Tragic Hero

Close Enough(?)

2012-02-08T01:34:00.000-03:30

Sure, my mom was great.
But every mom is going to get worn down some days.
Oftentimes, when my mother would call me, she'd yell, "Paul!"
On an off day, and there were off days, she'd call, "Colin, Brian, Paul whatever your name is!"
Hug your mother.
If you go to jail, she's the only one who's going to believe that you're innocent.

Err...On Caution's Side

2012-02-07T20:54:00.000-03:30

Dad always tells me to be careful.
Ever the desperate, chronic worrier, he used to watch me cross the street from Shandera's house.
Inspiring when I'm six, it got less normal by the time I was in junior high.
Whenever he says it, I provide him time and again with the same reminder:
"I'm always careful."
I always have been cautious.
Other words that you may want to substitute here would be...timid.
Frightened.
Nervous.
Anxious.
Going home now.
All of those work.
That's why, after Dennis and Pete had finished building the ramp, I would always go last.
Didn't matter what the ramp was for.
Bicycle. GT Sno Racer. Water skiing pyramid.
Whatever.
It took later in life to realize that I missed some things earlier in life.
Most of those things were injuries.
But with that, perhaps a certain resolve.
A steeling of myself while hauling out the splinter.
A certain sense of risk that many people might take for granted.
These days I'm getting better.
Cooking helped.
When you burn your knuckle on the stupid toaster conveyor after making your tenth clubhouse of the night, you begin not to notice.
At one time, I had decided that I wanted to cook at the hotel.
Initially, I did it while I wasn't supposed to as a dishwasher.
If I could keep the staff in plates while also making grilled ham and cheese for them...
...Why not braise lamb shanks for some German snowboarding families?
Really, I just wanted an excuse to buy the knives.
Andrew taught me how to chop.
If you want to begin cooking in an environment full of pro cooks and expensive food, initiative can't hurt.
So, we used to practice in the staff accomodation lounge.
On the washer and dryer.
We eventually had to stop when people complained about carrot peel on their clothes.
Which is fair. No one wants that.
Anyway, one time I was dicing this onion.
And Andrew, between beer swigs, was saying, "Oh man, watch it," and so on.
Cause I didn't know what I was doing, and I was doing it with something extremely sharp.
Finally he said, "I think you're going to cut yourself on this one."
I looked at him, paused, then continued.
Marking the first time that I ever willingly put myself into the path of an injury.
Many have come and gone since then; I spent a summer working with dad.
I didn't cut myself on that day.

I climbed my first tree (ever) last year.
Neil convinced me to join him at the top.
And sure, as I continuted to find footing and gain altitude, I envisioned falling.
Doing a Plinko on every branch on the way down.
But, like the onion, I didn't fall that day.
And man oh man. What a view.

"Aw Man, This Is A Bold One!"

2012-02-06T22:23:00.002-03:30

Written two days before today. I can't even remember where:

It's today now.
Except in Australia.
In Australia it is likely tomorrow.
Not sure about Japan.
Might be tomorrow there, too.
Or, as the Japanese call it, Kyo.
I have no idea why, but Japan is the only country in which I'd consider hiring a prostitute.
That is to say, I would. I would hire a prostitute.
I'm not exactly sure why.
Maybe because I think that I'd have a positive experience there compared to elsewhere.
(Asian women intimidate me less).
(Asian women like me).

Rearing children has gotten to the point where they're spoiled before they even know what stuff is.

Wow.
Once you type all of this out, it seems a lot less impressive.
It looks like a much longer post in my book.
Guess I'd better fill it out a bit.
...
...
...I braised carrots today.
They tasted mooshy.
...
...
...Oh!
Here's something:
Cats' whiskers are there so that they can use them to measure width.
So, don't be surprised if you clip your cat's whiskers and then find them jammed inside a sandwich maker.
Does the post seem long enough now?
What if I TALK IN ALL CAPITALS AND TURN THE BOLD ON.
SOME STUDENTS DO STUFF LIKE THIS.
FOR PAPERS THAT THEY COPIED AND PASTED FROM WIKIPEDIA.
I DON'T WANT YOU TO THINK THAT I'M SHOUTING AT YOU.
I JUST HAVE THE BOLD TURNED ON.
I'M TRYING TO SEEM LARGE AND INTIMIDATING.
THIS IS ALSO HOW YOU SCARE OFF COUGARS.
What a load.
Scaring off cougars.
Apex predators can't be scared off; that's what makes them apex predators.
All they can really do is lose interest.
When I was in Banff, during orientation, they went over cougar attacks:
This is already in the blog, I'm pretty sure, but whatever.
Here goes.
Rule #1:
Cougars always attack from behind.
Seems like that should have been the end of the rules, really.
It's the only one I paid attention to.
Like we'd have better chances than a deer.
Though I guess a person might TURN ON THE BOLD AND BORE THE COUGAR AWAY.
Queen Elizabeth has announced her sixtieth year on the throne.
She said that we can wrest it from her cold, dead talons if we dare.
She then went on to say that she is ageless, nothing can kill her, inject her with Ebola, she fears no one.
She then said that when things get slow in her cubicle at around 2:00, she likes to visit this site.

Should've Seen Me

2012-02-05T22:06:00.001-03:30

I'm going to label this post as a calendar day.
Which I do for all significant events.
Like Klu Klux Klan day.
And my birthday.
I know (and you don't?) that this happened yesterday.
But I'm making the label anyways.
Besides, today is the super bowl.
You want my prediction?
It's going to be the blue guys by six. Maybe by seven.
I meant to write yesterday and remind you to pay attention to me.
I've spent the past number of days meeting and sitting with people for coffee.
I've spent them mentally ostracizing old people in a Casino.
I've spent them refusing to dance with women (that was a good one).
I've spent them drinking gin, but not enough gin. Smoking weed, about enough weed.
Yesterday I sat down for a long time.
I stayed indoors for far too long and tried to determine what it was that Paul wanted to do with his birthday.
He never did get to the bottom of it.
But he did figure out what he didn't want to do.
He didn't want to clean his kitchen.
So, I (he) walk down to The Keg to use my The Keg gift certificate.
I had to stand in line, outside, just to wait to eat my birthday supper by myself.
I've had more pitiful birthdays, I'd imagine.
But it's probably the best one that the bartender had seen.
Really, the night was fine.
I left there and met up with Joshua White and some of his roommates/friends.
I got a strawberry shortcake to go.
These people jammed a candle in that and sang to me.
That was enough, really.
I hate this post so far. It's so boring.
I visited Halifax's casino on Friday.
The coat check guy couldn't see anything.
All of the coat check tabs had Braille on them.
You didn't have to pay to check your coat, either.
There was a donation thingy for the coat check man, but you only had to put small change in there.
Just enough to make a sound, really.
Awful. I'm so awful.
There was a battle of the bands show.
Shawn (Shaun...it might be Shaun) Burke played in one of the bands.
An old college buddy.
We used to call him "Cam."
Cause he'd get drunk and try to swallow cam shafts, after removing them from vehicles in our parking lot.
Not true.
We used to call him Shawn (Shaun).
In my...third year he lived next door to me in residence.
One time he locked himself out of his room and he was in his underwear and it was adorable.
A woman I'm attracted to suggested that we should dance.
I was already dancing in my chair.
I don't know what I said. I guess I blacked out for a second.
Whatever it was, it involved continuing to not dance with her.
Josh asked (sort of within earshot) "Why didn't you dance with her?"
Not sure what I said there either, but I'm certain that I mumbled it.
Women love confidence.
Unfortunately, everything I've accomplished has relied entirely on my complete lack of confidence.
That's really true.
Socially, anyway.
If you ask me what I might think of that, I'd tell you this:
I don't know.
I only realized this about myself just now as I typed this out.
This is what this blog is all about.
Self-discovery; questioning how I got this far; spelling friends' names wrong.

Since You Asked...

2012-02-01T17:09:00.000-03:30

I haven't the energy today, really.
It's awful, I know.
It's one thing to purchase vitamins.
It's another thing entirely to swallow one every day with a meal.
Or to have meals in general, for that matter.
Gonna slow things down for a minute here and get Mr. Jim Cuddy to play us out.
Tomorrow's a new day.
Hopefully it will be one in which I produce something.
I do have an imaginary conversation that a person has with another person over the phone at an airport.
Which I had been keeping for this exact rainy day specifically.
But since you people have all finished work for the day anyway, I'll save it.
They don't care about Blue Rodeo in the United States.
Mostly because they don't know who Blue Rodeo is.
The words "Blue Rodeo" would likely get some of them excited.
But only because it sounds like something that Larry the Cable Guy might be performing at.
An overnight flight to a nearby province just to watch Jeff Dunham.
Jesus Christ.
Jeff Dunham gets to be racist onstage, and he isn't even some colour besides white.
Hopefully some misguided confederate fuck will shoot Achmed the Dead Terrorist-
"He don't seem dead enough t' me."-
And that will irreversibly injure Jeff Dunham's hand and end his career.
He won't have an asshole to turn to at that point.
Cause the puppets...he puts his hand up into their...
Anyway.
Jim? You still back there?
I could be involved with a show that involves Jim Cuddy some day.
That's not impossible.
The only thing about sacrificing oneself to comedy that is neat is to think of what is no longer impossible.
Me in a Kotex commercial?
Not impossible.
Hosting an amateur stripper contest in Shitty Dartmouth?
Not impossible.
Writing snooty blog posts about millionaire ventriloquists?
Well.
Turns out I have slightly more energy than I thought.

I'm as capable of saying "fine" as the next English-speaking human being.
Now, are you actually asking me how I'm doing?
Or are you asking me if I'm physically capable of saying "fine"?
Or "good"?
Because that's what some people (grocery clerks, primarily) are asking me when they ask me how I'm doing.
They're asking me to say "fine."
Just ask me to do that and I'll do it.
"Can you say fine for me, please?"
"Fine."
"Thank you. I'm fine, too."
Fine isn't even a feeling.
Fine is sort of like how you are when you're not feeling any feelings in particular.
You're not sad. You're not happy. You're not blood clotting.
You're fine.
I'm rarely fine.
I'm usually something else.
People constantly say after asking me how I am that, "You took a minute to think about that."
Why wouldn't I?
I'm trying to answer a question truthfully. It might take a second.
They're even more taken aback if I say that I'm terrible (which is, to be fair, usually a lie).
Can't I be terrible?
I'm a complete stranger to a lot of people who ask me how I am.
Maybe I'm terrible all of the time.
"How are you?"
"I haven't had a pleasant day since 1998!"
It's an answer.
I might be reading too much George Carlin.
I'm gonna go.
Jim? Where are you, Jim.
Jim's only here because I wanted to use that line about Larry the Cable Guy.
Thought of it while I was unloading the dishwasher.
Dunham came out because those two are the same thing.
A joke on nationalism.
Hope you're all feeling fine out there.
Or something a little more descriptive.

Day of Pigs OR This Day and Age

2012-01-30T18:24:00.000-03:30

It feels good to once more prefer one type of pen to another.

We all have to exercise restraint.
It's a part of being human.
"I'll take my boot knife to the club, but I'll leave the Deringer at home."
"I'll have sex with my buddy's wife, but I won't record it like I did when I banged his sister."
"I'll get the fries as my side, but I'll throw them up right after the meal."
Like when Kyle brought home that girl he brought home.
And, while i'm waking up and she's leaving, I overhear:
Nervously, with a laugh, "I don't know when I'll see you again."
"Never!" That's what I want to yell. So badly.
But I restrain.

It's whatever day it is and I'm in some café where everyone speaks a different language than me.
Makes me feel exotic.
I'm writing jokes for the upcoming Roast of Peter White.
Get your tickets!
I guess they're okay.
It's an odd situation for me because a roast of some fat guy is really a roast for the other roasters.
And I haven't known these people nearly as long as they have known each other.
I'm the only one with his nose to the glass, here.
Can I make fun of a woman for having a baby and ruining her life when I don't know the father, baby, or mother, really?
One way to find out.

If you're asking how to eat a porkchop wrapped in foil (no utensils) while looking cool, I'm here to tell you that I'm not sure it's possible.
Not outside of Shopper's Drug Mart, anyway.
This was my day today. I'm telling you about my day.
Speaking of my days, my birthday is rapidly approaching.
Again.
If you're concerned about my turning 30, how I'm taking it, I urge you not to worry.
I'm going to begin keeping a scrapbook of all my friends' babies and accomplishments.
I also bought a nice bowl.
I'm going to eventually purchase some sparkly foam balls, shaped vaguely like fruit, and put those in the bowl.
And I think I'm going to start saving up for a motorcycle, just to be safe.
I'll be sure to keep you abreast of all of these precautions.
Which I'll also be doing on my new eHarmony account.
I'll be launching the accoount as soon as I can get a good photo of myself next to the bowl balls.
Yes, I'm ready for 30.
Is it ready for me?

30 is the same as 29 and 31.
We just put special emphasis on years that end with 0 and 5, that's all.
Of course, ask me about all of this in a year (if I haven't died in a motorcycle accident).
I wonder what I'll say...
(I don't really. I'll say the same thing).

Watch for Falling Fortunes

2012-01-28T13:49:00.001-03:30

Written yesterday, the day before today:

Today has been strange.

You open a fortune cookie.
Got me so far?
And the cookie innards say:
You will have an anvil fall on your head today.
Do you stay inside?
Or do you live your life and spend the entire day pretending you're not terrified?
Personally, I'd find an umbrella stand.

Ever wish you had the nerve to yell what you want to in public?
In the local coffee tavern yesterday I overhear:
"His real name is Theta, but the vet couldn't pronounce that, so he called him Banjo.
It sort of stuck.
He really likes being called Banjo."
"Because Theta is a stupid name for a dog or anything else!"
But you can't do that.
Technically.
Cats and dogs are the only animals that can be jailed.
"What about zoos, dick!"
Excellent point.
I'd agree that the setup is similar.
But those animals were sort of kidnapped.
Therefore, a zoo is more reminiscent to the basement of a dilapodated apartment building.
Or, at best, zoos are more like homes with bars around them.
Like a giraffe living in The Bronx.
I'm talking jail. Jailed.
Getting picked up for breaking some vague law.
"I told him that I was just taking a nap on the bench."
...
"Well, I told him I left my tags at home, but he didn't buy it.
Shone his goodamn flashlight in my face the entire time."
Cell mates.
One common piss mat.
Hoping some family member will bail them out.
That's an animal with human problems.
That's Banjo getting fucked by the man.

An ad campaign is not a culture.
The World's Largest Frying Pan is not a monument.

