I'm Cured*

First of all, first of all.
Why didn't anyone tell me before now that The Cure is absolutely savage?
I don't even mind now that they're taking all of our fine sistas (check the link).
I mean...I know it's The Cure.
Friday I'm in Love and all of that.
But savage!
Good Lord.
So there's that. I wanted to mention that.
Let's toss some media on here.
Put you in the mood to buy their lunchbox.





Also, I shaved the mustache.
I used the mustache wax that the missus gave to me for Christmas.
So I suppose the whole drama has run its course now.
The wax made my face feel incredibly uncomfortable.
But not as uncomfortable as the people looking at me, probably.

I did a lot of walking today.
I feel awful.
Last night was the Yuk's staff party.
Christmas staff party.
I thought we'd end up getting hammered and begin doing jokes.
But they had a bunch of tables propped up on the stage.
Probably as entertaining as we would have been.
I'm trying to tear my material down and begin speaking to the audience again.
If I was to compare it to alcoholic's anonymous, I don't know which step this would be.
But one of the later ones.
This way, more bruising will occur if I fall down the steps.

*The title for this post is shameful.
I know that.
I just want you to know that I know.

Her Better Half

Oprah Winfrey has conjured for herself a half-sister.
Using the bone and sinew of her felled adversaries.
And a little good ol' fashioned voodoo.
This is rather fortuitous for Oprah.
Unveiling of the bastard child accumulated the highest ratings for Oprah's show-
Even more so than that time Tom Cruise was on there and he jumped onto his plushy chair-
But on a personal level it is to her benifit as well.
She needed someone to change the newspapers in her aviary.

Free Fallin'

Remember when all of those birds dropped dead in North Dakota?
Turns out it wasn't because of The Apocalypse (a shame).
They were just attempting to get into the wrong pic-ah-nic-ah basket.
Now, I'm not a Yankton resident (a shame).
But if I was, I believe I'd want proper officials to let me know if they were intending to fumigate nature on a given day.

Yanktonite 1: Hey, does the air kinda taste like DRC 1339 poison to you?
Yanktonite 2: Nah, you're probably just hallucinating.
[thud]
Yanktonite 1: Weird. That's another bird.

Too Legit to Quit

Sometimes I worry that my past lovers may have been 'faking it'.
But then I remind myself that none of them were likely capable of portraying 'utterly unsatisfied' so convincingly.
No offense ladies.
I was never after you for your acting skills anyway.
We all know that.

Good Night, My Sweetin

Speaking of celebrities...
If all of my childhood crushes continue marrying other people, I'll be stuck marrying the chick who played Kimmy.
Or Blossom's shitty friend that no one can remember.

Eat the Rich

If you have trouble remembering what you ate yesterday, grow a mustache.
Then, if you're struggling to recall, you can suck on it pensively for hints.
"Tastes like...brine. With a hint of lemon...
Eureka! I had cod. With lemon wedges!"
People should more frequently say 'eureka!' in conversation.
"Oh fuck, I lost my contact lens.
Eureka! Left it under the baby! Alright, I'm ready for kickboxing now."

I believe it's time for the mustache to skedaddle, though, just the same.
This was the first Christmas in which I felt like keeping the mustache after the holidays.
But that is probably out of a yearning to do nothing and drink casually on weekdays.
Rather than a desire to look like some sort of a prostitute.
I'm surprised, though, at how casually people will tell me that I look bad.
With the mustache, that is.
Generally people are otherwise secretive about what they think of my appearance.
Whispered in dark alleys and school cafeterias.
"He's ghoulish!"
"Imagine seeing him in the shower!"
[in unison] "Ewwwww!"
But I had several people tell me at a Dymond family function (lawn darts) to "lose it."
And they have not been the only ones.
Which doesn't bother me.
What bothers me is that if I said, "You're right.
And while we're discussing style, you should ditch those shoes; they look hideous."
That would be considered frightfully rude.

