Why I Keep Bugging You to Give Me Money

Well, not ME, exactly. The money isn't for me. The money is for Greg, and for Grady.

In December, 2012, my friend Greg died after fighting cancer for three years.

In June, 2013, his son Grady was born.

Grady won't ever meet his dad. He didn't get the chance to know his dad while he was in this world, but I did. Greg's family did. Greg's friends did. A lot of what Grady learns about his dad he will learn from us.

One of the things I want Grady to know about his dad is that Greg had an incredible way of bringing people together. Whether it was a bar on a Friday night after work (and then the following Saturday night....and sometimes the Sunday night) or a charity run on a hot Sunday afternoon in June, Greg could get people to come together. I didn't fully understand that until Greg got sick, and the coming-together became less frequent. He was a force that drew people together, and that is rare.

I want Grady to know that.

I want Grady to know that his father left such a mark on the people around him, that we kept doing something he really wanted us to do -- even after he was gone. We kept running on that one day every year that Grady won't get to celebrate the same way many of us do. I get to call my dad on Fathers' Day. I get to buy him a present. Grady doesn't get to do that.

What he DOES get to do on Fathers's Day -- and what I hope he gets to do every year -- is see a group of people wearing T-shirts with his dad's nickname printed on them, running because Greg asked us to. Raising money to help fight cancer because Greg asked us to.

I miss my friend. I don't want other people to miss their friends. I don't want other little boys to grow up without their daddies. If we keep doing this -- and if people keep donating -- then maybe Grady will grow up knowing that because of his dad, someone still gets to go out for a beer with their friends on Friday night (and Saturday.....and sometimes Sunday). Grady will be able to say that because of his dad, another little boy's dad is still with him.

So that's why for the next month, I'll be asking over and over and over for money. If Grady can't have his dad here physically with him, then I'd like to make sure he gets to see that his dad helped change the world.

If you'd like to make a donation to Team Greggybear, you can do it here: Donate to Team Greggybear

Men Are Not Bad and I Would Like to Bang The Doctor

I yelled at The News today. I do that between five and one thousand times a week now, because I'm getting old and getting old means you yell at your TV and get a weird hair that grows out of the same place on your face every couple weeks and eventually you get to smell like piss all the time and no one bothers to tell you because fuck it, she's 90 -- she's allowed to smell like piss if she wants to.

(Side bar: Sometimes I yell at commercials for The News because in the commercials they play bits of old news about big stories that happened FUCKING WEEKS AGO but for a second I'm worried that the thing DIDN'T actually happen before and is just happening now, so maybe I foretold the thing that just happened. Then I remember it really did already happen, and I'm not psychic, and I'm glad because I don't think I'd be good at telling people a plane is going to crash into their house next week.)

Today I yelled at The News because The News was talking to some people who were all happy that more women than men are graduating from post-secondary schools. That was Yell #1. Is it a fucking competition now? Is going to school a competition between men and women, and now WOMEN ARE WINNING!!! TAKE THAT, PEOPLE WITH TESTICLES!!!!! YOU THINK YOU'RE SO GREAT, WITH YOUR BALLS AND YOUR WIENERS AND YOUR ABILITY TO GROW PERVY MOUSTACHES, BUT NOW WE ARE BETTER THAN YOU!!!!!!!!!!

Shut up. Fuck off. Go away. People are going to school and getting edumacations and jobs and all that stuff that enables them to eat name-brand food. That's great. Please don't turn it into some battle of the sexes bullshit.

Yell #2 came when Some Fuckhead brought up the fact that women still tend to do "women-y" jobs and men tend to do "men-y" jobs. But mostly people who bring that up don't actually give a shit what men do. They're mad because more women aren't firefighters or mechanics or Bull Castration technicians or whatever the fuck. So? SO????? FUCKING SO?????

When I was in high school, my school had an auto mechanics class. Anyone could take it. Even girls. And a few did. I didn't. Know why? Because I didn't fucking feel like it. Not because some big mean man told me I couldn't. Not because no one bothered to tell my stupid girl brain that I was also allowed to take that class. I knew I could take it, and I didn't want to, so I didn't.

Women aren't fucking morons who need to be told that they are allowed to do the same jobs men do. We know that. Some of us do those jobs. Lots of us don't. That's neither a bad nor a good thing. It's just a thing. It's neutral. It's ambivalent. It's not worth getting your panties in a bunch.

