Being the Comedian

Piss.

2012-02-09T14:57:00.000-08:00

Had a good talk with a good friend last night about how if you don't laugh at life, you'll lose your mind because so many big chunks of life suck stinky ass. It came up because this particular friend is a grand fucking MASTER of saying the most inappropriate thing you can thing of in any given situation, and I fucking love that. The most terriblest things you can think of, he can still make you laugh over some part them. Because you have to. You can't do that around just anyone, though. Has to be the right people. Your people. And I only really care to spend time with those people. If you do that around the wrong people......well........

Today has been an epic shit stain of a day.

And the people I care about and who care about me -- you are the piss that will blast that shit stain away.

Does laughing fix everything? No, dumbass. Of course it doesn't. If you answered "yes," then you're stupid. But laughing can keep us going, even if we're only running on fumes. It can keep us from sitting and stewing and thinking about the Absolute Worst Things (like ABBA reuniting, or the dead Bee Gees coming back to life.) Laughing keeps us from becoming sad, boring, lifeless people. That's why all of George Lopez's friends do nothing but mope and yawn and cry.

Because he's not funny. About anything. Ever.

Is it OK to laugh in someone's face if their pet hamster dies or they get nose-blood on their favourite shirt? Again -- no. And again -- if you answered "yes," you're no longer allowed to be in charge of anything. Not even putting milk on your cereal or walking places. But if giggling far, far away and behind their back about how their nose-blood dried in a Rorschach-like pattern resembling a smooshed boob makes your day even a little less fucked, then I say go for it. And try to only surround yourself with people who would do the same thing far, far away and behind your back, because people who can laugh at shitty things are people who get that life can suck, but living doesn't have to. Those people will make your life better. I know that's a true-fact because I know those people, and they have made my life better.

So on this shit stain of a day, I thank you all for being the piss in my life that blasts the shit stain away. I hope I can be even half the piss that you are to me.

~~~~~

A Pterodactyl Face in Your What-Not: The Comedian Helps You Survive Awkward Situations

2012-02-01T14:15:00.000-08:00

The Comedian has spent approximately her whole entire life deftly trying to survive awkward situations. It seems only fair that I use this forum (now read by nearly ten people on a semi-irregular basis) to help you do the same.

Of the hundreds of awkward situations I have found myself in, I can proudly say I have made it through almost one of them completely unscathed. Therefore, I am well-equipped to tell you what to do. If you disagree with that, you can sit your ass on a spike.

Awkward Situation #1: You are alone in a room. Someone else walks in. It is blatantly obvious that you have just farted.

The Comedian's Advice: Just fucking fart again. Make it special. Point your hand in the air like a disco dancer and clench your ass cheeks so it sounds like a firecracker going off in an empty storage locker. Then spin around like a dog trying to eat its tail, yelling "I WANNA SMELL IT WHILE IT'S FRESH! I WANNA SMELL IT WHILE IT'S FRESH!"

Awkward Situation #2: You believe you are alone with a friend, talking about how a different friend smells like the inside of a rain boot, but a rain boot with shit in it. Suddenly, your friend goes silent. Your heart drops as you realize Shit Boot is right behind you.

The Comedian's Advice: Tilt your head slightly and go slack-jawed. Adopt a blank stare. Slowly turn around until you're facing Shit Boot. Stand up, slowly walk toward her (shuffle a little, like a zombie) and punch her in the throat. Run away.

Awkward Situation #3: You send an email to your friends, featuring this picture:

Immediately upon hitting "send," you realize you managed to somehow send the email to your boss, because you are apparently an enormous fucking idiot.

The Comedian's Advice: Do nothing. Your boss will think it's pretty funny, unless he sucks. In fact, send more. See if you can find some with racial slurs or hilarious captions under sick children . When you next see your boss, wait until he's within yelling distance, and holler "HEY! BOSS! DID YOU LIKE THAT PICTURE OF THE INSIDE OF A GOAT'S ASS THAT I SENT YOU?" He'll think that's pretty cool, and you'll probably get a raise or something.

Awkward Situation #4: You are a dude. You are in a public bathroom, 'draining the lizard' or 'taking a leak' or 'expelling urine from your urethra' or whatever slang terms you immature, filthy pigs are using these days. You're sort of not paying attention, looking around, waiting to be done pissing into a porcelain drinking fountain with a big blue breath mint in it, when you realize you are full-on staring at the pork sword of the guy whizzing beside you.

I saw something really bad when I did a Google Image search for "urinal pervert" so I would like to look at this kitten instead.

The Comedian's Advice: Go ahead. Touch it.

Awkward Situation #5: You are a woman. Once a year, you have to go to the doctor, where he will stick a cold metal pterodactyl face in your What-Not.

This. In your What-Not.

The Comedian's Advice: Prior to the Pterodactyl Appointment (or 'Pterodactyling' as I believe it's not called in the medical community) decorate your inner thighs with Spongebob Squarepants Bandaids. I suggest using them to spell out "HI, DOCTOR!" He's going to laugh so hard when he sees it. Hopefully, he'll laugh before he does the thing he's going to do with the pterodactyl face, because if he starts laughing after and his hands get all jerky and stuff, he will hollow you out like you're a screaming watermelon made of meat.

This, minus the teeth and plus the hemmoraging

~~~~~

Shit That's True.

2012-01-12T13:29:00.000-08:00

If you say "I seen" or "youse guys," and you're not kidding, then you're a fucking idiot.

It does not matter how many times you forward an email or click 'like,' because that kid in that picture in that hospital with tubes coming out of its nose is probably photo-shopped and isn't even dying of anything, and if it was dying of something, emails and likes probably wouldn't cure it. But thank you for passing it on, thus alerting me to the fact that I don't ever want you to be near me, you phenomenal moron.

Dogs don't give a shit when it's their birthday.

High as fuck.

You know that music you like? The stuff that literally no one else you know has ever even heard of? And mostly it's some bitch whining and then doing something weird like rapping, but backwards and in Spanish and while crying? And you have to go to some dank, lonely back corner of an independent music store to find it? And the only three people who ever go back there are you, some emo twerp and the dude who vaccuums the store once a month but instead of vaccuuming just jerks off onto Miley Cyrus CDs? And you don't even really like it, but you think it makes you cool because you like something that no one else likes? You can go ahead and never send me links to Youtube videos of that shit ever again.

Wearing deodorant does not hurt.

Ed Hardy won't ever be cool again.

Thanks a lot, cockface.

Telling me about how awesome the Beatles were won't change my mind. I will not suddenly go "Holy shit! You're right! I didn't see it before, but now that you've said 'the Beatles were awesome' at least seventeen times, I suddenly get it! How could I have not realized this before??? Now I think they were super duper!"

Same goes for Seinfeld. Seriously -- me not liking the things you like doesn't make the things you like die.

If this guy is ever a guest star on any crime drama, then he's the guy who did it:

And if this guy's ever the star of a show (See: Criminal Minds, Dead Like Me, Chicago Hope) don't fucking bother getting attached:

Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. I'm on your TV show. Prepare for me to be a bitch and leave.

Tom Cruise is three and a half feet tall.

Psychics do not exist.

Seals probably don't even feel it when you club them.

I'm Tired But Not Really and TV is Being Stupid

2012-01-06T17:07:00.000-08:00

WARNING: I didn't get much sleep last night but I'm not tired and I'm maybe crazy now so if nothing I type here makes sense, go fuck yourself because I don't care what you think.

This is about things I saw on TV today and how stupid they were.

Stupid Thing on TV #1: Life insurance commercial. "If you don't want your loved ones to be burdened by the cost of planting your dead ass in the ground, blah blah blah as little as 7 cents a day, blah blah blargle schmargle fuck kaplooey buy our life insurance you don't have to have a medical or get even one finger put up your bum by a doctor."

Dear My Loved Ones,

Please do not burden yourself by planting my dead ass in the ground. Go ahead and torch me and put my ashes in a little urn or tin or coffee cup or whatever. I won't care, because of how dead I'll be. This will enable me to save as little as 7 cents a day on a stupid life insurance policy that I don't want and even if I did want one, I'd get the one where a doctor put a finger up my bum.

Stupid Thing on TV #2: Sarah McLachlan singing about dead dogs or something.

Dear Sarah McLachlin,

Every time I see you singing about dead dogs or something, I use a black Sharpie to make a little line on a picture of you. Once the picture of you is completely covered in lines, I'm going to go out and kick one puppy for every line. Please shut the fuck up forever.

Stupid Thing on TV #3: Eggie, I think it's called. It's a little round thing that you boil eggs in, because apparently that's too fucking hard for people now.

Dear People Who Buy the Eggie (if that is, in fact, what it's called),

Please die before you have a chance to breed.

Stupid Thing on TV #4: Some message that said I had to press the "Select" button to make my TV go.

Dear TV,

I already pressed one button to make you be on. I should not have to press another button to make you go. Don't be so fucking lazy, TV.

Stupid Thing on TV #5: For a dollar a day, I can feed a kid.

Dear Commercial About That Kid-Thing,

I go to the cheap-ass grocery store that never gets cleaned and where they don't have bags so you have to put your groceries in old banana boxes that probably have Black Widow Spiders in them, but it still costs me waaaaaaaay more than a dollar. Can you tell me which grocery store you shop at so I can go there instead?

Because Why Not

2011-05-09T13:44:00.000-07:00

Because I felt like it.

No, not really.

Why U no fuck off and die?

More likely than not.

No thanks. I'm good.

Whatever. The fuck. I want to.

I might be dumb, but at least I'm happy.

I'm sorry -- are you getting exasperated? Perhaps you should bugger off, then.

I don't..........care.

That it seemed like a good idea at the time. Actually, it still seems like a good idea. If given the chance, knowing what I know now, I am certain I would go back in time and do it the fuck again. Twice.

Church.

Fuck no.

Your mom.

I don't see how that's relevant.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Identifying a Stupid: A Guide to Recognizing the Idiots that Walk Among Us

2011-03-13T09:20:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: I am aware that writing a rant inspired by the incorrect pronunciation of a word during a news story about a horrible tragedy makes me a douche bag. I do not care.

There is a news guy on my TV right now who I rather like. He seems to know what the hell he's talking about most of the time, and also gives the slight impression he might be a bit demented. He has nice hair as well. These three things generally combine to create a newscaster I enjoy watching. But today he fucked up, and now I think he might be a Stupid.

He was speaking about the earthquake in Japan and the subsequent tsunami -- specifically, what's happening at a nuclear power plant in Japan. Or, as he called it, a nuculear power plant. THAT IS NOT A FUCKING WORD. NUCULEAR IS NOT A WORD NO IT'S NOT SHUT UP. If you see a clear sky, you do not say "Ooh! Look at that beautiful culear sky! That sky is so culear! I could stare at that culear sky for hours and hours and hours because I am a Stupid, and staring at things for hours and hours and hours is what my slow and stupid brain likes to do!" You can't just put letters into words that weren't there before. You're not in charge of words. I can understand if the word is weird and you maybe haven't heard it said out loud before (phlegm, facetious) or if you have been hit repeatedly in the back of the head with a shovel for some reason, but if you are a regular, everyday, normally-educated person and the word looks like this: NUCLEAR, then I cannot think of any reason for you to say NUCULEAR other than you're a Stupid.

Your brain is seeing and then saying a letter THAT IS NOT THERE. You are hallucinating a letter. This also applies to: cavalry, especially, ask, escape, February, library, Arctic, jewelry and realtor.

The inability to see and then say a word that SOUNDS EXACTLY AS IT IS SPELLED is not the only way to identify a Stupid. There are millions of ways, and I can't possibly list them all, but I'm going to point out a few of the ones that drive me the most insane.

Inability to retain information pertaining to major events

Actual conversation I had with an actual person within the last five years (not verbatim, but close enough)

Person: "I love Johnny Cash."
Me: "Yeah, he was good."
Person: "I'd love to see him perform live someday."
Me: "That would be terrifying."
Person: "Why?"
Me: "Because he's been dead since 2003, and if you ever see him perform live that means he is a zombie and we are all fucked."
Person: "Really?"
Me: falls over unconscious and twitching from the sheer stupidity of conversation.

I assume this person (who, sadly, I am related to) is a Johnny Cash fan. I make this assumption based on the fact that she said she loves Johnny Cash. She enjoys his music so much that she would like to see him perform live. Yet she does not know that this musician, WHO SHE LOVES, is dead. Even people who don't like Johnny Cash know he's dead. Even people who would, if they had the chance, drop Johnny Cash from a tall building even if it meant he'd land on and crush a velvet-lined basket of adorable orphaned puppies as he plummeted to his death know that Johnny Cash is dead. But not this fucktard. Nope. No damn idea. I could understand if we were talking about the producer of a documentary about the life and times of the rare Indonesian Rice Mouse (I made that up, don't bother Googling it) because who the fuck would know/care about that guy, but a major recording artist of whom you are a self-described fan? Yeah, maybe you should know he's dead. Just a thought.

Lack of understanding of how simple things happen/do not happen

I know someone who did not know you could buy clothes hangers at stores. She thought they "came with the house." She was Paris Hilton before Paris Hilton was Paris Hilton. A Stupid ahead of her time.

Mouth-breathers

(exemption for those with colds/allergies/no nostrils)

If you breathe with your gaping maw hanging open, then you are so stupid that even your basic, instinctual bodily functions and abilities do not work properly. Also, you are fucking gross.

Inability to recognize a fact even after that fact has been proven

Remember when the remake of Godzilla came out? Yeah, that movie was terrible. Whoever made that movie should be fired out of a cannon into a brick wall decorated with the severed limbs of his or her favourite people. Despite that, the soundtrack wasn't too bad. I even bought it. There's a Puff Daddy/P-Diddy/Puffy/Sean Combs/I Don't Fucking Care Anymore What His Name Is song on there that samples Led Zeppelin's 'Kashmir.' Jimmy Page was OK with that (even approved it, the big jerk) but that's besides the point. The problem here is that a generation of Stupids grew to believe that this abortion of an excellent song WAS THE FIRST SONG TO USE THAT MUSIC. Fine. If you've never heard the original song, then that sort of makes sense. You would have no way of knowing that Puff Douchey's 'song' samples part of a good song if you had never listened to Led Zeppelin. But when someone tells you that Puff Dickbag did not come up with that hook, and then plays you 'Kashmir' on a CD that clearly states on the back of the CD case that it came out in 1974, and then goes on the Internet and shows you every conceivable website that proves 'Kashmir' existed DECADES before the shitty song you like, yet you STILL insist Puff Dingledick came up with it first, then you are a Stupid, and you deserved me flicking you in your ear and had no business whining to people that I hit you, you uppity bitch.

This is what he looks like when he poops.

Continued belief into adulthood in shit people told you when you were five

Gum does not take seven years to digest if you swallow it. THINK, moron: Your stomach can digest steak. It can digest meat-gristle (but please don't eat that -- it's really disgusting when people eat that). It can digest Pop Tarts, and Pop Tarts ARE NOT EVEN FOOD. What magical fucking ingredients do you think gum is made of, that your stomach acid cannot break it up in less than seven years? Sweet FUCK -- if gum is that powerful, we should really start building planes out of gum. We should make bulletproof vests for the police and military out of gum. We should wrap babies in gum the second they're born, protecting them until they are seven and better able to protect themselves.

Seriously, people. It's ok. Go ahead and swallow.....heh heh heh.

Oh relax -- it's whipped cream, you effing prude.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Weeeeee! I'm a Horsie!

2011-01-05T13:55:00.000-08:00

You might be SHOCKED to learn I use this blog sometimes to write inappropriate and fucked-up weird shit when I feel like crap. By SHOCKED, I mean you're all very smart, and you already knew that. For every one thing I write about how hurricanes names are apparently selected by people who eat wallpaper or how Christmas music by Paul McCartney is mind-bendingly boring, there are five posts about how shitty life can be, but how it's not really that bad if you put it in the right perspective. Some days, that perspective is easier to find than others. Today, it's somewhere in here:

Finding a needle in a haystack? Piece of cake, compared to finding the damn thing when it's piled up WITH A BILLION OTHER NEEDLES, jackass.

To be clear, this is not a veiled cry for help. Or even an obvious cry for help. I just feel like shit and I can't find the right perspective, and writing about it and making jokes and putting up funny pictures makes me feel better. It's my version of talking it over with a friend, but I get to do it while on my couch, eating potato chips, and not having to wear sunglasses so you can't see my stupid cry-eyes. This is like my therapy, and you guys are my therapists -- you sit there while I talk and talk and talk until I realize I'm retarded and I already knew the answer. But I'm not paying you to listen, so if you're looking for some sort of hourly rate here, then you can piss right off.

I have a friend -- someone I've known for about 10 years, someone who will always be my friend even though we live far away from each other now -- who I probably could have fallen in love with. But I didn't. Couldn't. Right place, wrong time, blah blah blah. Or maybe I did, but my brain knew better than to let me know it had happened. Sometimes my brain can be smart. So instead of falling madly in love with this male version of me, I ended up making a friend who I don't think I could live without. He has a good life now and a beautiful family, and someday I'll stop being so lazy, and I'll go visit him. And yes -- I am talking about you, mister. Bet you didn't know any of that, did you? Should make my next visit slightly awkward :)

Possibly even more awkward than this.

I used to think I missed out big-time, when I missed out on him. But realized a few years ago that's stupid. If I'd fallen for him, I'd never be able to lean on him the way I can now. And he has no idea just how much I lean on him, just by knowing he's out there. I wouldn't have that friend -- far away and infrequently seen, yet more important to me than he could ever know.

This is too mushy.

That's better.

I have another friend (well, I have several -- but for the sake of this part of the tale, we'll talk about just this one.) He's honest and straightforward and doesn't bullshit me. Sometimes that hurts, but only because I know what he says is true, and I have to accept that he's onto my devious little plan to fade into the background, avoiding anything that could even remotely lead to pain. And it's like every part of me from the top of my head to my freakishly-shaped nugget-like baby toenails and every part of me from the middle of my insides all they way out to my outsides knew the second I met him, without question, that I would need him to be my friend.

Getting mushy again.

That's better. Again.

So, I feel like shit. Even though I've thought about that first friend and I've talked to that second friend, it's not going away yet. Even the pictures of horribly deadified cartoon animals isn't helping, which is pretty much unprecidented. I've made jokes and been self-deprecating and as close to honest as I care to come right now. These are the things that usually work. Fuck.

So on I go, doing my best to be open and honest. Using the Interpipes to semi-but-not-really-anonymously talk to my friends about what's bothering me. Writing on a goofy blog instead of doing what normal people do, and just sitting down and talking to someone else. I know I should do that, but it involves face-to-face contact and crying and sometimes a snotty nose, and I don't wanna. You can't make me. So there.

Everyone around me is doing stuff. Things for them are changing, moving forward.

And then there's me.

Or at least, that's how I feel today. I know it's not really true. I know that's not really me. For one thing, my ass isn't nearly that big. But today, and lots of other days lately, I feel like a big stupid horse with my big stupid head stuck in a big stupid tree. So I'm sitting here thinking about that today, and thinking about how everybody probably feels like that sometimes, and thinking about how when they feel that way, they feel just like me right now: that they're the only one. That all the other horsies who aren't fucktards are running ahead, and I'll never catch up because I apparently thought it would be a super idea to stuff my head in a tree -- even though I'm a horse and nothing I eat lives inside trees.

Seems every few days I find myself with my head stuck in a different tree. I got used to it. Can't see the scary things around me -- the things I should be doing to keep up with the other horses. Can't see them getting further and further ahead of me. If I don't see it, it ain't happening. If I don't know it, it's not real.

No one likes an oblivious beaver.

So today I pulled my head out of a tree. And it fucking hurt. Not because I wanted to keep my head in the tree forever, not because I'd developed some sort of inappropriate fascination with the tree, but because this tree, this particularly comfortable tree with it's strong branches and sturdy trunk and calming shade, made me feel safe. Kept me from having to see what the other horses were doing. Gave me somewhere to hide away from everything. Gave me an excuse not to look around me for somewhere to go.

Now my head hurts and I'm a bit wobbly from trying to hold myself up after leaning for too long. It's too bright and windy. But it feels good, too. It feels right. The other horses are still pretty far ahead of me, and I'm still terrified I won't catch up and I'll be left by myself, just looking for more trees to stick my head in. And I'm worried when I look back, my tree won't be there anymore. It might fall down, it might be gone if I need it again to protect me or give me somewhere to hide for a while. There's nothing I can do about that. Horses aren't in charge of trees, because horses are (despite what people who haven't had horses might think) kind of dumb. Don't believe me? Scroll up and take another look at the horse with it's head stuck in a frigging tree.

How exactly did I turn into a horse in this story? Oh. Right. Heaven forbid I just come out and say something straightforward. Wouldn't want to accidentally be open about how I feel. Might come across as a dufus or a loser or some sort of dufus/loser hybrid.................

You had to know I'd work this skidmark into the story somehow.

Long story short (which actually makes this entire story longer, when you think of it) -- I'm trying to keep up, but I keep finding something to lean on. Something that makes it ok for me not move forward. Something that validates my staying behind, so I won't have to admit that maybe I feel left behind not because I have been left behind, but because I haven't even bothered to keep up. Because I'm scared that if I try and fail like I so often have, I'll fall and lose even more ground, like I often do. And because it breaks my heart to think maybe the place all the others are going to isn't the place for me.

I hope I can get up and go. I hope I can keep up with the rest of my herd and stay with them for as long as I can. I hope I can stop sticking my head in trees and hiding -- because one day, one of those trees might break.

I hope that the horses coming up behind me -- instead of seeing me with my cracked-out cranium crammed in a tree-hole, leaning and hiding and avoiding changing and growing -- get a big eyeful of this as I move on with my life:

A horse's ass.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

HOLY CRAP!!! A FACEBOOK QUESTIONNAIRE!!!

2010-12-30T10:13:00.000-08:00

1. Hi! This is Facebook! Your friend Blorp has tagged you in the "The Things You Should Know About Me (But This is Not Just Me Being Self-Indulgent) Questionnaire! Do you want to do it? No.

2. But Blorp really wants to know about you. Don't you want your friend to know really important things about you, like the last time you were kissed and what your favourite ice cream is? Again, No.

3. Bitch. That's not a question.

4. OK. WHY are you such a bitch? Because this is stupid and I don't wanna do it.

5. Please? For Blorp? He took the time to tag you :( FINE. I will do it. Jesus Christ.

6. Did you read Blorp's answers yet? No.

7. You should. I mean, it will help you better know your friend. Don't you want that? Look, I barely know the guy. I went to high school with him or something. I just accepted his friend request because it seemed rude not to.