Oh!
I keep forgetting to ask you this.
It was a Question of the Week for me recently.
Ahem:

IF YOU COULD GRIN UP ANY CELEBRITY INTO A BURGER AND EAT THEM, WHOM WOULD YOU CHOOSE?

Now, as a stipulation to vegetarians, Sobol came up with a clever abridged version:
If you could grind any celebrity into a hamburger and feed it to another celebrity, whom would you choose?
That's an option if eating even metaphorical meat bothers you somehow.
Leave your answers in the comment section.
The owner of the best answer will receive a scented candle with an AM/FM radio built into it.

A Token of My Occupation

A wind chime in Newfoundland is a racket.

Disinfecting them isn't raising them.
For all of the on-again off-again parents that may be reading this.
That's a tidbit for you.
Also, you've gotta talk to your kids, parents.
Cause I'm sick of doing it.
I can't think of anything more arduous.

Y'know what separates us from the monkeys?
Mouthwash.
That, and those collapsible canvas shoe racks that you can hang in your closet.
Because monkeys don't wear shoes.
Cuts down on their dexterity.
It would be like we humans trying to go about our day with thumbless oven mitts on.

If I worked at the DMV, I would give out handicapped stickers as presents.
Jam one of those in someone's birthday card.
Far more thoughtful than a gift voucher for that Amish place with the furniture.
I could give out his and hers stickers for anniversaries.
Inside, the card would say:
COUPLES WHO PARK TOGETHER, STAY TOGETHER!
Wicked for a baby shower.
"There you go.
Sure, it's not as pertinent as a bib right now.
But she'll grow into it."

Tender Moment

Me: Variety is the spice of life.
She: That's why we should date other people.

She's right, ya know.

Three Square Meals and One DJ

I'm still having trouble processing this.
Because, y'see, I thought the bum was really good at singing.
Because all of the articles claimed that he has a 'golden voice'.
Leave it to Yahoo! to bring you all of the pressing news.
About charming hobos and cats that can swim.
But the bum doesn't sing.
He's not a singing bum.
Avril explained that he has like...a radio voice, I guess.
Like, okay. You know the guy who does all of the movie trailers?
Well, when he dies, from what I can understand, this bum will be eligible to take over.
He's like Casey Kasem, if Casey Kasem had ever lived under a bridge.
I haven't watched any press on this guy.
None accompanied by sound, anyway.
I saw him on Oprah.
They keep him dressed as a bum.
Keep him in the rags so that the riches seem even richer.
Camouflaged rags.
Yes, he's got 'er scald now.
He'll no longer have to use discarded pizza boxes to communicate what he wants to say.
It's double-corrugated for him from now on.
He can write messages like:
BRING ME MORE MALT LIQUOR, SERVANT!
With only the freshest of magic markers.
Socks that are freshly darned.
Kicked back in the mansion that his freakish trick has earned him.
A barrel fire burning in every room.

All That Glitters is Told

People often attempt to discern the relationship that Turpin and I have.
Like classic duos of the past-
The Edison twins; Penny and Brain; the organ grinder and the monkey-
People have futily made jabs at studying and possibly even understanding us.
I'm here to lay out the facts for you, once and for all.
You'd best get some cocoa first.

Once great mariners and privateers swore of a vast treasure.
Hoards of shimmering jewels, crowns topped with sanguine rubies and topazes (what colour are topazes again?).
Gold dubloons and silver 50-cent pieces stamped with the queen's bare ass.
Not the gross old queen of today. The hot queen. The good one.
A wealth so vast and insurmountable that any one who stumbled upon it could buy the finest motor home ever seen.
With two TVs aboard!
And they could drive that motor home to the Florida Keys (easily affording the gas).
Park that sucker on the beach.
Loose the awning.
And sit back until eventually dying of...whatever.
So the whispered legend went.
The legend whispered on to say that this Scrooge McDuck score was buried...
...In the belly of a giant squid.
Lucifer the Squid, they called him.
Ebony black, he was, with red eyes the diameter of a jumbo pizza at Hobo's.
He had eaten many a man.
But Lucifer never swallowed them whole, like all of those faerie whales of yorn.
Because squids, like most cephalopods, have a beak-like beak.
Which, upon entwining poor rubes in his tentacles, Lucifer would use to bite the men into portioned, manageable pieces.
So was the story of Lucifer.
Lucifer the squid.