Manual Labour

2012-01-26T14:40:00.001-03:30

I sort of wrote stuff for you yesterday, readership.
I just didn't get around to putting it online.
All written by hand these days.
That's how I've been doing the posts.
Don't ask me why.
I told you not to ask me!
I miss the tactility of it.
Spell check says it's a word.
I used to write everything by hand.
First draft!
Then I eventually stopped.
Around the time that my first real-life relationship ended, I guess.
There are three planks of wood immediately adjacent my little computer desk.
I've never noticed them before.
Not sure how long they've been there.
I'll snag a photo for you.
That should liven this place up.
Speaking of which, I really need to change the look of this blog.
I have no idea how I'm going to do that.
After fucking up my first attempt, I'm less inclined to try again.
"Quit soon. Quit often."
That's what I always say.
I don't always say it; sometimes I'm sleeping.
I walked to the Dalhousie library yesterday.
I've been trying to find a nice writing place to go to.
I hate writing anything in my home (excuse), so I like to search for places to go.
And I'm sick of places that I have to buy coffees to sit in.
That's a toll.
That's a writing toll.
But by the time I got there and sat down, I just felt like going home again.
I watched the lady janitor mop for a little bit and tried to live inside her head.
Please excuse the flashy title:

Thoughts of A Woman With A Mop at A University Library

I wouldn't mind mopping their insides once they're out, if they'd just invite me to some of their parties.
I'm more than these abrasive cleaners.
I own halter tops.
Who says a janitor can't clean up? (didn't even notice this pun until now)
Janitors are as close as an employed person can be to a homeless person.
Everyone feels sorry for me.
No one makes eye contact with me.
Everyone assumes I only eat food out of cans.
Y'know. A janitor.
Where was I?
Ah yes! The parties.
I thought a campus would turn things around for me.
Why did I even bother learning to shuffle?
I guess this is still better than sweeping up chicken innards and beaks.
But I thought this would be more entertaining.
Like the janitor on animal house.

Then I stopped because I wasn't sure if there was a janitor on Animal House.

Sow the Till

2012-01-24T17:04:00.002-03:30

Well-being costs a lot.
So-Bey's has a well-being wall.
A whole wall.
Fish oil this and omega that.
My grandmother was well until she was 94.
She wouldn't know what the fuck an amino anything was.
Buy one of each bottle to get your life started.
Get hit by a truck driven by a fat guy in the parking lot.
Then you're taking all of your pills through tubes.
Until someone accidentally pulls your plug while searching for an outlet for their iPod charger.
Well-being is a matter of perspective.

While we're on the tirade, "organic" is a word that no longer has its original meaning.
Sort of like "airport fee."
Organic is a well-being tax.
Legitimate "organic" is growing cabbages and beets in your back yard.
Rhubarb jam, anyone?

"Miss Opportunity, I Presume"

2012-01-24T16:59:00.004-03:30

At Acadia, I'm in line for the soy sauce.
Never tasted right, meal hall soy sauce.
Especially the time I confused the giant plastic container of soy sauce for the giant plastic container of maple syrup.
I would have noticed the difference in consistency if there had been one.
Anyway!
The petite blond woman I'd seen around is behind me.
She mentions, "You're in my Psych whatever class."
She was very pleasant to look at.
Remember what's her face from Two Guys, A Girl and A Pizza Place?
She was like a less confident version of that woman.
That woman's second cousin, maybe.
I say, "Oh really? I hadn't noticed."
Charlie (Chaz), my future roommate, happens to overhear this.
Impatiently, "Fuck, Screech. Don't tell a woman you don't remember her."
I was just being honest.
This one wasn't like that:
Saturday I'm in a booth with Brian Aylward at Brewster's.
Brewster's, side bar, is Canada's bastion for attractive women over forty.
It really is.
So, we're waiting to get onstage.
We'd been on the night before (with an additional 150 extra human beings in the audience).
I've done a few other weekends there.
Waitress takes our drink order.
Brian says she's from Newfoundland.
I ask if she's told him this, or...
He can just tell, he says.
I want to prove him right rather than wrong, really. I assume he's correct.
She comes back with our Mint Juleps.
I say, with my arm arched back across the booth-
You know, the way I sit in booths when I'm trying to seem confident?
I tried to find a picture of me doing this, which I figured would be easy, but I couldn't.
It doesn't matter. You know what I mean.
I say, "Pardon me for being intrusive, but are you from Newfoundland?"
"Yeah, we talked about it before."
Derailed.
"We did?"
"Yeah, while you were on stage."
She goes off to another table while Brian points out that I'm not going to have sex with her.
One down.
I later regale Kyle Hickey (my current roommate) with the story.
"Paul, you act like you remember them."
Sometimes I worry that my capital P problem-
Not just with women-
Is that I don't learn from my mistakes.

On A Strange Woman, Over Coffee

2012-01-20T15:27:00.000-03:30

How'd you get your eyebrows so thin?

What other lies have you managed to spin?

Paint up yourself and paint up your life

Paint up your husband like his hand-crafted wife

Spew nothing true if it makes you feel sound

When you search for your meaning, none will be found

A Little Less of Me

2012-01-20T15:24:00.000-03:30

I'm single again.
Let's get that out of the way.
Pretty fucked.
I guess it's not that fucked, really.
It's just an adjustment.
New glasses are an adjustment also.
But this one involves more crying and explanation to family members.
Damien Rice.
I guess I'm okay.
It makes me feel a little old, somehow.
Which is a new feeling for me, since I make it a point to never feel old.
That's why I own so many hoodies and refuse to get a job.

Carnival Cruise Lines?!
More like Horizontal Cruise Lines!
If you think that the boat ran aground, wait until you see what they do to the captain.
If there's one thing you can't get away with, it's fucking up a rich person's vacation.
Skipper's not going to be seeing a lot of shore leave once the trial is finished.

I have lost weight.
It's mildly frightening.
My weight hasn't fluctuated more than five pounds in a little over a decade.
Until now.
At first I couldn't figure out why it is that I'm thus emaciated.
But, really, it's probably because I've been surviving on peanut butter for a few months.
I'm kidding. I eat.
I am freaked out though.
If my fingernails start falling off, you'll be the first to know.

Home Sweet Airport

2012-01-11T14:30:00.000-03:30

Written on the Yesterday:

I spent a lot of time in an airport today.
An airport seems like it'd be a neat place to stow away.
You know what I mean by 'stow away.'
Because you've probably read a book or two by now.
It's much like the rats on the merchant ships, or Leonardo DiCaprio on the Titanic.
You live there.
You eat whatever food you can scavenge.
You swim around in the casks of beer and molasses.
I often fantasized about stowing away in buildings.
Hide and go seek in the school, for example.
An insight into the stretches of my imagination.
I'd fantasize about hiding out in a building I spent 30 hours a week in already.
Did you guys ever do this?
Maybe not.
Maybe that was just an activity for the weird, youngest-of-the-family children.
Anyway, I thought about stowing away at the airport.
Seemed cool at first:
Playing dress-up with clothing discovered in the Lost & Found bin.
Taking naps on the luggage carousel.
Getting loaded with your buddies on booze from the Duty Free shop ("No tax!") and then throwing stuff through the security gates to see what sets them off.
"Hey, let's try a toaster next!
Where can we find a toaster in this place?"
"No, Doug's watch! I say we throw Doug's watch through there!"
But now I'm not so sure the airport would be that fun.
First of all, you have to contend with constant strangers dirtying your floors and touching your stuff.
Mummers are one thing, but come on...
Also, besides the planes and the taxidermy'd Leopard, the airport is rather boring.
After checking out Sara Rostoski's portrait display, and watching SpongeBob in the sunken ship, there isn't much to do.
I had a former lover tell me that she didn't wish to be my current lover in that sunken ship once.
Lastly, baggage guys swear a lot.
Which I learned while I was seated adjacent a table of them.
Now it just doesn't seem like a healthy place to one day raise a family.

So it's today now.
I'm at my parents' house.
It's the same as it was for those two years that I recently spent here.
Except that there are more chips now.
Because I haven't eaten them all yet.
Robert's going to Christan his baby soon.
Victoria Mary Elizabeth Shandera.
Peter is going to be the godfather.
My job is to make sure no one parks in front of the priest's van, blocking him in.
On the day of his daughter's wedding, I'm going to ask Peter the godfather for a favour:
That he jam an orange slice in his mouth and chase me around the yard.

Progress Comes Calling

2012-01-09T17:15:00.001-03:30

I just left my gloves on the bus.
But at least I managed to return my library books.
Only cost me bus fare plus whatever it costs to buy gloves.
Didn't read a word of them, by the way.
The library is a great place to go when you feel like pretending to turn your life around.
"I'm gonna read some books.
I'm going to better myself.
The Creation of the Media?
Sounds like a nice, light read.
We'll start there."
Instead I just kept the books on my shelf for two months and then lost my gloves while returning them.
Maybe next time.

I'm afraid that I don't have a lot to give you people.
I was sick for a number of days.
Then I just kinda stayed indoors to be sure that I milked the most down time from the cold as possible.
So I don't have many sexy encounters to tell you about.

Everyone has a baby now.
And everyone who rides the bus with their baby doesn't want their baby.
You can tell.
Funny thing is that a lot of the bus babies don't seem to want their parents either.
I hope my friends don't end up taking their babies on the bus.
Metaphorically speaking.

I wish we still used land lines.
These are phones I'm talking about.
I've dumped on cell phones before, despite the fact that I use one every day.
And despite the fact that I text and send photos of my genitals to well-wishers, I still hate it.
This and other hypocritical statements!
Seriously, though.
Sometimes it's good to not be home.
Or not be out.
To be not around. Unavailable.
Sometimes I see people in distant, remote places in BBC documentaries.
And I ask myself, "Who's happier - them or me?"
It's an important thing to ask yourself from time to time.
I know I've been kind of "deep" lately, and I guess I (grudgingly) apologize for that.
It must be all of those library books I've been checking out lately.
But if we evolved this far past the cave man, shouldn't we be happier than the cave man?
We probably are; we have matches and lighters.
But happier than the turn-of-the-twentieth-century homestead owner?
I'm not so sure.
Not because we have cell phones and they didn't.
That's stupid.
But perhaps because they had everything they needed.
And now we can never need enough.
How can you feel good when you have a looming sense of obligation that never goes away?
"What other movie have I seen him in?"
...
"No, I know I've seen him in something.
Now I've gotta look it up!"
...
"Money Talks! I knew it! I knew he did something besides Rush Hour."
He's gotta look it up.
He's just gotta.

Slim Pickin's

2012-01-05T12:58:00.001-03:30

Hey. Hi.
I've been sick as a dog so I've been using that as an excuse to be blog lazy.
As lazy as a dog...
Lazy as a blog dog, with a blog dog's blog...
I'll stop.
Anyway, I'm back now.
But my cough is still pretty vigorous, so you only get a short post and then I'll do another tomorrow.
Depending on how I'm feeling.
I've been ingesting whole oranges for the past few days now, so I should be better soon.
This is great.
Well, it's an article about two missing children, so I guess it's not great.
Did you read it?
You have to act quickly on this because Yahoo! only posts articles for a few months and then drops them.
Which is too bad because their stuff is often good for a chuckle.
They describe the builds of the children.
"Kara Johnson is described as two-feet tall, petite build, blah blah..."
Kara Johnson is one year old.
Of course she has a petite build.
"Sir, we've had another call for a civilian i.d. of the Johnson girl, sir.
We thought we had her, but this unattended one-year old turned out to be a little husky."
"Dammit, Walters, come to me when you have some results!
I don't want to hear about every fat and stocky one-year old in this city!
Now find me these rich, well maintained children, or it's your ass!"
Yahoo! News says that they issued an Amber Alert for these missing children.
I didn't even know we could get those.
I guess it's for the sake of the parents.
They didn't keep the receipt for the Baby Einstein DVDs.
So, if they don't find the kids, they're fucked.
Petite.
"She's under 50 pounds, and she wears a size 2 at Baby Gap.
She's petite."
Maybe it's just funny to me.
Which technically still makes this blog post worthwhile.

It Can Be A Girl's Name, Too

2012-01-02T14:33:00.000-03:30

Turpin's baby was born before 2011 went into the archives.
Her name is Rowan and she's a baby.
Unfortunately, Rowan found the process of being born a little tricky.
We're all worried about her, but I know that she has the tenacity of her father.
And the blind luck of her mother.

My resolution?
I'm going to buy some new t-shirts and underwear this year, I think.
I'm sick of all of my shirts that I own.
Going to focus more on colour and less on, y'know, these profane words and obscure pictures.
The underwear is all beginning to slowly break down and return to dust.
A man's stable of underwear tends to do this simultaneously.
Or mine does, anyway.
That's all I've resolved so far.
That's enough, really.
And who needs a change in the ones place just to make a decision for themselves anyway?
Who says I can't make a resolution in the middle of June?
The calendar already says when you are and are not allowed to grow certain facial hair.
Make some of your own decisions.
In fact, that sounds like a pretty good resolution.
Let's all just use that one.

All Set (For Home)

2011-12-31T19:47:00.000-03:30

Written Friday, DecemberYesterday

I saw a man hold his breath for over two minutes last night.
Not in person.
It was on a documentary.
It's probably something that you should see.
Some might say his effort outweighs his reward (don't worry; he doesn't die).
What we can push ourselves to do is remarkable if we just meditate and eat enough peyote.

Speaking of trips, I did my first feature spot last night.
It felt great, which feels even better.
The second is tonight.
Today is far less uncomfortable now that yesterday is over.
Do you ever contemplate what you might contemplate if there was no opposite sex?
We'd be thinking whatever it is snails are thinking, probably.
"Man, I wish I had more direction in my life."
I ended on a Newfie joke during the show.
Which is 100% shameful.
But they really talked me into it.
I explicitly told them that they were receiving special treatment.
It was my biggest laugh of the night, which is much more embarrassing.
Now I see how Buddy Wassisname gets the dollars.
Of course, they do Sarah.
I could never do Sarah.

Speaking of which, Turpin still hasn't ejected her baby yet.
But we're all crossing our fingers that it will grow into its giant head.

Snails do screw other snails.
It looks like this:

New Heights

2011-12-31T19:13:00.004-03:30

Written Thursday, December 29th:

Tea is the new coffee.
Which is funny, since coffee was originally the new tea.
I think I'm a lifetime behind on my multivitamins.

I'm acting like I'm not thinking about my show tonight.
And you have to do that with me, okay?
Do you ever feel like shouting stuff from mountaintops?
Who here got laid for the first time and then wanted to tell everyone?
If you were on a mountaintop right now, what would you-
Scratch that.
You are on a mountaintop right now.
Oh sure, it looks like you're in a shitty cubicle or office.
But if you pay attention, you'll notice that the ground feels jutted and indecisive beneath your soles.
You know that it's not going anywhere.
But you feel unsteady just the same.
The panorama is almost as good as TV.
It yawns all around you, leaving agape the staggering view.
Dry ice made from real snow whispers from the distant peaks that surround you.
The gaping maw of some prehistoric sea creature.
As far as the crags are, they seem even farther.
The silence whistles.
Then falls quiet.
Noise is something you brought with you to this place.
When you leave, the ambiance will go with you.
You can't look down because of the clouds.
They look as soft and plush as so many glued-on cotton balls to childhood sheets of construction paper.
You close your eyes and you can swear you're in an office somewhere.
What do you shout out?
No one's around.
Now's your chance.
"I hate my roommate!"
"I enjoy shoplifting!"
"I'm cold!"
Meanwhile your pack mule is thinking, "Can we get on with this?"
I didn't mention him before.
He would have ruined the mood.
It doesn't hurt to isolate yourself sometimes.

