to meet your mother" kind of pride.
The fact that she has similar hobbies to that of a sixty-year old woman?
Didn't even bother me.

When people ask me if I have seen this movie or that movie, I always have to explain:
I don't really bother with movies any more.
Which is true.
Sure, I had a copy of Die Another Day on VHS.
Despite this, my movie days are done.
I consider them to be a relative waste of time.
I have games to play.
I mention this as well, and I can see that some people find it odd that I'm still playing video games.
Which is okay with me.
Frankly, I find it odd that people are still watching movies.

A Leg Up

I suppose we're all prone to sore losership at some point in our lives.
I have a feeling spellcheck is going to call me on 'losership.'
Anyway.
It's possible for any of us to balk another's success.
Especially if we bet a whole bunch of money on ourselves.
Though not accused of gambling, this guy IS accused of being a bit of a fussy Gus after passing the ticker tape.
Yes, we can all be a sore loser under the right circumstances.
But perhaps we'd be even more susceptible if we had no legs.
Like these guys.

See, one dude is accusing the other dude of having too-long prosthetics.
Despite the fact that he himself (his name is Oscar) uses his pretend legs against whole men.
And he's the only paralympian who gets to do that.
Politics.
These races always beget so much politics.
Give me the Special Olympics any day.
You go out there and have a nice swim.
Make some friends, and everyone gets a tote bag for participating
Given this liberty, you'd think that Oscar would be keen to draw less attention to himself.
Tough enough as it is, given that he looks like an extra from I, Robot on race day.
Fuck, you just can't make jokes about anything fun.
How many of you found that offensive?
No fair.
I make fun of countless ethnicities, societies and accountants on this blog.
If that mockery is okay, this has to be too.
Oscar only gets the wrath because he's in today's headlines and I needed something to talk about.
Besides, I don't care for sore losers.
They make us regular loses look bad (worse).

I should tell you about this band before they're Gotye and no one gives a shit anymore.
They're British and I think they're great.
They just need a band name that isn't based on a keystroke.

Share and Share Alike

Written yesterday while watching Peter White's hair thin on a basketball court:

A small boy gave me a truck today.
As well as a bus.
Not full-sized vehicles, mind you.
These were just toys, which is no less considerate, I suppose.
When children give me things, I'm not sure what to do with them.
I understand I'm just supposed to accept the gesture.
I may not want the empty Q-tip box, but I'll take it for the sake of the child.
I've figured that much out.
Couple of high school girls are coming my way.
Play it cool, Paul.
Something I never learned while in high school.
Anyway, it's after the fact that confuses me.
Do I give it back to him as a sign of good faith?
"I know that you want the truck and bus more than me.
Besides, socially, I can't play with this stuff in public.
You keep them."
I could pass them on to someone else.
Ideally, the mother.
"You should be dealing with these instead of me."
Today, I just ended up holding the die-casts longer than I wanted to.
Kind of like after you've finished the bacon-wrapped scallop at the fancy dress party.
The guy with the tray is gone, and you're left holding the toothpick.
Wondering to yourself, "Now where am I going to lay this down?"
You end up holding it for several minutes, avoiding conversation, until you ultimately drop it inside a vase.
At least, that's what I would do.
21 months.
That's how old the little fella was.
I asked the mother.
Then I discussed the Terrible Twos and how to age young children
(turns out you use the same method as you would to age trees).
It felt meaningful.
Asking a stranger a question to find myself genuinely invested in the answer.
Listening, these days, seems unheard of (pun intended).
Then the mother had a window tumble open and hit her on the back of her head.
I didn't witness this.
Happened in the bathroom. The girls'.
Not my place.
This summer has had too many wasps.
With bees, at least you know where you stand.
Wasps dangle too-close when all you want to do is use your barbecue.
It's equivelant to a bully not letting you pass by in a hallway.
After the injury, I had to leave the coffee shop for a number of reasons.
One: Whenever someone is being treated for injury, I instantly feel in the way.
Someone's getting ice, another is getting a cloth.
I just feel as though I'd help everyone by leaving immediately.
Two: I felt uncomfortable because
a) I knew the window hit her on the noggin while she was on the toilet, and so, I began imagining her on the toilet and couldn't unimagine it.
b) (and I mention this gingerally) I could see up her skirt while she recuperated.
I'm not some sort of freak (I might be).
She was on a raised platform relative to me.
If I turned in her direction, that's what I saw.
So I had to leave.
Peter White interjected at this point of the story to ask what that was like (pervert).
I answered, "Shadowy. Always too shadowy."
But that was a joke.
Fact was, after speaking to her I liked her just a little bit.
Consequently, I didn't want to look up her skirt.
It felt great.
This one has a humane ending. 