On a you-won't-think-it's-related-but-it-kinda-is note, there's been a bunch of pissing and moaning online recently about Doctor Who. If you're not familiar with the show, here's all you need to know for this particular parallel: The Doctor is an alien who has a really long lifespan, and every once in a while he regenerates and looks like a completely different person even though he's the same guy. The actor who's been playing The Doctor the last few years is leaving, so there's going to be a new Doctor. What will he look like? Will he be black? White? One of the many, many ethnicities we have in our world? Who knows. Could be. Doesn't matter to me one bit. What apparently DOES matter to some people is that The Doctor be a woman.

NO.

Here's the shallow Melanie-reason why: 87% of the reason I watch Doctor Who is because (so far) he's been played by hot actors who I would like to boink. Nothing against women, but I don't want to boink any of them except for Gillian Anderson because she's Scully and that would be awesome.

The real reason, though? Because The Doctor is a dude. He is a guy. He is a man-alien, and that is OK. IT IS OK FOR SOMEONE TO BE A MAN.

When I hear someone saying women are being held back because we aren't all mechanics or firefighters or Bull Castration Technicians, it pisses me off. We are NOT being held back. The jobs women predominantly do are good jobs. They are important jobs. If we want to do them, then shut up and let us do them. By saying we should be doing "man jobs," you're saying the jobs we're doing aren't good enough. Clearly, we must be doing "man jobs" in order to matter.

When I hear someone saying 'not enough' women are doing jobs men predominantly do, it pisses me off. If more women do these jobs, does that somehow make the jobs more valid than if men are doing them? Are those jobs not worth as much to us right now because they're mainly done by men?

Why does The Doctor need to be played by a woman? Why isn't it good enough that he's a man? Why will making him a woman make him better?

It won't. Doesn't work like that. Doesn't work like that on TV shows, doesn't work like that in real life. Be a woman, and do what you want to do. Be a man, and do what you want to do.

And if you don't like how I feel about it, you may blow me, even though I am not a man, and am technically un-blowable. THAT'S equality, fuckers.


xxx

Goose Murder, Fucking Audis, and a World That Doesn't Totally Suck

I live in a kinda shitty neighbourhood, completely surrounded by less-shitty -- and in some cases, frigging ridiculously nice -- neighbourhoods. When I go for a run, I can see everything from mansions full of diplomats to the Governor General's house to some guy smoking something brown through a hollowed-out Bic pen tube in the span of half an hour. That pen-thing is something I have actually seen TWICE during my ten years in Ottawa. Fucking TWICE.

Anywho, today's run took me through Mansions Full of Diplomats Land -- a gorgeous stretch of road lined with huge homes and beautiful trees. I like running through there because it's quiet, and there's very little chance I'll get smoked by a little old lady in a big-ass Buick. Getting smoked by little old ladies in big-ass Buicks is tied for the 19th leading cause of death in my neighbourhood. The other 19th leading cause of death is goose murder.

I keep running through Mansions Full of Diplomats Land despite being frequently treated by many of its residents like I'm a carrier for some sort of flesh-eating virus. In their defense, I do look pretty diseased when I run. Five minutes in, I'm basically comprised of sweat and desperation. I breathe like I have one of those hot dog whistles lodged in my throat. And I'm usually kind of singing/swearing under my breath just to remind myself that I'm still mostly alive.

Still, that's hardly any excuse for that woman that told me I was running too close to her lawn. Or the uppity bitch who yelled at me because I scared her precious little snowflake of a dog. Or the jerkoffs in their Audis who honk their horns at me because I'm selfishly taking up .03% of the road they're trying to use. It's not my fault they don't have sidewalks there. I guess they're afraid sidewalks attract poor people or something. Poor people do seem to like walking places. Probably because they can't afford fucking Audis.

About 15 minutes into a 45-minute run (so at this point, I look and sound like something furry and sweaty that got hit by a car but only a little bit, so it can still kind of run and make squeaky noises) I see a black sedan parked on the side of the road ahead of me. When there's no sidewalk, I run on the same side of the road as the traffic that's approaching me, so I can see the little old ladies in big-ass Buicks coming toward me, should they get lost on their way to the Orthopedic Shoe & Hard Candy Store and end up in Mansions Full of Diplomats Land. I can't always rely on the scent of Goldbond Medicated Powder to alert me to their presence.