Let's cook up another paragraph without much of a point.
I'm in the coffee shop across from the coffee shop.
I'm still pretending I'm not thinking of the show.
One day these shows will be long past and this writing will be embarrassing.
Y'know, that's the shittiest thing about writing.
Particularly personal writing.
Sure, a journal is a great way for your mom to discover that you smoke weed.
But otherwise, no matter your age, they are a growing pain.
The more the years go by, the more embarrassing the process becomes in the present.
Maybe people believed in sea monsters centuries ago because someone kept drawing them on all the maps.

Ditto for mermaids.
You know why men were so attracted to the concept of mermaids?
An exotic woman who isn't looking for a commitment.

Not What I Had In Mind

2011-12-28T11:06:00.002-03:30

You think your blog is a real hot tamale.
16 page views yesterday, thank you very much.
Until you go into the statistics section and check the keyword searches that brought about those page views.
Wanna know the top three?
Ahem:

dog caskets for foxhounds
pregnant piss
pregnant orgy

Yes, there are a lot of dissapointed fans out there.
Sounds like I've found my target audience.
Maybe it's you...

Buy As You Might

2011-12-27T23:34:00.001-03:30

You think you have a handle on what has always been your struggling masculinity...
...Then you one day select, order and purchase spectacle frames identical to your girlfriend's.
The only difference being that mine aren't covered in semen.
Too far!

So Christmas is over and Fridays will now fade to lighter and lighter grays.
Until they become Black again.
And we all know a Good Friday is a Black Friday.

I apologize if this clip turns into a Rick roll halfway through.
I couldn't check the content because I could only stomach about eight seconds of it.

People initiating the first fistfights of their lifetimes at the age of 50.
Over a toy no one will give a shit about come May.
"Tickle Me Who?"
Perhaps you pause from being a shitty parent long enough to watch the news.
"And that, researchers say, is the most Mariah Carey ever vomited.
I have to interrupt the broadcast ladies and gentlemen.
I've just been handed this bulletin:
There are no Furbies remaining in Delaware.
Scott, get it up on the ticker.
Everyone, once more:
Delaware's Furby stocks have been depleted."
If you live in Delaware (pity), maybe you make promises within your boundaries.
Santa is magical.
Come up with a magical excuse.
"Santa may not be able to bring you a Furby this year, sweetheart.
He Skyped me and told me that he wants to make a special Furby just for you.
It's like the others, but this one grows its hair back after you give it a haircut"
(Kids love that).
You were lying to them in the first place.
Stretch it and avoid that hustle and bustle.
Get them the newest Foo Fighters album.
By next year they'll have forgotten what a Furby is.
I'm using toy references from eleven years past because I don't know any current ones.
Besides Modern Warfare 3.
And don't get me started on that.
Back when the Furbies and Elmos were just marginally more topical.

Reasons Fleetings

2011-12-24T10:39:00.001-03:30

From my phone.
No Internet where I am going.
Christmas in a hut.
But from me and mine to you and yours......I'd love to see you in a shower sometime.
Merry Christmas.
And remember: they don't love you like I love you.

What Do You Get the Generation Who Has Everything?

2011-12-23T19:30:00.001-03:30

Steal a roll of drink tickets.
It's Friday.

Why can't the dads be against drunk driving also?
Tragedies can make men empassioned, too.
Sure, it would end up being a FADD, probably, but it's nice to get them off of the couch.
Am I right, ladies?! Am I right!?

I have nothing to tell you people.
I really peed my pants onstage last night, which was miserable.
It's tough to describe the emotional anguish associated with taking a dump under the bright lights.
Imagine the let-downdest you've ever been with yourself.
Then compound that with the shared dissapointment of 30-120 people.
Give or take.
It took me until today to realize that I'm sick of the opener I use.
I just sort of hoped I could use it until I eventually run away from this industry to become a teacher.
But this is the holidays.
I shouldn't be talking about work right now.

It's hard to write things that are positive while you're listening to Fiona Apple.
But she has the tunes.
Lisa Loeb's tortured contemporary.

Fuck Chuck Norris.
We collectively resurrected this man.
We can collectively bury him (a second time).
One dude writes a bunch of wacky shit about your beard taking over Kansas or...whatever.
Suddenly you're on TV again.
The Internet makes fools of us all.
We're going to get bored with it, you know.
The Internet.
There is only so much funny shit your dad can say.
He's going to tire himself out.
The LOLCats will all eventually age, get osteoporosis and die.
The Internet is the greatest communicative FADD the world will ever see.
But there will come a time when Wikipedia is as ICQ as cassette tapes.

And this can't come too soon.
As a moonlighting educator, I know how stupid children are.
They're stupid because they're smart enough to have figured out that they don't need to learn anything.
Look at it from their perspective.
Put yourself back in the classroom of your memory, but this time, take your iPhone along.
They really don't need to bother trying.
And when you think about it, would you?

The cat picture looks welfare, I know, but you get the idea.
It took a great deal of my patience to get it to look this good.
He's saying, "I can haz 15 more minutes?" The stereo speaker got in the way of the text.
That's Puss, in his first blog cameo.
He likes getting into boxes.

Fiona flushed her own career when she said "this world is bullshit."
She was wrong; the world's okay.
But I think it has seen better days.
See! I told you it's hard to be positive while listening to her.
Bah Humbug, everybody!

Coincidentally, this live performance seems to have taken place during Christmas.

It's A Cigar!

2011-12-21T13:32:00.002-03:30

Turpin is going to birth a baby soon.
If Nostradadamus was still around, he'd owe me five bucks.
I didn't do it.
Neither did the Wood Twins (it would have taken both of them).
Peter did it.
His funeral, guys.
But I'm bothered that I haven't figured out the gender yet.
I figured that after the first day I'd be able to look at her and say, "Girl."
"Boy."
"Ninja Turtle."
But I'm as clueless as everyone else, which I hate.
You know how grandmothers used to dangle the spoon over the womb?
That's how they'd get the gender.
Have you read Middlesex?
I sort of thought I'd be the spoon, y'know?
And that I'd be right (for once).
If I can't be the father of this dynamo, at least give me the dignity of knowing what colour to paint their room.
Turpin will no doubt paint it some non-gendered colour anyway.
Which would have been our first argument.
I guess the room is already painted, now that I think about it.
And now that I'm still thinking about it, I guess I would have seen this colour.
I don't know what it is.
But their kitchen is purple, I can tell you that.

Grandmothers never dangle the spoon now.
They're too busy buying the car seat, and sometimes the accompanying car.

Musical Chairs

2011-12-17T21:43:00.001-03:30

"Just believe in yourself."
Remember how often you used to hear that as a kid?
This was back when adults encouraged children.
"Believe in yourself and you can become a zoologist."
Teachers, parents...the woman who rented you your movies.
They'd all say it.
And they'd even say it to the kid who was obviously going to become a felon.
Two reasons:
1) Because it's what a decent person should say to a child.
And 2) It's just sound, grounded advice.
Even the TV would say it between cartoons.
Days gone by.
Now no one of authority tells children to believe in themselves, or anything else.
And what's worse is that we've all stopped doing it as well.
Now we believe in the ourselves that others perceive.
Anyone who thinks I don't know what I'm talking about, ask yourself this:
How frequently do you check your Facebook account?
How pleasant is it when someone comments on your status?
Exactly.
As I was saying.
Focusing on the you that's in other people's heads is a much more dangerous alternative.
Let that manifest for long enough and then you believe in the fake version of yourself also.
Last phase is trying to live up to an iteration of you that you had little to do with inventing in the first place.
That's where a lot of us are currently
(And I'm not saying I'm not involved in this dance).
This is why you find yourself reading information like:
FINISHED LAUNDRY!! GOING TO THE MALL!!!
Who gives a shit?
We all do laundry.
We all have our own lists to complete before supper time
(This dance I'm not a part of, I'll admit. I have no priorities).
Another message that we used to hear as kids?
"Just be yourself."
Is that what you're doing today?

I know. I know.
I know what you're thinking.
And I'm on your side.
I liked the blog more when it talked about me getting drunk, too.
This post was supposed to be about how we don't need religion any more than deer do.
Maybe tomorrow.

By the way, the number of exclamation points doesn't make the event more interesting.
It's always one.
It doesn't matter how exciting or outrageous the sentence is.
If Obama was assassinated by Big Bird, that's one exclamation point.
OBAMA HEADLESS! BIG BIRD ONLY SUSPECT!
The people who need to know this aren't reading my blog, but I wish they were.

itallics count: 3

Usually It's My Foot

2011-12-16T12:16:00.003-03:30

Clean the bathroom before your girlfriend shows up.
It's Friday.
Avril arrives in Halifax within the next few hours.
Right now, she's scrambling to pack everything she needs before her flight.
We're similar in a lot of annoying ways.

Speaking of crossing sexual boundaries, I put a condom onto a dildo last night.
With my mouth.
I was doing a show at Rodeo (Roe-Day-Ohs) for what may have been a dozen people.
It was arduous. It was an arduous performance.
But the Sexygirls were there.
So that was great.
They sell sexy girl items to sexy women, and less than sexy women also, probably.
Anyway, one sexy girl sat next to myself and Brian Aylward after we had finished humiliating ourselves onstage.
'Humiliate' is a strong word.
But we certainly degraded ourselves up there somehow.
When you're telling jokes and you can plainly hear the machine that makes the ice, that's bad.
She smelled nice and she was one of the few people in the room who had paid any attention to us all night.
And she's asking me to put this condom on this phalace.
She wanted me to do it onstage (I would have, just to take a break from speaking for a minute), but hesitated to ask me.
I hate to let down my fans.
She lists the flavours of the condoms, but I know that they're all lubricant-flavoured.
But I take grape anyway.
Grape is my go-to.
If you're wondering which Wine Gum to save me, save me the grape.
I realize as I'm getting ready to do this that the fake penis is almost exactly proportionate to my real one.
In an unsettling way.
You don't want the stripper to look like your cousin, you know what I mean?
Well, maybe you do want that.
Actively search for it, even.
But you see my point.
I'm committed, though. There's no getting out of this now.
I get it on. I know what I'm doing.
But I definitly didn't enjoy the experience.
I walked away having discovered something else that I'm probably not good at:
Blowing men.

The trick is to suck in on the condom, so you don't lose it out of your mouth.

Book your Sexy Parties now, ladies!
While your incompetent husbands are chopping down Christmas trees.

My Eyes!

2011-12-15T03:24:00.000-03:30

I've changed the template again.
With sincere apollogies to the ones, dozens, or trillions of people who may be reading this.
I hated the temporary choice worse than whatever template I will eventually settle on.
This black and orange affair was the first option I came across.
I like the colour.
It has a confident, Gordon Freeman quality to it.
I was going to ask you to remind me to tell you about something tomorrow.
But I forget what it is.
I really do. Isn't that stupid?
Anyway.
Here's a photo of the whirligig duck that will eventually be in the design somewhere.
Possibly.

Nothing too Crazy

2011-12-15T03:11:00.001-03:30

Lately, this song is all I want to listen to.
Perhaps it fits into your brain also.

Cyborgs' Greetings

2011-12-13T21:39:00.000-03:30

This is hilarious.
For those of you who are too uncommitted to check the link, it's an article about Harper's Christmas card this year.
Turns out Harper and the two kids are wearing the exact same outfits as they were in last year's card.
I don't understand how you could make a fuss about such a thing.
Of course they're wearing the same outfits; they're painted on.
If the engineers had allowed the three of them to leave the factory with a standard, stainless steel finish on their robot, animatronic chassis, that would have reflected poorly on Canada's craftmanship (Robotics Division).
Sure, the "children" aren't programmed to feel sadness or embarassment, but shame on the reporters for wasting everyone's time anyway.
Laureen (if that's a name) is the only human of the group, having married into the robotic family.
That's why they had her show a little gam in the photo.
To give it that human touch.
I feel the worst for her.
Sure, there's a lot of glitz and glamour, but I'd imagine that it's a house without much love
(Unless, of course, they've been programmed to feel it).

My Inner Child

2011-12-13T18:19:00.000-03:30

Please Notate:
This is one of those self-reflective, "Who am I? Who would I be in other universes?" sort of posts.
If you want something a little less dramatic, read this one about my brothers and I causing a scene in Burger King.

After my show, I eventually leave the yacht club.
Knowing I'll never return.
But I'm happy about it because then I won't have to speak to Leroy any more.
That's not his real name.
That's the name he gave me before proceeding to continuously interrupt me during the show.
People are dressed in finery.
All of the men, by the way, look like they would be at a yacht club.
Portly, middle-aged. Dark sport coats over pinstriped red and white shirts.
No ties.
And Leroy is wearing a Fubu shirt that looks ridiculous.
It's black and has playing cards or...something all over it.
A lot of gold colouring.
It looks like your first junior high silk shirt
(Which typically wasn't even made of silk).
$250 he paid for this thing.
He told me afterwards.
If I lived in an alley I'd have a hard time using it as shelter.
He pays $250 for it.
None of this has anything to do with anything.
After all of this, Josh was having a party.
So I went.
Primarily because the club gave me free drinks, so it seemed like a logical step to take.
Everyone's more or less wasted when I show.
People are trickling in.
I introduce myself to people and begin moving around the room.
Speaking to individuals.
It feels good.
I yammer on to you about missing something I once had.
And really, this is it.
I used to love meeting new people.
I don't know how I came to hate people as I tend to do now.
I sort of blame Banff and its populace of wiener tourists.
Rather than blaming myself.
At the end of the day, it is this thing I am missing.
This desire to meet people.
And the party felt great because it was back.
It felt like it was back, anyway.
I guess it could have been the gin.
This woman showed up later into the night.
And I really liked her earrings.
I feel compelled to compliment women if they are wearing something that I would wear.
If I were a woman.
Or, y'know, if I were a man (if only).
They're triangular and sparkly and neat.
I want to compliment them.
But complimenting women is far more complicated than it was when I didn't have a sexuality.
Complimenting a woman and have them respond to it as though it were an actual compliment is rare.
It's more common to receive looks, shoulders or boyfriends' fists.
I don't want to make this woman uncomfortable.
I don't want her to think I'm flirting with her.
...
But I really like the earrings.
So, here I am.
Standing in this kitchen.
There are people sitting, people standing.
Everyone's talking, laughing. Whatever.
I don't hear any of it.
Cause in my head I'm thinking to myself, "Mention the earrings, mention the earrings, mention the earrings, mention the earrings, mention the earrings..."
But I won't.
When I talk about me now versus me in high school, this is the sort of thing I'm getting at.
I really was more an entertainer then than I am now.
Sure, my memory's not the best, but I know who I was then.
It might be sex...
Sex may have ruined it.
The me in high school never hesitated.
He would have said, "I like your earrings," the second he met Liz.
He really would have.
Now I can't do it.
Eventually she's sitting next to me.
She has just kissed a roommate of Josh's.
She's not available. I'm not available.
This shouldn't be so complicated.
"Mention the earrings, mention the earrings..."
I break and eventually tell Josh that this is bothering me, and why.
(Josh knew this mysterious former me also).
"Fuck it, man.
Now that I'm 30, I tell women whatever.
'I like your earrings,' or 'Your ass looks good in that dress...'"
He keeps talking and I have stopped listening.
Because he's right.
"Your earrings," I say.
Liz says, "What?"
"I like your earrings."
Liz and Josh's kissy roommate (Corey) begin to laugh.
"I just bought these today. He told me that they were stupid."
Corey now, "I didn't see you wearing them, though. It's different when you're wearing them."
I point out that, "She did the hold-up, though. She held them next to her head to show them to you before buying them."
He admitted that she did.
"It's funny you would mention that," Liz said.
I had to agree.
It was funny that I would mention that.
You should never hesitate.
Neither should I.
I left the party, wasted, realizing that I remembered the name of everyone at the party, and a detail or two about them.
In high school, this would have been the case also.
What I miss about my former self?
He was a good listener.