Helen Hath No Fury

I hate the way I hate kids.
It is true.
It's different when they're yours.
The news babies in my life have this profound ability to make me love them.
I hate that, too.
If I feel this way about the babies who are important to me, then I should support all of these delusional 'parent' fucks who think that their children are amazing.
And that can't be right.
Yet it's undeniable.
I went from refusing to pick up anyone's child-
"Hold her? Does she always land on her feet?
No? I'll pass, then."
To finding myself unable to put them down.
It's okay, really.
I'm okay with loving babies.
Their useless little brains and bodies.
Their insistence on making noise when there really isn't any need for a fuss.
If I only love those close to me then I resemble so many people I can't stand.
If I love all children then I'm unbalanced and weird.
Never mind the fact that I'm emotionally incapable of loving all children, I'd rather that weren't the case either way.
Y'know who loves children indiscriminately?
Spinsters (some of you thought I was going to say 'pedophiles').
Weird, desperate women who knit selflessly and insist on talking about it.
Not my scene.
I only mention all of this because I'm resisting a seething hatred for the children in this coffee shop.
But it's not them.
It's never them.
Nanny is supposed to stoop once in a while, and say shit like:
"You're being loud and there are other ears besides yours.
Play quiet, okay dumplings?"
Nanny's just sitting there, though.
Acting as though they're not making a sound (which is what's truly infuriating).
Children are closer to dogs than people; you don't befriend, you break. 
Anyway, whatever.
Complaining about kids is thoroughly discussed in this blog.
I'll tell you what isn't, though:
Helen Hunt's current whereabouts.
Not just some forgettable sitcom wench, she was legit in As Good As It Gets.
Twister was a two-hour Dodge Ram commercial, but at least a lot of people watched it.
Where did you go, Helen?
Come back to us.
Classic beauty beats some toe-thumbs archetype any day.

Do you suck on those talons, Megan?
Ugh.
She's no hotter than most ungulates.
Anyone looks hot after four hours of primping and one hour of airbrushing.
True beauty is throwing on a sundress with very little makeup and carrying that throughout the entire barbecue.
Helen could do that.
Megan would probably just regurgitate the ribs.
Jamming her disfigured thumbs down her lacquered esophagus-
Alright, I'm making myself queasy, so I'm going to go. 
Just remember that you look great.
Even if you're hideous. 

Bluff, Bluff, Pass

Urinate on your partner.
It's Friday.

Speaking of pissing for more than one reason, Lance Armstrong failed a bunch of drug tests.
Failing a drug test is sort of like failing a regular test.
However, instead of being threatened to be held back only to eventually pass and move onto a grade you're not ready for, when you fail a drug test, the repercussions are far worse:
You lose endorsements.
And when the only things you have going for you are your endorsements and cancer, you don't want to fail that drug test.
If there's one thing (and there aren't many) that Americans like more than their star athletes, it's discovering that those athletes are frauds.
Nothing quite beats taking the ol' bucksaw to a pedestal.
I'm not sure why it is that we all love to see successes become failures.
Humans, I assume, won't live for a particularly long time.
In terms of the fauna timeline.
We can distract ourselves with all of the rubber bracelets we want.
Fact is, we're doomed.
We just can't share.
Other animals can all share because they don't have the mental capacity to hate.
What a luxury that must be.
Humans can't share.
We can't share space. We can't share food. We can't share wealth.
We can't share sexual partners.
We're doomed.
In place of sharing, all that remains is to take.
I've always said (in my head) that racists are just people who were never taught to share.
It's just climate.
Like, the squinty eyes and the dark skin?
It's an animal's way of evolving to a climate.
That's all race really is.
Unfortunately, racists can't get that, which is what makes them racists.
Besides, arid heat may be the reason the middle eastern crowd looks as they do.
But that doesn't explain the funny way they talk.
You've got me there.
What was I talking about?
Right.
Doomed species.
That's us.
And we're doomed because I was relieved to see that Lance Armstrong is being stripped of all of his stuff.
They found a bong in Phelps' sock drawer?
Great.
They have his mother weeping from the shame on CNN?
Perfect.
Let's check that out.
It's an ugly thing, y'know?
Being in the middle.
Those above seem so much higher.
Those below just seem frightening and dirty.
I've heard that Lance has been hounded for years.
(America loves to hunt their witches, too).
Who can say?
All I know is this:
Those rubber bracelets are really annoying.
If we give Lance the benefit of the doubt.
If we maintain that Lance didn't inhale, or he has glaucoma, or whatever.
The fact still remains:
He started the bracelet thing.
Now people support everything through items rather than words or...upheaval.
Jesus.
Blondes.
Anarchists.
Everyone.
They all have their own bracelet.
What would your bracelet be for?
Who do you stand for in the laziest way possible?
Mine is a bracelet that supports bracelets
(I've made this exact same joke in another post about ribbons).
It might not be the same joke.
I'm too uninterested to re-read the post right now.