8. Oh -- and it's NOT rude to ignore something he thought was important enough to share with you? FINE, GOD DAMMIT. I WILL READ HIS STUPID ANSWERS.

9. Are you done? Did you learn all about Blorp? Yep. Sure did. Now that I know what colour the death of his first pet felt like, I totally understand him. Wow. He's deep.

10. Cool! Ready to start your answers? Sure. Whatever.

11. What flower do you think of when you think of the person who tagged you in this questionnaire? The kind of flower that I allegedly sat beside in math class and haven't seen in 15 years.

12. Have you ever REALLY loved someone? Yes, until the drugs wore off and he woke up and started crying.

13. What feat are you most proud of? Not setting my computer on fire. Yet.

14. If you were an animal, what kind of animal would you be? Whatever animal Blorp might be allergic to.

15. If you could say one nice thing about the person who tagged you, what would it be?

16. I said: If you could say one nice thing about the person who tagged you, what would it be? I know what you said. You said "IF you could say one nice thing..." I can't. So I didn't.

17. Wow. You are so not taking this seriously, are you? I'm really not.

18. Huh. Guess you don't care about Blorp, then? I really don't.

19. Fine. We'll skip to the last few questions. Think you can act like a grown-up for a few more minutes and try to connect with your friend on a higher level? Sure. This could be fun.

20. What's your favourite flavour of ice cream? Hmmmm......I like lots of flavours, but I only eat ice cream recently purged by bulimics. It's delicious. Soft soft serve.

21. Quit being such an asshole. What are the first three things you see when you look around you as you type this? A jar of peanut butter, a dog, and Blorp's naked mom.

22. Not cool, dude. Blorp's mom has a borderline peanut allergy. Last question - and please try to take it seriously: What's the first thing you're going to do after you complete this questionaire? (Hint: saying you're going to send a message to Blorp to catch up and see how he's been doing all these years and maybe invite him to meet up for coffee would be a pretty great answer!) I'm going to block the fucker, report him for porn, then videotape whatever his mom is about to do with that dog and put it on Youtube.

23. Thanks for taking the time to fill this out and read your friend's answers! Now you'll get all those obscure references in the note he leaves behind!

~~~~~

(What I Can Only Assume Are) Actual Thoughts Had By People I Have Been Exposed to Recently

2010-12-13T14:00:00.000-08:00

"My current employer? The drivers of cars waiting at the red light at the St. Laurent off ramp." ~ Guy who stared in my car window for a full minute while holding a cardboard sign requesting money.

"Fuck it -- I'll just kill people with my car." ~ Everyone driving through the St. Laurent Centre parking lot Saturday.

"Fuck it -- I'll just get killed by a car." ~ Everyone walking through the St. Laurent Centre parking lot Saturday.

"This is probably where used Kleenexes go." ~ Some guy at the convenience store where I stopped to buy milk today, as he tucked a snot-rag among the chocolate bar display.

"It is a scientific fact that bathroom stalls block out the sounds that farts make." ~ Woman in the same bathroom as me.

"I'm not creepy." ~ Guy at La Senza. Looking at bras. Alone.

"I'm not a douchebag." ~ Douchebag walking down the street yapping loudly and with great self-importance into his Bluetooth.

"I'm super-coordinated and don't look ridiculous." ~ Chick balancing tray holding five cups from Starbucks while talking on her cell phone.

"SHOWERS ARE HOW THE DEVIL GETS INSIDE YOU AND ALSO I HAVE A RAT LIVING IN MY BRAIN CAN I BORROW A FORK TO GET IT OUT???" ~ Crazy guy

Can I Fix You a Shit Sandwich?

2010-11-01T10:19:00.000-07:00

I have this thing where my brain frequently thinks thoughts that are stupid. I think it's called "being alive."

My most-stupid frequently-thought thought is "(blank) should not happen/I should not be expected to (blank)/(blank) is not fair, because I'm still a frigging KID." Except I am NOT a frigging kid. I'm 31 years old. I'm not sure why my brain is stuck in perma-young person mode, but it is. Maybe I'm mentally deficient. I'm probably mentally deficient.

After having the "I'm just a kid" thought today (because someone was mean to me or I imagined someone was being mean to me, and why would they do that? Don't they know I'm just a kid?) I gave my brain a swift, metaphorical (obviously) kick in the head, then sat quietly and pondered stuff for a while. All that pondering has led me to the conclusion that I need to grow the fuck up and start acting like a grown-the-fuck-up person.

Sure is a good thing Maury Povich exists.

So now begins the tedious task of training my brain to think like the brain of a 31-year-old woman, and not the brain of a wimpy little teenager afraid of loud noises and her own shadow and what people are thinking and also squirrels. What better way to do that than by using goofy photos, lots of cursing and self-deprecating, often rambling humour? Actually, there are probably a million better ways to do it, but this is the one I'm going with, so go fuck yourself if you don't like it.

And with that, I present to you: Shit I Know Now That I'm in My 30's (a.k.a. Grow Up and Deal With it, You Turd) feat. T-Pain.

Because everything's more awesome when it feat.'s T-Pain.

1. 'Cheerios' aren't a supper food. In the same vein, 'Absolutely Nothing' isn't a breakfast food. And it is not acceptable to have three cookies and a pen lid for lunch.

2. People can see the dirt you've swept into a corner and hidden by leaving the broom there.

3. Comfortable shoes are better than awesome shoes. It doesn't matter, and I will still continue to wear awesome shoes instead of comfortable ones, but at least I know I'm an idiot for doing it.

4. You shouldn't lie to people who trust you. Even little tiny lies that you think you're telling for the right reasons. Even lies you think you are telling to protect yourself or someone else. That's not to say I think you should run around confessing your dirtiest little secrets (I'd be fucked with a harpoon to the moon and back if I did that) but if someone who trusts you asks you a question, you should answer it, and you should answer it with the truth.

5. Underwear goes under your clothes. Always.

6. If a pillow isn't comfortable enough to lay your head on, you don't need it.

7. Sometimes, people have other stuff to do. Don't be sad if that stuff keeps them from being around. It's OK. They still like you.

8. Sometimes, YOU have other stuff to do. Don't put your life on hold every single time someone needs something. It's OK. You still like them.

9. Porn isn't a bad thing.

10. But tequila is.

11. There's a fairly good chance 95% of the people you talk to each day don't give a shit about what you're saying. And be honest -- you don't care about most of what they have to say, either.

12. Posters of musicians stop being acceptable bedroom decor the second you move out of your parents' house. Which is why I took down my Who and Rolling Stones posters. (About a month ago.)

13. Furry cheese is still good. Just peel the fur off.

14. Some people aren't people you need to be friends with. You might not like them. They might not like you. Or you might like them, but being friends with them does not make you happy most of the time. Stop hanging out with those people, even if it makes you sad for a little while.

15. Ice cube trays don't fill themselves. Which is why I buy ice by the bag at the convenience store.

16. Sometimes, you will do bad stuff. Sometimes, when you do that bad stuff, you won't feel bad about it. Did anyone die? No? Then don't worry about it.

17. Buying celery is pointless if you don't eat it.

18. Crying about something probably won't fix it.

19. If you briefly forget you're a grown-up and you do something shitty to someone, say you're sorry. And forgive yourself. You didn't mean it.

20. Most of the people around you don't always remember they're grown-ups, either. If they do something shitty to you, forgive them. They're sorry. They didn't mean it.

So that's the list. I don't really think it's my strongest work, but I like it anyway. If you like it, feel free to print it off and make it into a needlepoint picture and frame it and hang it in your bathroom. If you don't like it, feel free to eat a shit sandwich.

Well of COURSE I was going to find a picture of a shit sandwich. Duh.

~~~~~

This One Isn't Funny

2010-10-13T16:17:00.000-07:00

First, I'd like you to watch this. It's a little over 12 minutes long, and I will understand if you don't want to watch it -- but I think you should. Especially if you have kids, because I want you to see that while it does "get better" (as all the celebrities are rightly saying in the anti-bullying videos making the rounds these days) it never ever really goes away.

I'm willing to bet every single one of you reading this has been teased or picked on in your life, for silly things or serious things or things you don't understand. For many people, it's nothing. It's one jerk saying something mean to you, or a friend who takes a joke too far, and sometimes it hurts like hell. Then you forget about it and move on and it never comes up again. But think of one of those times right now, and try to remember how bad you felt in the moment it happened. Now, try to think of how much of that you would be able to take before you jumped off a bridge or hanged yourself in your bedroom or shot yourself in the head. Because that's what has been happening. Kids are being terrorized and kids are killing themselves.

I was bullied when I was a kid. From kindergarten until the day I graduated high school, I was teased and tortured almost every single school day. It felt awful and it felt like it would never end, but it did. I finished high school a year earlier than I had to and I left and I will be perfectly happy if I never see any of the pathetic pieces of shit that bullied me ever again. But as bad as it was for me, I never wanted to die because of it. That's why it's like a punch in the heart every time I see a story in the news about a bullied kid committing suicide -- because I know how much it hurt when I was bullied, yet I can't even begin to comprehend how much it has to hurt before a person takes their own life.

It's pretty common, I think, for adults to tell kids to be tough or suck it up when someone teases them. Sometimes it's what you have to do, to help a kid grow up strong and able to stand up for him or herself. But for fucksake, do NOT ignore your son or daughter if they say they're being bullied or you think they're being bullied -- because while it does get better ( I know this because it got better for me) the effects of being bullied never completely go away (I also know this because it also happened to me.) You'll see that if you watch the video I linked to at the beginning of this post. You'll see a man who has grown up to be very successful in his life and his work after a childhood of being terrorized.....but you'll also see a man who is obviously still hurting from everything that happened to him and everything that was said to him all those years ago.

There are people who argue being bullied makes a child a stronger adult. I agree with that, but it pisses me right the fuck off anyway. Yes, maybe I'm tougher now because I had to be when I was a kid -- but I was forced into it. I'd rather be able to say that I'm tough because I chose to be, not because I had to be because the alternative was to fall apart. I hope if you're a parent, that's what you want for your kids, too.

So we can confirm (based on my scientific analysis of me) that being bullied can lead to tougher adults. I guess in the grander scheme of things, that's not a bad thing. But do you know what is a bad thing? Wondering if people actually like you, or if they're just putting up with you until you go away. Not being able to fully believe that a friend's light-hearted, good-natured teasing isn't really cruelty in disguise. Thinking that you're alone at night not because you just happen to be alone, but because there's no one who can stand being around you. Being afraid sometimes that everything bad everyone ever said to you might be true.

I'm never telling anyone the things people said or did to me when I was a kid. I've tried to before, and it hurts like hell just to almost say those things aloud. But I will tell you that I sometimes feel all of those things I mentioned above. I graduated high school when I was 18. I'm 31 as I write this. It's been 13 years since I was bullied (don't bother pointing it out if that number is wrong -- I am well aware I blow at math) and it still affects me. I think it always will.

I'm not writing this for sympathy. I'm not writing this because I actually want to talk to people in great detail about it, despite my protests that I don't. Ask almost any adult you know who was bullied as a kid to describe the things they were bullied about, and I wish you luck getting them to answer you. We losers and nerds and punching bags don't particularly want to re-live the specifics of our loser-ness and nerd-ness and punching bag-ness.

So, no -- I'm not writing this for attention. I'm writing this and I'm telling you that it still affects me because I want you to be able to help your kids so that it won't be affecting them when they are 31. It's hard to stop it if you don't know it's happening ( I didn't exactly come home from school and tell my parents that everyone thought I was a loser) but the way things are now, I think parents need to pay better attention. Kids are killing themselves. I can't believe that there aren't signs well in advance that something is going wrong.

I don't have kids. I don't know the answer. I don't know how to let your children know it's OK and it's not weak to come to you for help, but you have to find a way to do just that. Please please PLEASE don't let your children grow up to be like me. Don't get me wrong -- I think I'm pretty awesome. I have a kick-ass job and very awesome friends. I'm smart and I'm funny and I'm cute and I'm nice. I don't punch babies or kick dogs. I've never killed a hobo and left his carcass on train tracks. I will probably never be described by my neighbours as someone who "seemed so normal until they found all those bodies in her basement." But I'm also very insecure a lot of the time. I can be paranoid, and I often wonder if people actually like me. And a lot of the time, I wonder why they do. I cry sometimes when I (mistakenly) think people are being mean to me, and I cry sometimes when people are being nice, because deep down, I don't think I'm always sure I deserve it. And the entire time I'm feeling any of those things, I know I'm being a dumbass -- but I truly can't help it. You don't want that for your kids. You don't want your kids to grow up and wonder even one-percent of the time whether they actually deserve to be happy.

As much as it sucked when I was a kid, and as much as it affects me now, at least I'm still here. I wish I could say that for Tyler Clementi. And Ryan Halligan. And Megan Meier. Phoebe Prince. Jared High. April Himes. And who knows how many more.

To my friends who have kids and my friends who will: Please don't let them to grow up to be insecure. Please don't let them grow up questioning whether they are worthy of their friends. Please don't let them grow up to be someone who cries when someone says something nice to them because sometimes they just can't fathom another person seeing anything good in them. And please make sure I never have to read their name in a news story about a kid who just couldn't take it anymore.

~~~

Thanksgiving: An Important Day, and Also an Opportunity to Post Photos of Adult Movie Covers and Zombies

2010-10-11T10:37:00.000-07:00

According to Wikipedia (which is pretty much Google with fewer pictures of naked asses when I search for 'butt load') Thanksgiving is "as annual Canadian holiday to give thanks at the close of the harvest season."

They just harvested your grandma.

I didn't harvest anything this year because I'm lazy, and because my neighbours would probably get pissed off if I started growing corn in the front yard. Mostly because this is what I'd put up to keep the crows away:

Also effective against anyone who might want to come to my door to "talk to me for a minute."

I am, of course, thankful for my family*.

Fairly accurate, actually.

My immediate family is pretty small, but I have lots of aunts and uncles and cousins. Almost everyone I'm related to is insane. Some people have boring families -- I have the least boring family ever. And somehow, all the genetics and traits of all my ancestors combined to make a whole bunch of really cool (insane) people. I'm thankful that I'm one of them.

(*Thankfulness does not extend to all members of family. Null and void for the stupid ones that I don't like.)

I am thankful for my friends.

I'm not implying all my friends are jackasses. I'm flat-out saying it. You are all jackasses.

And that's why I like them. I'm a jackass, too, so I prefer to run with a herd of jackasses. You guys are all the best jackasses ever.

I'm thankful for my job.

This is not my job, but it has some similarities: There are some dicks, they can be hard (to work with), but it often works out in the end. (Ha ha! Get it? The END!! HA!)

Maybe this is shallow, but I'm thankful for the things I have.

My car:

Looks just like this, but without some guy in it. And not parked in front of a church (because of the whole bursting-into-flames thing)

My house:

Like this one, but shitty.

My DVDs:

Right now you're wondering if I'm kidding. And also if you can borrow them if I'm not.

I'm thankful that I live in a country where I can write a blog featuring photos of pornographic movies. Where I can call a politician a moron. Where I can learn and work and live my life without being told that I can't. Where I never stop before I walk outside and think "I hope I've covered up enough of my body to be allowed out in public." Or "I hope the place where I work is still standing when I get to it." Or "I hope I'm still around to come back home later today." I'm thankful that I live in a place where people get angry when they hear a news story about someone being beaten or bullied for being different. Where thousands of people will come together and walk along our city's streets to raise money for people who are hurting. Where they will gather in public and hold signs and yell at the top of their lungs about something they care about, even if it's something I think is complete bullshit. (And quite frankly, I usually think it's complete bullshit.) But I'm thankful that there are so many people who care enough about something to tell the rest of us about it. I'm also thankful for the middle fingers I have on both hands which I can show these people when I drive by them.

So thanks, Thanksgiving, for giving me an opportunity to write this. It's nice to say thanks for everyone and everything I love having in my life. You all make me a better person, and I'd hate this world if even one of you wasn't on it.

As of midnight tonight, Thanksgiving will be over. Which means I can go back to being greedy and thankless, and you can all go screw yourself until next year.

~~~~~

Something About Rabbits and Dildos and Self-Realization and Pooping Red

2010-10-08T16:31:00.000-07:00

Some days, I'm a dildo.

Today was definitely one of those days. There are a few people who know that better than anyone, since they were the unfortunate victims of my dildo-ness -- including one poor guy who made a harmless damn joke, then found himself faced with this:

.....and then this:

Yet he somehow managed not to do this:

Which he would have been totally justified in doing.

So that was Dildo Move Number One for me today. Followed closely by several more dildo-esque reactions and overreactions and one instance of me telling a homeless guy to fuck off. And then I couldn't find my car keys, so I swore within earshot of a child. And then I found my car keys, but I couldn't find my stupid parking slip, so I swore again. Still within earshot of the child. And then I got stuck waiting behind an idiot at the pay-station at the parking lot who couldn't figure out where to put her fucking twoonie.

(This is not the first image that comes up when you do a Google search for "stick it up your ass.")

And I thought "WHY THE SWEET CHOCOLATE FUCK DOES EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRE FUCKING WORLD FUCKING HATE ME TO-FUCKING-DAY?????" So I got in my car and drove to my appointment, all the while hoping I would get an opportunity to kill a squirrel. But for the first time in the HISTORY OF FUCKING MAN, there were no squirrels squirrelling about on the road. Because even the squirrels hated me enough this morning to not let me kill them with my car. Assholes.

Pissed and miserable and ready to crack in two, and not even able to satiate my rage by leaving a trail of squirrel carcasses along Bank Street. Life sucked.

(I would like to take this opportunity to tell you all that I don't actually drive around trying to obliterate squirrels. I've only ever run over three, and they were all accidents. But I do hate squirrels very, very much. They know why.)

So I went to my stupid appointment and did all the stupid things I needed to do and got some stupid Starbucks and craved a stupid cigarette and continued to try to figure out why everything and everyone hated my stupid guts.

My stupid, delicious guts.

Then, while driving along (a little more aggressively than perhaps I should have been) I had an epiphany. "Holy fucking shit!" I said.

THE INTERNET. HAS. EVERYTHING.

"Holy fucking shit!" I said. "I'm not the center of the fucking universe!"

"Wait -- when did I start thinking I was the center of the fucking universe?"

"And why the hell am I talking to myself? Out loud? In my car?"

"Right -- I'm in my car. I should probably be paying attention to the ro-"

"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

(That last one came when I made a left turn into on-coming traffic at an intersection. Lucky for me, the guy driving toward me had obviously been taking really good care of his brakes. He and I have never and likely will never meet, but I'm pretty sure he knows enough about me to know he'd like to punch me in my face.)

I immediately pulled into a gas station parking lot, shut off my car, gripped the steering wheel, and made this face for a while:

Eventually, my eyeballs went back into my head. I started my car, unlocked my knuckles and drove away. Much less aggressively (with no desire to murder any squirrels) and with a newly-clear mind.

At some point -- unconsciously and without any malice -- I decided I was the center of the universe. Not the "PAY ATTENTION TO ME WHY AREN'T YOU LOOKING AT ME STOP IGNORING ME" center of the universe. More of a "Why would you do/say/think that about me and why doesn't anyone realize I'm here and how come people don't understand that I'm just as important as they are" center of the universe. Which I suppose we all feel, to some extent. Any given person is technically the center of their own universe. But I lost sight of that. Something somewhere in my brain forgot that while it's totally fine for me to be the center of MY universe, it WASN'T totally fine for me to expect me to be the center of anyone else's, even if I wasn't aware I was expecting it. Nothing in those last few sentences makes and sense, but I think you know what I mean.

I felt this post was getting too serious and thought it would be funny to put this here.

There's a poet named Heather Darling-Cortes who wrote a poem (obviously) with this line: "To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world." You would think the important part of that would be the second half, and maybe you're right. (You're not. You're wrong.) It's the FIRST half that's important. "To the world you may be one person." Yes. That's exactly what you are. That's what I am. That's what we all are. We are all just one damn person, and we're never going to be nearly as important to anyone else as we are to ourselves. And that is okie fucking dokie.

There is nothing on the Internet that says 'okie fucking dokie.' But there is this, and it has 'jackers' in it, and that is funny.

It's fine that we're all just one person to the world. What the hell else are we supposed to be? Even if you find your true love and spawn many younglings and have a bazillion-zillion friends, you will NOT be as important to any of them as you are to yourself -- or vice versa. Doesn't mean they don't care about you or you don't care about them. Doesn't make you or them selfish. Doesn't not mean nuthin'. (Triple Negative. Remember math? Remember how two negatives make a postive, then if you add a negative to that positive you get a negative again? Exactly the same, but with words. Try not to think about it too hard, because I made it up anyway. Math makes my brain explode.)

Needed exploding-brain picture. This one seemed good.

This post is getting really fucking long, and I think I've kind of made my point. Or not. Pretty much I realized that no one does or SHOULD care about any given person more than that given person does. If you know someone who cares about you more than YOU care about you, then you're a dummy.

Not this kind of dummy, you dummy.

OR this kind. Quit being an asshole.

THIS kind of dummy. The really dumb kind.

And don't be all "Waaaaah! She called me a dummy!" I just mean that if you don't care about yourself more than anyone in the world, then you're ignoring the attention of the most important person you'll ever know. And that would make you a fucking idiot, now wouldn't it?

Thanks for stopping by, folks. Let's wrap this all up with a picture of food someone made to look like a circle jerk.

For some reason, THIS is the first image that comes up if you search for 'circle jerk.' Probably best if you don't think about why I was searching for that.

Dear The Comedian (Like Dear Abby, But Without That Annoying Uppity Bitch Abby)

2010-10-04T12:08:00.000-07:00

Dear The Comedian:

I have a job working as a telemarketer for a very annoying and pointless company that seems to think calling people at 6:30 on a Sunday evening will make them want to buy the product and/or service it provides. Judging by the responses I get from 99.999999999999999% of the people I call, they do not wish to ever for any reason in the history of time buy said product and/or service. And many of them would also like me to go fuck myself. I understand that they might have things to do at 6:30 on a Sunday evening such as "spending time with my children" or "reading a book" or "masturbating furiously while thinking of your mother, you annoying telemarketing piece of shit," but I have to make a living somehow and this is the only way I can do that, since I'm a big giant asshole who either didn't bother finishing school or perhaps went to university for something retarded and now can't find a job in that field, because the only job on Earth available in that line of work is being the person who teaches the course at the university I went to, and that person hasn't died yet so I can't have their job. What can I do to make potential customers buy the shit I'm trying to sell?