Gut Feeling

2011-12-13T17:16:00.000-03:30

I started a post that explains why the site looks so stupid right now.
A large-ish paragraph that could be summed up like this:
We're under construction.
If I had to look at the old template once more I would have puked.
Because I need to see images of myself during most or all times.
Otherwise I get all wobbly in the tummy.
I am so incredibly queezy as a person.
Still.
When I was four I threw up over my swim bag after an hour-long trip to the Aquarena.
(Newfoundland readers: would you believe that this is not the first time I linked the Aquarena?)

25 years later...

I was leaving a gig with Peter White and Bryant Thompson (T-Burger) the other night.
Driving away from Bridgewater to Halifax, which is where I live now.
And I couldn't help but notice that I was getting mildly carsick while in the back seat.
I was high, so it took me some time to realize that it was because I was playing a game on my phone.
Turns out I can't do that in a car.
In retrospect, kind of makes me wish I hadn't bothered buying a game for my phone.
But then, there are still ferry rides and church services that I'll have to while my way through.
Anyway.
The gig didn't suck, necessarily.
But I still managed to hate it somehow.
Ditto for the gig I did Saturday.
Sure, it wasn't awful. It was good, even.
Yet I still hated myself when it was over.
This is normal.
This is "the biz.."
It's exciting to know that I'm progressing on schedule.

Speaking of hating me, I have my first headline set coming up soon.
End of the month.
I guess this is good.
It's good.
It is.
I told Peter White ("this guy again?") when I moved here that I wanted to be headlining within a year or two.
This is not headlining.
I am not and will not be a headliner after doing these shows.
But it's a start.
I'm trying to concentrate on-
Here's the problem.
It's incredibly difficult, at times, to be yourself onstage.
All I want to do is go up there and be myself.
Two issues with that:
1) I can't relax enough to do this (generally), and
2) I have no idea who that is any more.
I don't want to have jokes.
I want to have conversations.

Speaking of which, I have to tell you about Liz' earrings.
But I'll do that in a separate post so that it seems like I'm writing more.
No jokes or pissing around right now, I had no idea that 'separate' was spelled that way until this second.
That's being real with you people.
'Separate' doesn't even look right.
It explains that song by Elliot Smith where he sings this word and it sounds just as it's spelled.
As it has always been spelled.
The song just popped into my head when the auto correct gave me something to talk about for another few lines.
That's another problem, you know.
Now I worry about time.
How much time I'll take up (we're talking about comedy again), how much time I can do.
It's how long I can stretch myself.
I used to do this kind of thing and wish I had more time.
Because I never wanted to get off.
I'm talking about an era before I ever did a comedy set.
See what I mean when I say that I just want to be myself?
Me neither.

For the Like of God

2011-11-25T15:09:00.001-03:30

Lick all of the community wafers and then put them back in the goblet.
It's Friday.
(That one is for the diocese boys).

Parents beware!
If you employ a really stringent bedmaking rule with your kids, they may eventually join the army.
Because they'll have developed a taste for doing it regularly.
And for having someone provide their outfits.
So let them choose their own clothing, also.
Don't force them to wear overalls despite the fact that it makes them cry and cry and cry.
That last part was me.

I'm doing a show at Rodeo's tonight.
I did one there a few weeks ago.
A lot of inflatable cacti...
I know that it's pronounced 'rodeo,' like the horse party.
But I say 'Roe-day-oh' in my head.
Like the street that has a lot of botax clinics on it, probably.
I spoke to the audience and staff about it last time.
They have amateur stripper contests there.
I intend to go.
Not for the male contest.
But rather the female one.
So I can hoot.
And remember readers: when you enter those amateur stripper contests, make sure you remove the nicotine patch from your inner thigh before you lace up the knee-highs.

The sad truth is that we no longer need churches.
Sure, Bingo used to be popular, but now it's just something for the older crowd.
And since they've started putting up their own halls, the churches are even less necessary.
These things happen.
The post office.
The wagon wheel maker (the sort that goes on a wagon; not the cookie snack).
Little Bow Wow.
Trends come and go.
My suggestion would be to turn them into yoga hothouses, or sell them to the Staples people.
So that they can be turned into Stapleses.
"Where can I find the ink cartridges?"
"Oh, they're aisle 3, right under the stained glass depiction of The Last Supper."
...
"I dunno what it is, exactly.
I think it was like, the last big meal that was cooked over an open fire or something...
I couldn't say for sure cause it has nothing to do with Staples.
It might be an annual supper that bingo players have, maybe.
Ccause this place actually used to be a Bingo hall before.
No, it's true."
Nietzsche once wrote the part of a raving man who ran through town with a lantern, declaring:
"God is dead! And we killed him!"
That guy has a sucessful webcomic now.
Salvation doesn't have the same appeal any more.

But don't fret!
I'll tell you why.
As I was walking here, I was jammed up behind three guys walking abreast on the sidwalk.
I was hating them in my head for moving so slowly and speaking so loudly.
But then one of them noticed I was there, and he moved himself and his buddy aside.
"Thanks," I said.
"You're welcome," he said.
I eventually get here, to this Starbucks that isn't big enough.
I'm getting in line, and someone has two drinks and he's trying to break through the crowd of scarves.
I stand aside to let him through.
Same guy.
Who's to say what is and isn't connected?
Anyway, live your life
Commit your sins
Monday, repent
Your weekend begins

Take A Minute

2011-11-18T11:44:00.001-03:30

Morning everybody.
Everyone seated?
Is someone taking the minutes?
Deb? You got this?
Deb?
...
Ever since Deb met that scuba diver guy she's become really unreliable.
Topher, this is your big day, buddy.
Take Deb's minutes.
Alright.
That's the minutes.
Where's our treasurer?
This is stupid. Let's move on.

If you have a kidnapping sex fantasy that means you hate your boyfriend.
When you stop to think about it, what else could it mean?

My brother and that wife of his are sending ultrasound photos of my tentative niece.
I have to be honest, while just writing that I realized I didn't even look at the pictures.
I'm going to tell them that I saw a pig's fetus recently that looked just like her.

I'm writing new angles on old blog topics now.
I'm not sure if that's a sign of refinement, or doom.

If you're the sort of parent who hears about negative youth behaviour and you think:
"Well, not my kids,"
Then it is your kids, and your kids specifically.
And when you were young, it was you.

In Lu of Common Sense

2011-11-17T18:00:00.001-03:30

You know where the bathroom is.

It doesn't matter that you've never been in the house before.

You know where the bathroom is.

You don't need to ask.

"These daiquiris are just working through me.

Where is your bathroom?

No wait!

Don't tell me.

It's at the top of the stairs.

It's at the end of the hall.

It's the room with the soap and q-tips in it.

It's the only room with an open door right now because you don't want me to see how unkempt you slobs keep your laundry room.

It's the room that is in the same general location in every house built in the last two centuries.

Let me know if I guess it."

How timid we all are.

It could only be more obvious if you were sharing a prison cell.

I think we ask where the bathroom is because we're secretly asking for permission to use it.

Which may be the fault of our education system.

What answer do you expect?

"The bathroom? It's in the basement, past the treadmill we never use."

"It is a hole in the backyard.

And it's not a room.

It's the backyard. You're looking for our bathyard.

Which is obviously outside, stupid."

We've conquered irrigation.

Grow up and just leave the dining table.

Jimmy handles until you find it.

What happens if you don't ask?

Or they mistakenly tell you the third door instead of the second?

You drop a shit on their child's bed?

"It's not rude! You gave poor directions, frankly."

I don't think so.

I need to say this onstage, I think.

That's why I seem so aggravated.

It's not meant for you guys.

It's everyone else.

(And you guys).

Josh let me know about this band.
I'm only mentioning that because I just told him to drop by the blog.
Otherwise I would take credit for telling you about this disgusting band.

Hair. Plug.

2011-11-16T17:03:00.001-03:30

Even though I feel awful every time I have a cigarette, I think there's a real market for them.

If only there was some way to have a child, get them to roll them, sell them at school, and reap the profits...

That's a back burner idea.

Until then, it's sneakers and Gucci bags.

I don't know why I walk to Starbucks to write these.

It's pretty far from tranquility here.

This place is jammed with monkeys and these machines make such a racket.

So many women wear moccasins here.

And not a one of them is Eskimo.

It's fucked, y'know.

The footwear women get away with.

Hideous footwear.

But I already talked about that.

Searches I used to find this old blog post:

"I probably don't know what I'm talking about" (unsuccessful [though accurate]).

"dart my fucking eyes out" (for the win).

Good thing we have those cell phones.

Used to be that only doctors and drug dealers had to be on call.

Now it's all of us.

On call for absolutely nothing.

When you reach a mature age, you begin keeping all of your spare change in a huge jar.

And unless you bust it open to buy the re-re-release of The Lion King, you keep that jar.

Until you turn 70.

Then you use all of that accumulated change to pay for absolutely everything.

Is that funny?

I said that onstage and got nothin'.

The Internet is literacy's undoing.

Don't believe me, ask the lolcats about it.

They solved impotence.

But they're still working on hair loss treatments.

These bald dudes can't prioritize.

As long as you can have sex when you're seventy, who gives a shit, y'know?

Who cares? Women will sleep with you anyway.

Some woman will.

You've had sex since you've been bald, right?

And it's not like baldness is your only problem, right?

There are worse physical afflictions.

Half of the NBA surrenders their hair on purpose, and they fuck everything.

Of course, they can drive to the net better than you can.

But still.

Indian women give up their hair for spiritual purity.

And, unbeknownst to them, for bitches in L.A..

You don't hear them complaining.

Buy some of that, graft it to your head, and fuck off with all your creams and gels.

Scalp buffers and satellite, hair-growth laser beams.

None of it is going to work.

You're bald.

But at least you can keep your penis hard.

By the way, if you're a 30-something balding man.

And you still mousse and gel what little remnants of hair (dignity) that you have, you're going to your death bed not understanding how to be cool.

Stop trying.

Well.

That felt good.

Sorry, Coombs, if you're reading this.

You kind of got hit by the crossfire there.

Coombs on CBC, everybody!

Airs November 19, the New Screech Comedy Festival!

Check out his jokes as the sheen of his polished, flawless scalp takes your breath away.

Also on that show are John Sheehan, Trent McClellan.

Hot stuff Sean Cullen.

And Dan Akroyd says a few words before he goes out and gets fucked up on his own brand of wine.

Unchained Malady

2011-11-03T14:11:00.000-02:30

I don't really have a whole lot to give you people right now.
I just finished having some lunch with Nadders and Steph.
Nadine is from Elmsdale and she likes softball and highland dancing.
She's a Scorpio (possibly) and her birthday is exactly one month before mine.
Stephanie Rogers was once in a gang based out of Bridgewater.
She's from Lunenberg and she enjoys wrecking cars.
I'm writing this for their benifit.
Which is sort of silly because I'm confident they don't frequent this blog.
Their loss!

The day we live in a perfect world is the day they remove the post office pens from their chains.
I'm not sure that day will ever come.

You wish you had more anal sex analogies that had to do with professional sports?
Paul's here for ya.
"Lacey in receiving? I hear she takes it in the endzone."
I'm just writing down portions of things that-holy shit, that guy looked just like Matthew Broderick.
Being maried to Sarah Jessica Parker must make you feel like not wanting to have sex with your wife ever again.
Anyway, as I was saying, I don't really have any actual thoughts coming out of my head today.
So I'm regurgitating those I have thought of and written down beforehand.

Do you know why you hate your husband?
Because courtship isn't supposed to entail getting drunk and fucking some guy you met that day at the gym.

I saw some real, live Green Peace vest-wearers the other day.
I detached a wrist-thick piece or birch from a nearby tree and beat them mercilessly with it.
Shouting, "Here's some green piece for ya!"
Felt great.

Saving Some Scratch...

2011-10-31T16:26:00.001-02:30

Don't ask me why I have the Baby Orajel.
I don't want to explain.
Just know that I have it. In my little laptop satchel.
I'm in Starbucks currently, and the woman sitting punching-distance behind me just said:
Well, I don't know what she said, exactly.
But it pertained to having a fussy baby.
And I felt an urge to reach into my bag, turn around and say:
"What your baby needs is Baby Orajel for babies.
Guaranteed to make your baby less irritating for at least an hour or two."
I have the wrong job.
Which is, well, no job, I guess.

"Spinning" is a generous term for spending an hour on a bike that doesn't go anywhere.
Have I said this before?
I feel as though I have...

The really attractive woman from American Pie is in a dandruff comercial.
She's the one that only I would have found attractive in American Pie.
The flute one.
Buffy.
She was on there, too.
And now she's doing that How I Met Your Mother.
A popular show.
It has Bob Saget.
It has Doogie Howser.
Some people who aren't really passionate about The Big Bang Theory still watch it.
So, why is she in the dandruff commercial?
Protocol is: Your career tanks, you do the Proactive informercial.
Shatner is selling cars.
Christ. Shatner isn't struggling.
Sure, the world needs resturant servers.
But the world will eventually need new actors and actresses as well.
Christopher Walken, against all logic, will die eventually.
Give some new up-and-comer the dandruff commercial.
What else do you do, Willow?
Go to the corner stores in your area every day and buy all of the scratch tickets that they have?
Share some with the rest of us.
As if you would ever have dandruff.
Like that's even possible.
Like you would ever actually use Head & Shoulders.
Your personal shampoo probably has rhinocerous extract in it.

Women. The Pitts.

2011-10-28T16:18:00.001-02:30

Take the afternoon off on the secretary.
It's Friday.
It must be rough for Brad Pitt.
When you think about it.
Because he's fetching to all women, everywhere.
So, when Brad sits down and has a relaxing evening with his buddies (and he does do this.
Sometimes.
He has to)
Brad has to provide some astronomical number for sexual partners.
He can't count out three or four women.
"Well, there was Jennifer. And that one with the lips.
What's-her-name.
Looks like John Voight."
No good.
Brad Pitt isn't cool unless he's slept with at least thirty or forty women.
And those are generously low figures.
If he doesn't give the right answer, all of his buddies can and will mock him.
Causing Brad to storm out in a huff.
Get in the jet and fly away from the situation.
Hey, is Michael Pitt related to Brad?
He has the same delicious eyeball color...

