Do We Have A Deal?

There's just something about a new suit, y'know?
Like a recently purchased handgun, or a new affair, there's just something about a suit that puts a spring in your step.
I took a picture of myself wearing it, reflected in the chrome of an old-timey car.
See, we have this display piece car down at the used lot.
It's more like a stagecoach without the horses. One of those cars.
Model T, probably.
Thought I'd capture myself in my new suit in the headlight.
Try to look stylish.
Being stylish has a lot to do with being photographed near old shit.
You don't show any respect for the old shit, mind you.
You just get your picture taken near it.
Like a band doing their photo shoot in a cemetery.
Anyway, the pic turned out blurry, so I'm not going to bother uploading it.
That takes steps.
Tweeting it, however, was relatively painless, so you can look at it over there if you're desperate enough for new photos of me.
Oh! I can embed the tweet right in here.
I'll be doing that far more often now.

$=suits from Sears outlet store=confidence=sexy. twitter.com/paulwarford/st…
— Paul Warford (@paulwarford) May 15, 2013

Look, I can ask about throwing in the winter tires, but I don't know what answer my manager will give me.
Selling cars from the salesman's perspective is exactly like TV and nothing like TV.
When I mentioned in my interview that I had no sales experience, I really meant it.
Now, I suppose I do.
That being said, I would still hesitate to call myself a salesman.
I'm more like...
...I feel kinda like a tour guide sometimes.
Or, if I do the job well, I'm like a tour guide.
You know when you take a trip to Punta Cana, and there's that one resort employee who stands out?
"Punta Cana was fuckin' awesome, bud!
There was this dude, what was his name?"
"Enrique!"
"Enrique!Yeah! Enrique was fuckin' awesome, man.
Every time my drink was empty, Enrique was right there on the edge of the pool to fill it.
We told him that we were looking to go zip-lining without all of the safety harness bullshit, and he was like, 'Okay sir, we do that for you.'"
Everyone remembers him fondly, even though the girlfriends did find him 'a little touchy-feely'.
Nevertheless, Enrique will come up every time the trip is mentioned.
Because Enrique was accommodating.
If I'm doing my job properly, I have come to discover, I'm Enrique.
I have no real clout at the resort.
I don't know where the shrimp comes from, or whether or not it'll give you food poisoning, but I can get some delivered to your room.
All I am is a guy who works here. I just happen to be your guy.
More like concierge than a tour guide, really.
Oh right. TV.
I really do have to go see my manager.
You want the mats and stupid tonneau cover thingy included?
Can I do that?
I dunno. My manager will tell me.
90% of the time, when a car salesman tells you they have to ask their manager, they really mean that.
Just like TV.
However, unlike TV, we're not...I don't know what.
We're not shysters.
We're not - I'm not, anyway - out to fuck yourself and your wife from here to the gas station.
People are always trying to catch me on this hidden fee or that hidden fee.
That 'hidden fee' shit is in the past.
This isn't the 80s.
The cars are online. The prices are online.
The sticker price is the sticker price.
It's not like you pick out a sweater at Eddie Bauer, and while in line at the checkout you whisper to your wife, "I wonder what kind of a mark-up wool tax they stick on this fucker."
Do you? Maybe you do.
There's no hidden anything.
Sure, the price can be manipulated, but the margins for this are not as great as you'd think, and the parameters for them are pretty standard across the board.
Financing a Kia at a dealership in St. John's and a dealership in Ontario will be within dollars of each other.
No one's out to get you.
Except if we're talking used cars.
That's a different story.
I'll fuck a family out of their mortgage on a used car, if I can.

This post brought to you by Punta Cana Tourism.
And remember: If you have to get hepatitis, contract it in Punta Cana.

Bull Rush

How many bulls does a country need to have before someone says:
"Hey, let's let 'em all go, and then run from 'em!"
While we're on it, how do you round up dozens of bulls after they've had time to explore a city and some of its China shops?
Tranquilizers.
Thick-roped nets.
A huge Jesus sombrero.

I'm tired and wordless, but since I'm down to one post a full moon, I figured I should stop by and say something.
So, I'm saying that I'm tired and wordless.