Anyway.
Get out there and enjoy your weekend.
But play it clean, okay?

Real Childish

It must be tough to be a pedophile.
Like, if you enjoy ejaculating onto...car hoods.
That's fucked up, sure.
However, so long as you have a garage and a consenting studebaker, no one will know about it.
Pedophilia is such a give-away.
If I stop by a Jag dealership and someone catches me-
I have to interrupt myself for a second.
Sometimes I really wonder about the state of my brain.
It's so common for me to wonder, "This can't be just me, can it?"
The loud-spoken woman at the table behind me has been describing the itinerary of some wedding.
How each person did on the speech.
Lemon cake (three-layer) with pickles for dessert.
This was at six and she was exhausted.
They wanted to play cards, and Fern didn't take off her jewelry the entire time.
She has these earrings that just go with everything.
They had this unbelievable house. You could see Ohio, but we didn't go there.
I'm eavesdropping and typing this as she says it
(I could be a stenographer, maybe).
Now, I'm listening to her yammer on about this.
And the more she talks, the more I want to throw up all over myself.
I don't feel nauseated, you understand, I just feel like that's the most appropriate reaction.
That's just me, right?
Fuck this woman.
That's the other thing I think, and I guess that's bizzare, too.
It's hard to know that this woman is probably a grandmother, and a human who means well.
And yet, despite that, fuck her.
Because this is a small space and she's saying this to everyone, rather than just her bored friend. 
And I believe it's on purpose.
My new-found, old news idol George Meyer said that comedy writers need to experience reality.
And I understand that Betty's story about absolutely nothing is reality.
I just can't do it.
This is why I always listen to music in public. 
Anyway.
If I stop by a Jag dealership and press my thigh against the passenger door, no one will notice or care.
However, if I spend an entire day perched against the chainlink fence perimitered around the ballfield during a little league tournament.
...
No matter how fucked up a pedophile is (and, let's face it, we've all watched SVU), you can't help your sexual preferences.
It's a tricky predicament.
Pedophilia.
Pedophilia is a tricky predicament.
Oh my fuck, she's talking about turning soup into a casserole now.
People do fucked up things behind closed doors.
Latex this and heated lightbulbs that.
Yet, all of this is, relatively speaking, acceptable.
But, if you're less into women and more into little women...
I'm not sympathizing with pedophiles in this post.
"Is Paul just working his way to this slowly?
Just whose side is he on, here?"
I'm not sympathizing with the pedophiles.
But I am certainly empathizing with them.
At least for the sake of today's conversation. 
Don't take candy from strangers, guys.

I'd intended to post a clip of To Catch A Predator, but it was too depressing.
So, instead I'm providing a clip of Jim Hensen's 1986 fantasy classic, Labyrinth. 
http://youtu.be/ViftZTfRSt8

Submitted For Your Perusal

Hatching my most recent get-rich-quick scheme, I've decided to submit posts to publications.
In the hopes that they may be selected.
Resulting in my getting money, or, at the very least, legitimacy.
Yet, like every endeavour up to now, I'd rather that someone else do it for me.
Is there a favourite post of yours?
If there's one that sticks out for you, please point it out to me.
All of you are welcome to comment, and I would urge you to do so.
Particularly if you're reading this and you're Stuart McClean.
If you're out there, Stu, your input could help a lot.

Strap Yourself In

Don't have children; have affairs. 

It’s not the weekend anymore.

It was the weekend recently, and we’re all cognizant of that.

I’d prefer you not fret, though.

It will be the weekend again.

Do you practice any sort of escapist tactics while at work?

Like, do you try to trance yourself into believing that you’re actually in a jacuzzi?

Alright, that’s impossible.

I’m all for mentally projecting your psyche (especially [exclusively] at work).

But I have to curb my own philosophies here because no one can project themselves into a hot tub.

None of us have the mental wherewithal for that.

I feel as though someone or something is to blame for that.

Perhaps if we all threw our phones into the ocean…

It’s not true what that dead guy said.

There isn’t an app for that.

There are no apps for the things that are most important (foreplay).

Anyway, what was I talking about?

Myself, surely.

No matter how veiled, let’s not tiptoe the reason we’re all here:

We’re more interested in me than we should be.

Speaking of me, I bought a belt recently.

I had to retire my former belt because I stepped on it the exact wrong way.

And, poor at extrapolation, I assumed that all belts that looked like my old belt would behave like my old belt.

Looks can be deceiving.