I'm not really hot into debating.
Despite the number of women I date who are passionate about it.
But I do love debates that have no bearing on anything.
For example, Peter White and Bryant Thompson invited me into this one:
How many babies do you think you could kill if you were faced with hordes of babies...
...before getting tired?
That's a worthwhile discussion to me.
It really is.
Anyway, Family Feud may be my outlet for further questions.
The other day they posed this one:
Name something only an infant can fit into.
My answer was 'roasting pot.'
But, to challenge myself, I'm going to try and write a new answer every day.
Day two I came up with 'bread box.'
And today...
Shoebox.
I think you could get an infant into a shoebox if the baby was fresh enough.
It's a coincidence that both of these debates involve discomfort for babies.
I'm open to discuss any ludicrous situations you may want to delve into with me.

Speaking of ludicrous situations, Hallowe'en is approaching.
For all of my fellow drifters out there, I'll supply you at least one affordable costume idea:
Get a blanket.
Cup of cocao.
Don't shave for several days.
Wrap the blanket around yourself and carry the cocoa.
Tell people that you're a guy who got lost in the woods, and has just been rescued.
Not bad.
You could knock on a few doors with that one.
Get some Lays.
Some tiny, individually-wrapped orange gumballs.

The Last of Barrett's Privateers

2011-10-26T13:34:00.001-02:30

I know.
I know.
I should have written before now.
You've been worried sick since I packed up all of my pairs of pants and moved to Halifax.
The coffee maker drips in your languid apartment.
And each 'plink' seems to say, "Paul...Paul...Paul..."
You need to get out more.
As I have.

I didn't want to write until I could communicate something truly Halifax to you.
I wanted to prove that I'm truly a Haligonian, properly embarassed by the stupid title.
'Haligonian' sounds like an extinct reptile of some sort.
It's not an appropriate name for a group of people who really enjoy used furniture.
Which doesn't coincide with the Halifax tidbit that I had fabricated to tell you people.
As I was getting my morning apple (Sobey's apples are shit) I thought:
I'll tell everyone that the people of Halifax all enjoy inflatable furniture.
And that is all there is to know about them.
But I just ruined that.
We're moving on.

Next paragraph!

So, I have a room in a house.
I have a bed.
I have a weed contact.
I do not have a job.
I do not have anyone to have sex with (yet).
I do not have an end table.
It has been great.
It has been okay.

This city is tiny and so I walk everywhere these days.
I take the bus sometimes, but only when it's raining a lot or I have actual, physical change.
Bus passes cost a pissload of money.
I'm considering an attempt to have someone forge me a university I.D..
Those get you past the bouncer for free.

I did comedy with Scott Faulkenbridge and Dom Paré when I first got here.
That was fun.
Dom made chicken pot pie and Stove Top for Thanksgiving dinner.
The three of us met some strange man who claimed to be a comic.
He struck me more as a T.V. vaccuum salesman.
He was suddenly there and then he wouldn't go away.
He was issuing me business cards and shaking my hand.
Next thing I knew he was peeing in the toilet I'd been peeing in the past number of days.
It was terrifying.

I've been meeting the comics here and studying the dimensions of their girlfriends.
Mike MacQueen (Night Train) has driven me home a few times.
Thompson (Four-Eyes) learned from me that he has birds roosting in the eve of his house.
Mark (Merv) almost went to a reptile show with me.
He also found out about birds in his eve from me.
They live in the same house.

Robert Shandera had a baby just before I left and -
Wait.
Scratch that.
His wife had the baby.
Now I'm Uncle Paul.
I've been buying an appropriate amount of pornographic magazines as a consequence.
Every family has 'that uncle.'

I have done an open mic since getting here.
I had a great time.
I explained that Halifax has more cultrure than Newfoundland.
Which I figured out after passing guys spelling out 'TITS' and 'CLITS' in the infield sand of the public baseball diamond.
I also let them know that I have this strange fascination with seeing women change in the top floors of Halifax houses.
I keep expecting to see a topless woman in some window if I just look up often enough.
What's silly is that this would be true of almost anywhere.
What makes it strange is that I really expect to see her in Halifax.
That's 100% true.
I can't explain it, though.
I suggested to the audience that perhaps we're all in the wrong place at the wrong time.
No one laughed at it, but I didn't give a shit.
It was my favourite thing that I said.
Open mic again tonight.
Who knows?
Maybe I'll tell you how it went.
Probably not well.
All I've written in the past week is an anecdote on how difficult it is to have a pet elephant.
Walking it.
Because once it poos, I have to carry around a garbage bag full of shit, not unlike Santa.
Which is really stupid.
I just like picturing it.
Standing off-balance with this large bag.
Speaking to someone at the bus stop.
And having them say, "Do I detect a slight odour?"

It should be legally permissable to kick pigeons when you're having a bad day.
I love all of you.
http://youtu.be/-Gu3gDhESRY

Take A Shit. On Me.

2011-09-29T12:00:00.000-02:30

They'll give you a look, you know.
Women.
If you can prove you're competent.
I know.
Because I spent the vast majority of my life being incompetent.
Getting no looks.
So when I get them they're ultra-apparent.
Like when I made toquitos and salt & pepper wings for da b'ys?
I told you about that one, I think.
For some occasion or another at Bussey's place years back.
I made all of the food for everyone and it only took me three hours.
And when it was finally dished out I remember thinking:
Why are Miranda and Christa looking at me like that?
And to my horror I realized that it was because they wanted to do me.
Now I have a new list of chores I can blindly manage.
Having spent a summer (or two) working with dad.
Yesterday was plumbing.
He and I installed my brother's toilet after my brother and he installed bathroom tile the day before.
If you've never installed a toilet, I don't recommend it.
For fun, anyway.
Don't install toilets for fun.
My knees were wet for the entire afternoon.
Toilets weigh several many pounds.
"Get the matt under it, quick! It's heavy!"
Whenever Dad gives me direction with a sense of urgency I forget how to do everything.
Next time you're on a toilet and you have a minute, notice that it's bolted down.
With two bolts.
Dad dropped both of these down the drain (individually).
At the end of it all the little water-tube thingy was leaking.
There was a plastic nut involved.
Dad's tightening it with the wrench.
"It's almost good there now. Maybe another half-turn," this is dad.
My head thinks, "Tell him not to do it!"
But it's too late.
There's water spraying everywhere and dad is saying "Jesus! Jesus!"
It looked a lot like TV.
We fixed it eventually.
One day perhaps I'll install your toilet.
With you looking on with The Look the entire time.

Oh, P.S.:
I know the title's kinda crass, but I still think it's pretty funny.

point three three three three...

2011-09-26T15:27:00.000-02:30

We climbed out of the ocean.
A bunch of other stuff happened.
In time, mathematicians were considered to be wise, rather than philosophers.
Because mathematicians can calculate profit yields and key demographics and whatnot.
But if you try to discuss the idea of infinity with a mathematician, he'll just tell you that it's an eight on its side.
And that answer is wrong.

Orgy of the Species

2011-09-23T09:01:00.001-02:30

Have sex with the bridesmaid.
It's Friday.
Oh, remember when I used to say that all of the time?
"Something cutting edge.
It's Friday."
I haven't done that in so long.
Because I forget even the things that I regularly remember.
Here's a feel-good tune for you.

You play it, you listen to it, you feel good.
Also, it reminds me of having sex with bridesmaids.
You people ever sleep with bridesmaids? Groomsmaids?
What songs make you think of these experiences?
Post 'em!
Let's all remember our indescretions together today.
And here are some past Fridays to take a look at.
I wonder where orgies are most likely to happen spontaneously.
Amateur orgies fascinate me.
It's too bad because most of them are likely conducted by our parents.
And their friends, of course.
They can't have an orgy alone.
Well, not necessarily their friends.
Might be with total strangers who happened to answer the ad on Kijiji.
While young people should be having the orgies, we're not.
And I can't understand why.
We're all so sexually permiscuous (even the bashfull of us).
And we're matter-of-fact about it.
Doing bridesmaids left and right.
No orgies.
If tonight there are hundreds of thousands of pairs getting drunk and having sex with one another.
Having never met before.
How is it that there aren't tens of thousands of pairs of pairs of pairs doing the same thing?
I'm guessing cruise ships.
I'd say a lot of orgies happen on cruise ships.
All of the booze is free.
You have a cabin all to yourself.
Everyone's wearing revealing clothing.
Your neighbors aren't around.
That would be my first location choice.
Anyone have other theories?

edit: I have more Fridays to tack on later, but for now I have to go bathe.
I have an eye appointment with the optometrist.
Then I have to see Meaghan Whelan
(I'm giving her her life back one meeting at a time).

In the Neighbourhood

2011-09-21T12:48:00.001-02:30

I've tried to start a post about Ice T three times now.
It was two times when I first wrote this.
Now it's three.
I made a note about him in my book, and now I just want to put a check mark next to the note.
And forget that this happened.
I made the note in the first place because he's a video gamer.
So says Spike TV.
He's like a little spokesman for the mainstream.
It's strange.
I follow Ice T on my Twitter account, for fuck's sakes.
What an odd twist.
And I just thought it would be funny if he never actually plays anything.
He just saw an oppurtunity and went for it.
"Sure, I play video games from time to time, when I'm not banging women."
It's not funny unless you really visualize Ice T saying it.
Here's how ganster I am:
In my book I referred to him as "Iced Tea."

I have an apartment lined up now.
Cork Street.
If you want to visit me, it's the one that looks like a haunted mansion.
Because it is a haunted mansion.
I hate this blog post so far. I really do.
It actually looks like every house that you lived in until you finally settled into a place of your own.
At least, I think that that's what it looks like.
Mom used Google Postman so that she could see the street that it's on.
I'm not sure which house it is.
But I can tell you that someone living nearby drives a Volkswagon.
My future roommate is a fellow comic.
He's tall and he looks like he sleeps with a lot of women.

A Job (To Do)

2011-09-16T12:43:00.000-02:30

Is this a hurricane?
I can't tell if this is a hurricane or not.
I know it's not a day to look at women while I pretend to enjoy the beach.
So I'm staying inside.
Are all of you people at work?
You are?
Drag.
I'd bet you can afford a can of Coca-Cola from time to time, though, can't you?
Well, that's not bad.

I participated in a comedy contest last night.
The only way to be a cool guy in one of these things is to act like it's no big deal.
Which it isn't, really.
The winner of this particular contest is chosen through online voting.
It's the sort of thing that's going to go to the Mark Days of the world.
Talentless, big-headed men with too many friends.
I had to do five minutes.
I opened by equating participation in a comedy contest to sticking your tongue on a battery when no one's looking.
And then swallowing the battery.
Then I asked how much time that ate up.
Felt great.

I have an apartment in Halifax now.
Which is really something.
Guess I'm doing this.
All that remains now is a job.
Just once.
Just once in my life I'd like to have a job like the ones you people have.
Where you surf around on the internet for half of the day.
Because no one's truly paying attention to you.
And several of your co-workers don't even know what your job is.
Or theirs, for that matter.
Perhaps a situation where I can read all day.
A used bookstore near some train tracks that no one ever goes to.
Except for that one fair-skinned woman with the long cardigans.
And leather bodice!
Looking for mint copies of Harry Potter to sell to people in Africa via Ebay.
I'll probably be pumping gas.

I went to Trapper John's last night with Peter White, Brian Alyward, Andrew Ivimey, and herself.
Ivimey's ego had to get the bus down and meet up with us later.
Crammed into my mother's car, we jammed to Lauryn Hill on the way down.
Don't blow away out there today.

On the Other's Land

2011-09-13T15:27:00.001-02:30

It's hard to concentrate because I'm listening to Enid right now.
And that song always gets me.
"...and every time I remember the taste of your lip gloss."
That's me.
I'm enid.

The internet, when you size it up, is the sum of humanity's knowledge this far.
It's everything that we have.
Whatever we have done or intend to do. That's the internet.
So, is it just me that considers it fucked to see that the most important search of the day is:
Smoking Orangutan.
I am the only one who thinks that's fucked, aren't I?
Sure, it's adorable because it's a monkey doing something
(Kind of how evolved versions of us will look at current versions of us),
But couldn't they have had the monkey do something healthier?
Like chewing gum.
Ever feel like you were born in the wrong century or decade?

Coincidence can be so tender sometimes.
I played some Randy Travis for Avril the other day.
For no real reason, particularly.
Aside from Randy's being the fucking man.
All of these Tim McGrath cowboy hat jerkoffs don't deserve to tie Randy's bolo.
Anyway!
Avril has this unit nextdoor neighbor who enjoys playing Kixx Country at full blast in the middle of the afternoon.
He probably enjoys a bunch of other things that I'd consider intrusive.
I think he deals drugs.
Whenever he walks up the steps to his front porch, he does so really slowly.
While glowering and glancing up and down the street.
That's not a normal way to enter your house.
Also, he has a small motorhome.
People who own and maintain small motorhomes either deal or grow drugs.
We've all seen Breaking Bad.
Avril and I have sex and then we stop having sex.
She's loosening the ball gag when it dawns on me:
"Randy Travis!" I shout.
And then I point at the ceiling.
Because that's what I do when I'm referring to music currently playing.
And if I think Jesus is nearby.
I point at the ceiling then too.
The very same song I had played for her.
Now for you...

Kids' Stuff

2011-09-07T10:59:00.004-02:30

They say that accidents tend to happen in the home.
But I usually knock up women behind the mall.

I'm going to have a kid alright.
I might have dozens of them, just for the sake of racial and language variety.
The spice of life, you know.
Because if I have a kid, I can go into women's change rooms.
I see people taking kids into change rooms all the time.
No one ever seems to notice or care if the kid is the opposite gender to the ol' silhouette.
I can only assume it works if the parent is the opposite gender.
Mom used to bring me into the change room at the Aquarina.
Up on the counter, she'd turn me around so I wouldn't watch the women.
But then I'd just ogle them in the mirror.
Three or four years old.
Perversion is something ingrained.

Because more associates of mine are having babies, there are more things I have to act interested in.
The trickiest is definitly those ultrasound photos.
"Here's a picture of my baby."
Are you certain?
Maybe they mixed up the photos in the outbox and that's actually some Indian woman's baby.
How would you know?
Why would you even show these to other people?
"This is a picture of my fetus taken by the Mars space probe."
I just cannot feign enthusiasm over what looks like a photocopy that used too much ink.

I Can't Pretend

2011-09-04T21:26:00.005-02:30

Peter Russell frightened me in the shower today.

With my parents away and my inhibitions skyrocketing, I showered with the door open.

Generally I shower with the door locked and the lights off.

It's just common curtosy.

Anyway, I'm singing the second verse of En Vogue's Don't Let Go.

Suddenly Peter's arm juts in front of me, holding a bar of soap.

Then he asks me if I want it.

Showering in front of other men has always terrified me.

I couldn't possibly act like I was comfortable while it was happening.

Which means I have something to hide.

Maybe I'm concerned that my penis will be larger or smaller than everyone else's.

(Smaller).

Domain Game

2011-09-03T11:16:00.006-02:30

How about this, huh?
A new web address for a tired, broken old man.
This domain name may be just the ego-centric, Paul-centered shot in the arm this blog needs.
Avril surprised me with it.
While wearing one of those lingere pieces?
You know the ones.
All women wore them at all times in the 80s underneath their normal clothing.
Or so porno would have me believe.
Anyway, that Paul Warford football guy can go fuck himself.
He missed his chance.