Lighter Stuff

Did you know there's a helium shortage right now?
Besides having to anchor all our zeppelins, stoned kids who want to speak in funny voices are left suckin' air.
I've never done that, y'know.
The helium-funny-voice thing.
I couldn't definitively say why that is.
However, I spend a lot of time thinking about myself, so I do have some theories.
Or, just variations on the one theory, I guess:
Balloons have always made me uncomfortable.
Not when they're wafting about in the tent at the retirement party, mind you.
Inflating them. Tying them. Popping them.
Balloon maintenance. Balloon stuff.
Puts me on edge.
I've only successfully blown up a balloon (from flaccid) perhaps 5 to 7 times.
Generally, I just puff my cheeks out until someone takes pity on me and blows it up themselves.
Shameful.
I also heard an urban legend about a woman who was startled while inflating a balloon and she accidentally sucked it into her mouth and suffocated.
That always stuck with me and I think it made me afraid to put balloons near my mouth.
This isn't a joke; I'm not making this up.
However, adulthood has taught me to face my urban legends.
So, I intend to do the funny voice.
Unfortunately, there's a helium shortage right now.
Inhaling it to sound like a clown's assistant seems rather brash in these hard times.
Aerial views at football games are in jeopardy.

Almost spelled football with a 'p' just now.
Phootball.
Phutball.

If no one's going to listen to scientists, why do we have scientists?
"This could puncture a hole in the ozone, resulting in melanoma and gross moles that require removal."
"Whatever, scientist. How do you suggest I use Raid without aerosol cans?
I'll take my chances, genius."
Sure, scientists develop formulas to make better hair conditioners, but their legitimacy seems wasted.
"Helium shortage? Whatever, scientist.
Wait! Let me degrade you with my funny helium voice."

"There's No Place Like Home"

I could never be from Toronto; my disdain isn't stylish enough.
Comedy has afforded me several free meals and a slew of new acquaintances.
L.A. being too expensive a flight with too attractive a populace, a lot of comics bed down in Toronto.
I've had run-ins with the natives before.
Living in Banff, I roomed with Francis for a while.
He was all expensive trousers and constant, vocal judgement.
Don't get me wrong - I love Francis. I did then.
Today, he still stands as the only man whose back I have shaved (and I wouldn't do it for just anyone).
But everywhere we went. Everything we did.
"Oh, in Toronto etc. etc."
"In Toronto there'd be extra bathroom stalls in here."
"In Toronto you could buy coriander at any time of the day."
"In Toronto there are more homeless people."
I used to make fun of him for it all the time.
I lived in Toronto for a while. I get it now.
It's a teeming place with a real pulse.
What Francis said time and again was, I'm sure, usually true.
You can get an Asian woman to massage you and then jerk you off at 2 in the morning.
You can find somewhere to purchase a shower curtain immediately after your massage.
There is a restaurant representing every ethnicity - some shitty, some wonderful.
I get it.
There's more available. There's more to do.
I guess my problem, then, is the occasional Torontonian's inability to adjust.
You live in the biggest city in the country.
Other places will seem slight by comparison.
Those who are truly 'from' Toronto in the sense I'm talking about, they want it to be shittier everywhere else.
They look for fault.
I was eating poutine in one of the late night pizza corner places (see! We have late-night pizza) with a Toronto guy.
He's eating his chicken whatever it is. Wrap.
"I think the chicken's dry. Not sure if this is very good."
This is a bite or two in.
"Yup. Chicken's dry, guys."
Might as well add, "I knew it."
City Slickness isn't as charming as Billy Crystal portrayed it.
It's one thing to miss the comforts of the home you're used to.
It's another entirely to assume all other homes aren't built like yours.
It's not like I'd fly into Papau New Guinea and hope to find everything I'm used to here, and then complain when I didn't.
"I knew it. There's no 24-hour plumbing company here.
...
Nope. I checked Papau New Guinea411, AND the phone book.
I'll bet there isn't even a Rona on this whole goddamned continent."

Billy Crystal isn't looking good, by the way.
I don't know where his confidence level is, but he's disgusting.
I saw him on Letterman not long ago and I found it legitimately disturbing.
All of these surgeries.
You can dress up dying however you want, Billy...
However, the experience helped me realize one true fact:
If I, at 80 years, have a choice between a head that looks like a raisin, and a head that looks like a child's elbow, I know what my choice will be.