I went into my favourite transitioning-to-adulthood clothing store, RW & Co.

I pick up this belt that has a metal flap sort of thing on it.

At a glance it looks like an airplane seat belt that isn’t thick enough.

And, like an airplane seat belt, I could have used a demonstration on how to use it.

I thought you had to lift the thingy and then clasp it down after passing the belt through (like the old belt, and surely all other belts).

This belt didn’t work that way, but I was too inept to realize that.

I’m turning it in my hands, pinching this, pulling that.

Like a monkey. Like a real monkey.

I’m doing this long enough to know that employees must be watching me by now.

Sure enough, I look up and two women are observing me rather frankly.

While I’m trying to coconut my way into this thing.

One of them begins to approach and I stop her, saying:

“No no, if I can’t figure out how to use it, I don’t deserve to have it.

Eventually, she explained the process to me.

Humbled and sweaty, I tried the belt on with a new, brash confidence.

Then I couldn’t get it off.

The clasp thingy had gotten stuck, and I couldn’t unstick it.

I’m pinching this, I’m pulling that.

Nothing is  budging.

And I’m thinking to myself, “I’m going to have to hold my waist up to the counter and have her scan this while it’s on me, and then walk out acting dignified.”

I fiddle with it long enough to know that the employees must be watching me again.

Sure enough, when I look up that's just what they're doing.

And they look more concerned this time.

I overhear one of them whisper to the other, “Do we have scissors?”

This is why I haven’t had sex with more women.

That exact question explains everything.

So, the nice lady comes back over.

Things are about to get airport security search unless I can bust myself out of this thing.

She hesitantly does a clasp grasp and gives it a little shake.

It’s just tough to figure out the next move, socially.

The three of us as are in this now.

“He can’t get out of this belt alone, but it's too close to his dick for us to help him.

What do we do?”

I said that I would have gotten my mom to come in and help, but she wasn’t in the mall.

Which I thought was a little funny, but they didn’t laugh.

It wasn’t until later that I surmised they weren’t laughing because they thought I was serious.

“Oh, usually his mom is with him to help. That explains it.”

I had to use my house key to eventually pry myself out of it.

Then I forgot my headphones on top of the clothing rack, knocked over my coffee with my backpack while turning to retrieve them, and then I promised the women I would never return to their store.

Then I bought the belt.

Because I could use the challenge in my life, and it cost eight dollars.

Good luck with your own struggles today.

Try not to over-exert yourself.

Home is Where the Light Is

I'm in a coffee shop right now because, really, where else am I going to be?
I watched a cute film last night.
It was called Friends With Kids.
I give it three and a half Paul Warfords.
Out of a possible five Paul Warfords.
Or The Car Load, as I call it sometimes.
It would have gotten four Paul Warfords because the movie was really witty.
That stopped being the case, however, in the last two to four minutes.
Which are, some would say, the most crucial minutes.
Alas, three and a half.
What films get The Car Load, you ask (because I'm saying that you do)?
I can't really think of any. 
I could tell you a Car Load for food, maybe.
...
...
No I can't.
Picking favourites can be tricky.
Oh shit. I'm beginning to hate this post.
Rich people have such large houses.
I'm not talking about your suicidal dentist down the street.
There are wealthy people in any neighborhood (except ghettos and everywhere I've ever lived).
But I'm talking about the rich people who are wealthy enough to hide the fact that they're rich.
Which is, I assume, very difficult to do.
But then, anything is possible with a budget.
These people live in the cul de sacs you hear of, but could never locate.
These dollar havens always have telltale names.
Usually the word 'Court' is in there somewhere.
Or, continuing the regal theme, 'King Something'.
Other popular words might be, 'View'.
'Breeze'.
'Harbour'.
'Country'.
'Club'.
Such regions have houses that look like one house was glued to another.
Palaces.
And as I pass these places (after rummaging through their garbage), I feel compelled to knock on their door, and just say:
"What is it that you do?
What do you own?
Who do you own?"
I'd love to try that just once in my lifetime.
*knock knock* (this is stage direction)
"Speak, peasant!"
"Yeah, hi. Sorry to bother you or whatever.
I'm just wondering how you came to buy this place?"
"I killed everyone I know for the insurance money."
What would you do with your own lighthouse?
I don't have a lighthouse, but this guy does.
Simply because he's the best at throwing an oversized toothpick on his continent.
If I had a lighthouse, I'd shine it into my neighbor's eyeballs.
Just to lord it over them.
"Bright light earlier this morning?
You think that was me?
...
Oh, ooooh. Yeah, that was me.
Just thought you'd like some help guiding your car into your driveway."
Alright, this has gone on for long enough.
Have a good day, alright?
Wherever you happen to hang your hat.