Signed,
Just Wants to Talk About the Sale We Have on Right Now

Dear Just Wants to Talk:

Kill yourself.

Signed,
The Comedian

Dear The Comedian:

I am a douchebag who stands near the bus stop outside the mall, trying to pick up women. I use great lines such as "Hay bayby" and "Due yoo wanna tuch it?" I am so obviously stupid that when I speak, people can hear the spelling mistakes I would make if I were writing the words down instead of saying them aloud. Once -- it was a Friday, I think -- I had a shower. I even almost used soap. No matter how hard I try or how many times I grab my junk through my grey track pants and shake it in the direction of a pretty girl, I never get any action beyond stuffing my dick into the vacuum when I get home. It's a good thing I've never used the vacuum to actually clean my floors, or I might get some sort of STD. I know you can't get STDs from plain old floor-dirt, but sometimes my roommate Ted whacks off and leaves his spew on the floor, and if I vacuumed up his spew and then got it on my dick while it was stuffed in the vacuum, I might get the herpes Ted has. Can you tell me what I need to do to finally meet a girl who will let me stick it in her?

Signed,
Dirty Douchebag with Brown Stuff in His Teeth and Half a Boner At All Times

Dear Dirty Doucebag:

Kill yourself.

Signed,
The Comedian

Dear The Comedian:

I live in a townhouse complex surrounded by normal people, but I am a giant ass-zit who plays really loud music of such compelling genres as "Death Metal" and "Cats in a Blender." Sometimes I play it during the day and drive everyone nuts, and sometimes I play it at night and drive everyone nuts. I don't understand why my neighbours all refer to me as "Dick Face" and "Shut Up You Piece of Shit" and "I Hope You Die in a Fire." I have a bicycle that only looks like it's been hit by trucks seven or eight times max, and I'm pretty much only 97% physically repulsive. I suppose if you saw me from a distance and the sun was shining in your eyes and I was facing away from you, you might think I was OK-looking. I'm not, though. I have no redeeming qualities and I should probably move away and leave all these nice people alone. My question for you is: would you like to come over tonight and listen to some death metal with my in my basement? I am very lonely, since I am such a useless pile of balls.

Signed,
Death Metal Rules and I am Very Cool Because I Like It

Dear Death Metal:

Kill yourself.

Signed,
The Comedian

If you have a question for The Comedian, please send it (along with a self-addressed stamped box large enough to hold whatever dead animal I decide to mail back to you) to:

The Comedian Hates You

123 You Fucking Suck Avenue

I Hate Your Gutsville

Canada

H8T Y0U

I Do Not Know if These People are Good At or Bad At Dying.

2010-09-27T12:44:00.000-07:00

I'm going to tell you right now NOT TO READ THIS if you have problems with the words "horse" "fuck" and "ass" being used in the same sentence more than just that one time. I'm super-duper not kidding about this. It's not often I get an opportunity to use the words "horse" "fuck" and "ass" in the same sentence, so I'm going full-bore with this. Consider yourself warned.

_______

The guy who owns the company that makes Segways died this past weekend by Segwaying his Segway off a cliff.

Nothing is funnier than that. NOTHING. Well, not today, anyway. I'm sure some moron somewhere will top that epically ironical feat sometime really soon. Until then, I'm going to laugh at that poor man's death pretty much consistently for the rest of today. I truly hope that, as he was losing his battle with gravity, he had a moment to realize just how hard a good chunk of the world's population was going to laugh when they found out how he bit it.

After laughing at this poor man's death for a length of time that can only be described as "psychotic," I started to feel bad. Not because he died. Not because I laughed at it. Because it is not even close to the most embarrassing death ever. I don't know what the most embarrassing death ever is, but these three have got to be high on the "Fuck -- REALLY? This is How I'm Going to Fucking Die?" List.

(And I'm serious about the "horse" "fuck" and "ass" thing. Really, really serious. If you don't want to read it, you'd better stop after these next two stories.)

Let us consider the case of wrestler Mal "King Kong" Kirk. 1987. Shirley "Big Daddy" Crabtree (who the fuck thinks up these names?) does the "Belly Splash" onto Kirk. The "Belly Splash" is exactly what you think it is, unless you think it is what I thought it was after watching an "art film" in the Internet this one time. I guess sometimes a thing can be two things, as in the case of the "Belly Splash."

So, yeah -- Kirk gets smooshed, Kirk gets heart attack, Kirk gets dead.

"King Kong" Kirk died while wearing tight man-panties. With another man in tight man-panties laying on top of him. A man named Shirley. Who had just done something to him called the "Belly Splash."

(One more story til the horse thing. Really. It's right after this one. I'm probably not going to warn you again. But just so you know, the horse wins in the story. The horse. Totally. Wins.)

Michael Anderson was convicted of murder in 1983, and sentenced to death by electric chair in South Carolina. Lucky for him, the people who decide not to execute people who are sentenced to be executed decided not to execute him.

Too bad he was a fucking moron.

...is what Michael Anderson would hear people say, if he weren't dead from being a fucking moron.

While sitting in his cell, on a metal toilet, he tried to wire something up on his TV. Cut to screaming spasms and the foul stench of fried ass hair.

(Ok. Last warning. It's the horse thing. Again, the horse was fine. Probably. I mean, depending on how you look at it, the horse pretty much had nothing bad happen to him at all. I think he might even have had a pretty awesome day, for a horse. Plus, the bad guy is dead, so the horse came out on top, I think. The previous sentence will be extra funny once you finish reading this next story.)

In 2005, a man named Kenneth Pinyan in Seattle, Washington, died after he LET A HORSE FUCK HIS ASS.

His ASS.

HE LET A HORSE FUCK HIS ASS.

Because some horses like to give, and some horses like to take.

And then he died. Because of how very, very much he deserved to.

So, see, Segway Guy -- your death isn't that bad. No one flattened you while wearing underpants. Your ass didn't catch fire. And your death didn't even involve one single horse dong. Go gentle into that good night, Segway Guy. Go gentle into that ironic, retarded good night.

~~~

Random Schmandom

2010-09-21T15:07:00.000-07:00

Jamie Lee Curtis' ability to poop does not impress me, Activia. In fact, I pretty much can't eat yogurt anymore because of you.

Jim Carroll knew exactly what people would say about him after he died, died.

So did Warren Zevon.

On some tampon boxes, it outlines how many grams worth of 'liquid' the different strengths of tampons can hold. Because all women measure that. On a related note, I just barfed 20 grams of barf.

Humidexes (Humidices? I don't fucking know) are stupid. It is 30 degrees, but it feels like 40 degrees. So, it's 40 degrees.

No, guy at the checkout counter at Mac's -- I do not save 30 cents if I buy two chocolate bars instead of one.

Whenever I call Telus Customer Disservice about problems with my BlackBerry, they tell me to pull the battery out and put it back in again. I'm glad this isn't how we fix problems with all things that run on batteries, because lots of people with pacemakers would be dead.

What is Liza Minelli?

The members of The Who didn't need to hope they'd die before they got old. They could have all just shot themselves. Guess they didn't want it that bad, after all.

~~~

I Would Like For My Balls to Be Pink

2010-09-07T11:42:00.000-07:00

Holy CRAP.

I have been trying for the last half hour to write something even remotely post-able. It is all SHIT. If it's not totally whiny and pathetic, then it's full-on crazy and terrifying. "Boo hoo -- won't somebody fix me? Waaaaaaaaaah." "BLARGH ARGH BOOGLE -- I'M GONNA GO EAT BABIES!!!"

Lettuce helps in the digestive process.

So now I have four unpublishable half-posts and 30 wasted minutes that I could have spent doing something productive like wondering what the sweet fuck I'm supposed to be doing. Because I don't have one goddamn bloody idea. Sleeping? Probably. Making lunch? Wouldn't be the worst idea ever. (No baby-sammidges, I promise. I'm totally out of babies.) Deleting the posts I've written so far today so no one will ever see them and I won't end up locked in an out-of-the way hospital ward where hopefully someone will remember to come change my big-girl diaper every week or so? YES.

I think mostly I just want, like, a hug or something. Because I'm bored and annoyed and stuff didn't work out today the way I intended it to and I got aggravating news about shit that I can't do a frigging thing about and try as I might, I can't do anything even half-right this afternoon. I dunno. I don't really like people touching me, but that's what I feel like I need today. A hug.

From him.

Hugs are good. I'm learning that. And I'm learning that none of us get enough or give enough of them. A little while ago, I had this big epiphany and I was going to hug at least one person a day and I made it my Facebook status (which is basically like enacting a law) and it was going to make me allllll better and I was going to always be happy and cheerful because YAY! HUGS!!! and then I did it for, like, a week, and then I stopped. Because it seemed creepy. And also because I forgot.

Everyone makes such a big deal out of talking and expressing 'feelings' and blardy-blar-blar, but we kind of forget about how nice it is to just get a kind smile or a hand on our arm or a hug.

From this guy.

I don't know about you, but a lot of the time, words don't work. Words just give me something to try to figure out, because heaven forbid I just believe what someone is saying to me. "Everything will be fine" probably means "You're screwed." Or "You're crazy." Or "I'm only saying this so you will shut up and go away because mostly right now I want to go to Science School and become a scientist and learn how to make balls grow on women so I can punch you in your balls."

I would like for mine to be pink, please.

Hugs are better. You can't second-guess a hug or over-think a hug or dissect a hug. But I suppose sometimes you could get a cold from a hug or possibly head lice. Most of my friends don't look like they have head lice though, so I'm not too worried about it. Most of them. And sometimes people are afraid to hug because they don't want to seem weird or have it taken the wrong way. And sometimes I start sentences with the word 'and,' even though that's grammatically retarded.

What about this guy? Can I have a hug from this guy?

This is getting rambly, but I can't imagine that's really a fucking surprise. (See: everything I have ever written.) I can't figure out if this is me trying to teach an important life lesson using humour and pictures of hot guys and pink testicles, or me trying to type some of the stupid out of my brain, or me just blabbering on about whatever crud is running through my head, or me being tired and perhaps I only think I'm typing words but all you will see is "aiweuhfdmusfaiq834kqjfgvgr ggdderlwd;'rieumdms," or maybe I really just don't want to do laundry, and I'm justifying my laziness with "What? I'm busy expressing myself. That's waaaaaaaay more important than having clean clothes to wear tomorrow. My friends won't care if I stink."

Come to think of it, maybe they do. Maybe that's why I'm hug-deprived.....

Nope. I think maybe hugs are just going extinct. I think touch in general is at the very least an endangered species. They way we interact with each other is much more different than it used to be. Touching is bad. We don't even want kids kissing each other on the playground, for fucksake. I can remember holding hands with my best friend when I was little. Just walking around, holding hands. Running up and hugging her each time I saw her for the first time any given day. Watching TV at her house and putting my head on her shoulder just because. Can't do that now. We grow up, and it becomes weird.

I've lost interest in this. I'd delete it, but it's the only thing I've written today that makes any sense (unless I'm right about only thinking I'm writing words, in which case I hope you've at least gotten a good laugh out of it) plus I think somewhere in the midst of Don Draper and pink balls and eating babies I've made something almost point-like, so I'm going to post it. Take from it what you will. Ask someone for a hug. Give someone a hug. Picture Don Draper with bright pink balls. Call the people with the long-armed white coats and send them to my house. Whatever. I'd looking fucking HOT in a straight jacket. Plus, it's just like giving yourself a big, crazy hug :)

See? Happy!

Also, why don't more of you people look like George Clooney or Brad Pitt or Don Draper? And how come NONE of you have bright pink balls? You all suck ass.

~~~

Why Does Lorenzo Lamas Still Exist? Dolly Parton Has Giant Boobs. This is About Hurricanes.

2010-09-03T16:18:00.000-07:00

Many of my posts over the last little while have been a little serious, which I'm totally OK with, but I think it's time for something goofy and ridiculous. So let's make fun of hurricanes. Devastating, horrible, violent hurricanes.

You know what I would name a hurricane? Not Earl. Or Teddy. Or frigging Cristobal. Actual hurricanes have actually been named these actual names. Actually. I'd go with something a little more.......kill-y. Hurricane Trailer Launcher. Hurricane Wind Fuck. Hurricane Death Sneeze. I'd be much more likely to flee the area if Hurricane Tree Through Your Head were on its way to my town than I would be if forecasters told me to run away from Hurricane Dolly.

Hurricane Dolly: Often followed by the rare Double Rainboob.

Teddy, Cristobal and Dolly are real hurricane names, by the way. So are Mindy, Karl, Humberto (huh?) and Floyd. Floyd killed 57 people in 1999, and the name was retired. It was replaced with Franklin.

RUN AWAY! RUN AWAY! RUN THE FUCK AWAAAAAAAAAY!!!!!

Since 1979 (The year I was born. Coincidence? Yes.) there have been six lists of names for hurricanes that rotate every six years. They alternate boy-girl and are used alphabetically, except for the letters Q, U, X, Y and Z. So there will never be a Hurricane Queen Latifah. :(

Some of the names used do suit a giant death fart: Hurricane Victor. Hurricane Bret (The Hitman OH MY GOD WHERE DID MY HOUSE GO???) Hurricane Igor.

Winds so strong, his eyes were blown in opposite directions.

On the flipside, we have Hurricane Nana. Hurricane Nestor. Hurricane Joaquin.

Off! Fuck

There are several hurricanes with the same names as people I know. Does it make me a bad person that I hope those ones have wicked-cool death tolls? (It does.) Does it make it more acceptable that I want those tolls to include a certain lead singer of a certain band whose name rhymes with Dicklecrack? (It does.)

This, but in a tree.

So, in summary, whoever picked most of the hurricane names sucks. They should let Quentin Tarantino do it.

Also, I'm not travelling anywhere where hurricanes go in 2013. If I die in something named Hurricane Lorenzo, I'll kill myself.

He was in Grease! And also Mega Shark vs. Giant Octopus!

~~~

Laugh, You Big Frikkin' Idiot

2010-09-02T10:11:00.000-07:00

When I started writing these things a couple of years ago, my first post was sort of an explanation of this blog's name, Being the Comedian. I just re-read that post, decided it sucked ass, and deleted it. It wasn't a bad explanation, and it wasn't really incorrect, but it wasn't right, either. So today, I'm going to do it right.

"Once you figure out what a joke everything is, being The Comedian's the only thing that makes sense."

It's a line from Watchmen -- certainly one of the greatest graphic novels (it's not a comic book so fuck right off) ever published, and perhaps one of the greatest stories ever published. If you haven't read it, then I guess I'll still be your friend -- but I won't respect you quite as much, and I might pee a little bit on your toilet seat the next time I'm at your house. And I'll teach your kid to swear. Not regular swearing, either -- the bad kind. The kind I use when I see really ugly chicks with their boyfriends while I'm eating alone at Burger King.

Keeping it simple, Watchmen is about a group of superheroes who are not super in anyway -- no radioactive spiders bit them, and they didn't come from a far away planet so they could wear tights and have Nicholas Cage name his kid after them. Picture a world where the authorities bring in system-sanctioned superheroes to take care of the bad guys......then picture the types of people who would be attracted to that work. Yeah, some of them are going to be power-dicks.

Enter The Comedian, played by one Jeffrey Dean Morgan.

Pictured here, looking like he wants to (naughty verb) the ever-loving life out of me.

The Comedian plays a huge role in the entire story, but I'm not going to give it away here. I still hold on to the hope that one day the government will be overthrown by nerds, and our new Nerd Lords will make reading Watchmen mandatory under threat of razor blade wedgies with vinegar chasers, so I don't want to wreck the ending for you. The Comedian does some seriously dark shit. He's needlessly violent, terribly cruel, and just overall kind of a great big douche sometimes. He's also totally aware of how the world really works, and what he has to do to survive in it. I don't mean physically survive (that's easy -- he just kills the hell out of things,) but rather, how to not go crazy in a world that seems hell-bent on turning our brains into festering maggot pies. It's all in that one line:

"Once you figure out what a joke everything is, being The Comedian's the only thing that makes sense."

This is taking on a slightly serious tone. Quick, look at this:

I didn't make this, so it's a complete coincidence this dog shares a name with one of my friends. Srsly.

Throwing in that picture of Jeff the Farting Dog kind of makes my point: When shit gets bad, you need to laugh or you will eventually go bat-fucking-shit-fucking-insane. I'm not saying you should lol at funerals (the blonde guy reading this right now going "Hey, bitch -- I do that!" gets a pass since it's involuntary in his case) but you can't let every bad thing settle into your head. You have to go at it like you would if a fly landed in not-yet-set Jell-o, so you picked the fly out real fast, let the Jell-o set, and then fed it to your friends without telling them about the fly. (That never happened, friends. You can still eat Jell-o if I give it to you. I'd pass on pudding, though, what with the whole "If a fly few into pudding, I wouldn't be able to see it and you'd likely end up eating it" thing.) So, in this tedious metaphor, the Jell-o is your brain, the fly is something shitty that happened, and your finger is The Funny. Gotta jam The Funny into the shitty to keep your friends from eating brains with flies in them. Or something. I don't know. I'm lost.

Think of the worst thing you have ever seen or heard or read about on TV, on the radio, or in a newspaper. Now think of the most tasteless comment that could ever be made about that thing. I guarantee that when that story happened, somewhere in some newsroom in some part of the world, a reporter said that comment. Out loud. To other people. And they all laughed. Not because they're heartless, soulless baby-smashers, but because when a good chunk of your day involves stories about what Mr. McWelfare did to his three kids when he got mad at his wife for not handing him his beer with the label facing toward him the way the damn bitch knows she's supposed to, you have to laugh. If you let every bad story just sit in the room and poison the air all around you, if you let it get in and process, if you let yourself start to feel what the people it happened to might have felt, it takes hold of you from the inside and squeezes every bit of joy out of you until all you want to do is cry.

So we're apparently going with an "Idiot Dogs" theme today to break up the tedium and depression. Cool.

Listen, fucked-up shit is going to happen to all of us. It happens to me, and sometimes (too often) I let it bug the hell out of me. Can't be helped sometimes. But more and more, when I feel like throwing flaming turds at who/whatever has tried to destroy my life on any given day, I force myself to stop and think about what The Comedian said:

"Once you figure out what a joke everything is, being The Comedian's the only thing that makes sense."

I don't mean a joke like "Ha ha! I have herpes!" I mean the not-funny kind of joke. Like, "I have herpes. What a fucking joke." Then you take that joke, and you make it funny by sneaking up on and kissing your enemies when you're in the middle of an outbreak and your mouth is covered in oozing pustules. (Note: I do not have herpes. I'm only using herpes as an example. Please do not tell people I have herpes. Also, if you're not sure how to spell 'pustules' and you decide to Google it, make sure you're on the regular Google page, and the Google Image page. *shudder*)

That example is a wee bit extreme (and sick and demented and riddled with illegality and pus) but you get the idea, I think. There are things you will never be able to laugh at, but there are a lot more that you don't realize you can laugh at. Have compassion, but try not to hurt too much -- for yourself, or anyone else. Care about what's going on in the world, but don't anoint yourself Bearer of All Burdens Far and Wide. Cry or swear or punch the wall when something threatens to ruin your day, and then look up a picture of a dog who's about to find out why you shouldn't bite everything that comes near your face.

~~~

One of Those Ones That's Kind of Serious, But Also Has a Goat.

2010-09-01T12:48:00.000-07:00

~~~

This:

has exactly as much purpose on this Earth as I do.

I'm not saying that in a woe-is-me, self-wallowing way. It's the opposite, really. I was being all woe-is-me, self-wallowy because I'm confused at work and the boy I like doesn't like me back enough to make anything even remotely resembling an effort to find out how fucking amazing I am and I'm sometimes fairly certain I am the single most annoying person on the planet even though my friends say I'm not and also because I can't find my Phillips head screwdriver and I really need it for something. So I did what I do sometimes when I feel like shit: I looked up pictures of retarded goats on the Internet. Retarded goats make me laugh, and he's my favourite. I call him Goat.

Today, I was looking at Goat and laughing because LOOK AT HIS TONGUE!!! Bahahahahaha!!! and I realized that Goat and I aren't all that different.

The similarities between Goat and I don't stop at our freakishly long tongues, either. We both get up in the morning, do stuff throughout the day, then go to sleep at night. Then we both do that the next day and the next day and the next day, until we die. If Goat and I had never existed, the world probably wouldn't be all that much different than it is now. Neither one of us has done anything miraculous or Earth-shattering. Neither one of us has ever cured a disease or saved a life or written a book. Neither Goat nor I know how to use a set of headphones without absent-mindedly wrapping the cord around the arm of our chair at work and tearing the headphone jack out of its little hole EVERY DAMN DAY. Actually, you know what? Goat probably CAN do that. Goat: 1, Melanie: 0.

Goat and I both have jobs. I do my job, Goat does his. (Goat's job is to eat stuff and crap it out in Raisinette-form. In my job, the crap comes out of my mouth.)

Goat and I both have lower-body urges toward the opposite gender. Unlike Goat, I rarely act them out in the middle of a field in front of a group of kids spending the day at the petting zoo.

Goat and I both need the same things to live: oxygen ... food (I like burgers, Goat likes grass and - from the looks of him - the odd pot plant growing within reach of his pen) ... sleep.

Goat and I both want certain things to make life worth living: nice weather ... a warm, dry place to sleep ... other creatures like us to hang out with.

Goat and I both get sick, both get better, and both have ass-backwards days. We both get bored, both have too much to do, and both occasionally get our faces jammed between fence rails (him literally, me metaphorically. Except for one time when it was literally.)

And again, the world would not be all that different if Goat and I had never existed.

Except for one thing.

I like Goat. He's silly and kinda cute and makes me laugh when I feel like a bag of smashed-up balls. I don't think either one of us has a purpose in the grander scheme of things, or either one of us will ever do anything to make the whole world a different place, but I know that Goat did something for me today. He made me realize that maybe we don't need people to tell us what we mean to them. I've never even met Goat, so how could I explain to him how much he makes me laugh, or how he can make me feel better when I don't really feel like feeling better?

So I guess Goat has changed the world, a little bit. Guess that means maybe I have, too.

If I can like a retarded goat with his head jammed in a fence who I've never actually laid eyes on and who probably smells like all of the shit, then it's not that hard to believe that people like me. I mean, hell -- I hardly smell like shit at all.