Things are going to be different here at paulwarford.com.
I'm going to change this damned blog design for one thing.
I think I'll get some photos of those lawn ducks, y'know?
Those ducks that are made out of wood, and when it's windy their wings spin (flap) around?
Some of those would be fun.
And a picture of me...inside a fridge would be neat.
That could go across the header.
Where can I find an empty fridge, I wonder?
Besides the dump.
Leave comments to suggest design elements the new blog could have.
Then I'll find one of my friends who's talented at web design to make the changes for free.
A search for 'wind propeller ducks' yielded this.
This isn't it.
But you know what I'm talking about.
Especially if you're from Newfoundland.
There's a house in Victoria that has a lawn full of them.
Anyway, we'll dig up some pictures somewhere.
Maybe me posing with live ducks...
Sorry.
These are things I could be thinking to myself, rather than mentioning them now.
I really like ducks, is all.
Leave your comments, goddamn you!
I distract all of you people from your miserable jobs on a regular basis.
It's the least you could do.

Mother's Milk OR Milking It (For the Time Being)

2011-09-02T13:47:00.002-02:30

Always on the forefront of trends, some five years later, the NTV news will soon be broadcast in HD.
When this happens, viewers will finally learn that Lynn Burry is just Fred Hutton in a wig.
If I had any passion for photoshop, I'd find a picture of Fred Hutton and make that image for you.

So, I'm moving to Halifax.
Don't ask me why.
Well, I can tell you why.
Same reason teen pregnancy is on the rise:
Peter White.
He stole my mom's spare set of car keys, and he told me that he'd only give them back if I moved there.
October 6th.
As good a day as any to leave your parents' rec room and start having sexual experiences.

Every night that I go to bed, I take a giant glass of milk with me.
Bunch of reasons:

Reason Number One:
I love eating in bed, and that piece of chocolate cake isn't going to wash itself down.
I also love milk more than most liquids (piss!).

Reason Number Two:
I hate ending the day because it might be my last one.
If I have a glass of milk, obviously I can't go to bed before drinking it or I'll waste the milk.
So, I have to stay up until the milk is gone.
Thus, therefore, or those three little dots, I can garner five extra minutes every day with which to live.

But here's the problem: I don't pay for the milk.
I don't pay for the chocolate cake.
I don't earn anything that I have.
It was great when I was a kid.
It's great now, by the way.
But it is getting old.
I am getting old.
So I'm moving to Halifax.

*This post brought to you by Bell Media.
Watch Peter White's Comedy Now! airing tonight, September 2.
Also brought to you by Schneider's Naturals.
Enjoy Schneider's Country Naturals Bacon while watching Peter White's Comedy Now!

A Little Grilling

2011-08-25T15:00:00.003-02:30

I don't really think that it's a barbecue cover.
Sure, everyone says, "Cover the barbecue!
Gotta get the barbecue covered."
We don't need to cover our barbecues.
They're the heaviest appliance that humans have, next to the fridge.
Dishwasher.
Clothes dryer.
Hitachi magic wand.
They're the only things left outside that always survive hurricanes.
"The patio's gone!"
And the Landcruiser! How's we gonna live?!"
"Hey, lookit! The barbecue's still okay."
Steaks for everyone.
Steaks among the rubble.
Barbecues don't need a cover.
I think it's a barbecue hider.
That's why people use them; they don't want thieves thieving their barbecues.
Doesn't work, though.
Just makes it look like you have a barbecue with a custom-made tarp over it.

Small Package

2011-08-23T17:09:00.002-02:30

The ineternet has few uses, sure.
But I have seen the fat person have sex.
And I have seen the midget have sex.
If you're curious to know which is less appealing, I'll say this:
Proportion goes a long way.

Home Alone

2011-08-23T16:25:00.004-02:30

Seth Green is a Macauly Culkin who made it.

It's not really wrong to have sex with your cousin.
It's just wrong to have children with them
(this is the most insightful thing I've thought of in months, by the way).

The Royal Family are really professional visitors.
They just dress up nicely and go to events.
Stay until it's acceptable to leave.
And then they leave.
They never outstay their welcome.
They never have you over to their place.
People make every effort to make sure they're comfortable.
So far as I can tell, this is all they do.
Every day is like visiting a shitty aunt you never see when you're a Royal child.
I once saw a how do with a bunch of traditional Natives that the queen was at.
It was on the news.
She's there in her mint green old person dress, smiling politely.
While dudes in feathers dance around and beat the drum and so on.
She leans over and says something to one of her...whatever...stewards.
And I said to mom and dad at the time:
"Guaranteed she just asked him what time this is supposed to be over."
Can you think of anything else they do?
I mean, they're not taxing salt in the colonies these days.

The Test of Thyme

2011-08-23T16:08:00.003-02:30

Do you people dislike the adult content warning when opening my blog now?
Tough!
Tough for all of us; I have to personally bypass it every time also.
You're probably more irritated that every time you log on there's no blog to look at.
And here I am!
There's always the archives, people.
Want to find out how much I hated my job in 2008?
Whatever that was...
It's all there.

I made vegetable stock yesterday.
If you don't know what that means, think of vegetable water.
It's vegetable water.
I've bought thyme twice now to make it with.
A sprig. That's what the recipe calls for.
And twice I had it go bad because I take so frigging long to do anything.
My parents are away again and so I'm acting like an adult
(though I'm really at my most juvenile; using their paper towels
swallowing their prescription medicine).
Really they're the ones who took too long.
Not me.
Cooking is frustrating when mom and dad are here.
Because I can't have pornography on in the background while I do it.

Speaking of things I haven't done, I'm writing now.
I haven't been.
I haven't been.
I want to move to Halifax soon.
In order to do some writing, have some infidelities, or get mauled by a deer in a coffee shop.
Though I'd rather watch Peter White take the antlers than myself.
We can chalk all of this up to a relatively lax summer.
And a crippling video game addiction.
Which has only become so literal lately.
My thumbs kinda hurt.
25 years I've been playing video games.
Only taking breaks to lose my virginity, get an education, and check on the egg rolls from time to time.
My thumbs have never hurt before.
I suppose I'm not too surprised.
You play guns for a season's length and that's bound to catch up to you.
My colloquial (I can't pronounce this word out loud) term for this game.
I single-handedly convinced six people to purchase and begin playing it.
Alas, I believe it's time to take a step back.
Fun is fun, but that's long enough not making the vegetable water.
That being said, I'm no less afraid of doing things that involve money.
If someone wants to find me an apartment in Halifax so that I don't have to do it...
...You know the rest.

Do you stop being nice when you lose your virginity?
Did I?

The Cold. Truth.

2011-08-04T20:26:00.002-02:30

I need to watch a documentary every day.
Whether they're good, or they just depict a guy eating a lot of Big Macs.
Documentaries always put me in the mood to write after I see them.
Probably because they're well-narrated and they have upbeat songs during the closing credits.
So I've been...not around.
For the longest period since I began writing this blog in the first place.
I began writing this blog because Turpin convinced me to.
Did I ever mention that?
Oh! Speaking of.
She and I went on Maury Povich last month.
Turns out that I'm not the father of her child.
No, the father of her child is in fact a Western Lowland Gorilla living at the Woodland Park Zoo in Seattle, Washington.
He won't return her calls.

I don't know why I've been gone for so long.
Mom and Dad went on a three-week vacation.
Which meant that I went on a three-week vacation.
It was okay.
I made my own pizza dough.
After that, I guess I just sort of reveled in my own sloth.
As I tend to do, given a chance.

I don't know about those bike lanes that the Doc stuck in St. John's.
To me, and I'm no transit expert, they seem like pictures of bikes and arrows painted on the road.
I guess those are the bike lanes.
Oftentimes when I'm driving (polluting!), the vehicle occupies the space in which the bike is supposed to be.
I haven't encountered a cyclist yet, but when I do, I'm going to assume I have the right-of-way.

When they invent robot maids, all human maids will have jobs assembling and maintaining the robot maids.
And they'll scoff these machines for being unable to feel love.
And for not stealing loose change when it's right there in front of them.
With their robot maid vacuum arms.

I missed you while I was gone.
And I felt as though I was doing the wrong thing.
Not writing.
Not texting.
Not looking at photos of you on the beach on Facefuck.
But that's changed now.
In truth, I'm fever-y and snotty and sick and I need you.
And whenever I need you, I'll always be there.

(This one's genius):
I tried an oxygen bar not that long ago.
I found I could get as good at home.

Hard to Follow (Up)

2011-06-30T19:04:00.004-02:30

Comrades!
It's me again.
I'm writing my blog post in Starbucks.
Just as Starbucks intended.
What is a Starbuck supposed to be, anyway?
Perhaps they refer to their revunue as Starbucks because they intend to use it to buy a planet.
Or solar system.
Doesn't matter.
Doesn't matter.

I'll be on stage within a couple of hours.
I'm doing a weekend with Allyson Smith.
Sorta looks like a teacher who wanted to be a writer.
I have to speak to her before we get started because I think I accidentally flirted with her last time she was in town.
Despite the fact that I know they have self-esteem issues, I can't think of a more terrifying woman than a comic.
Like myself, Allyson Smith did Just For Laughs early into her career.
I mistake this coincidence as kinship of some sort.
I asked her what I should do after the fact.
She advised that I 'follow up on it.'
I nodded while realizing that I didn't know what that meant.
While she was in town I offered to stop by because I wanted to ask her about it.
This is the situation.
You people don't need to know any of this.
I'm just practicing my apology which I'll be spewing at her in a couple of hours.
I still don't really know what it means, by the way.
Move out of your parents' house, probably.

Speaking of empty nests, mom and dad have flown the coop for a few weeks.
Some Winnebago extravaganza that leaves me man of the house.
I babrbecued everything I ate yesterday.
They're gone for what will be the best three weeks of my summer.

Gandar is over (but not forgotten.)
I performed to a room with an odd shape and a lot of quiet, middle-aged people in it.
I went too long and then Sheehan made me look bad.
In the best possible way.
He didn't like it when I said that he had a square head.
If he dislikes the things I say about him publicily, he'd hate the things I say about him behind his back.
Kidding John!
Kidding.
He drove myself and Avril home to Bay Roberts.
We talked shop, he gave advice, and we listened to Appetite For Destruction.
It was a good gig.
We stopped at a flea market.
I was about to haggle with a round woman in a cowboy hat and fanny pack.
Over a game.
But then she had a frank and terse discussion with a guy who ran another flea market table.
It seemed like he was talking about how wrong all of the flea market "staff" was to dislike him.
She seemed to think that they were all on to something.
I chose to eavesdrop on that instead.

Maybe I'm the coolest loser out there.

I See A Little Silhouetto of a Man

2011-06-23T11:36:00.006-02:30

Anyone who has dated me for a long enough period of time knows.
I'm not into skinny jeans.
They're not designed to make someone look good.
Though they did end up being designed to make someone look like they're fitting in.
Almost as important.
I don't understand how this catches on in a society of eating disorders.
They make even my thighs look huge.
And I don't have thighs.

Pot and the kettle, I sort of bought a pair.
Well, I didn't.
They're not 'for real' skinny jeans.
I can sit down in them.
They are, however, the tightest pair of pants I've ever owned.
If you know where to look, you can see the outline of my penis in them.
That's too tight for me, emotionally.
Though, to be honest, I'm not concerned about people seeing the outline of my penis in these jeans.
I'm concerned about them mistaking things that aren't my penis in these jeans.

The Space Between

2011-06-22T11:17:00.005-02:30

I've been meaning to go see the dentist for some time now.
Which is an absolutely terrifying thought.
Because "for some time" translates to be about a decade or so.
How could the dentist possibly have good news for me?
Do you have any idea how many Fun Dips I have opened in the past ten years?
Zero!
But I'm still concerned.
When I go, I'm going to ask him or her which toothpaste they recommend.
Oh sure.
Dentists are recommending toothpastes on TV all of the time.
But I worry that some of those people may not even be dentists.
They might be stand up comics instead.

Speaking of pulling teeth, I have a gig coming up in Gandar in a week.
With John Sheehan.
Nice guy, probably. Has a square head.
Fights fires.
I offered him a ride on the way to Gandat.
Warning him that it was "a little unorthodox."
He seemed interested.
But he must not know what 'unorthodox' means.
He was surprised and dismissive when he found out that my ride was with my parents in their motor home.
He said that he'd "just take his van."
I don't know why he was so put out; the vehicle is a class-A.
It's a very spacious machine.

He announced as he hosted the Screech Comedy Fest open mic that I would be on next year's gala.
'Gala' means 'festival's final show with the largest venue'.
This is good news.
He mentioned this as I was getting on stage.
Pete Soucy mentioned it earlier in the evening.
But I was in the bathroom at the time.
So everyone in the room knew this before I did.
Avril told fellow comics not to mention it to me.
Which proved to be a neat idea.
It's nice to get good news seconds before you're about to do comedy.
I opened by saying, "I didn't know I was on the gala next year.
I don't have to worry about doing well now.
Fuck this show."
Then I talked about haircuts for six minutes.

I hate the gap in my teeth, by the way.
I always have.
I don't even like referring to it.
I'm forcing myself to do so right now.
And even now I'm not mentioning it therapeutically.
I just won't have a title for this post otherwise.
I guess it's supposed to provide my face with character (faults).
But I would argue that my face has more than enough character already.
If anything, I need less.
Though, to be honest, I'm not as hung up on this aspect of my physical appearance any more.
Not with my body hair growing in the way it has been.

Fantasy of the Opera

2011-06-21T13:36:00.007-02:30

I'm not thoughtful enough to actually remember gift ideas.
I always write them down.
Like when I'm in the toy aisle at Zeller's and I see Colin eyeing the Legos.
Avril mentioned the opera to me yesterday.
We've all been there, right fellas?
And that reminded me that I had once intended to buy her opera gloves.
To go with the pairs that she already has.
Anyway.
Even though she didn't really ask me to go, I responded to the idea just the same.
And, since I'm obviously too lazy to come up with new posts these days...
Enjoy!

So are you asking me to go to the opera?
That's a little TV clichéd, isn't it?
Well, it isn't.
But if you asked me to go on the same night as the big football game match it would be.
And all of my football buddies rented a big screen TV just for the big game.
And I have to go and see it. I just have to.
But I don't know what to tell you, and I promised you the last time that there was a big football game during the opera that I would go with you this time.
And it's our anniversary.
But I really want to watch the game.
Then it dawns on one of my football buddies that the opera starts a couple of hours earlier than the football game does.
So, we can do this:
I could go to the opera, but wear my football TV game clothing under my tux.
Then, during the opera's intermission, I could fake a seizure and have my football buddy, who is also a paramedic, come by and get me from the opera house.
He'll assure you that I'm fine and that you should enjoy the rest of the opera while they tend to me.
Then I can get changed in the back of the ambulance.
And we can make it to kickoff just in time because my football buddy can drive with the sirens on.
And I say to my football buddy "that's perfect!"
But when you and I go to the opera, you surprise me by telling me that your old college buddy Dennis is in town for one night only, and you have asked him and his wife to join us for the opera.
And it turns out that Dennis and his wife are both medical doctors.
So, now I don't know what I'm going to do because I'm concerned that I can't fake a seizure convincingly any more.
And I'm sweating under my tuxedo in my football clothes.
So, I decide that I'll be really crude during the first portion of the opera in the hopes that I'll offend Dennis and his wife away from our seats before the intermission.
I caress and fondle Dennis' Wife's arms and thighs during the performance.
And I shout at the performers that I can't understand what they're talking about because I don't speak Italian.
And I tell Dennis that he needs to lose some weight.
Then I excuse myself and phone my football buddies from the bathroom.
To tell them that the plan has hit a snag.
But it turns out that Dennis' Wife is really into me because I'm forward and take-charge and so she follows me to the bathroom.
And tries to undo my belt buckle.
And I've been watching a lot of classic pornography lately (I really have), so I just sort of go with it and let her take my pants off in the bathroom.
And she begins performing on me orally.
And I say into the phone "I gotta go," and then hang it up.
Then Dennis comes into the washroom because he has to use it and he's wondering where his wife went.
He sees her fellating me and gets really angry, but then he sort of calms down really quickly and begins undoing his belt buckle.
And then you come by because you don't know where everyone else is.
You start touching and caressing Dennis' member and that's okay because you're wearing opera gloves.