Undaunted, I laden my dory with the necessary provisions:
Squid harpoons; vamps; oka dokas (couldn't find a link); hardtack; a warm cap.
And I ventured out into the frothing spittle of the damnable Atlantic.
Fueled solely by my unerring desire to never have a job.
After 20 months at sea, I discerned, looming and contrary, Lucifer.
Lucifer the Squid.
And, delirious with a lack of dietary variety, I bellowed, "Holy piss! What a size!"
For two days he and I tangoed.
Until the sun crested the convex horizon of the third day.
Illuminating Lucifer the Squid...no more.
A number of his tentacles gnashed in my teeth, I hauled that bastard to a nearby cove.
And, with my treasure knife, I jimmied Lucifer open.
Prepar'd to receive my destiny.
And when I stripped away the mighty stomach lining I beheld what was due to me:
Turpin, homely and not at all gleaming, squinting, said, "Ah, finally!
Alright, I'm ready to go, just help me find my glasses."
What is the relationship between Turpin and I?
She's some unlucky penny I found.

Sunday Drive-In

Alright.
Screw this.
Side note, before we get started:
I don't know what it is, but I find the expression 'Screw it' impossibly funny.
When someone says it, and they really mean it, it floors me every time.
Anyway.
Screw this.
Subtly is for wieners and poets.
This is for you, readers!


I was on my way from St. John's.
Picture it.
Are you there?
Now, as I was driving, I espied something curious.
The van in front of me was playing one of those DVDs.
It was set up for the kids in the back seat.
I guess the kids had been on a number of Westjet flights, and had developed a taste for the cooking channel while traveling.
I turn my Westjet screen off, by the way.
Like I need screens anywhere else.
Like any of us need screens anywhere else.
They play CNN in the coffee shops now in case you stumble into a conversation.
Anyway.
The van's right in front of me, and we're all moving along.
And then I realize that the kids had just started watching Donnie Brasco.
And I said, "Aww man, Donnie Brasco! I haven't seen that in ages."
So I stick real close and settle in for an awesome flick.
By the time it got to the part where Donnie gets the Porsche for Lefty-
"That's a fugazi!"-
I was hooked.
When Lefty got the Lion, the van pulled into a service station, and I parked at the pump behind them.
This is when I realized that I didn't know where I was.
I think we were past Avondale, somewhere.
There were a lot of alder bushes.
I made a mental note of that, and then got back to the movie.
But they shut off the van and shuffled inside.
So, - nonchalantly mind you - I followed them.
One of the little Juniors went into the bathroom.
Once I got in there, I noticed that he went into a stall.
That's when the idea dawned on me.
I isolated myself into the neighboring cube, sat on the toilet (pants on), cleared my throat, and said:
"Can you turn on the subtitles, kid?"
And the little Jimmy said, "...Huh?"
"Get your dad to do it. Ask your dad to turn on the subtitles."
But I guess that request was too complicated for him.

Eventually the movie van pulled into a driveway.
Their home, I suppose.
But the movie wasn't over.
So, I didn't get to see the part where Left asks Donnie about the F.B.I. boat, and I don't know where I am.
I was able to get onto their wireless network.
I'm parked outside of their house.
Their siding is like, a sort of navy colour?
It's really sharp with the white door.
Anyway.
I'm going to sleep here I guess.
See if I can catch the end of the movie when they're on their way to school tomorrow.