I know I'm not the only one who feels useless sometimes. I have friends who feel the same way, and it sucks and it hurts and it makes you angry with yourself and everyone else and it's sad. I just hope everyone who ever feels like that (including me) realizes that we're just like Goat: Yeah, we'll probably never change the world......but we're pretty fucking cool. I know some people who are wonderful Goats in my life, and I hope that I'm a Goat to them.

It just occurred to me that picture of Goat has been on the Internet for a long time. He's probably dead.

~~~~~

Things That Make Me Pee In My Pants

2010-08-31T14:00:00.000-07:00

What do spiders, clowns, squirrels, open closet doors, dinosaurs and deer have in common? Nothing. Unless you're me.

Spiders


Fuck you. Meet my shoe.

Know what I learned today? People are assholes. Like, if you're writing a blog about your completely frigging effed-up phobias, and one of those phobias is spiders, and you go to Google Images and do a search for 'cute spider' so you can illustrate your phobia to others without seeing something that makes you pee pure liquid fear, more than half the pictures that come up are not cute spiders. The Worldwide Douche Contingent apparently thinks it's funny to save a picture with the name 'cute spider,' when in reality, it's a picture of something that just crawled out of Satan's dick.

Lots of people are afraid of spiders, so I won't have you judge me for it. Yes, I know they are smaller than me. As I have told people many times, so are grenades, bullets and Mila Kunis -- but I'm pretty sure they could all fucking kill me. Don't believe me? Watch "American Psycho 2" and see what she does to William Shatner.

Nothing good happens after a hot chick rubs William Shatner's shoulders. Ever.

Spiders: The Mila Kunises of bugs -- tiny, spindly legs, and hanging from a web outside my front door.

Clowns

This is my mother's fault.

The Stephen King miniseries "It" aired on television in 1990. I was 11. My mom let me watch it. She shouldn't have done that. Now I can't walk by fairs, costume shops, or John Wayne Gacy without going into high-alert. "It" also triggered a series of what I call Sub-Phobias: bathroom sink drains, showers at the gym, red balloons, those weird culvert-y things in fields, and that big mole on John Boy Walton's face.

Squirrels

This is what most people see when they see a squirrel:

Awww! He's eating a wittle peanut!

This is what I see:

HOW'S YER FACE TASTE???

I have no explanation for why this is.

Open Closet Doors

Why? Because I'm pretty sure this is in there:

If the door's closed, it can't get out and crawl inside me while I sleep.

Dinosaurs

I don't like that this ever existed.

After I saw "Jurassic Park," I slept with a blanket pulled over and wrapped around my head except for my nose so I could breathe. FOR SEVERAL WEEKS. Because Jeff Goldblum says they can't see you if you don't move, and I didn't want the flickering back-and-forth of my eyeballs under my eyelids when I was dreaming to tip one off.

Deer

Know what's real?

This fucking thing.

I didn't know this existed until recently. I didn't have an opinion on deer until then. Then i started to wonder.....why would a deer need fangs? I'm not asking that in a funny way. I really want to know, You should want to know, too.

~~~~~

I Can Work My Hatred for Nickelback Into Anything

2010-08-26T12:38:00.000-07:00

Dear PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, aka Punkass Effers That AreJerksAndDon'tWantMeToHaveAnyBurgersEver),

I don't like you.

I'm sure there are people in your group who aren't complete jizz-wads, but I never hear about them because I only ever see this:

If it's ground up in burger-form, I don't care what it looked like when it was alive. I will eat it.

or this:

I won't eat that. Or the food it's holding.

I don't know which one grosses me out more: a naked chick covered in fake blood and wrapped in plastic, or a usually-naked chick made of plastic parts and full of dirty blood. Seriously -- do NOT let her bleed on you.

Oh -- and there's also comparing killing animals for food to the Holocaust (really, assholes? REALLY?) ... this lovely book they hand out to children ... and using someone's CANCER DIAGNOSIS to spread the message that milk is bad.

AND, if your puppy gets lost and they find it and then they can't find a home for it, they'll kill it.

Just. Like. This.

I like meat. I just ate dead pig pieces jammed on a stick with a bunch of vegetables. Vegetable are good when they're jammed on a stick with meat, because then they taste like meat, too. If PETA had their way, not only would I not have dead pig to eat, I wouldn't even have red peppers that TASTE like dead pig. Seems unfair you'd expect me to live like that.

Do you know why, PETA, it is NOT bad to kill animals? Because eating them while they were still alive would be mean. Because it's kinder to put Mr. Horsie down than it is for me to sneak up behind him and shove my foot up his ass so I can have leather boots. Because if we don't kill them, they will kill us.

Okay, maybe that last part is kind of bullshit, but you can't tell me you've never looked a cat in the eye and thought "Yep - that fucker would shoot me if he could hold a gun." It leads to my next point, though -- and unlike the points about leather boots (which I guess technically I don't really need) or walking around gnawing hunks of meat off live cows, this point is actually valid.

People are animals, too, PETA.

Humans are part of the Animalia Kingdom -- same as chickens and baby seals and werewolves.

You're supposed to shoot her with something. A silver bullet? Whatever.

I assume, PETA, that if I kill a lamb so I can have some yummy muttony goodness, I am THE FUCKING DEVIL according to you, but if Lambchop kills the hell out of me, that's perfectly acceptable.

"That's perfectly acceptable." -PETA

The point I'm trying to make (actually, I'm not really sure I'm even trying to make a point anymore, PETA. I'm just bitching randomly now because of how intently I hate you) is that if you want me to not think you're a bunch of dick salads as you fight for animal rights, you really should fight for the rights of ALL animals -- including humans. Where are you when mosquitos bite me? (See -- this is where my earlier comment about killing things before you eat them comes into play. It's much more humane.) Where are the protests when a shark chomps a swimmer in half, or when a monkey eats a lady's face off, or when this happens? What -- animals can't protect themselves while humans can?

Then explain THIS.

Just, fuck off PETA. It's not my fault Homo Sapiens learned how to use guns first. But I'm sure you're just going to tell me it's not fair to use guns against other poor, defenseless animals.....

Not defenseless.

Also not defenseless.

An entire week is devoted to how defenseless it isn't.

Drunk off the blood of its victims.

I'm just looking for any excuse, really.

~~~

'CSI: New York' is Not a Good TV Show, 'Jeopardy' is a Lie, and Rogers Eats Bum-Squirt

2010-08-20T18:55:00.000-07:00

On 10th September, 2010, someone who makes a fuckload more money than me while sporting a clearly visible ass crack (my ass crack is hardly every visible) will unplug something or flip a switch or shoot a hamster running in a wheel or whatever it is that makes my cable go, and my cable won't go no more. This will happen because I called Rogers last week and told them that I hate their guts and I don't want to give them money anymore and I hope they get oozing cysts on their eyeballs. I did not use those words exactly, but trust me -- it was implied. That gave me 30 days before they cut off my cable and Internet, leaving me - as they implied - isolated off from the world as I await my inevitable tv-less, World Wide Web-less death. To prepare myself for life without cable, I have already disconnected everything that was attached to my TV, save for my DVD player, VCR (shut up) and a pair of $20.00 bunny ears (yes, I know they're called rabbit ears but I think bunny ears sounds cuter) that I bought at Best Buy. With these bunny ears, I get four or five English-language channels (depending on the weather) and 473 French-language channels (all of them clear as day, even in the midst of toad-raining Armaggedeon.) If I want to go from watching CTV (comprised mainly of the news, Dancing with Something or Sue Thomas: FBI) to watching something on Global (comprised mainly of shitty shows because CTV has most the good ones but they're never on when I want to watch them) then I have to get up, walk ALL THE WAY to my TV, and move the bunny ears around until the wiggly lines go mostly away. There's no more time-shifting so I can watch 'Big Bang Theory' at the same time that people in British Columbia do. I cannot "pause and rewind!" live TV. My DVR is a VCR and the one VHS tape I could find in a box in my basement that wasn't warped beyond recognition or full of bug skin. If a thunderstorm breaks out at 9:45, I will not see Jack McCoy win the big case despite the illegal search warrant those damn cops carried out. (WE might know that the police who investigate crime and the district attorneys who prosecute the offenders are separate yet equally important groups, but that crusty yet lovable bastard McCoy doesn't always seem to get it.) If I need to pee, I have to wait for the commercials or turn the volume all the way up and pee with the bathroom door open so I can hear bullets blasting through spines on 'CSI.' If (when) the stupid bus is late after work, I'm not going to see the beginning of 'Jeopardy,' which sucks because the answers at the beginning are usually the only ones I know the questions to.

(Sidebar: that whole "we give you the answer, you give us the question" thing on 'Jeopardy' is bullshit. If it actually worked that way, you'd say "I'll take 'Oz' for $500, Alex," and Alex would say "Silver," and you would say "What the fuck? There are EIGHT MILLION QUESTIONS that could be answered with the word 'silver.' This game is retarded, Alex, and you're an uppity bitch." When that so-called answer was given on 'Jeopardy,' the wording was this: 'In the original Wizard of Oz book and in the musical 'Wicked,' the slippers aren't ruby, but this metallic color.' The so-called question was 'silver.' No, 'Jeopardy.' You cannot say something is an 'answer' just because you word it oddly and don't put a question mark at the end of it. "How you are today." "Fine." "Oh -- I wasn't asking. You can tell, because I mixed the words around and didn't say 'question mark' at the end." The whole premise of 'Jeopardy' is a LIE.)

Right. So, I don't have cable. Well, I have a bunch of cables, but they don't do anything but trip me because I've apparently decided to leave them on the living room floor for pretty much ever. I don't have cable, and as of the 10th of September, I also won't have an Internet connection. That, I will be getting eventually, but not right away, and not from Rot-gers. They can eat bum-squirt for all I care, but they won't be sucking it up with straws bought using my money.

Me -- the queen of watching TV, the person who can remember obscure guest-starring roles on an episode of Cheers that I saw once when I was drunk and half-asleep, the girl who has actually turned down invitations to go out with friends because ARE YOU HIGH??? I CAN'T MISS 'HOUSE'!!! WHAT IF THIS TIME IT IS LUPUS????? (It's never lupus.) Me. ME. I get five TV channels broadcast in a language I actually understand. Five. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS GOOD -- I WATCHED THE SIMPSONS IN FRENCH THIS WEEK. I only knew what they were saying because I've seen that episode more times than years I've been toilet-trained.

And you know what's happened? I haven't fucking died. I have lived five days now without cable, and I'm not dead. I'm not even really all that unhappy about it. Yesterday was Thursday and I missed a re-run of 'Supernatural' and it didn't cause me to vomit up my spleen. I took my dog for a walk Tuesday night and missed 'Family Guy' and my head didn't fall off on the sidewalk. Today I came home from work and it was almost three hours before I realized I hadn't turned my TV on at all since I got home. (I immediately turned it on and found 'CSI: New York' even though not even Gary Sinise can make that monstrosity watchable, but, hey -- I'm not going cold-turkey here. I need a little bit of basking in the light of the Blessed Box before bed.)

One time, I came home from work in a wicked-sad mood, switched on the TV, and watched for many many MANY hours before I realized that my stomach didn't hurt from crying -- it hurt because I was watching TV while I cried and had FORGOTTEN to EAT. When I came home feeling bad after work this past Monday, I cried for a few minutes, felt better, and made a sandwich. All these years I thought TV was making me happy. No. TV was letting me ignore real life. I had become better friends with the characters on 'Desperate Housewives' than I was with my actual friends. I had turned TV into my friend, psychiatrist, and in one hilarious instance, my doctor (tip: you know how sometimes on medical dramas they pull knives or tree branches or stuff out REALLY FAST and then quickly stop the blood and everything's fine and then if the patient is a hot chick she boinks Dr. George Clooney? Yeah, that doesn't work so well on ingrown toenails while sitting on the bathroom floor with no George Clooneys anywhere.)

I'm not giving up TV. I like shows. I will watch them with my bunny ears when I can, and online when I can't. But I'm not scheduling my life around the next episode of 'Law & Order: Criminals Are Bad So Let's Catch Them But Now We'll Catch Them in L.A. Because It's SEXY and Screw You, Dick Wolf - We at NBC Don't CARE That You Were on Your Way to Breaking TV Records with Your Awesome Show." I'm not going to be pissed off if I don't get home from dinner with friends in time to see Dr. McBoner remove a puppy from a guy's stomach cavity and save them both heroically and without regard for his own well-being while still being hot on 'Grey's Anatomy.' It makes me feel silly and weak to realize I've spent all this time caring so much about TV characters because they can't hurt me or make me mad, because they're always there for me each week at the same time, right on schedule. Real people don't do that. But I've realized I like the real people I know better than the tiny people who live in my TV. For one thing, they are bigger and don't sometimes cut out if stupid construction guys dig in the wrong spot. Mostly, I think I would rather miss a TV show than miss my life.

But not if it's 'True Blood.' I don't give a shit about ANY OF YOU if 'True Blood' is on. This might be the episode where I finally get to see Eric's wiener.

~~~

"Ass-Blasted Ink Blots: Using The Gas From Your Ass to Peer Into the Mind of a Killer"

2010-08-10T20:42:00.001-07:00

Today I told a friend he should write a coffee table book about his farts (his farts are epically awesome) complete with big, glossy pictures. The exact words I texted to him were "You should fart into wet ink and blow it around so it looks like those Rorschach Tests." I didn't think twice about typing those words to him or hitting send, even though it's one of the grosser ideas I've ever had. Really -- try to picture it: a grown man hovering his bare ass over a puddle of ink on a sheet of white paper, then farting so hard it blasts the ink around into a random image which would then be shown to a murderer to find out what he sees in the ink blots to explain why he did that thing he did with the kittens, hookers and box-cutters. No one should think of that, and if they do, they certainly shouldn't tell anyone about it. Except that's how I talk to this friend sometimes, and sometimes it's how he talks to me. He's the same friend who talks me down from the metaphorical edge quite often -- explaining things to me in a way that I would never think of on my own, or reminding me that no matter how badly someone tries to treat me, I'm strong enough and important enough to fight back when they try to beat me down. He and I can have the single most ridiculous conversation you've ever heard one minute (the kind you walk into halfway through, shake your head like maybe you're stoned and don't know it, then walk away fairly confident the two people you just heard talking have spent the last three years licking cheap toys from China) and later that same day, he's smiling kindly and not judging me when I have a laugh/cry fit over something completely pointless. I can only hope I make him laugh just as hard as he makes me laugh, and that I can offer him even a fraction of the peace of mind he offers me when my mind gets lost.

To have just one friend like that is a miracle (is what I would say, if I believed in miracles) but to have as many as I do is a fucking statistical anomaly. No one should be as lucky as I am when it comes to the people I choose to be around, and the people who choose to be around me. I marvel at the chance and circumstance that collided to bring together a group of people who all meld together so perfectly -- not despite of, but because of how wonderfully different they are. Some of them don't know each other, some of them know each other as though they were the same person, but all of them combine to create the greatest group of people I've ever known. Even the ones that act like retards 75% of the time, and the ones that frustrate me with their infuriating but perfect logic, and the ones who can make me feel like a blistering idiot one moment and the smartest most-bestest person that's ever lived the next.

Some of them I see too much, some I could never see enough. Some don't super-duper adore each other, some live with each other. Some are people I loved the moment I met them, and some are people whose friendship (after years of knowing them in a few cases) is something I still can't explain.

It all makes me wonder: in this giant world where this weird-ass group of people can come together and get along so well, why does anyone anywhere ever need to hurt another person or hate another person? If a relatively tiny number of people -- all different in so many ways -- can care about each other this much, then how can entire chunks of the globe hateeach other so much? Why is it so hard to love people, but so easy to hate them?

I wish I could take my group of friends -- the funny ones and the serious ones ... the smart ones and the dumb ones (I'm sorry, but some of you are very dumb. You won't know that I'm directing that description toward you, though, because of how dumb you are, so that's ok. And I love you even though -- and sometimes because -- you're dumb) ... the ones with strong faith and the atheists ... the nerds and the jocks ... the hard workers and the slackers ... the kind ones and the harsh ones ... the crazy ones and the calm ones ... I'd like to take them all and put them on a stage for the whole world to see and say "Look! Look at these people who are so very different in so many ways ... who shouldn't like each other at all by your way of thinking yet care about each other so much ... who are so very different yet spend their time together, taking and laughing and getting drunk and playing bongos and dancing and eating skeezy french fries at even skeezier all-night diners and laughing and screwing around and working together and playing together and crying together and taking care of each other and sometimes suggesting the odd fart into a puddle of ink for the sake of art. We can do all this, and you -- YOU are hating each other. You are killing each other.

It's silly and it's naive and it will never, ever happen in a million-billion-gazillion years, but just try to imagine it. Try to imagine that the whole world is just like you and your amazing group of frigged-up, ridiculous, shouldn't-be-friends-in-some-cases friends. They won't always get along, but that's ok. They'll get mad at each other sometimes, and they might swat at each other sometimes, they'll make each other cry sometimes and wish they'll wish each other would die sometimes.....until they sit down and chill out with a cold beer on a patio or a back deck, and all is forgotten and forgiven. That sounds like such a stupid thing to say, even now as I read over it again (checking for spelling mistakes because every misspelled word kills a puppy somewhere in the world.) In fact, I kind of want to delete it because it's so lame and cliched and dorky -- but I like the idea. I like to think maybe one day before I die (apparently in a drunken lawnmower accident that features no fewer than three midgets, a gas can filled with ethanol and a woman with a mullet -- don't ask, I just know) people will at the very least stop blasting the ever-loving FUCK out of each other for no better reason than 'because I don't like you and I don't want you around me.'

This is not a perfect world. It never will be, and that's just too goddamn depressing for me to think about anymore. If I can't fix the whole wide world and make everyone smarten the hell up, then I'll just focus my attention on my friend's soon-to-be-released fart-based coffee table book, tentatively titled "Ass-Blasted Ink Blots: Using The Gas From Your Ass to Peer Into the Mind of a Killer." In stores this Christmas.

~~~

In Heaven, I Would Barf on Your Cat

2010-08-06T09:30:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, I had to go to Sunday School. In a church. A church filled with old ladies wearing ugly hats and old men who coughed weirdly. I had to go to church NOT JUST on holidays, but every Sunday. (Side note: I don't think people who only have to go to church on holidays are lucky. Holidays are the worst times to go to church. Holidays are when you wake up and there are presents under a tree or chocolate hidden around your house. Church does not have that.)

So I went to church and I went to Sunday School because.....I don't actually know why. Because I was told I had to. I'm going to ask my mom next time I'm talking to her why she made me do that. My family should just consider themselves lucky that I hadn't discovered and started making my way through the Seven Deadly Sins back then, or the fire department would still be putting out the flames that would have broken out the second I walked through the church doors all those years ago.

I don't remember much from Sunday School beyond the words to every song they made us sing about sunbeams and mangers and how Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world, red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight, and that's why they don't mind when land mines blow them into smithereens, because even though they are in 137 individual pieces, they are precious pieces.

(I'm going to stop here and make it clear that I am NOT picking on religious people or people who go to church. I respect your beliefs just as much as I assume you respect my lack of them. You're cool with me not believing the same things that you do, right?)

I think most of the people I know who have faith do respect that I'm not a religious person. It's not like I prance around all "lah-de--dah, I don't believe nuthin'!" but it's not really a secret that I'm a non-believer. I do not believe in god. Any god. I'm not just ambivalent about it, either -- I. Do. Not. Think. Any. God. Exists. Not being a dick about it, it's just how I feel. We can have differing opinions and not hate each other. Oh, wait -- I forgot that people live on this planet. I meant to say "we can have differing opinions on things, and should try to convince people who don't believe what we believe that they should believe it, and if they refuse, they should be hit with sticks and called bad names and shunned and you know what, just set the fuckers on fire." Not ALL people are like that, but way too many are. (One person qualifies as "way too many," by the way.)

And finally, we come to the point of today's little story: Why the hell is it so bloody important that I believe what YOU believe? Do you get a prize if you change my mind? Is it like a country fair, where god gives you a shitty little pencil-topper in the shape of Generic Big Bird if you recruit one person, and a giant stuffed ape wearing a cowboy hat if you get 50 of us to switch sides? Is heaven like Amway? Are your profit margins bigger if you can get me to sell cheap hair conditioner, dietary supplements made out of wet cardboard and your message of Peace and Love? (Peace and Love not available in the Middle East or Africa. Offer void in California unless they fix this whole Prop 8 thing and keep those darn gays from getting married.)

Here's the thing, folks: You don't want me in heaven with you. I'm not saying that just because I don't believe in heaven -- I'm saying it because I don't want you to make a horrible mistake. Have you ever had a party at your house, and invited your neighbour just so you wouldn't seem rude, even though you really don't like that neighbour because he doesn't have a job and he walks out to get his mail in his bathrobe without bothering to tie it closed and you're pretty sure you've seen him piss off his balcony on more than one occasion? But you invite him to your party to be nice, and he lurks by the chips and dip double-dipping and drinking really cheap beer while leering at your wife and scratching his nuts and then throws up on your cat? Well, in heaven, I would be that neighbour. It doesn't matter where or how I end up, if I'm anything more than bug-food, you're not going to want me there. I don't feel like behaving myself while I'm on this planet, and if it turns out I'm wrong about the whole after-you-die thing and I don't end up just rotting in a box, I'm not going to feel like behaving myself when I get to wherever I end up.

I say this not to the people I know who have faith and leave me be to not have mine -- I say this to people who will never read this anyway. I just want the words out there: Leave the rest of us alone. Stop trying to convince us we are wrong because you are right. Stop trying to save us sinners so we can go to heaven with you when we croak (hopefully while doing something hilarious and naked that will give the emergency responders a wicked-awesome story to tell for the rest of their lives.) Stop knocking on our doors to talk to us for a minute, or putting signs in our faces and lobbying for bills and laws that are mean and hurtful to the people you hate. (Yes, you hate them. Don't feed us your bullshit about how you love everyone, and you're just trying to save them. You are trying to keep them from being happy, and that's something you do to people you hate.) Mostly, I want you to ask yourself why you need to change our minds. Why isn't it enough for you to have your faith and love your god? It doesn't make it any less real to you that I don't believe it, and it won't make it any more real if I do.

Also, I was in the middle of watching some totally awesome porn when you knocked on my door, and you've totally harshed my mellow, so fuck right off.

