Inside Joke

I had a student ask me how to spell 'atheist' today between unfettered fits of laughter. 

Whatever the joke was, the rest of us didn't get it. 

She cried before the period was over. 

I beat some other kid at ping pong. 

Twice. 

He was in grade 8. 

But his bones seemed relatively developed, so he was still a challenge. 

It's the milk, see. 

You've gotta drink the milk. 

This is my (unpaid) job. 

"always finishing each other's-"

I'm tired of my inner monologue. 

I want a new one. 

Ever go on an elongated flight that took you the whole day?

Vancouver to Toronto then down to Buffalo for a bit and then back up to wherever?

And there's this one guy with one of those hats with the ear flaps.

You see him that morning at 5 am when you're waiting to board. 

And you see this man, and you think to yourself, 'What an asshole.'

And then this guy ends up being nearby for the whole day?

Sits in the row beside you. 

In line in front of you at the newspaper store. 

It's like that. 

My inner monologue and I. 

Guess which one I am.

Troubadour

I play this now.

It will afford me much sex in time, I warrant. 

But I still have to finish learning Mr. Jones, first.

...

Would you like to have sex with me?

No?

Well...they're on their way.

Moving in herds. 

Like elk.

The Past Straw

I have attended more engagement parties in the past few months than ever before in my life:

1. 

It was over Christmas. 

There was a lot of food to eat and aunts to ogle (whilst all other backs were turned). 

There was an ex-girlfriend there. 

We acted like we weren't acting like we weren't noticing one another. 

Anyway, not the point. 

Miranda has some nice looking aunts. 

That's the point. 

Joshin' ya. 

The point is that they were serving orange slush. 
Which tasted fantastic and should be served during the wedding. 

Or on any hot day.

Shandera and I went from downstairs to up so that he could get a glass. 

And we got one for Butler, too. 

While Shandera was scooping his, I licked Butler's straw. 

Then I told Shandera about it. 

Then we laughed. 

And I haven't mentioned it since. 

Until now. 

she's crazy (about me)

I'm going to teach my children about sex in the most logical way I can think of:

With video footage of their conception.

"Yes, mommy sure was drunk that night, son.

She's not like that anymore" (shoot her a glance).

I disagree with the term 'carbon footprint.'

I think that's a little light.

Almost all of the polar bears are dead.

'Carbon headbutt' would be closer to the truth, I think.

I was almost headbutted by a hockey player once.

One of my many claims to fame.

That and my ability to spill things on myself without noticing.

In crowded settings.

I'm wearing three t-shrits.

I'm still not stylish, though.

I guess I need more...

One of my students has a crush on me (see why I password-protected this shit? [labia!]).

So, I asked a teacher today if I should be concerned about Julie's (not her real name) infatuation with me.

She suggested I simply remain as professional as possible.

And remember that the girl does have mental issues.

But that goes without saying.

Carbon uppercut.

My little book used to be full of funny things that I have written down.

Now it's full of notes on teaching Romeo & Juliet.

But at least I'm sleeping regularly

(with cocktail waitresses).

Pin Coushin

Put your cardiac into arrest while shoveling.

It's Friday.

While they fire up the defibrillator, check out this.

You're welcome.

Alright, I need get back to my voodoo.

If I figure this shit out Ruth Mercer's gonna pay.

'For what?' You might ask.

Well.

That's between myself and Square Ruth.

"But I didn't pack a bathing suit..."

My own blog won't remember me. 

How telling. 

Welcome aboard the privatized version of this filthy thing. 
There are all sorts of smammerings I can utter now that I could never utter before. 

Jism. 

For example. 

In the next post I'll give you a list of minorities that I dislike. 

As well as some majorities that I'm not a fan of. 

Yes, it's a new environment, alright. 

If the last, public blog was dog paddling in the shallow end, then this one is dog paddling in the shallow end with no clothes on. 

Genitalia withers when in water. 

But you all knew that. 

As for the internship...well...

Let's just say that sometimes, but not all of the time, french people are grating.

Ditto for twelve-year olds. 

'...and I'll pry if I want to (pry if I want to, pry if I want to)'

I turned 27 today.

I looked in the mirror to see if I had any little hairs growing out of my ears.

Even blonde ones.

Nothin'.

Guess I'm not as wise as I eventually will be.

When I'll be telling all of the kids that spellchecker is wicked.

"Those laser pointers will burn out your retinas!" I'll bellow from my rocking chair.

"Oh grandpa," the grandkids will say, embarassed.

Ingrates.
I never should have sired their parents.

Well, one of their parents.

Maybe both of them.

Today I had two thirteen-year old girls give me a coffee mug as a gift.

Shit changes.
And it has definitly changed for me.

That's why I've been missing.

Well, that, and because I'm frightfully lazy.

Point is, and I know it's a hassle, I think it's time to privatize this blog.