Gonna Make You Sweat

I should have written this out and posted it about two weeks ago.
Disgusting.
It was actually written immediately following the incident.
'Incident' seems like an appropriate adjective.

So, here we go. Written Friday, February 22 (freshly showered):

Forget that it's Friday and fail to pick up your kid from daycare.
It's Friday.

I weigh less than I did this morning.
This is because I shed pounds today by losing great quantities of sweat and dignity.

Like most really engrossing stories, it all began with Wingo
This is bingo, but you can win chicken wings to eat.
Hosted on Wednesdays (probably) at the SMU student bar, their wing night involved free bingo cards.
You dab 'em, you get the Wingo, you yell it out, you get the wings.
Or so we thought.
Andie and I decided that we might as well play, since we could only afford one basket between us.

As we dipped and dabbed, ingrates all around us were winning all the Wingo wings.
Until I won!
"Wingo," I bellowed, drunk on protein.
Swaggering confidently to the DJ booth, I wondered how I'd manage to screw this up.
It's rare that I win when I really want to win.
But I really won. I weally won wingo.
My prize was a free week of hot yoga.

So, donning my Bill Wood (he's a pro), I swung by the local yoga hut this afternoon.

If you look closely, you may recognize that Bill was on TV.
If you look even closer than that, you will recognize that there is much more to Bill than this.
After filling out a form I paid no attention to, I put on my hot yoga outfit.
This consisted of a pair of Andie's booty shorts, and that is all.
"Wear as little as you're comfortable with," they suggested on the phone.
Done.
While I enjoy dressing up

I also enjoy dressing down.

I entered a sweltering room encased in mirrors.
It was full of sexy people lying on yoga mats covered with towels.
I wasn't uncomfortable immediately, necessarily, but I'm certainly warm.
No one is speaking as I wade through the zen to find a spot at the back.
I lie down and wait with everyone else as I try to acclimatize.
Before I continue, it's important to understand what hot yoga is.
Hot yoga is taking normal stretches, complicating them, and then performing these in a sauna for an hour and a half.
I thought I understood this before going, but I guess I didn't.
Our taut instructor soon entered and the lesson began.

Hot yoga is hard for many reasons*:

Hot Reason #1:  Instruction comes quickly.
She didn't speak as quickly as an auctioneer, but she did speak as quickly as an aging preacher who has long since lost the faith.
"Bring your arms straight up, interlock your fingers, release your index fingers, cross your thumbs.
Now, you're going to extend all the way forward, arms pointing straight, leg outstretched, foot planted, parallel with the floor, now you're going to lean forward, hands on the floor..."
And so on.
I'm a visual learner with no spatial reasoning.
Physical instruction is tricky for me at room temperature.
I found myself wanting to say, "Grab my elbows with what? Can we slow down, I can't concentrate. It's 40 Jesus degrees in here."
But I didn't because this seemed to be preventing only myself from doing anything.
During one of my (frequent) breaks, I looked over to see how Bill was doing with a very yoga-esque pose.
Flawless. Balanced on one foot, sinking to the floor while remaining poised. Staring straight ahead.
I was entranced and annoyed to see it.
But I was trying to keep up.
I knew I was doing things incorrectly because I always do things incorrectly in a mirrored room with sexy people, for one.
Two, I knew I was doing it wrong because I heard the name "Paul" at some point.
I guess she was giving me specific instruction, but I was beyond absorbing new information.
By now, sweat was running from the shorts of the guy near me in tendrils and it was disgusting.
I gave up trying to listen and instead tried to watch everyone else.
But I couln't even do that because I was the only one not exercising.
So, I'd just be a dude hanging out in short shorts watching chicks do yoga.
None of this mattered a great deal because, obviously, I was going to give up entirely before the session was over.
If I'm being honest with myself, I knew this ten minutes after the lesson began.
Approaching an hour, the only questions were "When?" and
"How discreet could I be leaving the back of a room?"
After days we were allowed to drink water.
The bottle cap was warm to the touch.
Eventually, we were balancing on one leg and I kept stumbling and I was losing resolve quickly.
Quickly even for me.
She was telling us to focus on our planted leg in the mirror to aid balance.
But for me all this does is remind myself that I hate looking in mirrors.
It also helped me realize that I was paler than everyone else.
My body was now glistening and hideous.
I began taking long "breathing breaks" during which I lay down and tried not to whimper.
Class continued.
The instructor would sometimes cross to the back of the room.
Initially, I assumed she was making her way to me in order to quietly ask me, "Are you okay?"
No such compassion.
Instead, she would adjust the thermostat.
Which cut out the middle man, really, because had she asked "Are you okay," I would have croaked, "Turn the goddamn heat down."
It took her crossing the room a few times to realize she was turning the heat up.
I think. It was sort of impossible to tell by then.
Regardless, I was ready to check out and begin writing this blog post in the change room.
I had stopped yogaing entirely.
Instead, I lay still and drank my water occasionally.
Even that provided no relief because the water was now piss-warm.
"Now, interlock your fingers beneath your heels, chin to chest, pull up and up, and slowly bring your head to your knees."
"Do what? I'm gripping what?!"
I suddenly noticed that a box of tissues could be found at each wall of the room and I assumed they were for nosebleeds.
Eventually, and long after I should have, I gave up.
I gathered my yoga gear and subtly pointed at the door.
Kristen (Christen?) tells me "No no, you're okay. Stay here. You're my prisoner."
Prostrate and panting, I was forced to agree.
By this point the room stinks like sex between two orangutans in the hull of some sort of boat.
I just basked, reptile-like, and waited for her to say that we were allowed to go.
As she concluded, she reminded us to not be embarrassed if we couldn't do the exercises (I'm the only person in this category, really).
She finished by saying, "Just being here is better for you than not being here."
Once again, I had to agree.
Afterwards, there was tea (tea!) and uncomfortable showering.