Because of the side of the road I'm on, I'm going to have to run right by Black Sedan Man. Based on previous experience, I assume he's not going to like me. He's not going to want me in his fancy neighbourhood, burning holes in his street as my poverty-sweat drips down like the acid of the unwashed masses.

As I get closer, I see the window of the sedan go down. Well fuck. This fucker's going to yell at me. He's going to tell me to get off the road. To go home and wait for my welfare cheque to show up. (Joke's on him -- I'd probably make more if I was on welfare.)

I could have swerved to the other side of the road to avoid the confrontation. Let him yell across the street at me and just ignore him. But fuck that -- I'm in a shitty mood, and I wouldn't mind getting into a screaming match with some rich asshole who thinks he's better than me in his fancy car with his fancy hair and his fancy clothes and probably some fancy fucking cat at home that has hair made of silk and can shit golden rainbow turds. A fight would feel good. A fight would feel GREAT, after two days of seeing nothing and reading nothing and reporting on nothing but some piece of shit (and/or pieces of shit) that blew up a little kid who just wanted to watch his daddy finish a marathon. He'd JUST HUGGED HIS DADDY, for fuck's sake. Now he's dead and his mom is hurt and his little sister is hurt and we're left living in a world that's full of fucking monsters and just generally sucks overall.

I've seen enough to know that this world is fucked and it's just going to get worse. Every year -- every DAY -- it seems like things are getting more and more horrible. Whatever happens next, it's nothing good. It's nothing kind. It's going to be bullshit.

I've had enough rotten experiences with people along this street to know that whatever this guy has to say, it's nothing good. It's nothing kind. It's going to be bullshit.

As I get closer to his car with its open window, I make eye contact. I'm ready, fucker. I know exactly what to expect.

He puts his hand out the window to give me a high-five.

I high-fived him back. I said thank you. Then I ran for the next half hour in a state of almost-crying, because I had been so terribly, terribly wrong.

Still Waiting For A Facebook Ad About Weird Porns

An ad popped up on my Facebook feed today, telling me not to worry -- if I just follow this ONE SIMPLE TRICK AND NEVER GIVE UP I will not end up alone!!! Specifically, judging by the photo that accompanied the ad, I will be proposed to by a douchebag on a beach. I'm basing the Douchebag Assessment on the fact that he's wearing a suit on a beach and kneeling in flower petals, and those things seem douchey when you combine them.

Now, I was under the impression that Facebook ads are somehow catered to the things I put on Facebook using algorithms and science and fucking unicorn magic or some damn thing. I'm not able to figure out how my status updates about McDonalds, porn, Cheerios and crying babies led Facebook Ad God to decide that I was concerned about being single. I can only assume that Facebook Ad God (who, upon realizing what it would be, will not be getting an acronym) uses the same formula as 95% of people who have ever or will ever speak to me: She is single. She must be pretty sad about that.

I'm fucking not.

Before someone starts pissing down their leg and screaming about how I hate couples and it's because I'm jealous blah blah blah fuck off blah -- that's just not true. I don't give a shit. Are you in a relationship? OK. I don't give a shit. Are you not in a relationship? OK. I also don't give a shit. Did you once have an orgy with George Clooney, some midgets, and a guy in an Oscar Meyer Wiener costume? I would actually like very much to hear about that.

I kinda wish the "You'll Find Somebody Someday" people would all get rampant gonorreah or something. Or big sores in their mouth that would prevent them from talking. They all have one thing in common: They all say "you'll find somebody someday!" even though at no point in the conversation did I say anything that would lead to them saying that. They're the Relationship Expert equivalent of the dummy that says "It's Friday!!!" when you ask him how he's doing. The response has nothing to do with what came before it. "Do you have a boyfriend?" "Nope." "You'll find somebody someday!" "Don't recall saying I fucking wanted to."

Lucky for me, I have friends who understand that I'm perfectly happy being uncoupled. But for the rest of you, and for the sake of all people like me who aren't going to shrivel up and die in a puddle of Ben & Jerry's Oh God Why Won't He Love Me Chocolate Cherry Chunk while watching Bridget Jones' Diary and crying into my dog, here's a handy-dandy checklist I suggest you print off and carry in your fucking wallet In case you ever feel like saying something stupid.

And yes -- these are actual things that actual people have actually said to me.