Because it's tough to get a kid to turn around in his seat and pay attention to you.

But it's tougher when that kid has recently read about your masturbation habits.

I know I've been absent.

But I'll add you to this new discrete bullshit, and try to make up for lost time.

No promises, though.

Again. The lazy thing.

Can you dump your e-mail addresses into the comments on this post?

So I don't have to look them up when I send out invites?

Or facefuck me or something...

The Grapes of Past

And it's a new year. 

I wish all of you just enough success in 2009 so as to not make me jealous of you. 

If my hopes come true, expect a lackluster year. 

But my hopes never come true. 
Which is why I'll have a lackluster year. 

My new year's resolution?

Also known as an eventual broken promise to yourself?

Start eating grapes again. 

I used to always eat grapes as a kid. 

Now, it's not that I dislike them. 

I simply haven't been bothered enough to eat them. 

I'd say I haven't eaten a grape in at least ten years or so. 

And what lies are you telling yourselves this season?

Vomit after more meals?

Jerk off in the shower regularly?

You'll never make it. 

It's like Lent. Minus the piety and accompanying guilt. 

I'm less bothered by my own nudity when I'm subjecting someone else to it. 

My missus spent some of Christmas with the Warfords. 

Which involves being ignored in the name of video games. 

And hearing my parents talk about what Jim Saunders is up to. 

Whoever the fuck that is. 

"Oh, you knows Jim. He's married to Louise." 

"Louise...Now, did she used to be a Dawe?"

"Yes, up in Brigus..."

That sort of thing. 

She fared rather well. 

And the gifts that mom gave her didn't even turn out to be hideous. 

I gave her macaroni glued to stuff. 

Because I'm a shitty, yet adorable, boyfriend. 

I've never met anyone named Lucy. 

Unless I have and I've forgotten. 

In which case, Lucy will probably read this in a few days. 
And then she'll be pissed. 

But that's just like her.

Under the Assumption

I'll tell you guys cause you won't tell anybody.

Right?

Right. 

...The hat was under me. 

I was just trying to fucking sleep. 

And I assumed that the hat wasn't under me. 

I'm just kind of the family scapegoat.

Since Brian bested that Nirvana phase of his. 

But, when he exclaimed that the hat was 'probably under Paul,'

I just continued to pretend I was asleep. 

Like any decent rooster would've been. 

It was 5 a.m..

After much cursing and turned seat cushions, they gave up and drove off with Brian. 

In a huff. 

To fly him off to the place where everyone is in a huff.

Every day.

I draped my arm further into the couch, as I do. 

That's what I love about the pull-outs. 

They go on forever. 

Anyway. 

The hat was there. 

I felt the velcro of it first, and said, 'Aww fuck,'

To the empty room. 

Then I stared at it for a few seconds. 

Then I went back to bed (couch). 

But I couldn't sleep.

Becuase the hat had been under me. 

And even though we checked under me. 

It would still be my fault somehow, don't you see?

So, I jammed the hat under the other couch. 

They've since found it there, and they're going to send it to Brian. 

Expresspost. 

Because Brian can turn communists, he's so scary when he's mad. 

I've been dying to tell somebody. 

Now you miscreants know. 

If mom ever mentions it to you, change the subject. 

Try talking about jam. 
She likes jam. 

Legally Binding?

I have to go and find some sort of tax form, or tax exemption form, or something. 

Whatever it is, it will likely involve me walking to many wrong buildings before finding the right one. 

Anyway. Who cares about that.

I've been doing some thinking lately. 

I went out in the woods behind The Beaver Plaza, and meditated on the afterlife. 

'Til da b'ys came out to smoke a draw, and then they kicked me out of it. 

But before they showed, I decided how I want to go about dealing with my...physical remains. 

First. I want my brain kept in a jar, like they did with Hitler.  

Just in case they later figure out how to do things with brains in jars...

Until then, I just need someone to hang onto it.

Butler can do it, I guess. 

He's good at being particular about shit. 

I can see him now:

"Don't put your drink there! 

Cause you'll knock it over and then Warford's brain'll be all fuckin' sticky!"

That's the kinda body guard I'm going to want. 

I'll donate my other organs. 

But I think that they should be earned, rather than going to the highest bidder. 
For example, I can donate my eyes. 

But I think the person that gets them should have to best the other applicants. 

I don't care how. 
A game of darts, or something. 

As for my charming cadaver.

I'd like to be cremated. 

Then I want Sarah Turpin to take my ashes. 

In a meager container.

Like the Smarties Minis containers da b'ys used to use to keep their rollies in. 

And I want her to take me to a hotel somewhere. 

Rent a room. 

And dump my ashes on the floor. 

That way, the housekeeper will come in the next day to turn down the room. 

He or she will see me laying there, and say, "Filthy motherfuckers."

Then they'll vacuum me. 

And we can wait and see where I'll end up.