*Maybe it's just hard for the one reason.

Almost Famous

I've decided to become a professional contestant.
That is, a pro contest signer-upper.
The job isn't particularly complicated.
Sure, there's a skill-testing question from time to time.
But I just answer those with a calculator.
The main facets of the job are living in poverty and going on lavish vacations.

I've finally had a successful person to retweet me*.
Twitter annoys me as much as Facefuck does.
Twitter is worse, in a sense.
You can't even look at pictures of ladies at the beach on Twitter (can you?).
The reason why Twitter will eventually come out on top?
Well, for one thing, Facefuck keeps updating the website into something no one would like.
But, more to the social media point, Twitter lets you address famous people (supposedly).
If I want to tweet at Bill Murray and tell him to put some pants on, I can go ahead and do that.
It's a familiarity with the unfamiliar not seen since the Star Map.
Incidentally, I've finally figured Twitter out.
I'm going to ask a celebrity of my choosing the question I have always wanted to ask them.
And I'm going to try to do that anew every day (this won't happen, but maybe we can at least make a go of it).
Until then, I'll practice on less-than-famous people.
First target:
Chuck klosterman.
Those of you who are arts majors over 25, you likely know who this is.
Otherwise, he should be drawing a vacuous blank.
However, I intend to fix that.
A journalist of sorts, he writes essays that I really enjoy reading.
Primarily, they entail touring with Guns 'N Roses cover bands and visiting Val Kilmer at his ranch.
He has managed to establish himself as an authority on sports, rock, and general fame (imagined and otherwise).
This makes him more than some four-eyed journalist dweeb, dodging bullets in Syria.
It makes him a cool four-eyed journalist dweeb, and so he's welcome here.
I've been threatening to write more letters to whom it may concern.
Once more, I'm threatening to write letters, I'm not writing threatening letters.

And ANOTHER thing, Dakota, I know where your live and I know what your cat looks like! 

Andie suggested I write him because "that's how he started out."
He'd write celebrities and ask to interview them.
I suppose he and I would agree that he's not a celebrity.
But he's made eye contact with Bono, and that's not bad.
We'll try to get him on the blog. I'll keep you updated.
(I'm serious. Also, if he agrees to an interview, whether you know him or not, it'll be really impressive that he's willing to go along with it).
He's likely a great guy.
At the very least, maybe I can get him to retweet me. 

*I can't embed the tweet properly because I'm inept.
I was replied to by Klei Entertainment. 

"Now This Is What I Call A Party!"