1. Q: Why don't you have a girlfriend/boyfriend?

    A: Because no one wants to voluntarily love me after I show them where the pus comes from.

2. Q: Don't you get lonely?

    A: Sometimes. But then I remember that living alone gives me the freedom to watch TV in my underwear and try to fart in time with the theme song for the 6 o'clock news without anyone judging me.

3. Q: But you'll die alone! That's so sad!

    A: Fuck off.

4. Q: Doesn't it make your friends uncomfortable when you're the only one there who's single and they're all there with their wives and husbands and stuff?

    A: No, because my friends aren't fucking stupid.


5.  Don't worry -- you'll meet Mr. Right someday!

     A: Wasn't he the guy who invented airplanes or some shit? I'm pretty sure he's dead.


Stop it. Just fucking stop it.


You can thank a stupid Facebook ad for this rambling bullshit. Hopefully they put up an ad soon about porn inspired by the TV show Anderson Live, because I have what some might call "too fucking much" to say about that.

Eats Q-Tips, Hates Dust Busters, Fears Her Own Farts

I have a dog. She's pretty cute and most of the time I like her except for when she sits and stares at me like a fucking idiot. Right now she's on a blanket on the couch with me. She's not allowed on the couch by herself, because she likes to try to dig holes in things that aren't dirt (because of the thing where she is a fucking idiot.)

I repeat: I. Like. My. Dog. I also understand that she is a dog. She is not people. I have seen her eat her own puke. I have watched her growl at her own tail. I have been witness to her licking her arsehole for the better part of an hour.

This is not the face of a thing that knows things. This is the face of a creature that thinks a demon lives in the Dust Buster. 

Today I screamed at my TV because some c-word in a dog food commercial said "He's not a dog! He's our biggest boy!" Really? You paid someone to cut your biggest boy's balls off? You let your biggest boy shit on your neighbour's front lawn (it's ok because they're just renters on welfare and you really wish the owners hadn't let them move in there. You have a daughter, for Christ's sake) then sneak off because you don't want to risk getting dog shit under your new gel nails? It must suck to be your actual children. Someone should call some sort of society that will take them away from you before they wake up in a cage with their reproductive organs missing.

Ten minutes later, there was a commercial that referred to "pet parents."  I'm a human person that feeds her and puts her shit in little black baggies which I'm piling into a mountain on my back step. (I call it Mount Kilimanshitpile. It's mostly frozen now, so now's the time to try to climb it.) What I am NOT is her parent. My dog's mother is dead. Her father tries to eat her face off any time she goes near him. 

AND YET ANOTHER FUCKING DOG FOOD COMMERCIAL, which appeals to your dog's "wolf spirit." My dog weighs ten pounds, and if her leash gets snagged on a somewhat hard piece of snow sticking out of the ground, she's rendered immobile until I rescue her. She sleeps inside pillowcases because she has no hair on her belly and she would otherwise freeze to death. Once she hid under the couch because I sneezed too many times. I'm not sure you could call that a "wolf spirit." Is there a "field mouse spirit?" I think that's the one she has. 

I don't have conversations with my dog. She seems to sort of understand certain words if she hears them enough times, but I'm not sure she's grasped full sentences yet. I'm hoping that one day we will be able to discuss the latest real estate developments, but right now mostly our conversations involve me saying "get the fuck out of the garbage" and her swallowing the yellow end of a used Q-Tip before I can get it away from her.

I don't let my dog sit on my lap when I drive, because she is a terrible driver. Seriously. She hit and killed a guy, just like Laura Bush did.

I don't buy Christmas presents for my dog. At first, that was because I thought she might be Jewish. I thought she might be Jewish because she'd never told me she wasn't, and I didn't want to risk offending her. Then I saw her eat a bacon treat, so now I don't buy her Christmas present because she's a dog.

I don't buy my dog expensive food that will appeal to her wolf spirit. I buy my dog whatever dog food is on sale, the same way that I buy myself whatever people food is on sale.

These things don't mean I don't like my dog. What these things DO mean is that I sometimes have to explain to people that I like my dog. Because apparently, in the eyes of some 'pet parents' and the companies that make dog food, by not treating my dog like a tiny person that thinks the mailman comes every day to kill her and just happens to be afraid of her own farts, I am a bad human.

A majority of people are assholes and I don't like them. I like my dog. Which is why I treat her like a fucking dog.