~~~~~

Wanna Get Killed With a Swiffer Wet Jet?

2010-08-04T19:17:00.000-07:00

On vacation again this week -- which means I've consistently failed at sleeping in, I'm up $5000+ in computer solitaire while playing by the Vegas rules, and my house is so clean that the only thing that would happen if you licked the floor is that you'd dirty it up with your disgusting spit and I'd have to beat you to pieces with my Swiffer Wet Jet. Which I would then use to promptly soak up your blood. My DVDs are completely alphabetized, the food in my fridge is lined up according to height, my clothes are arranged by colour in the closet, and if you move any of it, I. Will. Kill. You. I will kill you neatly. I will kill you the way Dexter kills other serial killers -- everything covered in plastic, your individual body parts wrapped up carefully and dropped in the river because to me, fucking with my stuff puts you in the same category as a serial killer.

Yes, I know that's crazy. I. Don't. Care. I don't like people moving my stuff or messing with my stuff or changing how I've set up my stuff or questioning why I've done stuff with my stuff the way I've done it. It's my stuff, and I get to do with it what I want. And for the love of all things good, please don't ask me to explain why all the spines of my books have to be facing the same way, or why the slats on the blinds have to be completely even up both sides, why I can't function properly if someone writes in my notebook at work, or why I start having seizures when closet doors are left open. I really don't know. I just like it to be that way. I need it to be that way. Stuff is easy. I can make stuff do what I want it to do, because it is just stuff. It can't move itself around or change where it goes or get bigger or smaller or go away. If I put something somewhere, I know where it will be when I need it. And if it does get messed up, I can fix it. I can put it back the way it's supposed to be.

Yep - stuff is awesome. Easy, inanimate, dumb stuff. It's people that suck. They suck harder than a drug addict after you tell him meth comes out of horse dicks, then leave him unsupervised at a ranch for a few hours.

People don't actually suck. I take that back. I could delete it and just type something different, but then you would miss out on the experience of reading the words "suck harder than a drug addict after you tell him meth comes out of horse dicks," and quite frankly, I'm pretty impressed with myself for coming up with that one. People don't suck. They just do things you don't want them to do and say things you don't want them to say. Sometimes they move around or change where they go or get bigger or smaller or go away.

For someone like me -- someone who somehow JUST KNOWS that something in my house has been moved an infinitesimal bit and I have to find out what and put it back where it's supposed to be or I will not be sleeping tonight and I'm going to lynch the jerk that did this to me -- this poses a particular problem. It's not that I want to control what everyone does or says or whatevers, I just don't know what to do after they do or say or whatever it. It's not something I can put back, like a salt shaker that someone set down on the table in the wrong place or a Pirates of the Caribbean 2 DVD that OBVIOUSLY shouldn't be on the shelf before the Pirate of the Caribbean 1 DVD. Cripes. Who does that??? And why does that person hate me so much???

I don't like change, and I'm going to speak for each one of you when I say none of you do. Not basic, everyday changes -- the big ones. The ones that NO ONE can stop. The changes that come hurtling at us like Bret Michaels running toward a Greasy Blonde Wigs For Scuzzy Hair Metal Losers Who Are Obviously Bald and Also Probably Have ALL of the STDs Sale. The changes that walk up to you, say "Hi! How's it going? You look like you're having a super duper day!" and then hit you in the stomach with a fucking electrified crowbar with glass super-glued to it. Those changes are never ever good, never make anything better, and can hardly ever be fixed. They always hurt, they always break you and they always leave a scar. You can get all the help and all the support and all the hugs, and it's still going to blow. I have no words of wisdom or magical solution. I'm just an idiot who comes home after a bad day and lines up all her furniture so it runs parallel to the lines in the hardwood floor.

My way of dealing is a bit insane. I'm ok with that. It makes me feel better to put my stuff where it's supposed to be, so I'm going to keep doing it. You should, too. Find your stuff and put it where it's supposed to be. Maybe your stuff is your husband or your wife or your kids or boyfriend or girlfriend or dog or cat (even though cats suck) or a teddy bear or a sweater that still smells like your best friend or your gramma or whatever. Take your stuff and put it where it's supposed to be -- tight in your arms and as close to you as you can get it, as often as possible. It won't stop the bad changes that have come or will come, but you'll always know your stuff is where it's supposed to be, and that always makes me feel better :)

~~~

Don't Worry -- I Didn't Actually Get a Rusty Nail in My Ass

2010-08-02T14:45:00.000-07:00

There's a scene in 'Forrest Gump' where Forrest helps create the saying 'Shit Happens.' It involves a t-shirt and some shit, and I'm not describing it beyond that because you've seen the movie and you already know. I'm just reminding you of it, in case you don't have an over-active brain with a frigging giant vault for remembering crap ALL THE TIME that you don't actually need to remember, like I do. This is the same brain that can't remember what the stupid password is on my cable box so I can watch Pay-Per-View, yet for some reason remembers the licence plate for my first car, which was four cars ago. YTF 848. Why the snotty hell does my brain think I need to know that???

So, yes. Shit does, in fact, happen. What I'm dwelling on today is why. Or is there no why? And if there IS a why, then why does the whatever that decides why it should happen decide it should happen? As far as I can gather, there are three common schools of thought. Let's examine them, with a little help from my sweet ass and an imaginary rusty nail:

God/Buddha/Sky Bully/Something has a plan, and everything that happens is part of it.

I am on a bike ride. I fall off my bike and land on my ass. My ass lands on a nail, the nail is covered in rust, the nail gets stuck in my ass, I get tetanus and the left side of my body falls off. If there is a God/Buddha/Sky Bully/Something, and that God/Buddha/Sky Bully/Something's plan involves me falling off my bike onto a rusty nail so the left side of my body falls off, then that God/Buddha/Sky Bully/Something is a dick and I can't imagine why anyone would worship him/her/it. If some giant bully named Sven decided to punch me off my bike onto a rusty nail because it was part of his plan, I wouldn't start building buildings in his name and hanging out in them one morning a week. I'd punch him in the nuts. Comedian's Consensus: If there's a higher power, he/she/it is not very nice, since there is no good reason for someone to get a rusty nail in the ass.

Everything happens for a reason.

Similar to the God/Buddha/Sky Bully/Something school of thought, but without the God/Buddha/Sky Bully/Something. This one just figures that if I fall off my bike and land on my ass, and my ass lands on a nail, and the nail is covered in rust, and the nail gets stuck in my ass, and I get tetanus and the left side of my body falls off, then all those things happened so that something else will happen later. Something 'better,' apparently. Well, yes. I assume that if half my body were to fall off, whatever happened to me after that -- short of the OTHER half of my body falling off -- would be 'better.' It's like those dopes that say a bird shitting on you is good luck. Yes, because for the rest of the day just about anything that happens to you that doesn't involve shit plummeting out of the sky from a bird's dirty ass onto your face will seem like a shot of good luck. Comedian's Consensus: Shut up. I can't hear you very well anyway, because my left ear fell off with the rest of the left side of my body........but for a reason!

Things. Happen.

Every time something happens, a thing happens. Sometimes it is a good thing. Or a bad thing. Or a thing that is just a thing and doesn't affect anything. There is probably a reason that LED to it happening, but there is not a reason FOR it to happen. Maybe I fell off my bike onto a rusty ass-nail because I got distracted by a memory of a naked dude, since that's apparently what my brain thinks I need to think about 75.9% of the time (SCIENCE FACT.) Therefore, there is a reason I don't have the left side of my body anymore: because I am a pervert. There is not, however, a reason for me not to have the left side of my body. It will not lead to anything better. Nothing awesome or wonderful or good will happen because half of me fell off. It sucks hard, it's lame, and I can't fix it. Comedian's Consensus: Yeah, you all knew already this is the one I believe in, so there's no real need to go into it any further than that.

But here's the thing: Sometimes, I wish very very hard that I believed one of the first two. It would be so much easier to know there was a reason for something, as opposed to knowing that sometimes the worst things you can think of will happen, and you can't stop them and you can't fix them. I don't look down on anyone who does believe (even though I made that snarky comment about building buildings and Sunday mornings earlier - sorry) but it just doesn't work for me. I'd probably be happier if it did. Then I wouldn't have to spend all this time trying to think of ways to fix everything, and I could concentrate more on naked dudes.

~~~

Punching, Swearing and Boobs

2010-07-26T18:56:00.000-07:00

(***DISCLAIMER*** None of the following opinions have any merit, since I do not have children, because studies have shown that if I were to have children, they would probably eat other children or at the very least scare them really badly by carving soap statues that look like their classmates then melting them with a lighter at recess, while staring blankly at what appears to be nothing, but is obviously something, or why would they be that focused on it? And has anyone seen the class hamster?)

I hate the Parents Television Council. My hatred starts with their name: Parents Television Council. Now, if they were only monitoring shows aimed at children, I wouldn't give a crap what they said or did -- but they don't. These people voluntarily watch EVERYTHING, then tell you why you shouldn't let your children watch it. So they watch, for example, CSI.....then tell you all the reasons why you shouldn't let your kids watch CSI. Um, how about because the entire premise of the show is murder? Here's some helpful information, Parents Television Council: parents who will let their kids watch a show that FOCUSES ENTIRELY ON MURDER will not check your website to see if it's suitable for their children. Logging onto your website would mean logging off of the WWE website, and that ain't gonna happen because then how would they know who will be in Saturday night's Super-Duper Ball-Punch Double-Death Match? Plus, they don't even know what their children are watching, because it's hard to focus when you're that drunk on a Thursday night, but you're only drinking because those little brats ruined your life and you could have really been something if it weren't for them. You could have almost finished your GED, even. Still, these dickheads at the PTC continue to monitor and bitch about shows, often campaigning to have companies drop their sponsorships because holy shit, someone got killed on Law and Order at 9:00 last night.

So, yeah, I think they suck a whole bunch. But their existence makes me wonder about a few things -- mainly, why do we hate swearing and boobs so much? Violence, I understand. Violence is bad. Violence hurts and makes people be dead sometimes. But swearing? Meh. Say this out loud: ass fuck hell damn shit. Did anything bad happen? Was there a knock at your door and the devil was there and he was all "Mwah ha ha! You said ass fuck hell damn shit and now your soul is mine" and he threw a pitchfork at you and totally pinned your foot to the floor then violated you with his devil-dong? No. That did not happen, and if you say it did, it is because you are a liar or you are on meth or your neighbour owns a devil costume and is really weird. Swear words do not hurt anybody. There are worse words, but I don't need to type them here because Lethal Weapon and Kramer from Seinfeld have said them enough. If we teach children that swear words are bad, we give power to those words that they don't deserve. I'm not saying we should teach kids to say ass fuck hell damn shit, but by pooping ourselves every time one of them DOES say one of those words, we just make them want to swear MORE. Do I think prime time TV dramas should start using ass fuck hell damn shit in every episode? No. But I also don't think kids should be watching prime time TV dramas. Problem solved. You're welcome.

And that brings us to boobs. Not just boobs, but all body bits and just sex in general. "This program may contain scenes of violence, coarse language and nudity." We've lumped the naked human form into the same category as hitting someone in the face with a pail of hot tar. Two characters getting their shaboink on under the covers is apparently just as bad as a character throwing darts into someone's eyes. A shot of boob is going to destroy a child as much as a shot of a pool cue to the nuts. In some cases, movies or shows with sexual content (I'm not talking hardcore porn here, either) receive more restrictive ratings that movies or shows with violence. I have a theory on that: It's easier for mommy or daddy to explain why the bad man is poking shish-kabob skewers into the other man's ears than it is to explain what the lady is doing with her tongue. "Little Jimmy, the man is peeling the other man's skin off with a knife because he is mad at him. It is wrong. Don't ever peel someone's skin off with a knife." "Little Jimmy, the lady is under the blankets because........um........she's kissing his...............uh................well................she's looking for her contact lens, I think.........why is she making that noise?.............um, she's......got.............a cold? Maybe? Never touch girls."

I don't think we should teach kids that they should run around boinking everything they see when they grow up (especially since there are so many ugly people out there) any more than I think we should be teaching them to kick the shit out of each other, but why are we raising people to believe that sex is just as bad as violence? Maybe we should be teaching them that it's about respect and feeling good, not embarrassment and shame. Grouping violence and sex together, making one as bad as the other when it comes to media and entertainment, says a lot about society -- and none of what it says is good.

So I say go forth, consenting adults of the world. Wander the Earth, looking for other (not ugly) consenting adults -- all the while hollering our battle cry: ass fuck hell damn shit! as you (responsibly) spread love and happy feelings and vulgar words and substances (which you really should clean up afterwards - don't be a slob and don't just use a sock. Get some paper towels, for chrissake) across the globe.

Then we will film it and make a TV show and air it in prime time. That should keep those fuckers at the Parents Television busy for a while.

A Not-Funny Blog Post (with I guess maybe a few funny bits)

2010-07-22T19:58:00.000-07:00

I don't feel like laughing about anything today. Not even the Mystery Smell in my freezer, which, despite its obscene grossness, is hilarious in its elusiveness. Know what's in my freezer? Ice cubes. So someone please tell me what the fuck is causing a smell somewhere between vomit stuck in a sink drain for a week and poopy shoes resting against a heater. Not ice cubes, I can tell you that.

I usually feel like laughing every day, about something at sometime or another. Dog doing something stupid ..... friend making a funny face ..... sudden memory of something funny Malcolm Reynolds said. (Watch Firefly. Seriously. It's awesome, and you'll thank me for making your life 14 episodes better.)

I feel like laughing every day, except for the last few weeks, when I haven't really felt like laughing very much at all. I've felt like crap. I've been mopey and whiny and depressed. I, I, I, me, me, me, blah, blah, blah, shut up already. We all have days like that -- days when we feel like the world is throwing railroad spikes at our head, and it turns out the world is, like, Railroad Spike Shotput Champion of the Super-Olympics or something. Days when we just want to crawl into bed and never leave, or crawl into a hole and never leave, or crawl into a friend's arms and never leave. (I recommend the last one -- it feels pretty good, if you've got the right friends. Plus, never leaving bed = bad smelliness, and hole = um, well, it's a hole, so it obviously sucks.)

So I've spent the better part of the last few weeks feeling sorry for myself and driving a really nice friend nuts with my feeling sorry-ness. (He knows who he is, and if he's reading this: I'm sorry, but it's all your fault because you're a really good listener. Maybe if you, I dunno, started clipping your toenails or punching yourself in the face or screaming "SHUT UP!!!!!" while I'm talking to you, I'd leave you alone. Maybe.) Feeling sorry for myself, trying to figure out what's wrong with me/why no one loves me/why I'm broke/why my dog stares at me/why I can't lose those last few pounds/why I'm such a big baby and can't just suck it up/why etcetera/why etcetera/why etcetera. Soul-searching ... asking others to search my soul for me ... deciding I have no soul ... deciding I did have a soul, but I obviously traded it to Satan so I could get my Mustang ... wondering if I can make the hard decisions I need to make and give up the things I have to give up if I want my soul back (not the Mustang, though, I'm keeping the damn car.)

I think I've started to ramble. Meh.

Basically, we all have days/weeks/months when we hate ourselves and our lives and for some reason today an unfortunate grey shirt which now lay in tatters on my living room floor because the elastic was loose and I apparently thought I could fix it by throwing ninja stars or a blender at it or something. We all go through times when we hate our jobs and those hilarious pieces of paper called "pay" stubs and our homes and our kids/pets/evil houseplants (I'm not kidding -- they want me dead.) We want to move away to the woods and live off the land which is stupid because I don't know how to hunt and I'm not eating frigging tree bark and sticks and after 31 years, I've grown quite accustomed to toilet paper. There are days for us all when we're pretty sure it would be easier to lay in a bathtub and wait until we shrivel up and lose necessary cohesion and leak down the drain in clumpy, fatty people-chunks.

But there are also days when you wake up and see a canary on the tree outside your bedroom window -- not singing or making weird noises and driving you nuts.....just sitting there being beautiful.

When the first person you see smiles at you, even though you don't know them.

When you turn on your iPod, and the first song it plays is the song you used to dance to with that cute boy in Grade 9.

When you get to work and someone who you didn't think even knew your name tells you what an amazing job you did the day before.

There are days when a good friend comes to your house and lets you cry in his arms.

When you get a text message out of the blue from someone you haven't talked to in months, who just wanted to say "hi."

Or when someone you can't stand finally stops telling you about his effing cellphone plan.

Days when the dog doesn't bark at the mailman or lunge at the neighbour-kids, not even ONCE!

When you realize one of your friends is the strongest, most wonderfully stubborn person you've ever met.

There are days when you stuff yourself with burgers and fries, and don't gain a single pound.

When you don't feel like working out, and you don't get mad at yourself for it.

You find a grey hair, and you don't care at all.

And when you tell a friend you love them, and they say it back.

The bad days always stick out the most, because they're the ones that hit us the hardest. They're the days when our emotions kick us in the balls and leave big, purple ball-bruises. The days when we cry ourselves to sleep because it hurts to just be still.

Those days are assholes, and I'm not going to be their friend anymore.

I'm going to remember the days when my friends make me laugh so hard that tears pour down my face, and the days when I go to sleep smiling because I've spent time sitting in the sun and talking with people I love who love me back, and the days when absolutely nothing happens - because those are the days when everything happens.

Hug your friends. Tell them what they mean to you every chance you get. Also sometimes poke them in the back of the head and tell them they smell like turds. They'll appreciate it all (even the turd part.)

~~~

Murderous Houseplants, Pointy Air Molecules, and Dr. Phil's Wife is Sleeping With Her Tennis Instructor: What Working Mornings Does to My Brain

2010-07-14T13:24:00.001-07:00

I'm working mornings this week. I don't work mornings often and when I do, it's usually only for a week or two. Not NEARLY long enough to get into any kind of healthy sleeping pattern. That means I become one Warmed Brain Salad away from turning into a full-blown zombie. I swear, I cry, I try to rationally explain to my dog why she doesn't need to bark at the mailman EVERY DAMN DAY, I resort to yelling at my dog when the rational explanations don't work, and eventually (usually about a week into the morning shift) I become convinced that my houseplants are talking to me. The English Ivy next to the front door is a particularly unpleasant bitch, and also the ringleader of their insidious little houseplant gang. I am SO on to them. They don't even know.

I can feel air molecules touching me. They are pointy. Everyone on the bus looks like they want to steal my purse, but they can't have my purse, because THAT'S WHERE I KEEP MY STUFF. Everything I sit on is itchy. I can hear colours. Green is fairly quiet, but orange sounds like Bobcat Goldthwait if his throat were made of a blender and he'd just swallowed ball bearings and they hadn't gone all the way down yet and they were bouncing around in the blender blades.

If it's below 5 Celsius, I'm convinced I will freeze solid but still be alive and aware, and my dog will lick away all my skin because I'd basically be a delicious meat popsicle and it would take weeks for me to die and I would feel it the whole time as my skin is slowly licked away. If it's above 30 Celsius, I can feel the individual threads in my clothing punching me.

My eyes stop working properly......or do they start working BETTER?..... I can see things SO SMALL that they might technically not exist. Yet I apparently can't see the wall next to my bathroom, since I keep walking the fuck into it.

But nothing compares to the most horrific thing of all. The one thing most inhumane about working mornings. The one, terrible thing that – try as I might – I cannot escape. There seems to be no physical way to avoid it, even though I KNOW you will say there is. But you don't know. Oh, how you don't know. It's mesmerizing. It's addictive. It's like getting gonnorreah and herpes and ebola in your eyes and ears all at the same time, but the gonnorreah and herpes and ebola have unicorn dust in them, and it TRICKS YOU into thinking you want it.

I hate you, Daytime TV.

I hate Oprah and Tyra and Rachel Ray and Dr. Oz and The Doctors and OH MY CRAP I HATE DR. PHIL. Dr. Phil is the Asshole Neighbour of Life in General. He has an opinion on EVERYTHING and HE IS WRONG ABOUT IT ALL. Will disect him later – though, sadly, not literally. And, even more sadly, not while he's still alive and paralyzed with that stuff that leaves you alive and paralyzed so you can feel yourself being disected. I think I saw that on TV once on that show Law and Order: CSI.

Oprah is a bitch. I know it, you know it, and everyone in the whole wide world knows it. She's all understanding and interested and caring, but you just KNOW she is a bitch. And she thinks she's so awesome. It wasn't enough that she had her own TV show. Noooooooooo – she has her own magazine. And her picture is on the cover of every single issue. Gosh, Oprah, I'm sorry you weren't told enough when you were little how pretty you were, and now you have to put your face on a magazine every month to make yourself feel better. And she's going to have her own TV channel. Thank GOD. I was so worried I'd never be able to find a place to watch hour after hour of Misunderstood Celebrity Explains Why He Called Jewish People Bad Words That He Really Didn't Mean To Say, or How To Make The Most Out of Your Life Even Though All You Do Is Sit At Home And Watch a Shitty TV Network.

And Tyra. Oh, Tyra – you are so FIERCE! You don't suck AT ALL. You don't have a freakishly large forehead or misconceptions about just how inspiring you are to chubby teenagers and girls with zits. They TOTALLY think you get how they feel. You are JUST LIKE THEM!

Rachel Ray is legally retarded.

Dr. Oz is the least offensive. He at least provides useful information. Too bad his audience is filled with pantsuit-clad women who are psychotically in love with him and scream til they pee every time he shows them what the inside of their stomach looks like after they've eaten eight pounds of ice cream sprinkled with salt.

What can I say about The Doctors? Nothing much, because I black-out whenever I watch it, and when I've come to I discover I've somehow used my toenails to scratch “WHY DOES THAT MORON WEAR SCRUBS ALL THE TIME ON A TV SHOW? DOES HE THINK A MEDICAL EMERGENCY WILL BREAK OUT IN THE AUDIENCE EVERY DAY EVEN THOUGH SO FAR IT'S NEVER HAPPENED? AND HOW COME HE TALKS LIKE A SURFER-STEREOTYPE WHO'S BEEN HIT IN THE HEAD WITH THAT HEAVY LID-THINGIE ON THE BACK OF A TOILET? DOCTORS SHOULDN'T TALK LIKE THAT” into my living room floor.

If I believed in Satan, I'd believe he was Dr. Phil. As I type this, he's talking about fame whores who will do anything to be famous. Hmmm, like perhaps become Oprah's bestest friend when Texas gets mad at her for saying something (I don't remember what or really care) about cows? And then maybe start appearing on her show even though you're just a hack psychiatrist or something? And then maybe get your own show because everyone must care a whole lot about what you have to say? And then write books about how not to be fat even though you're not exactly an Olympic athlete yourself? Eat shit, Dr. Phil. Stop being on my TV. Even when your show isn't on my TV, my TV can still feel you inside it, raping it with your stupid southern twang. And everyone can tell you're wearing, like, AN INCH of pancake makeup -- even on your big, empty bald head. And that thing at the end of each show where you walk into the audience, take your wife's hand, and walk out together – I call bullshit on that. She hates you. There's no way she sits in the audience for each and every one of your crappy shows. The producers sneak her in three minutes before you're done, and they pay her to stay with you but behind your back she's having an affair with her tennis instructor Fernando. Think about it, Dr. Phil – have you ever SEEN her play tennis? No, you haven't. That's because Fernando is taking the money you give him for lessons and he's using it to buy silk sheets to boink your wife on.

If I ever get a full time job working mornings, I'm going to have to cancel cable.

And I'm going to have to kill the houseplants. I can hear what they have planned. It's me or them. If you don't hear from me after this, they won. Check in the basement for what's left of my body. And NO ONE is to give those murderous bastards ANY WATER, no matter how much they beg. Understand???