I guess what I'm saying is that I could go with you, but you might be able to find another friend who will appreciate it more.
Maybe I'll turn this into a blog post...

And scene.

I hate these little videos that everyone has to watch these days.
These litte...y'know...videos.
YouTube is infested with these videos that you've 'gotta see!'
This might turn into one of those.
If it hasn't already.
But, I hate to say, you gotta see it.

The real question is:
How did the young couple get their hands on what looks like an endangered animal?
The camerawork, disembodied hands, and whispered tones remind me of amateur porn.

No Dogs Go To Heaven

2011-06-14T22:18:00.007-02:30

I don't fear car crashes, necessarily.
I just don't want to die while I'm listening to Oh What A Night.
Eerie.
That's not even the name of the song.
The name of the song is December, 1963.
It's like they knew they wanted to name the track after an early line in the song.
And they just didn't realize which one was going to catch on.
Anyway.
Careening into the woods while that's playing.
Boughs ripping out the windshield wipers.
I'm okay with dying in a hilarious way.
But I'd prefer someone was around to witness it.
For example, I'd be mad at the piano movers for losing their grip on the rope.
But at least they'd have a good story to tell after the police reports.

While we're on the subject, music can fascinate me in some ways.
How it affects our brains and bodies.
Try listening to Ahead By A Century in a vehicle by yourself.
And see if you get to the end before you start bellowing the lyrics.
Can't do it, can you?

Sometimes people ask, "What will become of me when I die?"
Someone needs to be compassionate enough to tell them that the answer is "Compost."
So these people can move on with (what's left of) their lives.
I knew my thoughts on the afterlife when I was very young.
I would say, "What was it like for you in 1812?"
Response.
"Exactly."
Nothingness is nothingness is nothingness.
Sure, that's a real downer of a concept.
But that's not to say it's an irrational one.
We insist on afterlives and whatnot.
But I can't fathom why.
Eternity wouldn't be so selective.
If humans were granted an afterlife, so too would ants.
And skunks.
And Jack Thompson.
Just doesn't seem right.
Our souls don't transcend fictitious borders after we fall off of a cliff.
We're just really smart.
Relatively speaking.
Life is now.
Keep that in mind while you're eating ravioli in a veal stock.
Or you're fucking your sister's friend that you've been keen on for a decade.
Of course, I sure hope that I'm wrong.
But, as always, I doubt it.

Y'know, I once sent Jack Thompson an e-mail telling him to go fuck himself.
Wonder if he got it...

A Little Bird Told Me

2011-06-04T14:02:00.002-02:30

It took me some time, but I have finally figured out the purpose of Twitter.
It's to justify not writing in your blog for a couple of days.

A Fine Time

2011-06-04T13:32:00.005-02:30

I'm in a hotel lobby.
There are politicians everywhere.
That's not really true.
But Jack Layton was here earlier.
It's funny how TV affects your brain.
Because, really, Jack Layton is a man that I'm not interested in.
I'd have lunch with him, but I'd tune him out just like anyone else.
But when I saw him, I immediately thought, "Holy shit, is that Jack Layton?"
People will do that with me someday.
They'll think, "Holy shit, is that Jack Layton?"
And then they'll size me up and realize, "Oh, no, it's just some dead beat.
Rummaging through garbage."
Anyway, I could tell it was him because he used the word 'platform'.
And he looked as though he was listening very carefully to whoever was speaking to him.
His whole job, really.
Besides promoting the colour orange.
Which, I must say, he's pretty good at.

I paid the hotel $200 to environmentally clean my room.
After the security man busted me for smoking in there.
It wasn't me doing the smoking, really.
Well, not all of it.
I don't handle confrontation with security well.
I have a nasty habit of immediately telling the truth.
"Are you smoking in that room?"
"Absolutely. And I'm enjoying it immensely."
And I just want the situation to resolve itself as quickly as possible.
"That's a $200 fine."
"Great. Let me give you my name and bank account number."
He said that he hated doing his job.
But he was smiling the entire time...

It was lovely, though.
Kyle Radke is a very funny man, and one worth looking up to.
He has big teeth, but they don't register as big when you speak to him, y'know?
Nadine and Steph Rogers dropped by to brighten my day.
Which they were always good at.
They once straightened my hair against my will when I was 18.
Holy shit.
That was eleven years ago.
Anyway.

I went shopping for sexy stockings with Peter White yesterday.
Everyone should do this at least once in their lifetime.
We went to La Senza first.
I did all of the talking.
But when the woman responded to me, she addressed both of us.
As we walked out I told Pete that I feared she thought we wanted the stockings.
For ourselves.
In our private time.
Not the case though.
They're more for my girlfriend's legs and washing machine.
The woman suggested The Bay.
"I hate the Bay," Peter whined.
"Well, this is going to be a rough day for you," I replied.
We wandered while Pete's girlfriend asked me what sort of stockings I wanted.
The more I described them, the more she seemed to think they were a bad idea.
As we walked around a couple of old bitties passed by.
And I Realized that they're The Bay's main clientele.
Then I realized that we wouldn't be finding sexy anything at The Bay.
We stopped by H&M.
A chain we don't have in Newfoundland.
Their (regular) socks are awesome.
And gay men claim that their men's' underwear is lovely to buy and wear.
But the store is very disorienting.
There are mirrors and pitch-black mannequins everywhere.
I tried to find an employee and eventually found a woman.
To Pete, "She's putting clothes on racks, she probably works here."
"Nope, I'm just hanging these things up," she responds.
I think that she's throwing me friendly salesperson banter.
So I go on.
"Can you tell me where to find sexy..."
Then I realize that she has a stroller with her.
And it has a baby in it.
"That took you a long time to figure out," Peter said as she walked away.

Peter White had a lovely vehicle rented.
I would have accidentally opened the door and spilled out onto the road as we moved.
Luckily he had the doors locked.
Peter knows all of the necessary precautions.
He's spent some time with me by now.

A Tough Call

2011-05-31T23:17:00.006-02:30

I had to speak to my vice-principal sort-of boss today.
In his office.
Everything was fine.
It just turns out that I've won most sexually-ambiguous substitute again this year.
But for a moment I was concerned that he had found this blog.
And, more to the point, had been reading it.
I was terrified that he may have figured out that I sometimes curse in front of babies.

I'm always upset when he calls to tell me that he needs me.
He did it just now. Seconds ago (he really did.)
I understand that I'm supposed to be happy that he's calling me.
Because that's an excuse to wear a tie.
But I generally curse when I see his number on my phone.
Junior high just isn't that fun.
Sure, the girls are finally writing me notes while I'm there.
Which I always wanted them to do.
But it's just not the same.

A Big Dick

2011-05-30T19:07:00.002-02:30

The weekend is over now.
Despite my protests.
I worked with Adam Delorey and the filthy Matt Esteves this weekend.
I screwed a co-worker's spouse out of dinner and a show for two.
A one hundred dollar value.
Really, he screwed himself.
I'm not giving out a prize to anyone whose ballot lists 'Dirk Diggler' as their name.

I moved some furniture while wishing I was elsewhere.
Which is the only way I move furniture, really.
Then I was elsewhere.
I bought jeans with the help of Turpin.
Two pairs.
Took us more than half an hour.
Avril says that I flirt with retail people.
And it's true.
It's sort of a reflex.
It was the case with this woman.
Turpin and I were both flirting with her, really.
I wonder who she liked more...

Then nothing else happened.
Mom and dad are siphoning wine.
A process that makes me wish I was drinking it.

O, Come Off It

2011-05-25T07:45:00.006-02:30

Tonight is Oprah's big finale.
Her grand send-off.
She's leaving TV so that she can better control it.
Have you ever watched her network before?
It's really shitty.
And you may not think that that affects you now.
But it certainly will when it's the only network.
For her final show there is speculation as to who the guest will be.
Some said that it was going to be Tom Cruise.
But she already had him on there.
Jumping around on the furniture.
Others believe that it might be Tyra Banks.
Since she's hanging from Oprah's tit anyway.
(Dr. Phil is on the other one).
However, rumours are now cropping that the guest is going to be...Oprah herself!
Hardly a surprise.
She puts out a magazine, names it after herself and then puts herself on every cover.
Gossip has gone on to say that Oprah will address the audience as herself.
And, after giving each person in the crowd their own oil tanker, she's going to shut and lock the doors of the United Center with her mind.
Then she's going to set fire to the entire building.
Tomorrow on ET Mary Hart will say:
"Things were heating up last night on Oprah's send-off show..."
The ground-up bones of her audience members will be used in her new cosmetics line.

...
Sometimes people are taken aback by my aversion to Oprah.
And I really don't get it.
I could call Bill Gates the anti-christ and no one would bat an eye.
You don't become a billionaire magnate by being really nice.
It just doesn't work that way.
How she appears on TV is not genuine.
Just because you give away a bunch of Pontiac G6s doesn't mean you're compassionate.
Look at the women in this photo:

Do any of them look like they need cars?
Do you think any of them took a bus to the taping of the show?
She uses money and power to buy support and numbers.
Military dictators do the same thing.
"But why would she need the support of middle-aged white women?"
It would certainly be a key demographic on the campaign trail, wouldn't it?
Especially when all of the wives make their husbands vote for her, too.
Fuck Oprah.
I hope her guest tonight is Lucifer, just so I can say, "I told ya so."

Royal Treatment

2011-05-22T11:13:00.005-02:30

"I left my heart in Lewisporte," they always say.
Everyone's religious here.
There's road construction going on.
It took us twenty minutes to get to the hardware store.
Just like Toronto!
I have been here since Friday and I have learned nothing.
Bussey invited everyone down for a May 2-4 weekend.
In his newish house.
New to us.
It's very open concept, and all of the furniture is the same colour green.
I've been wondering if the furniture came with the house.
Or if they painted it all themselves.
Or bought like one of those sets?
Cause you can buy sets of things that are the same colour.
But I've been afraid to ask.
I'm concerned it's a stupid question.
I threw up Friday night after four beers.
Woke up in the middle of the night.
I think it happened because my heartburn was so bad.
I'm not sure if that makes me feel better or worse about the whole affair.

Speaking of feeling worse about affairs.
Arnold Schwartzeneger (not checking the spelling) banged his housewife.
Then the news was saying 'illegitimate child' this and that.
And I realized that though the regency is dead, bastard children can still cost you the kingdom.
Or, at the very least, they can cost you made-up women who co-star in your tourism commercials.

I forgot to bring my clothing for this trip, by the way.
I packed them all (the night before!)
But I ended up leaving them in my bedroom.
I remembered my slippers, though.
Those are new.
I figure that if my work ethic and capabilities match an old person's, why fight it?

That's about it.
I carried a box of plaster!

Because I forgot my clothing, and because they're trying to get into heaven-
Before it's too late-
Turpin and Pete bought me some temporary clothing from Bargain Giant.
When photos emerge I'll upload them.
Maybe.
It included a tank top that said "One hit wonder."
Before the weekend was over, I listened to what I consider to be the best there is.
Not best as in, "This is the best one because it's so shitty and dated."
(Right Said Fred.)
I mean the one hit wonder that is legitimately the best song.
Get some headphones on so you can really hear the piano.
What did you guys do for your long weekend?
Worked?
Worked out?
Was the queen on the go, by the way?
I wasn't talking to her.

Imagine My Surprise

2011-05-15T16:12:00.006-02:30

You're right, the harmonica is the most whimsical instrument.

It used to be rocks and sharpened sticks.
Now it's the iPhone 4G.
Because the 3G wasn't gee enough.
Point is, despite our tools, we've never stopped being monkeys.
All that has changed is our arrogance.
But then, you're far too sophisticated for me to be right.
Right?

Why be a vegetarian before all of the animals are extinct?
If you think you miss bacon now, wait until you learn that bacon's never coming back.
Except, of course...

(With sincere apologies to Tim Ronin.
That makes sense if you know him.)

Respecting women isn't holding the door open for them.
It's not staring at their ass while you do so.

Alright.
That's enough cynicism for today.
I went to a surprise party last night.
For someone I didn't know.
And after everyone yelled 'Surprise!' he shook my hand.
Saying, "Paul, I didn't expect to see you here."
Which is when I wanted to say, "I didn't expect you to say my name just now."

Play us out, buddy.

Out Your Ass

2011-05-11T20:40:00.000-02:30

Why is it that those we rear-end are always assholes?
With brittle necks and bumpers that already needed repairing beforehand?

Thou Doth Protest Too Much

2011-05-10T12:26:00.004-02:30

I had that dream again, everybody.
The one where the PETA grand wizards are protesting outside of Rome's Colosseum.
Because the Romans using live tigers in their show.
And then the burley man comes out to speak to them.
You always see him in the movies.
He's the one who is always wearing a helmet and is always carrying an ax.
And he keeps the slaves in line before they fight.

By today's standards he'd be a stage manager, or an executive producer.
Anyway, that guy comes out to address the PETA crowd.
And he does this by rounding them up and putting them in the following round.

The tiger wins.

A Bicycle Built for You

2011-05-06T11:54:00.008-02:30

Bill MacIntosh has always insisted that "People don't listen. People don't read."

Y'know, I never did tell you about the Bixis in Montreal.
First thing's first:
I look incredible today.
My hair is at all of the right angles, I guess.
It's the lighting.
Noon-time's lighting always presents me well.
No wait.
That's first thing's last.
First thing's first:
A Bixi, for those of you who don't know (God knows I didn't) is a bike.
Readily available at various Bixi stations.
Which occur in Montreal as frequently as pockets of homeless people do.
So they're relatively common.
They provide incredibly frugal, clean, public transit for anyone with two legs.
And a valid credit card.
That's the important part.
So, we're in Montreal, and the Homegrown Competition is over at this point.
Which means that the participants are now finally speaking to one another.
Fellow loser Jane Stanton, despised runner-up Nathan MacIntosh, and myself decide to go for a bike ride.
On the Bixis.
Jane Stanton is a legitimate redhead with a penchant for capris.