You get the Procactive. You get the balms.
They give you the skin-clearing wand and you rub that over your face.
Cured!
I had acne.
You want to know what the real cure is?
Aging.
Turning 20.
Or, failing that, you can use Accutane, which is what I did.
It worked incredibly well, but it's not for the pregnant ladies out there.
Then again, if you've got a croquette in the fryer, you probably have more to worry about than your complexion.
My good dear friend had two babies in one day recently.
Me first, though.

Alright, so I missed my own birthday, blog-wise, which I've likely never done before.
Need those calendar days to flesh out that tagged section.
It's only Chinese New Year so often.
Every time I stop writing for huge lulls, I come back trying to explain myself.
But there's no need for that, really.
We all know where I am when I'm not online and writing.
I'm off wasting time somewhere.
I'm grazing at some penny arcade, or I'm looking up women's skirts under the mall's escalator.
Explanation explained.
My birthday was great, from what I recall.
Andie organized a surprise party that everyone gave away.
On the bright side, having your friends squander your party is sort of fun.

Uninformed Buddy: Hey, is your party thing still happening on Saturday?
Me: I'm not aware of anything happening on Saturday, unless there's a surprise party for me that you're ruining right now.

I had this exact conversation a number of times.
The true surprise came as guests began trickling in, when I learned that I was due at a comedy gig somewhere.
Alas, the guests were surprised when they found out I had to "take off for a couple of hours."
It was still fun when I eventually got to enjoy it.
There was a mix of new friends, old friends, and some girlfriend I'd never met before.
They bought me a cake and Bill Wood did magic tricks (because he is magic).

Voila!
Diane (I haven't mentioned Diane. She's sexually active.) picked up my cake.
She instructed them to write, "It's Never Too Late To Start A Gang" in goo.
However, they fucked that because the cake guy always gets your cake wrong.
Instead, buddy handed her this:

Which is funnier in a way, really.
This cake seems like it should be for a recovering alcoholic.
Or maybe for someone who lost a child recently.
Or perhaps it's a great cake for a 30-something pervert recluse.
Andie really wanted the party to be great because "the post you wrote on  your last birthday was so sad."
Anyway, she did it.
I found myself laughing and snacking with people who at least bothered to come out.
Despite the number of times I have not.
It meant more that most of the guests never spend time with me in a one-on-one setting.
Any of them could have been anywhere else the night of the fourth (second).
But there they were. 
And sure, they ate most of my cake when I had planned to do that by myself.
But Aunt Barb baked me a backup.

Oh right.
So, speaking of birthdays, one of these guys has to share his with this other guy.

These are Turpin's new twins.
Their names are Grant (left) and Heartthrob Luke Perry (right).
Besides being a little early and a little tiny, they're healthy and ready to devastate.
Oh, and of course, one of them is evil (medically speaking), but we're not sure which yet. 

Under Pressure OR On the Surface

Wash the road salt from your favourite négligée.
It's Friday.

My buddy Dom Pare (pah-ray) just left town.
Raised in the city and on the farm, Dom is one of those guys who's ready to go back to Toronto.
"Yeah, this place is pretty good, but in Toronto this spot wouldn't be as shitty."
Much like my jaunty movements, his demeanor is alright once you get used to it.
The America of Canada, everyone hates Toronto.
No one truly knows why.
People hate it the same way straight men hate a gay bar.
No, they haven't been there, but they know that they wouldn't like it.
It's not that bad, y'know.
Some people yell at you when you walk past them, but if you hand them change it seems to calm them down.
Dom and I performed in The Homegrown together.
We both lost equally.
Really, he did a better job of losing.
We once ran into a guy outside of the Halifax Yuk's who had been living on a submarine.
For 7 years.
I was glad that he mentioned it because as soon as he did I was able to think to myself:
"Oh, that's what it is."
He looked like a guy who had spent seven years in a submarine, now that he mentioned it.
Wild-eyed.
Anxious.
Frightened of lights and automobiles.
The dude looked thoroughly, thoroughly unbalanced.
I was trying my best not to be frightened, so I only caught snippets of what he was saying.
These referred to making women do things because there was no escaping him in a submarine.
Not like...sex things (though I couldn't say for sure - I wasn't down there).
Lifting heavy stuff and this sort of tripe.
I don't know what he said, but his face was really red when he spoke.
And his voice had this strange, strained quality, sort of like he'd just left his first anger management class and he was angry about it. 
I'm not exaggerating at all.
Like, if he was at The Gap and someone said, "Do you need help with anything?" you could easily picture him wheeling about to strangle the person with their headset cord.
Eventually we managed to disengage him.
More than I could say for his co-workers.
Imagine what that must be like.
Many of you probably already have colleagues who infuriate your psyche.
Now imagine spending several months with those same people on a submarine.
It's like being trapped in an elevator, but there's a washroom and a cafeteria. 
The novelty of being in the vessel probably wears off after about three days.
"Wanna use the periscope again?"
"Nah, fuck that. All I've seen so far is plankton. I guess we'll play crib again."
And again.
And again...
Withstanding elements you have no business finding yourself in, cocooned in a mobile trailer with a couple of propellers strapped to it.
Wandering an otherwise unpopulated universe ("Where the fuck are the whales at?! You said there'd be whales!"), searching for an enemy who was due about fifty years ago. 
All the while hoping that you don't collide with a seahorse that will rupture your hull, ultimately crushing you to pulp before you have the chance to drown.
Sounds awful, doesn't it?
Now, imagine that environment while sharing it with a guy you wouldn't want to speak to for three minutes in a parking lot.