~~~

How to Be a Melanie

2010-07-13T07:50:00.000-07:00

For any of you out there who are terribly jealous of my awesome life and often lay awake at night wondering how you can have a life exactly like mine, I'm here to tell you how you can be me in 23 Easy Steps.

1. Wake up confused about what day it is. Think back to what you watched on TV the night before. Was it 'House'? Then today is Tuesday. Was it 'Grey's Anatomy'? Then today is Friday, and last night you had a dream about Hot Redhead Doctor with Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome Who is For Some Reason Still Attached to That Horse-Faced Bitch. Was it 'Ghost Whisperer'? Then today is Saturday, and you're a fucking loser because you stayed at home on a Friday night watching 'Ghost Whisperer,' you jackass. You probably ate popcorn made soggy by your loser tears, loser.

2. Put on coffee before you walk dog so you will have coffee when you get back from walking dog.

3. Walk dog, after finally remembering that you sleep in your underwear and need to put pants on before you go outside. (At least twice a week, you will almost not remember that in time.)

4. Put on coffee, since you didn't frigging remember to do it before walking dog.

5. Have shower, since you can't have coffee yet because you are a moron. Brush teeth in shower so you don't end up with toothpaste-crust on face, because heaven FORBID you just wipe your face off when you're done. Attempt to shave legs in shower. Fall over because shower is slippery. Resort to sitting under shower head while shaving legs using $10.00 bottle of conditioner because you keep forgetting to buy $2.00 bottle of shaving cream.

6. Go downstairs for coffee. Suffer embarrassment of neighbour seeing you through open window while you are wearing towel tucked into cleavage. Wish you had better-looking man-neighbour so the embarrassment would be worth it.

7. Go back upstairs. Immediately go back downstairs because you forgot to feed dog, so dog is trying to trip you into the wall. (Dog does not understand that if you are dead, YOU CANNOT EVER FEED HER AGAIN.)

8. Open closet. Try to figure out why anyone needs that many black shirts. Open dresser drawer. Try to figure out why anyone needs that many pairs of jeans. Open underwear drawer. Immediately regret not doing laundry the day before. Select jeans and black shirt. Hope that you don't end up in a car accident today, because the doctor at the emergency room will think you're a total dork for not wearing underwear.

9. Apply make-up. To BOTH EYES. Leaving the house twice in one lifetime looking like the guy from Clockwork Orange who rapes people is enough. Yes -- twice. Shut up.

10. Where is your iPod?

11. Get on bus without iPod. Spend entire ride listening to the people on the bus. Contemplate jumping from emergency exit, screaming "I'm doing this because of youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu............SPLAT."

12. Arrive at work. Enter building and see something weird because there is a TV station where you work, and sometimes there are weird things on TV. Like mermaids. And bagpipers who start playing as soon as you walk in on the one day in a month that you wore a plaid skirt. And also once a pony. The pony crapped on the sidewalk.

13. Work.

14. Finish work.

15. Walk an entire hour to get home because you can't comprehend riding the bus again without your iPod and having to listen to those 'people.'

16. Arrive at home. Reach into purse to get house keys. Pull iPod out of purse. Punch door.

17. Walk dog, after dog finishes climbing up your leg because SHE HASN'T SEEN YOU IN EIGHT HOURS AND EVEN THOUGH YOU COME HOME EVERYDAY MAYBE THIS WOULD BE THE ONE DAY THAT YOU DIDN'T AND WHAT WOULD I HAVE DONE WITHOUT YOU AND I HAVE TO PEE AND I'M HUNGRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

18. Go to kitchen-like room that is really just a counter with a sink drilled into it and a fridge that for some reason clicks. Get out everything you need to make delicious pasta and toast and salad.

19. Eat cereal for dinner.

20. Watch TV. Remember what you watched, because you will need to know what it was when you wake up tomorrow and can't remember what day it is.

21. Go to bed. Stare at ceiling doing math in your head for some stupid reason. Why??? You hate math. You suck at math. All the math you are doing right now that is keeping you from sleeping is incorrect. You would fail high school using that math. Stop thinking about math. Start thinking about whether there might be a spider somewhere in your room. There probably is. It's probably really close to you right now. You should try to find it. Nah -- if it wants to kill you, it's going to kill you. You'll be sleeping - you'll never know what happened. Spend next 20 minutes trying to figure out what kind of IDIOT would stick that many glow-in-the-dark stickers to a ceiling. And why are half of them painted over? And why are some of them fish and some of them are astronauts? Those things don't go together. That doesn't make any sense.

22. Fall asleep and have a dream about Spider Astronauts who go to space but space has fish for some reason.

23. Go to step 1. Repeat until you die.

~~~

Observations From the Newsroom

2010-07-10T06:49:00.000-07:00

Even people who think cats are evil aliens sent to study us for future invasion (me) go "awwww! Poor wittle fing!" when someone finds a cat starving in a box mailed from China.

Facebook is not a news source. Not, it's not. SCREW OFF IT IS NOT. The only acceptable news-Facebook relationship is the procurement of photos of murder victims where they are seen wearing a stupid hat/drinking at a cottage/holding a puppy. (There are pictures of me on Facebook doing all these things, FYI, so you all know what to do when my death-metal-loving neighbour finally snaps and sacrifices me to The Dark Lord.)

I don't care if I say the murder's name wrong. He's a MURDERER. I'd rather focus my attention on getting the names of the victims right.

Also, the guy in Guam who holds the world record for longest middle toenail on a left foot won't be offended if I say HIS name wrong, because HE WON'T EFFING HEAR ME.

Perez Hilton is not a news source. For anything. Ever. Even if he's RIGHT and he has confirmed EVERY SINGLE THING ON HIS SHITTY WEBSITE, he is STILL NOT A NEWS SOURCE.

No matter what happens, no matter what newsroom you work in or what city that newsroom may be in, you should NEVER EVER EVER ANSWER THE PHONE. I'm not kidding. No one smart is ever going to call you. Ignore the ringing until one of your co-workers answers it.

Whatever that thing is your computer just did is something it's not supposed to do.

"Canada Day" is deceptively hard to say.

So is "No, I cannot work this weekend."

And "Hunt Club Road," if you're not really REALLY careful. (Thiiiiink about it.........that's right.)

There is an inappropriate yet hysterically funny joke about anything bad that could ever happen to anyone.

The day that you pack a full lunch is the day that Dairy Queen will send in free Blizzards.

You're not stoned. There really IS a pony downstairs.

~~~

Pyjama Pants Are NOT Outside-Clothes

2010-07-10T06:08:00.001-07:00

You know what sucks? Moving. You know what sucks more? Moving into a neighbourhood and finding out it's crawling with a wide variety of douchebags. The following are some things to look out for that might save you from settling into a new habitat surrounded by people who never use the word 'job' without saying 'blow' before it.

1. When you are considering a new neighbourhood, call the police. Ask them if they get many calls to said neighbourhood. If the officer you're talking to starts to cry or mumble insane questions like "why is that lady doing that to that dog?" then you don't want to move there.

2. Get in your car. Drive to said neighbourhood in the middle of the day. Park. Sit there for several hours. If you see:

a) more than three people over the age of 10 walking around while wearing pyjama pants

b) more than two people riding bicycles while smoking

c) a guy wearing a Bill Cosby sweater in July sitting on a step of a random building drinking out of a paper bag, or

d) a sex shop where the only people going in are people no one on EARTH would ever even CONSIDER having sex with even if there was nuclear war and only a few people were left and they had to re-produce to keep humanity from dying out and the lizard-people from taking over and enslaving the few humans left as grub-farmers to feed their wacky lizard-people grub addiction

then you don't want to move there.

(if you see all of the above, go home, douse yourself in bleach, and get yourself checked for STDs.)

3. Does the neighbourhood have some decent stores and restaurants with one lone dollar store displaying sunglasses with rainbow-y lenses and purses made of cherry-printed plastic? Yeah, that's a front for something. Don't move there.

4. Do you see any man anywhere in the area wearing pants with flames on them? That's not a good sign.

5. Does the #14 OC Transpo bus go through the neighbourhood? Also not a promising sign.

6. How many people do you see with cellphones similar to those used in the X-Files? Sure, for that time, they were incredibly technologically advanced. So was MS-DOS. And Scully's suits had shoulder pads. And David Duchovny wasn't having sex with everything yet. Never trust or live near mass amounts of people who use cellphones older than Justin Bieber.

7. Is the apartment in Vanier? Then don't

The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air theme song, as written by an old-timey poet.

2010-04-25T11:28:00.000-07:00

Hark, hear this, my tale now

of my life

and how it improved out of great strife.

I will tell you, in four stanzas

as you sit there

of events that led to my crowning

as the Prince of Bel-Air.

The west of Philadelphia

is where I was reared.

Out in the play yard with my good chums,

My mom nowhere near.

Running and playing

and laughing, Oh ho!

Frolicking with a net and ball

near my small home.

When some ruffians came

spoiling for a fight,

said bad words, threw their fists, it wasn't right.
I was drawn into their ways, my mother was scared,

and sent me to live with family I barely knew in Bel-Air.

I waited for the carriage,

and as it drew near

I dreaded starting fresh,

I wanted to stay here.

But if anything, I knew this opportunity was rare,

So aboard the carriage I climbed

and headed for Bel-Air.

We arrived at the manor

shortly after eight.

I tipped the carriage driver, and he continued on his way.

I took in the expanse, approached the door with great care,

Not knowing I would soon be crowned the Prince of Bel-Air.

Punchable Offences: The Human Interaction Edition

2010-04-25T10:45:00.000-07:00

As I laid out in the previous post, we're taking a look over the next little while at things you should be allowed to punch people for, no questions asked. Now that we have the Punchable Offences of Facebook out of the way, let's tackle the thing we did before we had Facebook: Human Interaction.

Human interaction is when you see someone in person and talk to them aloud with words. It's like Facebook, only with fewer spelling mistakes, 100% fewer photos that you took of yourself in your bathroom mirror, and more things that make you want to punch people in the head.

1. This Conversation is Not About You. Lars: "I was in a car wreck last night. I was hit head-on by a Mack truck and both my arms are broken and my left eyeball fell out and one of the paramedics stepped on it. I will have to wear an eye patch for the rest of my life." Hilda: "I saw a car wreck once. I'm still traumatized by it. My dad drives a Mack truck. Did you see how toned the muscles on my arms are? I've been doing a lot of push-ups. I met a paramedic once, and he told me I had beautiful eyes. One time, I dressed up like a sexy pirate for Hallowe'en, and I wore a diamond-studded eye patch." Punch that bitch in the face. Although, that will just give her ANOTHER story to tell the next time someone brings up being punched in the face. In which case, you can punch her in the face again. It's a vicious cycle, but it's the law.

2. ON MY GOD MY LIFE SUCKS SO HARD ALL OF THE TIME. No, it doesn't. Do you live indoors? Do you have at least five days worth of clothes? Did you eat something today that wasn't flies? Then your life doesn't suck. Oh, wait -- your boss won't let you leave work early to get a manicure? Your mean old landlord expects you to pay the rent on time? THAT GUY WORKING AT THE COFFEE SHOP TOTALLY IGNORED YOU AND YOUR BRAND NEW 'FRESH SPRING PEACH' LIPGLOSS YOU GOT JUST FOR HIM TO SEE BECAUSE HE WAS TRYING TO PUT OUT A SMALL FIRE ON THE PANINI-SQUASHING GRILL???? You're right - your life sucks. I'm going to go call Amnesty International RIGHT NOW. Kidding. PUNCH.

3. Giggling. Are you a girl under the age of 10? No? THEN DON'T FUCKING GIGGLE, or I will punch the giddiness right out of your head.

4. I am so totally fat/ugly/stupid and that is why no one likes me. Yeah, probably. And they like you less because you're always talking about it. Here is a punch for your fat/ugly/stupid face.

5. LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME! WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO GET EVERYONE TO LOOK AT ME????? Apparently, you have to scream, laugh too loud, yell at people you recognize when they're still a thousand yards away, scream some more, throw a few squeals in for good measure, come up with retarded nicknames for people that you holler as loud as possible every time they are in the same area code as you are, barge into any conversation that happens anywhere near you, repeatedly reference inside jokes that are so inside only you understand them, and touch everyone at least three times every 10 minutes. SHUT UP AND TAKE YOUR PUNCH LIKE A MAN.

6. The Girl With the Far Away Eyes. This is the human interaction equivalent of the "I'm So Sad, Ask Me Why" Facebook status. It starts with a sigh. Then a slight tilt of the head to the left or right, followed by usually another tiny, sad sigh. Glassy eyes are frequently involved. Often, some idiot who doesn't understand that THIS IS A TRAP, will ask "what's wrong?" "Oh, nothing." Good. Then shut the fuck up and stop sitting there like everyone and everything you have ever loved was just pushed into a cement mixer full of knives.

7. Talking over people. No clever title for this one. No funny examples. I just REALLY fucking hate this. A lot. I firmly believe people who do this frequently truly do not give a shit about anything anyone but them has to say. Unfortunately, the people who tend to do this are usually the least interesting, least intelligent bags of dicks I have ever met. I might actually start punching people for this one, come to think of it.

Punchable Offences: The Facebook Edition

2010-04-22T16:01:00.001-07:00

This is the first in a continuing series of behaviours and actions that you should be allowed to punch people for. Full-on, knuckles to the teeth, nosebleed-inducing punches.

Today, we will delve into the world of Facebook -- a world filled to the brim with Punchable Offences. Without further delay..........

1. Any status update that is meant to garner attention along the lines of "Oh no! What's wrong? Why are you so saaaaaaaad?" Are you sad because your 19th step-cousin three-times removed that you met once when you were 9-years-old got hit by a meteor while reading a calculus text book while laying in a grassy field in Guam? Then type that. Do not type "Gomer feels like the rug has been ripped out from under his feet. Why OH WHY does God have to tear you out of my life??? WHYYYYYYYY???????" I will punch you in your face.

2. Posting photos that you have decorated with swirly, misspelled text to show the world how much fun "u and ur gurls" had at the bar. Or how you and your backwards-hat-wearing brown-toothed true love that you met last week will be "2gethr 4evr." Or how even though you're all by yourself in a photo you obviously took of your own reflection in the bathroom mirror because you are a giant fucking LOSER, you're still "2 good 4 all you h8rs." Aaaaaaaaand.....PUNCH.

3. Status updates that consist of 135 hearts you made by using "<" and "3" because you are so CLEVER and SMART and everyone will wonder HOW YOU DID THAT. Hey, asshole -- we all know how to do that. We just don't. Because we don't want to get punched in the face.

4. Posting lists of questions you want your friends to answer so you can learn all about them. Lists which are nothing but thinly-disguised self-indulgent attempts to force everyone you know to learn about HOW MANY OF YOUR FACEBOOK FRIENDS YOU'VE KISSED! or how YOU SKINNY-DIPPED THIS ONE TIME! or how you REALLY REALLY REALLY LOVE THE RED M&Ms BECAUSE THE FIRST BOY YOU EVER DID LOVE REALLY REALLY REALLY LOVED THE RED M&Ms TOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Mega-Punch.

5. Fish-face photos. Just please stop doing that. Please. I will punch your lips right back into their proper position if you don't.

6. Re-posting the same status update over and over and over again because no one responded to it the first time, which means they probably didn't see it, so I'll just post it again and again until they do and reply to me because what I am posting is so very important. No, shitbrick-- it's not. It's not important, it's not interesting, and no one has responded to it because they don't give a shit about what you have to say. PUNCH.

7. Your/you're/there/they're/their/we're/were/punch/punch/punch/punch/PUNCH.

8. Lame and obvious attempts to make a friend/boyfriend/girlfriend/wife/husband realize what a HORRIBLE MISTAKE they made letting you go. "Brunhilda is livin' life HER way and don't need you no more -- oh yeah, you coulda had this, muthafukka!" The only thing this tells people is that the poor bastard should have left you sooner. Boom-shaka-laka-PUNCH.

9. Go over every single photo you have ever posted of yourself. Make a chart: Column One is photos someone else took of you. Column Two is photos where your forearm is clearly visible because you took the photo yourself. Put check marks in each column until you have gone through every single photo. If there are more photos in Column Two than there are in Column One, you will be punched. And I will take a photo of it.

Glistening Chunks of Slush: An Ode to OC Transpo in the Winter

2010-02-23T09:03:00.000-08:00

Oh, the glistening chunks of slush

on the OC Transpo bus...

Wads of dirty, filthy scum,

falling off the shoes of a bum.

See those glistening chunks of slush

on the OC Transpo bus?

I'd rather look at those

than the twitchy, cracked-out hos.

Watch the glistening chunks of slush

on the OC Transpo bus

as they melt and drip and pool

along the aisles like hobo drool.

Will the glistening chunks of slush

on the OC Transpo bus

be cleaned away some day?

Perhaps. Sometime in May.

Oh, the glistening chunks of slush

on the OC Transpo bus.....

the colour of the long ear hair

of that weird guy over there.

Stupid glistening chunks of slush.

Stupid OC Transpo bus.

I wouldn't be here with you jerks

if I could afford to park at work.

A Few Things I've Noticed Over the Last 30 Years

2010-01-19T18:32:00.000-08:00

Atheists don't get mad if you tell them there IS a god.

I have never seen news footage of PETA protesting leather clothing while standing outside of a biker bar.

I've never heard a gay person say "gross!" when they see a hetero couple kiss.

People who throw fits over the phrase "Happy Holidays" don't throw fits when wrestlers use Bible passages to market themselves. See: Stone Cold Steve Austin.

I checked, and there is no rule in the English language that states putting a "c" or a "k" after an "s" magically switches the letters around. "Escape." "Ask." "Retard."

If you see someone smoking, it is acceptable to tell them they are killing themselves. If you see someone cramming greasy burgers down their throat, it is not. (These are things I've NOTICED, not things I UNDERSTAND.)

If pictures on Facebook are a reflection of reality, 95% of women under the age of 30 are always making a sexy-kissy face.

People who spit while they are outdoors do not spit while they are indoors.

*

Random Schmandom.

2010-01-18T16:56:00.000-08:00

Cockward (noun, CAWK-wurd): Awkward feeling associated with a man's crotchal-region. Example: "I got busted checking out this other dude's package in the men's room. It was a very cockward situation.)

What does it say about this world that reporters are forced to write and news anchors are forced to read stories reminding people of the following things:

1) You should wash your hands after you pee
2) You should turn the lawnmower/snowblower off before you stick your hand in it to pull something out
3) Ice is a bad thing to ride your snowmobile on, unless you live in Nunavut or want your smooshy corpse found barely contained in your snowmobile suit by drunk fishermen next July

Canada is the plain girl. The U.S. is our hot friend. The guys (terrorists) aren't interested in sleeping with us (blowing us up.) They just hang out with us (hide in Canada) so they can get to (blow the shit out of) our hot friend.

Canada is also the weird, probably-'tarded kid on the playground. No one really wants to hang out with us because we eat squeeze-cheese sandwiches and smell like wet socks, but if you beat us up, the whole world will think you're a total tool.

Hilarious and Insightful Blog Post About Something

2009-12-28T18:51:00.000-08:00

Witty opening line, just off-kilter enough to grab your attention.

Slightly more detailed explanation, followed by disclaimer about how, regardless of what I type afterward, I'm not judging anyone who believes differently than I do (even though, let's face it, I am.)

Silly anecdote about what prompted me to write this post, likely referencing a friend/co-worker/smelly fellow bus passenger.

Paragraph containing comments and observations written with humour and light-hearted teasing, used to disguise (thinly) my distaste and reproach for subject matter.

Ha ha ha I'm so funny aren't I witty? don't you just hate it when blah blah blah blah blah.

Slightly more sensitive comment about the serious problems faced by poor people/cute little animals/something else that's lame.

The word 'fuck' a bunch of times, interspersed with words that aren't 'fuck' so I don't sound like a complete jackoff.

Summary of my point/argument/spazz-fest, which is hilarious but also almost reveals that I'm actually upset/sad/care about something.

Just kidding. Everyone can blow me.

Barf, Swallow and Repeat

2009-12-10T16:31:00.000-08:00

I did the unthinkable today. I uttered words I never thought I would ever utter. I had to force myself to say them, and then I barfed a little in my mouth, then swallowed my barf then barfed up it up again, plus a little bit more. Six words which, on their own, are completely harmless, but when combined caused the very fabric of my existence to disintegrate. Six words I have never said or even thought before today. Six words which, when I type them in just a few moments, will likely make me do the whole barf-swallow-and repeat thing again.

"I wish I had a boyfriend."

Barf. Swallow. And repeat.

I said those words to a very good friend of mine, who belongs to the unfortunate set of ears into which I unload everything that's ever bothered me EVER. He's either a very patient man, or he's just biding his time until he comes up with the perfect way to murder me without getting caught. He's a good sounding board, because he's the most honest person I know and always tells me what I should hear, whether I want to hear it or not. In fact, I often know as I'm asking him a question that the answer will piss me off, yet I ask anyway because I know he's only going to say what he's going to say because he knows it will be good for me to hear it. Also, he can move pretty quickly, so if I ever try to take a swing at him, he knows damn well he'll get out of the way in time.