Retsin Burps and Eating Like a Duck

I grew up with a lot of older relatives. I grew up in a really small place where everyone knew everyone and just about everyone was some level of old. I grew up on a farm, where the lifespan of the beings around you aren't exactly what you'd call 'lengthy.' I grew up around a lot old people and a lot of animals. I grew up looking at death as something that was sad, but also something that had to happen. Something that was supposed to happen. I would cry and I would feel the loss, but for as long as I can remember, I've always thought of it as something that happens to everyone -- so there is, in my mind, no reason to let it tear you apart.

I don't know exactly what it is I'm feeling today, but I suspect it might be a little bit of tearing apart.


Greg thought it was hilarious to pretend to eat like a duck. He'd cram food in his mouth, throw his head back, and sort of make duck-noises while everyone else in the newsroom laughed ... and wondered if maybe we should call mental health professionals.

Greg would try to say "Retsin" when he burped. He said it sounded really funny, if you could do it. I've tried. I can't. But he could, and he was right -- it sounds really funny.


I'm sitting on my couch, petting my idiot dog with my foot while I think about my friend eating like a duck and burping the word "Retsin" and thinking about how I don't get to see or hear those things again.

Up until now, I knew death had to happen. I knew there was a reason. Someday, I will know those things again -- but I don't know them today.



Everything else I want to say is full of swearing. Stuff that other people have said is better:

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
With a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it,
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?
Come up with a smiling face.
It's nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there -- that's disgrace.
The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce;
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts,
It's how did you fight --  and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then?
If you battled the best you could,
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why, the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he's slow or spry,
It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
But only how did you die?

~ Edmund Vance Cooke

I WILL DESTROY ALL OF YOUR CHRISTMAS

Take a minute and go read the following link. It will tell you all about how I (yes - me, personally) am joining forces with Satan to ruin Christmas.

DUMBASS

Now, let's go through this line by line, shall we? Because I want to call Pat Robertson and the dimwit who wrote this piece of junk arseholes, and I want to take as much time as possible.

"It's that time of year again, when atheists and Satan join forces to wage a war on Christmas."

Interesting Atheist Fact #1: Not only do we not believe in any gods, we don't believe in any satans either, you arseholes.

"Somehow Christmas always survives, usually by the skin of its teeth, but that doesn't mean that the crusaders of modern American Christendom should lay down their weapons."

Funny -- I've been alive for 33 years, and I remember nearly half of them, and I've yet to notice Christmas surviving only "by the skin of its teeth." Christmas seems to be doing OK, actually. Wait -- do you mean the whole "Happy Holidays" thing? That thing where not everyone says "Merry Christmas?" Oh. Good. Please, make that argument again. Make that argument about how what stores put in their ads or what Hallmark puts on their cards somehow makes Christmas cry. How weak is your faith that somebody not calling something what you call it somehow makes it mean less? You can't be very good 'crusaders of modern American Christendom' if two words being replaced by two other words wrecks your day, you arseholes.

"Robertson says, "The Grinch is trying to steal our holiday." The Grinch in question is atheists, and they will not be satisfied until they stamp out happiness itself."

This is true. On behalf of all Atheists, might I just say "SCREW YOU, HAPPINESS!!!! NO ONE LIKES YOU." I hate everything, all the time. I'm even considering having surgery on the nerves in my face so I don't accidentally smile at something some day. Anyone who knows me will know that I never laugh, I have no friends, and I sometimes kick puppies in the face. YOU ARSEHOLES.

"The nation comes together, we sing Christmas carols, we give gifts to each other. We have lighted trees, and it's just a beautiful thing," says Robertson. "Atheists don't like our happiness, they don't want you to be happy, they want you to be miserable! They're miserable, so they want you to be miserable! So they want to steal your holiday away from you."

Just....shut up. Shut up all the time. We are not miserable. We don't want everyone to be miserable. I like Christmas. There's lots of yummy food and presents and I get to spend time with my family and I decorate my house and I EVEN KNOW ALL THE WORDS TO ALL THE SONGS YOU ARSEHOLES.

Buttholes like Pat Robertson and the thing that wrote that article give nice, non-jerkwad Christians a bad name. And MOST Christians are non-jerkwads. It's just too bad that dickheads like these two are the ones we hear from the most.

Merry Christmas :)

~~~~~