It's Ben Folds twice this week, but I have to include him in this post.
The song is kickass, sure, but I'm only putting it in here because he has a line that goes:
"When you're all workin' in a submariiiiiiiiine."

Chairman of the Board

John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt?
Yeah, I know 'em.
In fact, that's my name too.
And whenever I go out, people always shout:
"There goes John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt."
"Na na na na na na na," I say.
"You're thinking of the other guy."
Here's something that the song doesn't mention about ol' John:
Mean drunk.

What's yer game?
I'm not referring to the lies you choose to tell women so as to have sex with them.
I mean your board game.
Those Mormons who have had me over for dinner know that I enjoy Scattegories.
Though, if we're splitting irons and thimbles, Scattegories doesn't involve a board.
I used to play Mouse Trap. Remember that one?
I'd construct the whole mouse trap only to set it off and put the game away again.
Because I had no friends.
Speaking of which, I used to play board games by myself.
Monopoly. I'm not sure what else.
Chess, when I got older.
Our school went through a chess phase in junior high.
Everyone set up boards and played during recess.
This lasted until the adolescent hockey players realized this behaviour wouldn't get them handjobs any sooner, certainly.
Sort of fizzled out after that, leaving only the kids who looked like they should be playing chess playing chess.
Just reread that last sentence. Should make sense this time.
Summers spent on wheels resulted in a lot of board games.
Clue was always a favourite of mine (God knows I'm a sucker for role play ["Oh. What a drag. Miss Scarlett again."]).
Clue's fatal flaw, however, was that its whodunit format necessitated 3 players.
And, as I believe I have mentioned, I used to struggle to find a 2.
Hopelessly romantic and sentimental both, I always wanted to play a game with the whole family.
Just once.
Like the family on the box!

Everyone is laughing, tossing their heads back devil-may-care.
That could be us, right?
Wrong.
If we ever sat to play a board game together, the photo would look like this:
Mom would be rolling the dice with one hand while mashing potatoes with the other.
Dad would be checking his watch (though, in reality, this is something he would never do).
Colin would be complaining that he's bored.
Brian would be stealing fake money from the box.
And Paul?
Well, I'd look the part, actually.
Just like these freaks.
I'd look exactly like the wiener kid in the green polo shirt.
Hand poised, unmoving.
Back then I couldn't understand any of this.
Instead, I'd wonder, "Why can't we sit down together for a nice game of Life?"
It took me so many years to understand the inevitable truth:
No families look like that when they're playing board games together.
No families play board games together (again, Mormons. Mormons are the exception).
That isn't life.
Charlie horses from Brian.
That's life.
Never being able to nap on mom and dad's (motor home) bed because Colin was always asleep on it.
That's life.
Mom and Dad arguing about which exit to take.
That's life.
I couldn't understand that I was in the game already.
Mom and Dad were the blue and pink pegs in the front seat.
The three of us the burdensome blue pegs in the back seat.
It took me years to learn that the game box photo was taken by Santa Clause.
It took me even longer to learn that Life was fun, but life was better.

"The Best Imitation of Myself"

Get loaded, drop your pizza on the ground and then yell at your pizza.
It's Friday.