So I said the "Sickening Six" words today, and he almost immediately had advice. That advice was Internet dating. Aaaaaaaaaaaand.....barf-swallow-and repeat. No, I said. Weirdos, I said. I need to actually see someone IN PERSON to know if I'm interested, I said. Give it a chance, he said. There are good ones on there, he said. Barf-swallow-barf, I said.

Sitting at home now, and just closed the Internet window on which I had been perusing a local dating site. I pretty much do everything my friend tells me to, because he's usually right. Usually. You were not right this time, good friend. One check-mark in the loss column for you. Your winning streak is over.

I have learned three very important things from the half hour I spent on that website.

1) Knot vary meny peeple r gud spellerz anee-more

2) A lot of men who shouldn't have mustaches DO

3) Men who are bald on the head can still have an awful lot of hair on their shoulders

I have also learned that at least three people on Earth still say they like "long walks on the beach" (barf-swallow-and repeat), a lot of men have been burned (or, in one case, 'berned') by women in the past, and anyone can cut and paste a picture of a sexy fireman into their profile, even if they are not, in fact, a sexy fireman.

Listen, I know there are good people to be found on the Intertubes. I have friends who have found them. Unfortunately for the rest of us, they found them all and now there are only bahd-speling, inappropriately-mustached, bald-yet-hairy-shouldered ones left. To those friends of mine, I say "Good for you. Now go clone your men, invent a way to make them age quickly to about 30 or so, slow their development down to normal levels, give me one, and I will name a building after you."

To my friend who is forced to listen to my rantings and ravings and whinings and bitchings and mopings and irrational gibberish, yet continues to be my friend for some reason I have yet to figure out, I say "You have until tomorrow to come up with a way to get me a boyfriend. You might by spry now, but someday you won't be as quick as you are, and I will be able to get a few punches in before you can get away."

If I Give Up Beer, Movies and Groceries, I Can Afford a Parking Spot So I Can Drive to Work

2009-11-20T17:47:00.000-08:00

A few years ago - when I was apparently being punished for being Satan in a past life - I had to ride the #14 OC Transpo bus to and from work. The #14 is commonly known (by me) as The Wacky Bus to Crazy Town, The Red and White Sin Shuttle and That Bus With All The Drug Dealers On It. Riding that bus regularly is about as comfortable as riding a pony made of razorblades and hate. I came up with a list of rules for the people riding that bus with me, which I have since lost. It made mention of the importance of brushing your teeth at least once a month and possibly showering occasionally.

Now, I ride the #7. Seven is half of 14, and it seems fitting that the #7 only sucks half as badly as the #14 does. I should also point out at least half the people riding the #7 with me at any given time appear to be employed, which is more than I can say for the #14. On that bus, I'm fairly certain the driver and I were the only ones with jobs that didn't involve poles, baggies or the job title Guy That Picks Cigarette Butts Up Off the Sidewalk.

For the most part, the #7 isn't a bad bus. No more than 15 or 20 minutes to get to and from work, and most of the people don't have actual stink-lines rising off them like Pig Pen in the Peanuts comics. However, motivated by an incident last night that involved a crazy (I hope) man "Air-Wanking" at me as he walked up the bus aisle, I feel it's important I come up with a set of rules for the #7.

1. Don't Air-Wank at me. For those of you unfamiliar with Air-Wanking (which is a phrase that, as far as I know, I invented yesterday) it is when one mimes the act of wanking, aka Jerkin' It.

2. People who sit on the outside-seat next to an empty inside-seat on a full bus are dicks. You think I want to sit beside you? I do not. But that old lady carrying the one little bag of groceries that would be nothing to you but is basically a sack of heavy rocks to her might want to have a seat. You are a selfish piece of shit, and I hope you get cold sores on your eyeballs.

3. Your kid is staring at me. Make that stop. It's important to note that if your kid is staring at me on the bus, chances are good your kid is not actually sitting on the bus seat. No, your kid is propped up on his toes, his back to the front of the bus, leaning over the back of the seat, while you check for text messages from the guy who's his daddy this week or count your pocket change so you can get a coffee at Timmy's or pick stuff out of your belly button that you may or may not but probably will eat. Not only is your kid creeping me out by staring at me (likely with snot bubbles popping merrily from his nose) but if the driver happens to hit the brakes really fast, your little baby-bonus cheque angel is going to spend every other bus ride for the rest of his life sitting comfortably in the disabled seating section. Then you'll have a disability cheque in his name that you can cash-in to buy cigarettes with as well.

4. No one cares. Doesn't matter what it is: phone conversation...what you did last night...what you're doing tomorrow night...how awesome the songs on your iPod are...that you missed your stop because you were like, totally looking at that like, cute boy...that your nose ring fell out...that you're drunk.......NO ONE CARES SHUT UP I HATE YOU AND WHY ARE YOU DRUNK AT 9:00 A.M.?????

5. No matter how hard you stare at my crotchal-region, you will not be able to see up my skirt. I'm not a moron. I know how to sit properly while wearing a skirt. I will not be giving you a Sharon Stone peep-show, accidentally or otherwise. This goes double for the kid who was staring at my Area while he was sitting next to his mom. That was extra-awkward for everyone involved, and I hope she beat your ass when you got home.

6. Please do not scratch your balls near my face. Sometimes buses are very full, and people have to stand up in the aisle. Sometimes when I am sitting down, someone will be standing right next to me, with their crotchal-region quite near my face. Sometimes those people get itchy in the balls. To those people, I say subtlety is an important skill, especially when it comes to scratching your balls.

7. Just because you're not getting off the bus doesn't mean I can't. I am truly sorry you had to sit next to me. Really. I'm more sorry for me than I am for you, but at least I'm sitting next to the window, loser. However, I have to get off the bus now, so please move. Seriously, get up. MOVE, ASSHOLE. Pulling your legs under the seat does not count, and I will step on you if I have to.

8. Why do you need a stroller that big? This topic came up recently when Ottawa City Council debated the possibility of banning strollers on the bus unless they could be folded up if more space was needed. I understand this debate, having seen some of the Humvee-stroller-hybrids people bring on the bus. You could fit five kids in one of these things, or, as is often the case, one kid and shopping bags from every clothing store in a mid-sized mall. And three boxes from pretentious gift shops. And a car. So, yes, even if I crack my ribs and collapse my lungs so I can squeeze by this monstrosity to get to a seat, I might brush up against it a little. I don't need you snarling at me with your freshly-painted bitch-red lips like I just dropped a rock on your baby's head.

9. Showers are not how the Devil gets inside you. Admittedly, not as many people on the #7 stink quite as strongly as those on the #14, but there are still a few out there. To those people, I say: TAKE A FUCKING SHOWER. I DO NOT CARE IF IT'S ONLY ONCE A WEEK, JUST DO IT. I saw an ad on a bus a few weeks ago asking people not to wear strong perfumes or colognes on the bus because it could bother other passengers. Quite frankly, I'd prefer having Drakkar Noir squirted directly up both nostrils over sitting next to Dirty McWaterIsPoison. I will obey the "no strong perfume" signs when I start seeing "wash your filthy self because you smell like wet socks and dog shit" signs. It's like sitting next to a rubber boot with a hole in it that's been walked through a manure pile.

I hate the fucking bus.

I Watch the Glittery Vampire Movie, and Don't Totally Hate It Even Thought I Really REALLY Want To, and Also, What's the Deal With That Guy's Nose?

2009-10-27T19:45:00.000-07:00

Tuesday night, Law and Order: SVU and CSI:New York are over. My quota of murder, sexual tension and lame quips sated (but still I am left unfulfilled by the lack of shirtless Chris Meloni) I scan the Rogers OnDemand for something to watch. After several severely-pixelated failed attempts to watch Fox Mulder have a bunch of The Sex on Californication, I decide to take the plunge, swallow my pride, and watch that loathed vampire abomination Twilight.

I love vampires. I watch the movies and the TV shows, I read the books, I picture the good-looking guys I know with fangs and silvery eyes. I accept different, varying takes on the legend: can't go out in the sun ... can go out in the sun ... crosses and church and garlic bad ... crosses and church and garlic do nothing ... they do have souls and reflections ... they don't have souls or reflections. Whatever. To me, there are only three things that don't vary: fangs, blood and lack of glitter.

Which takes me to everything I perceived would be wrong with Twilight.

First, the little buggers don't have fangs. Second, abundance of glitter. (Please note: in order for there to be an abundance of glitter, there really only needs to be one glitter. Glitter = Lame.) To be fair, I didn't make the No-Glitter Rule until after Twilight was created, because until then, NO ONE WAS DUMB ENOUGH TO THINK THAT WAS A GOOD IDEA. You suck, Stephanie Meyer Or However the Hell You Spell Your Last Name, Because I Don't Feel Like Looking it Up.

They manage to pass the Blood Rule, because feeding off animals is an acceptable vampire practice as far as I'm concerned. See: Stefan in Vampire Diaries (which was a book WAY before Twilight was, so shut up with your little copycat theories, TwiTards.)

Before I get into the Everything I Thought Sucked About This Movie portion of the evening, let's go over what I DID like -- and there was actually quite a lot. The clothes were pretty awesome. The actress who plays Bella was good. She's pretty, and she does "moody" well, without being annoying. Her truck was pretty cool, however, I question how she was able to pick up driving a standard so quickly, after having to ask which pedal was the clutch.

The setting was great. I've seen photos of the real Forks, Washington, and this portrayed that well. Yay for Vancouver -- you're really good at being damp and rainy.

The main components of a good vampire movie were there for the most part: the vampire guy who doesn't want to love the human girl because he doesn't want to hurt her, the conflicted human girl who trusts the vampire guy, the kindly vampires resisting their nature, the mean vampires who just want to eff everything up for the kindly vampires for some reason, the borderline-violent kissing. Overall, not a bad story, although they fell in maddeningly sickly love just a little too fast for my taste.

Now let's get to the fun part, where I bitch about Twilight. I've been bitching about it forever without actually knowing much about it, and I feel like less of a dick now that I can bitch about it after seeing it.

They glitter. THEY GLITTER, for crying out loud. When the vampires go out in the sun, they fucking glitter. I figured it would be lame, but the glittering in this movie far out-lamed anything I could have ever imagined, even in my Liberace-iest dreams. Really? The effects on a film with a decent budget couldn't have been just a little better? Did they cover him in glue and blow arts and crafts sparkles at him? No. Just, no. Don't ever do that again.

No fangs. Don't really have to go into any great detail about that. Self-explanatory, really. Vampires. Have. Fangs.

In Twilight, the vampires have venom. Venom is for snakes. That is all.

The vampires can run really fast, which is fine. How they carried out this particular trait in this move is NOT fine. It's the opposite of fine. I can't really explain it properly, because something in my brain short-circuited every time it happened and I can't really remember what it looked like. I just remember thinking of cartoon characters running in place, and then my eyes would roll back in my head for a while from the sheer dorkiness if it all.

The first half of the movie held my interest, but they lost me part way through. I think it might have been WHEN THE VAMPIRES PLAYED FRIGGING BASEBALL. Seriously, Stephanie Oscar Meyer Wiener Breath? BASEBALL??? Jackass. No one likes you.

Some of the acting was ass. Most of the acting was pretty good. I especially liked the long-haired native boy who is probably a werewolf. (Spoiler Alert!)

And then there's Edward. Edward, Edward, Edward. I actually really liked the character, but I rather wish the actor would get hit by a train. Failing that, I wish he'd wash his hair and get less ugly. What the hell is wrong with his nose? Did someone pound him in the face with a shovel? I know all women everywhere who have ever opened their eyes find him attractive, but I just don't see it. I shouldn't really judge, though, since I keep a picture of Shirtless Keith Richards on my bedroom wall. I shouldn't judge, but I am. Please, women of the world, do not encourage him. At least refuse to drool over him until he buys some Pantene. I beg of you.

So, despite all my preconceived notions, I didn't hate Twilight. I didn't love it, but I didn't want to gouge my eyes out with a pickle fork after having watched it. Will I see the next 43 Twilight movies? Meh. Perhaps. Maybe one day, when they're on the Movie Network and I'm done watching whatever incarnation of CSI/Law and Order is done for the night. Unless Chris Meloni takes his shirt off.

When that happens, Melanie needs some alone-time.....which made Oz difficult to watch.

I Violate Football

2009-09-10T13:14:00.000-07:00

I don't know anything about football. I don't have anything against it, I just don't watch it or pay any attention to it or really care about it in any way whatsoever. Today, Hopper was doing his football picks for a football pool thingy, and I decided I would do some, too. What I have done flies in the face of statistics or fan devotion or logic or anything, really. I just decided which one of the competing teams' things-they're-named-after could kill the other in real life.

I apologize to people who love football for basically making fun of it. If it makes you feel better, I once dressed up as Strawberry Shortcake for a tap-dancing recital. You can poke fun at me for that if it makes you feel better. Although, I'm not sure a Strawberry Shortcake costume is more embarassing than those pants football players wear.

Also, I feel the need to stress that I did research for this. Actual research. Because who the fuck knows what a "49er" is? (They were gold prospectors, by the way. Don't care.)

Titans v Steelers
(Titans, because they're gods. Can't beat gods.)

Dolphins v Falcons
(Falcons, because they could probably get a falcon-gang together and swoop down and peck the dolphins' eyeballs out. The dolphins would be all "Wah! Let's all get along! Boo hoo! I'm a pretty dolphin! Love me! Oh no -- my face is bleeding and now I'm dead.")

Chiefs v Ravens
(Chiefs, because they could just shoot the ravens.)

Eagles v Panthers
(Panthers, because the eagles would swoop down, and the panthers would be all "screw you, bird!" and chomp them right out of the air with their pointy teeth.)

Broncos v Bengals
(Bengals eat horses. Fact. Probably)

Vikings v Browns
(Vikings will pillage the village, bitches.)

Jets v Texans
(Jets, because they'd just crash into the Texans and pulverize them.)

Jaguars v Colts
(Sorry, little horsie. Kitty gonna eat you.)

Lions v Saints
(Lions eat everything.)

Cowboys v Buccaneers
(Buccaneers were dicks and they were good at killing, so they'll totally win.)

49ers v Cardinals
(Cardinals are pretty, but they're dorks. They lose.)

Red Skins v Giants
(Giants squish things. They get to win. Also, 'Red Skins' is racist. Fix it.)

Rams v Seahawks
(seahawks would probably dive bomb rams, but then the rams would ram them with their rammy heads. Rams win.)

Bears v Packers
(Bears. What the fuck are packers? Like, luggage packers? Meat packers? Why would you name a team that? That's stupid.)

Bills v Patriots
(The Bills are basically named after Buffalo Bill Cody, who was a big fan of Native and women's rights, and also shot buffaloes. Patriots, I imagine, are named after the Americans who fought against British rule. Both could fight, but Buffallo Bill could fight BUFFALOES, which are WAY bigger than British people. Bills win.)

Charges v Raiders
(Chargers are horsies, I guess. Raiders are pirate-guys? Raiders, then. It would be way cooler if they were Cylon Raiders like in Battlestar Galactica.)

***So those are my picks for this coming whatever. You guys are all gonna feel really dumb if I'm right.

Small Talk Causes Herpes

2009-07-28T16:12:00.000-07:00

Not really, but if it DID, maybe people would stop doing it. Or at least put condoms over the heads while talking, then suffocate. Some topics are so ball-meltingly boring, that I cannot even comprehend discussing them at length. Yet EVERY FUCKING DAY I run into at least five people who manage to create entire conversations about nothing. Like…..

The Weather. “Golly gee, it’s COLD outside!” Yes, it is. “Don’t you think it’s COLD outside?” Yes, I do. “When you were outside just now, didn’t you find it COLD?” Yes, I did. “When you go outside later, I bet it will still be COLD!” Probably. “Why is it so COLD out?” Because it’s December, you stupid, boring asshole. Unless it’s 30 Celsius in February, a hurricane hits downtown Ottawa, or it snows blood, weather is boring. It’s also not something only the conversation-starter is aware of. I know it’s raining/hot/cold/snowing/windy/ninja-toads are falling from the sky because I, like you, CAN FUCKING SEE/FEEL IT.

What Day of the Week it Might Be. “Wow! It’s Friday!” It sure the fuck is! Guess how I knew that? Because I don’t pour lead paint on my Honey Nut Tard-ios every morning! If you go to bed on a Monday and it is Friday when you wake up the next day because of some cosmic re-aligning of the bloody calendar, then -- AND ONLY THEN -- are you allowed to talk to me about what day of the week it is without me kicking you square in the nutsack.

Something Someone Said to You About Your Lawn. “My neighbour just can’t figure out how I keep my lawn in such good shape!” I’m going to guess it’s because you have a lot of spare lawn-tending time, what with all the not-getting-laid you’re doing. The only reason to try to start a conversation that way is to get the person you’re about to bore into a stroke to ask you about how awesome you are. Well, I won’t do it. I will stare blankly at you until you cry if I have to, but the only thing I’m going to ask you about your lawn is what the soil is like, as it pertains to digging graves.

Something I Just Told You I Already Know. “Did you hear about that woman who set that guy on fire yesterday?” Yes. “The one who doused him with vodka and threw firecrackers at him until he caught fire?” Yes. I read that. In the newspaper. “And then she pushed him into a bathtub to put the fire out?” Yep. Read that part. “And then she rolled him in salt and bees?” Oh, wait -- nope. That's a completely different story than the one I read about. Thanks. Drop dead.

I Just Saw Something With My Eyes, and Now I’m Going to Say What I Saw Out Loud With My Mouth. “You have a blue shirt on!” “Hey, that’s a dog!” “You are running at me with a knife screaming ‘SHUT UP!’” I eat at my desk at work. A co-worker who I will call Jackass McDoucheGargler sometimes walks up to my desk, stands there, and says “You’re eating a bagel/apple/fistful of glass.” Then he continues to stand there, trying to turn his ability to convey something he has seen into word-form into a long, drawn-out conversation. To my credit, I haven’t punched him in the throat yet.

We’re all guilty of small talk sometimes, out of boredom or nervousness or being too drunk to say anything to the guy at the bar beyond “you have pretty teeth.” But more often than not, small talk is used by people who cannot stand being silent. It is used by people whose own thoughts bore their brains SO MUCH that their bodies repel those thoughts out into the world. It is used by people who have so little going on in their own heads, they have to speak so their brains don’t flat-line, turning them into drooling morons who walk around licking things off the surface of parking lots.

I just read back over this, and it kinda makes me sound like a bitch. I’m OK with that.

Why Are Some Women So F***ing Stupid?

2009-06-16T14:19:00.000-07:00

The Hopper showed me a survey statistic the other day that suggested one-third of women have PRAYED for a boyfriend. I have a survey statistic that suggests 100 percent of those women are stupid. It’s a survey I did of me, where I asked myself what I thought of those women, and I answered “they’re stupid.” It’s re-enforced my belief that some women need to go to a special school to learn how to not suck. According to some guys I know, they also have to go to a different special school to learn HOW to suck, but that’s not really something I think we need to discuss right now.

I should confess right now that I am not an expert on boyfriends. I haven’t had one in none-of-your-fucking-business-how-many-years. But I've spent a great deal of time observing people and picking them apart, and I think I’ve figured out what these women are doing wrong. I’ve decided I should tell them all about it, because people love to hear about how stupid they are, and they never ever get angry about it. Please don’t be offended. I mean well. Probably.

I think the first thing some women do wrong is LOOK for boyfriends. Boyfriends are not shoes. There is not a Boyfriend Store. I get that you want someone to keep you company and tell you you’re pretty, but looking for a boyfriend just for the sake of HAVING a boyfriend is not going to end well. Think of it this way: You want a red dress. You go from store to store looking, but can’t find one that fits you just right, so you buy the one that’s closest to what you’re looking for. Except it’s one size too small and it’s itchy. So you wear this too-small itchy dress, and you try to make it work, because you wanted a red dress SO DAMN BAD. You give up pizza so you can lose a few pounds and fit into it more comfortably, and you spend tons of money on expensive lotion to get rid of the rashes because of the itchy fabric. Now you’re pissed off because you can’t have pizza and you’re broke from buying lotion. In a blind rage, you rip the dress off, cut it up with scissors, and set the shredded bits on fire.

Now, picture doing that to the boyfriend you settled for because you wanted one SO BAD and couldn’t wait until the right guy just came along. You changed yourself and gave up your comfort, to make what you managed to find work for you. Not fair to you, not fair to him – especially since he’s the one that got set on fire.

This next one should go without saying, but it apparently doesn’t, so I’m going to say it: If you sleep with him the day you meet him, he’s probably never going to be your boyfriend. Sure, it happens sometimes. Happened to me once, and it lasted quite awhile. Quite a long, miserable, while. A long, miserable, holy-shit-I-hate-him-and-I-wish-he’d-fall-off-a-cliff while. As best as I can figure, here’s the thought process: “Um, like, if I sleep with him RIGHT NOW, he will, like, totally think I’m the COOLEST chick ever and he will TOTALLY want to love me forever and marry me and have babies with me and we will live happily every after on a unicorn farm.”

Nope. If you sleep with him RIGHT NOW, he’s going to think: “Yay. I got laid.”

Here’s a fun game I’ve seen some women play: It’s called “I’m Going to Say I Just Want No-Strings-Attached Sex, But I Really Want Him To Love Me, And I’m Sure He’ll Do Just That After I Sleep With Him For A Few Weeks.”

Nope again. That game ends with him telling you to go away, and you crying into the purple fur of your most-favourite Care Bear every night for three weeks. Also, it screws up things for women who actually DO want no-strings-attached sex, because men stop believing it when women say that. So quit it.

Finally, you need to stop being anyone other than exactly who you are. Pretending to like something or be something because you think it will makes guys think you are awesome is stupid. Ask yourself this: Do you really like UFC? REALLY? My friend Kristi does. You can tell, because when she has conversations about it, she actually knows what she’s talking about. I’ve heard other women talk about it, and…….not so much with the knowing-what-the-fuck-they’re-saying. Guys do not care if you like UFC/hockey/wrasslin’/NASCAR/chugging beer/farting contests. That’s what their guy-friends are for. It’s completely OK if you like those things, but it’s OK if you don’t. And eventually, they will figure out you’re pretending, then it’s back to crying into your Care Bear.

Do you really, really want to pretend to like something you hate or be someone you’re not for the entire length of your relationship? Because you’re options are: a) eventually crack, admit to who you are, and basically show him you’ve committed Relationship Fraud, giving him every right to ditch your ass, or b) pretend to be someone you’re not for the rest of your life. Both of these options can be avoided by just being yourself, you stupid fucking idiot.