I've never been one for impersonations.
Much too self-absorbed, I never imitated classic cartoon characters when I was a kid.
I never attempted to hoarse myself like Krusty, or wallow like Milhouse.
Instead, even at a tender age, I had the sense to simply steal George Meyer's jokes.
Most comics have one impersonation under their belts, while others will array a dazzling plethora of them.
In my defense, however, and I've never spoken about this before, I actually do impressions flawlessly.
See, like most hidden talents, mine stems from a rare brain condition. 
Following a snowshovelling mishap, a brain injury causes my ears to interpret everyone's voice as my own.
My mother. My former teachers. The mailman.
Dogs bark and it sounds like me barking.
Therefore, whenever I impersonate someone, I do not alter my tone or cadence whatsoever.
Resulting in perfect-pitch impressions every time.
Of course, no one else realizes how talented I am.
None of you had a snowshovelling incident.
Neither did I, really.
That never happened.
For one thing, to experience a snowshovelling mishap, I'd first have to shovel snow.
I just wanted to include this fabrication for Ben's sake.

The Pauls I Know

I walked my lady's dog into a snow globe the other night.
MaxiPad flakes teeter-tottered onto us while I waited for the dog to do dog things-
Well, mammal things.
There arose such a clatter, and I noticed across the street a man sifting through garbage, looking for empty aluminum nickles.
I watched them as he continued unaware of me.
Flakes of snow dusted his jacket. Shoulders. Home, presumably.
I saw this amidst the tranquility and thought to myself:
"Fuck, that's right. I have to get a job."

I had one and then I lost one.
Barring my usual misemployments, this layoff was legitimate in that I was seasonal and the season ended.
I assumed that my charm would carry my through after the fact, but that didn't happen.
I used to believe that my charm would take care of a lot of things for me.
Explains my current state, I guess.
(My state is fine [solid. carbon-based]).
I used to have a job, as I have mentioned.
One day while half-assing it, I wandered into ladies' wear.
Y'know, in the two months I was there, I barely entered ladies' wear.
Never one for the ladies, I only wandered there when necessary.
On a related note, it's really uncomfortable to transact underwear for old women.
Scrubs are in ladies' wear.
A lot of nurses.
A lot of people being vomited on while they're at their job.
As I'm hanging stuff up in the wrong places, I notice this guy emerge from the change room.
He's trying some scrubs on - pants and a top - and while wearing them he begins...lunging.
Sort of.
He does a slow, deliberate forward motion with his hands and torso.
Picture Tai Chi done incorrectly.
Very low to the carpet, he does this several times.
Foul as usual, I find this really annoying.
"Who's this asshole?" I ask myself.
I do this before asking a co-worker the same question.
"Hey Lydia (not her real name), what's with this guy?"
Turns out it's her roommate, Paul.
He's buying scrubs for work and he's testing whether or not the top is too small.
He's a masseuse.
After that, I realize that his pantomimes were kinda harmless and justified.
I also realize that the real asshole isn't Paul the Masseuse, but Paul the Sales Associate.

Everything rhymes with Paul.
From 'ball' to 'y'all', and a surprising number of grunts and sounds besides.
First a disciple. Then a Beetle. Finally a judgy blogger.
I've never referred to myself by that term before.
I'm only doing so now because I'm trying to attract advertisers.
I was searching some person or another on the Internet the other day (there are plenty of them).
Pretend it was Billy Joel.
So, I typed in the 'Billy' and then the 'J'.
Then, of course, Google predicted I was looking for the Pianoman, and brought his name to the top of the list.
And I thought about what a technological honour this would be.
Your popularity is so great that the first letter of your surname begets the rest of it.
Thought I'd give it a try.
I was floored to see that Paul Warford was the first to pop up.
I realized that it was because I was using my phone, and so that was the most popular Paul on my phone.
As if that matters.
On another computer, I did the trick and the first Paul W was this guy.
Some vampire movie asshole.
Some upstart.
However, there are few names in the running for this competition.
All I have to do is bide my time.
Wait until Paul Walker runs out of Fast Car Movies to do.
Hope this Wesley kid ODs sooner than later.
Then it's just a matter of people continuing to not know who Paul Williams is, and I'm in!
Until then, I'll be several letters, and one career, short.