Here endeth the lesson.

Useless Waste of Soundwaves, Part 3

2009-06-01T13:52:00.000-07:00

This song redefines 'suck.'

Sometimes When We Touch - Dan Hill

You ask me if I love you (nope)
And I choke on my reply (I got something for ya to choke on)
I'd rather hurt you honestly
Than mislead you with a lie (wimp)
And who am I to judge you
On what you say or do?
I'm only just beginning to see the real you

And sometimes when we touch
The honesty's too much
And I have to close my eyes and hide
I wanna hold you til I die (that’s fucking creepy)
Til we both break down and cry (if a chick cries when you hold her, that’s called RAPE)
I wanna hold you till the fear in me subsides

Romance and all its strategy
Leaves me battling with my pride
But through the insecurity
Some tenderness survives (lame)
I'm just another writer
Still trapped within my truth
A hesitant prize fighter
Still trapped within my youth (continuing lameness)

And sometimes when we touch
The honesty's too much
And I have to close my eyes and hide
I wanna hold you til I die (seriously – think of the fucking TRAUMA that would cause to the person you’re holding)
Til we both break down and cry
I wanna hold you till the fear in me subsides

At times I'd like to break you (wife-beater)
And drive you to your knees (that sounds dirty)
At times I'd like to break through
And hold you endlessly (So, you want to pound her, and then…………..pound her?)
At times I understand you
And I know how hard you've tried
I've watched while love commands you
And I've watched love pass you by (Oh my FUCK this is lame)

At times I think we're drifters
Still searching for a friend
A brother or a sister (INCEST)
But then the passion flares again

And sometimes when we touch
The honesty's too much (That doesn’t even MEAN anything, you jackass!)
And I have to close my eyes and hide (Closing your eyes does not make you HIDE, retard. Just because you can’t see someone, doesn’t mean it can’t see you.)
I wanna hold you til I die (please fucking do, if it means you will never sing this song again)
Til we both break down and cry (I already am)
I wanna hold you till the fear in me subsides (Fuck off. This song is shit.)

Avril Lavigne is a Jackass.

2009-05-26T14:43:00.000-07:00

Song #2 in my list of Shit Music that Rapes My Ears

I enjoy listening to Avril Lavigne about as much as I would enjoy listening to the sounds my dog would make if she were being skinned alive. That said, I do not know and do not care if she’s ever actually written any word of any sentence of any song she’s every ‘performed.’ But the shit comes out of her mouth, so she’s the one I’m taking it out on. I’ve also only added selected excerpts (they are listed in order as they appear in the song) because it’s a very long piece of shit, and I don’t want to over power my computer with it’s stench.

"Complicated"

Uh huh, life's like this
Uh huh, uh huh, that's the way it is
Cause life's like this
Uh huh, uh huh that's the way it is

***That’s deep. Thanks, retard.

Chill out whatcha yelling' for?

***Cuz I hate you.

You come over unannounceddressed up like you're somethin' else

***”Dressed up like you’re somethin’ else,” Avril? Like perhaps a cool punk-rock-but-not-too-offensively-punk-rock chick, instead of a skank-whore from Napanee?

Trying to be cool you look like a fool to me

***I really like those commercials you’re in for digital cameras these days. They in no way make you look like a moron.

Chill out whatcha yelling for?

***Again, because I hate you. Already told you that.

Lay back, it's all been done before

***Too easy.

"Cecilia" is a Stupid Song

2009-05-26T10:23:00.000-07:00

The first in my ongoing series of Songs That Are Stupid and Why.

I hate this song. Not only does it get stuck in my frigging head for a week any time I hear even one NANO SECOND of it, but it might be one of the most glaring examples of pathetic loserness that has ever been written.

Cecilia, you're breaking my heart
You're shaking my confidence daily
Oh, Cecilia, I'm down on my knees
I'm begging you please to come home

Cecilia, you're breaking my heart
You're shaking my confidence daily
Oh, Cecilia, I'm down on my knees
I'm begging you please to come home
Come on home

***Up to this point, there's nothing really odd about this song, except how fucking annoying it is. Shit starts to go wrong right.....about....now.

Making love in the afternoon with CeciliaUp in my bedroom (making love)

***Nothing wrong there.

I got up to wash my face

***What exactly is this guy doing during sex that requires him to wash his damn face? If you're face gets dirty, you're doing it WRONG.

When I come back to bed
Someone's taken my place

***Cecilia's a whore, dude. Also, unless you take a very, very long time to wash your face, this other guy was in your room the whole time, and he was probably naked. Watching you boink.

Cecilia, you're breaking my heart
You're shaking my confidence daily
Oh, Cecilia, I'm down on my knees
I'm begging you please to come home
Come on home

***Now this particular clump of dialogue, which was not-weird at the beginning, becomes much more weirderer. You are begging this bitch to come back? Dude -- WHORE.

Jubilation, she loves me again,
I fall on the floor and I am laughing,
Jubilation, she loves me again,
I fall on the floor and I am happy.

***Jubilation because a whore has taken YOU back after SHE banged some guy mere seconds after you left the room to wash your face in the middle of sex? You're an asshole. Also, you probably didn't fall on the floor because of laughter. Cecilia probably gave you syphilis, and you've fainted. Go to a doctor.

Anger is Bad. I Guess.

2009-03-02T08:47:00.000-08:00

I've been told I have "anger issues." I think I have people-who-should-shut-up-and-mind-their-own-damn-business issues, but I guess they have a point. Sometimes. The following is a write-up of some of the things that make me angry, why those things shouldn't make me angry, and what I should do instead of being angry.

Makes me angry: My dog barking
Why it shouldn't: She's a dog. It's how she talks.
What I should do instead of getting angry: Get her her own apartment.

Makes me angry: Bad drivers.
Why it shouldn't: No matter how loud I swear at them, they can't hear me from their car.
What I should do instead of getting angry: Call the police. Give them the bad driver's licence number. Say they were driving erratically through a school zone, flinging baggies of marijuana onto the playground and firing guns.

Makes me angry: Winter.
Why it shouldn't: It's Canada. Winter is a fact of life. But so is beer.............
What I should do instead of getting angry: Get drunk November 1st. Stay that way until April.

Makes me angry: Nickelback.
Why it shouldn't: It has been scientifically-proven that being angry at Nickelback won't make Nickelback go away.
What I should do instead of getting angry at Nickelback: Go to Scientist School. Become a scientist. Invent and construct a machine that will beam Nickelback to Jupiter. Beam Nickelback to Jupiter.

My Friend Got a Parking Ticket For No Good Fucking Reason

2009-01-27T10:33:00.000-08:00

Job Application - Parking Meter Fuckhead

Thank you for taking the time to fill out this application to become a Parking Meter Fuckhead. We will go over your application and get back to you within 3 business days.

1. Please select the phrase that best describes you:

a) Decent Human Being
b) Incomparable Asshole
c) Shit-for-Brains
d) Giant Douche

2. How would you deal with a confrontation between yourself, and someone who is obviously right?

a) Accept that the other person is right and apologize
b) Throw a fit like a whiny little bitch
c) Tell the obviously in-the-right party that you've "already started the ticket"

3. You believe people should get parking tickets when:

a) They are parked in a no-parking zone, or the meter has run out
b) You feel like it, whether they are illegally parked or not, because you are an asshole

4. Your career goals to this point have been:

a) To do well at a job that you enjoy
b) To be a police officer, but you failed the test because you're a fucking idiot
c) To be a mall security guard because you failed the police test because you're a fucking idiot, but you failed the mall security guard test too, because you're a fucking idiot, and now you're just trying to get ahold of any power you can, regardless of how insignificant you are.

If you answered "a" to any of the above questions, please do not bother handing in this application. You are obviously a decent, mentally-functioning human being, and this job is not right for you.

Movies I Haven't Bothered to See, Because I Know I Will Hate Them

2009-01-20T18:06:00.000-08:00

There are some rather popular movies that I have not seen, because I know I will hate them. Everyone tells me how good they are. I don't care. They either look stupid, sound stupid, or are based on something I think is stupid. I'm not saying they are stupid, I'm saying I think they're stupid. You are free to have your own opinion. Who am I to judge you for enjoying crap?

1. Spiderman, and all the little Spiderman sequels that came after it. Some might theorize that my hatred for Spiderman has something to do with my crippling fear of spiders. The same crippling fear that makes me squeal like a piggy and do that ridiculous fear-dance that is so frantic that my feet don't touch the ground for a good ten seconds. That's not why I hate Spiderman. I hate Spiderman for one very simple reason: My first exposure to Spiderman was that shitty Spiderman cartoon. The one with the reusable skylines that Spiderman just kept swinging through on his stupid Spiderman web, over and over and over and over and over. Did he not notice he was swinging by the same effing building EIGHT DAMN TIMES????? But that's not why I hate him. I hate him because in that stupid cartoon, the stupid 'spider' on his stupid Spiderman pyjamas often ONLY HAD SIX LEGS. That's not a spider. That's a tick. He's Tickman. And that is why I refuse to watch any of the Spiderman movies.

2. Titanic. Boat full of rich people sinks. Boo-fucking-hoo.

3. The Lord of the Rings. It is often said you can't judge a book by its cover. I agree. You can, however, judge a book by the stupid shit written in it. That's how I feel about The Lord of the Rings. I HATED those books. I tried to read them, I really did. I. Hated. Them. The very thought of perhaps accidentally watching a movie based on even five words out of one of those books makes me want to drown kittens.

4. Star Wars. I just can't make myself care about Star Wars. I think light sabers or whatever they're called look lame. Yoda looks like this cross-eyed inbred cat we had on the farm when I was a kid. I know a lot of you are cursing my name right now, but nothing about Star Wars appeals to me. Actually, this entry is a bit of a lie. I have seen one of the Star Wars movies. It was the one with Jar Jar Binks. I thought he was funny. I told a friend of mine that I thought he was funny. That statement was enough to convince my friend to stop trying to convince me to watch the other Star Wars movies. Apparently, liking Jar Jar Binks is the Star Wars equivalent of being retarded.

5. Harry Potter. It's about a boy who is a witch. A boy-witch. Will he grow up to be a manwitch? He plays games that are called stupid things like "Quidsplitch" or whatever. He likes a girl and he has a friend who has red hair. There are some wizards, and some of them probably die. They all go to witch-school together. He either kisses the girl, or his friend kisses the girl, or one, two or all of them die. Or none of them die, and some of them live happily ever after. Any of those things could happen. I don't particularly care.

6. Twilight. Here's how the vampires from this dreck are described on Wikipedia: "Twilight vampires have many distinct differences from other vampires that have been seen throughout history, such as not having fangs but instead strong piercing teeth, glittering in the sunlight rather than burning....." Vampires have fangs. Vampires that don't have fangs are just regular, everyday assholes that bite. Vampires do not 'glitter.' Vampires blow all to shit when the sun hits them. The way I understand it, the 'vampires' in Twilight drink animal blood, and never have to drink human blood unless they decide to. Of course, once they decide to drink human blood, nothing is ever the same, and they will always crave it. The woman who wrote this word-vomit has tried to turn vampirism into a cautionary sex tale for tweens

7 Things I Seriously Consider Doing Every Time it is This Effing Cold

2009-01-14T12:23:00.000-08:00

1. Setting everything around me on fire.

2. Killing people.

3. Blasting that insane bitch on The Weather Network with liquid notrogen and smashing her frozen body to pieces with a sledgehammer every time she SMILES while talking about how effing cold it is I hate her so much I wish she would fall into a shark's mouth and the shark would eat her and poop her out into the coldest part of the ocean and then she would be absorbed in poop-form into the water and a sea monster would drink the water and then whizz her out and she would never be heard from again.

4. Moving.

5. Injecting myself with bear DNA so I can hibernate.

6. Screaming until my head explodes, showering me with my own warm brains.

7. Killing people who are bigger than me and living inside their carcass until it cools off, then repeating that until summer or until they put me in prison.

11 Things I Saw at the AC/DC Concert, in No Particular Order

2009-01-12T09:27:00.000-08:00

1. A train.

2. An inappropriately-shirtless guy, dancing inappropriately.

3. A slutty chick's right boob on the jumbo screen.

4. A slutty chick's left boob on the jumbo screen.

5. AC/DC.

6. My mom, who is still much, MUCH cooler than me. (She actually had to tell me to stand up when the band came out, because I am lame and tend to sit down during entire rock concerts.)

7. Enough flashing devil-horn head bands to set off a seizure in every epileptic on the planet.

8. A 35-dollar hat, which I proceeded to buy because apparently I just poop out money now.

9. A giant, inflated, heavily-boobed plastic woman named Rosie.

10. Cannons.

11. My life flashing before my eyes as we tried to leave through a crowd of drunken fools stumbling like extras in a George Romero zombie movie who'd been dosed with qualuudes.

Some People Should be Beaten With Their Own Phone

2009-01-06T18:31:00.001-08:00

I love what I do for a living. I would prefer to be repulsively wealthy, but until then, I love what I do for a living.

Except when I answer the phone.

The best way to describe many of the people who call radio station newsrooms is this: When it comes to the human body, the asshole makes more noise than the brain. These callers are no different. The ones who have valid points or normal questions speak normally, speak politely, and don't yell. The assholes make way more noise.

Of the four companies I've worked for, only one would let me tell these people off. The rest generally frown on suggesting a listener stick their own head up their ass, then crap it out onto a hot rock. When I'm unfortunate enough to answer one of these calls, I have to bite my tongue, try to be helpful, and not bang my fist on the desk hard enough for the person on the phone to hear it.

The following are real calls I have answered. I've paraphrased, of course, but will try to do them justice. Along with the description of the call, I will describe how I responded...........and how I wanted to respond.

1. Two weeks after the transit strike started, a woman called to tell me there was a transit strike going on. She asked me how long it was going to last, and how she was supposed to get her kids to school and herself to work. I thanked her for letting us know about the strike, told her we had no way of knowing how long it would last, and apologized for the hard time she was having getting around the city. What I wanted to say was "Fuck off. I hate you. I know there's a strike. I've known since the day it started -- two weeks ago. I pity your children for having such a stupid mother. Go eat some knives."

2. During the blackout a few years ago, a woman called the newsroom. She asked me what she should do about the meat in her freezer. I told her to keep the freezer shut, and it would hold in the cold longer -- thus keeping her meat fresher a little longer. (I don't really know if that's true. I was annoyed, and had to make something up fast before my eyeballs exploded. It sounded reasonably scientific.) What I wanted to say was "Eat it. It all the meat now, before it goes bad. Don't waste valuable time cooking it. Eat it all, eat it raw, get e-coli, and die."

3. Someone called once, looking for the phone number of a specific local business. I opened the phone book, found it, and passed it along. What I wanted to say was "Hey, asshole -- you had to look up the number to call me.....so why exactly couldn't you look up the number to call them???" I hope that person has a tapeworm now.

4. "My hydro is out, but my neighbours have power." Me in Real Life: "I will call the hydro company and find out what's going on." Angry Me Holed Up Inside My Head: "Did you pay your bill, asshole?"

5. This one I feel a tiny bit bad about. An old lady called to find out about a group that was collecting books for kids displaced by a hurricane. At least, I think that's what she was asking about. Hard to tell, what with the slurring. After telling her I hadn't heard of this group, she proceed to slur in my ear that she'd spent nine dollars on these books, and that she was blind. I covered the mouth piece of the phone, and quietly announced to the newsroom that someone else was going to have to take the call, because I was dangerously close to telling a kindly old lady to go fuck herself. What I really wanted to do was tell a kindly old lady to go fuck herself.

6. Roughly 7,000 people have called in the last 5 years, asking about a news story that was actually a commercial. I always explain that a sale at Bob Knob's Toyota is not a news story, and that if they have any questions, they should call Bob Knob's Toyota. What I would rather do is scream directly into the phone until my throat explodes and showers my desk with blood -- shorting out my computer and electrocuting me to death so I don't have to answer the phone anymore.

7. My favourite call came when I worked at the job before the job I work at now. A man called to explain to me just exactly how much of a dirty whore bitch I was. He made some valid points, but overall, I felt he was overreacting. Lucky for me, this was one of the newsrooms that didn't suggest I be kind (or at least non-confrontational.) I held the phone away from my ear, flipped a switch, and blasted that fucker with a screeching tone that would make your balls climb right into your chest.

Best. Call. EVER.

Possible Titles for My Biography, and Examples of Chapter Titles That Would Be Found in Them

2008-12-15T19:10:00.001-08:00

1. Bodies Under the Floor Boards: The Melanie Adams Story
Chapter 1 -- She Seemed So Quiet
Chapter 7 -- The Day the Neighbours Disappeared
Chapter 13 -- What's That Smell?

2. The Melanie Adams Massacre
Chapter 3 -- Repressed Chicken Rage
Chapter 9 -- Procuring an Elephant Gun Online
Chapter 11 -- You Can't Run Away From an Elephant Gun

3. Puppies and Candy Canes
Witness statement found in Chapter 7: "And then she stabbed the puppies with
the sharpened candy canes. No one saw it coming."

Annoying Things

2008-12-15T17:59:00.000-08:00

1. Chewing with your mouth open. EW.

2. Putting your finger into your ear/nose/butt-area. The only thing more annoying than that is someone who puts their finger into their ear/nose/butt-area, then smells the finger.

3. Blowing your nose, then putting the kleenex anywhere but in the garbage.

4. Teenagers.

5. Pre-teens.

6. Calling pre-teens 'tweens.'

7. Showing me whatever pictures you have in your wallet.

8. Honda Civics.

9. People who use inflection at the end of every sentence, so that every sentence sounds like a question.

10. Nickelback.

11. Your cellphone ring.

12. Horror movie remakes.

13. My dog.

14. Nickelback.

15. The CBC.

16. Nickelback.

17. Wal-Mart greeters.

18. Wal-Mart.

19. Tinsel.

20. Nickelback fans.

Cocksuckers and Shit Angels

2008-12-10T19:07:00.000-08:00

Some people have a mantra. A word they chant over and over again, in an attempt to centre themselves and find peace.

I have the word 'fuck.' A word I say over and over again, in an attempt to stave off stress-headaches, and to magically repel bad drivers. If I didn't say 'fuck,' I would kill people. Everytime I say 'fuck,' I save a life. The life I save could be yours.

I have used the word 'fuck' in every imaginable combination. Motherfucker. Fuck off. Fuck you. Fuck them all. Jesus-fucking-Christ. What the fuck? Who the fuck are you? Get the fuck away from me. What the fuck is wrong with you people? Fuck it. What the fuck is wrong with your face? Who the fuck is that? What's that fucking noise? Fuck-fuck-diddly-fuck-fuck-fuck.

Someday I should really keep track of how many times a day I say 'fuck,' but I just don't have the fucking patience.

I also like to say 'cocksucker," but I have never used it to actually describe someone who was sucking a cock. I have used it to described the following people: Anyone who has ever been driving withing ten metres of me. Anyone in front of me at the checkout line at any store. Anyone who has ever bumped into me at a bar/restaurant/mall/library/church. All of my ex-boyfriends. My high school gym teacher. My landlords. The people who didn't plow the parking lot until late this afternoon. My old VCR when it ate my copy of Lethal Weapon. Every vehicle I have ever driven. A dog that pissed on our barbeque. Several of my former bosses. My sister. Nylons that have runs in them. Dirty dishes. My computer. A raccoon that I hit with my car about 10 years ago. Whoever cancelled Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Probably every single person reading this (behind your back, of course.)

'Shit' is a word that I frequently use, much like most of you. But unlike most of you, I have actual physical experience with shit on a level that makes me uniquely qualified to use it as a curse word. A few years ago, I was at my my parents' farm, helping my dad herd a cow from an enclosed shed-type thingie into a barn. There was a space between the enclosed shed-type thingie and the barn, that was open on one side. My dad asked my to prop up a wooden gate that was about three metres long, so he could get the cow from Point A to Point B, without it running away. It did not go exactly as planned. The cow decided it did not WANT to go to Point B, and instead ran directly into the wooded gate I was holding up. What followed can only be described as a Shit Sandwhich with a Melanie Filling and a Cow on Top. The top layer was Cow. Below Cow was Wooden Gate. Below Wooden Gate was Melanie. Below Melanie was Cow Shit. I had shit in my clothes, shit in my hair, shit under my fingernails, and I damn-near had shit in my mouth. Lucky (?) for me, I sank into the shit, and therefore was not crushed to death by the cow, which ran along on its merry way, leaving me embedded in a cold shit cocoon. When I got up, there was a me-shaped outline in the shit. A Shit-Angel.

So when I say 'shit,' I fucking well mean it, cocksucker.

Various Christmas Songs, and Why I Hate Them

2008-12-08T14:48:00.000-08:00

1. Do They Know it’s Christmas Time (Band-Aid)

“There won’t be snow in Africa this Christmas” No shit.

2. I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas (Some Kid, or Perhaps an Adult Who Sounds Like a Kid)

Where are you going to put this hippopotamus, dumb ass? You do know they get big, right? And it will probably kill you. On second thought, I hope you get one. And I hope it steps on your head.

3. Christmas Shoes (Don’t Care Who Sings This One)

This is a song about a destitute child trying to buy new shoes for its dying mother so the mother will have shoes to wear when she meets Jesus. Hey, kid – if you’re poor, maybe you should spend your money on food, AND NOT ON SHOES FOR SOMEONE WHO CAN’T EVEN WALK.

4. Chipmunk Christmas Song, as destroyed by Frozen Ghost

ONLY THE CHIPMUNKS SHOULD SING THIS SONG, YOU ASSHOLES.

5. The Chipmunk Christmas Song, as screeched by The Chipmunks

I hate that fucking song.

6. Any Christmas Song by Any Country Singer

I don’t feel a need to explain this one.

7. Santa Baby (I Don’t Know, and Can’t Be Bothered to Google it)

This was probably a good song once. Now it’s the victim of annoying LCBO commercials. And it works, because when I hear it, I want to drink.

8. All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth (Some Annoying Kid)

You know why you’re missing those teeth? Because you’re annoying, and someone punched them out of your face.

9. That Stupid Paul McCartney One

Something about simply having a wonderful Christmastime. Over and over and FUCKING OVER AGAIN.

10. The One With the Word Marshmallow in it.

I don’t know what this song is called. I don’t know who sings it. All I remember is the word “marshmallow,” then I black out. When I come to, someone has been stabbed.