She's a celiac, which is a medical condition that only allows you to eat one type of bagel.
They don't toast!
I've seen them put into toasters.
They come back out and they're untoasted.
What does that say about a grain? Fire doesn't affect it.
I wouldn't eat it.
Anyway.
So every time we eat a meal in a restaurant (which is three times a day), Jane has to explain to the uninterested wait staff:
"I'll have a BLT. But I can't have it on normal bread.
I have some bagels here. Could you use one of these?"
Blank stare.
"Cause I'm celiac.
...
I can't eat gluten."
Blank stare, followed by, "Uh, alright."
That's Jane.
I've now told you everything interesting about her.
Nathan Macintosh is a magnificent human being.

Who appreciates brightly-coloured footwear as much as I do.
Nathan looks like the offspring of a beautiful woman and the male equivalent of a troll doll.

In his act he mentions that he looks like Fry from Futurama.
What he neglects to mention is that he also kinda sounds like him...
He's always grinning.
If he died tragically, I'm positive that his funeral would be overrun with hot girls.
That's Nathan.
Bike ride.
We step over some homeless people on the way to the nearest Bixi station.
Renting a bicycle costs five bucks.
I know that my VISA limit is near.
But I also know that even I have that much to spare.
Go to get a bike.
Won't let me do it, and won't explain why.
I try a couple of times and nothing happens.
Jane tries her credit card.
Won't let her do it.
I tell them my credit might be close to being maxed.
Jane explains that she's wanted for fraud in her native B.C..
Hers may not work because of that.
Nathan uses his credit card.
Purchases a ticket for two (an available option) codes.
Unlocks the bikes.
Tries to buy another ticket for one code (the other option).
To unlock another bike.
My bike.
Won't let him do it.
Tries several times.
Nothin'.
We pow-wow what to do next.
Nathan is casually circling around on his bike.
Jane has another credit card back at her apartment.
Which is where all three of us are living at this point.
Why don't I take one of the rented bixis back there?
Get the card.
Come back.
I realize that I don't have time to go over my personal history.
Explain to them why my riding a bike in Montreal on a Saturday afternoon-
During tourist season-
Might not be the best idea.
Squeamish, I simply agree.
You know what they say about riding a bike:
It's just like riding a bike...
Rickety, I'm riding with the traffic.
Cars are whizzing by me at Québécois speeds.
Some one-and-a-half feet away.
Honking their horns.
I try to act cool in front of the receptionist while I wheel this thing into the lobby.
Because I've been trying to act cool in front of her for over a week now.
Gotta keep up the ruse.
"Mind watching my bike?"
Run up. Credit card. Ride back.
Try her card.
Won't let us do it.
Decide to go to another Bixi station.
We ride/walk to the next one.
Try all of the bullshit again.
No go.
Call the 800 number.
Nathan's talking to someone.
It's at this point that Jane and I decide to read the instructions.
First important thing we notice:
$250 deposit is required along with the five dollar fee.
We now know why my card didn't work; I'm a bum.
(I kinda knew all along.)
I already mentioned Stanton's fraud charges.
Nathan's in the background, "Why do you need my credit card number?
...
Because I'd rather not give it to you."
Next important piece of information:
Limit of two bikes per credit card.
Nathan's reading off digits and expiry dates.
My favourite part of the 800 call?
Before Nathan reads his credit card info, he says:
"Alright Montreal, I hope you're listening: four, five, one, zero..."
We get him off of the phone and stand around.
We've been an hour at this so far.
Probably. I can't remember, really.
Ultimately I say, "Well you've gotta go.
What else are we going to do, take turns?
Have me run beside you guys?
It's fine. You go without me."
They ask, "Are you sure?"
"It's fine," laughing I say, "I'll just go jerk off in Jane's room.
Have a wonderful bike ride."
Which they did.
And I never got to tell them I loved them.
There.
That's the story.
Let's never talk about it again.

Two Birds. One Stone

2011-05-02T19:36:00.004-02:30

Oh!
They managed to track down Bin Laden.
For those who have forgotten, the U.S. has been looking for him for some time.
After one of his low-grade music videos interrupted the finale of The Bachelor.
Just goes to show you: no matter what cave you hide in, ABC will find you.
Americans love hunting down and shooting things.
Foxes (the British started this one, I know. But Americans made it cool.)
Skeets.
Perceived threats is a big one.
So, history's highest number of civilian casualties in one sitting
versus
An emaciated man and his harem of "virgins," is a win.
And as our strapped southern buddies have taught us, winning isn't everything.
But it's really Jesus important.

The Lesser of Two Weasels

2011-05-02T19:17:00.007-02:30

I just finished voting for the first time in a long time.
I don't feel any different than I did before I voted.
But I own a couple of really short pencils now.
So it won't be a total bust, regardless.
Stephen Harper was the kid in class who would remind the teacher about homework.
"You forgot to give us our spelling test, teacher."
That's Harper the kid.
Impeccable sweater. Cold, dead eyes.
Yes, a Prime Minister only a mother could love.

I've been meaning to ask you this for ages, but I haven't been speaking:
Would you rather be famous and die in a plane crash
OR
Be a nobody and get hit by a bus?
Think about it.

On the Hunt

2011-04-24T15:43:00.003-02:30

Roll the boulder from the tomb.
It's Easter.
If you haven't checked the flower pot for eggs, be sure to check the flower pot.
And while you're huddled in the corner of your home, coloured foil all around you, listen to this tune.

Appreciating the Elements

2011-04-23T13:30:00.005-02:30

They advise you to invest in silver and gold.
So that when the ATM machines turn on us
And the internet swallows all of our VISA numbers,
You'll have some ducats in your sock to get by on.
Which I have decided to do.
Simply because the idea sounds so romantic.
"You can't sell me a PSP because the economy has expired, you say?
Well, would a silver nugget change your mind?"
Drug dealers would be able to handle this situation well.
They deal exclusively in nuggets.

We'll have ourselves a new sort of gold rush.
Where everyone loads up their SUVs to head north.
They'll pack their Ugg boots for the rough terrain.
Their pre-ripped jeans for the 14-hour days of panning.
Yes, it's going to be a time of prosperity, alright.
Just what we'll need.

Every Rose Has Its Thorn

2011-04-19T17:36:00.001-02:30

Be aware of your decisions as you make them.
Hug your girlfriends.
Rock out.

Maybe Yes, Maybe No More

2011-04-16T12:50:00.002-02:30

All of you people out there having sex.
Think you have it so figured out.
Knock up your high school sweetheart at the Sadie Hawkins, and suddenly you know dating.
Filthy gurus that you are.
Whenever I mention to my friends that I don't ask out this woman or that woman for the sake of my dignity's tattered remains, what do they point out?
"Well, b'y, she can only say 'no.'"
Wrong.
She can also say 'yes.'
She chooses to say 'no.'

Join the Clubhouse

2011-04-16T12:44:00.005-02:30

The clubhouse has become such a success story in the food and beverage industry.
And I know why:
Individually, most people are too lazy to organize so many ingredients for the sake of a sandwich.
I have included a recipe below for anyone who has the time to make one today.
"It's sunny outside.
It's -3 degrees.
Get out there and make yourself a sandwich!"

Internet Killed the Video Star

2011-04-14T23:41:00.009-02:30

Given a choice between integrity and 15 minutes of fame (it's more like seconds these days)...
...most would prefer to watch a video of a really fat guy falling down.
Or, y'know, make their own video!

M(y) I(ntrusive)L(over's)F(ixation)

2011-04-11T18:36:00.006-02:30

From the amateur pornographic images that I have seen, I have wondered:
Are Europeans more sexually liberated than North Americans?
Or are they just better at getting drunk?

Speaking of sex with old women, I was harassed in a bar on Friday.
It was great.
The woman told me that I looked like Bob Dylan.
In the sixties, when he "didn't have any wrinkles."
She referred to me as Mister Tambourine Man and kissed my neck.
Maude was still pouring my beer at this point.
She did the thing to my buttocks that people do.
Credit card?
Is that what they call it?
I'm unsure of how old this woman was.
But her features and the intensity of my erection would suggest 55 years.
At least.
I left my toothbrush on the floor of the bar that same evening.
If you spot it (Christian's Tavern), bring it by, please.
I can just replace the replacement head and continue on as I was before.
With some new emotional scarring, of course.
I don't even want to tell you what this woman did to Steve Coombs.

Subtext

2011-04-06T21:01:00.003-02:30

Y'know, I don't even like writing this thing.
I never have.
I just like putting titles on things.

A High Note

2011-04-05T22:28:00.005-02:30

Hats off to the music teachers out there.
I know that they just they seem like gym teachers.
With a different sort of expensive equipment to lock up during lunch.
But it's more complex than that:
It's not easy to avoid wincing when twenty children play their recorders simultaneously.

Nth Wheel

2011-04-04T23:22:00.004-02:30

I'd be picked last for an orgy.
I just know that I would be.
I wouldn't be asked to leave, which I guess is a nice thought in itself.
But nobody would be calling 'dibs' on me, either.
Rather, I'd be ignored as all of the sighing and grunting sinks to the floor around me.
Sheepsishly eyeing the Scrabble board and wine bottles that are strewn about.
Now forgotten.
Like yours truly.
And I'll wonder if there's a book nearby that I can thumb through.
While I wait for this travesty to conclude.
And I'll feel like it's Sports Day all over again.
As all of the other monkeys roll around and high jump without me.
Scrabble Xs and Ts stuck to asses and thighs.

Alpha and Omegle

2011-03-30T20:55:00.007-02:30

It's fucked when you sit and realize that no one will ever sculpt you.
Like a statue.
You will never be a statue.
I won't be either.
And if either of us are cast in stone, it will likely be for all the wrong reasons.

Owning a dog involves convincing him or her that you lead the pack.
You have all of the sex.
Becomes an easier point to prove once you lop off their nutsack.
Owning a cat involves convincing the cat that you don't give a shit about them either.

Have you heard of Omegle?
You're a savvy group.
You're a hip young readership.
You know what I'm talking about when I say Omegle.
South Park made fun of it (I don't feel like finding the episode, sorry).
You have conversations with strangers on it.
Unless you have a web cam.
Then you masturbate in front of them instead.
So, new laptop from Santa Clause, I figure "Now's my chance."
I found a real looker quickly enough.
Things were getting amorous.
I had already asked her where it was that she was from.
Whether or not she liked Pink Floyd.
Things were getting serious.
We begin undressing.
The Internet is finally paying off.
Turns out she's under age, and the whole thing is a sting operation.
As soon as she begins lifting her shirt, a bunch of FBI guys bust into her room.
Wearing FBI hats and t-shirts.
Pointing guns at me.
So I had to put my hands up.
Until the screen saver came on.*
I should have known something was fishy when she asked:
"Who's Pink Floyd?"

*this line came from Peter Russell.

Break A Leg

2011-03-29T14:24:00.004-02:30

Two words for you would-be teachers:
R.W. & Co.
However many words that is.
Technically, none.
Big boy clothing throughout the whole store.
Sick cardigans with cool piping.
And the male employees all have erect nipples.
A great place.
I went clothes shopping with Peter White and Jeff Elliot.
A pair of comic vagabonds, I spent a fair amount of Saturday with them.
Including Saturday night, which I had assured Peter before his arrival, would involve us getting drunk.
Which happened ten-fold.
Outside of Christian's at about 4a.m., and then wherever else I found myself.
I slept on couch cushions on a section of floor.
I spent the entirity of Sunday wishing that Peter White hadn't been in town.
Typical, if you know him.
Some woman with a baby was with us for a part of the evening.
With Evan.
It was Evan's birthday.
Evan wasn't the baby, by the way.
He's some dude who has likely been suckered into caring for the baby.
Her baby had a broken femur at one point.
That's the leg bone that horses get shot over if they break them.
We watched a number of middle-aged people dance and try to have sex with one another.
I hit the floor with a tall, 30-something homely woman.
And a shorter, squatter, more sexually aggressive friend of hers.
That's it.
That's everything I have the energy to describe right now.
Oh, I found my phone, also.
Don't worry about that.
It was in the cab.

Aisles Apart

2011-03-24T12:41:00.007-02:30

They make a shave gel for sensitive skin.
But I can't find one anywhere that accomodates the sensitive man.
I go to the counter sometimes and ask about it.
That's where you buy shaving supplies anyway; at the counter.
Beer, cigarettes, razor blades.
All of Man's vices.
Anyway, I'll say to the register:
"Excuse me, but I didn't see any sensitive man shave gel over in the aisle.
I was just wondering if you carried any?"
Unrelated story:
One of my fondest Bussey memories was the time we were waiting to leave for St. John's.
One of Kevin Senior's business trips, that doubled as a van ride into town for us.
Pat would come along so that we had an adult to bring us into the R-rated films.
So, we're all in junior high and we're all sitting and waiting to leave.
Passing the time, Bussey's younger brother, Bussey, picks up a flyer on the van's floor.
And reads:
"We have assles and assles of selection...?"
His father grabs the flyer and looks at it and says, "That's aisles and aisles."
You really had to be there.
Or you at least have to hear the story spoken aloud.
But this version will have to do.
Technology hampering us once more.
All of my best stories.

I just received a drunken phone call from an Australian woman.
Everyone should experience this at least once.

A Little Off the Top

2011-03-23T12:09:00.005-02:30

Elizabeth Taylor is dead.
When I learned this, I just wanted to check and make sure that Liza Minnelli was okay.
I don't know what that means.

My father and I sawed some pieces from some doors yesterday.
The doors, normally attached to my brother's rooms, have been scraping the carpet.
And that's insignificant enough to make dad do something about it.
So, we had to detach these relics and saw the bottoms off of them.
About half an inch.
We bring the first door back upstairs after the fact.
As we're lining it up, Dad says, "I believe I accidentally cut from the top.
Do you think so?"
"Well," I replied, "The keyhole's upside-down."

Just Between Us

2011-03-21T20:17:00.006-02:30

They say that amateur is the most successful brand of pornography.
That genre with the wine glasses and the semen is pretty steamy, sure.
Nauseatingly so.
But amateur. That's what we want to see.
And we all know why it is that we want to see it.
We hope to encounter someone from high school on some filthy (free) site somewhere.
So we can judge their character.
Judge their nude body.
And then forget all the fightin' and fussin' of the past.
And masturbate.
With gusto, I might add.
This is healthy.
This is adulthood.
And it happens, too.
It's happening all over the world (internet) right now.
Wait...
See? It just occurred again.
Some guy in a bathrobe stumbled upon an intimate film starring the girl who sat behind him in biology.
And suddenly it's human reproduction all over again.
He's springing to his feet, arms raised high, his bathrobe flappy and agape.
"Who's the prom king now!?" He cries to his empty apartment.
"Who's the prom king now!?"
Exclude the simmering betrayal that had to transpire for her to be on there in the first place.
And it's really a beautiful thing.

I had such a film once, y'know.
Plus photos.
But when the relationship cooled (ended horribly), so too did I.
In a proud act of defiance and maturity, I physically mailed these exposures back.
Leaving no spare copies.
None.
This, it would turn out, was the most idiotic thing I have ever done.
And it's a long list.
Like I'd never get over it.
Like she stops being naked and erotic because she left the province.
Like my being upset has anything to do with my two-years-from-now libido.
I mean, my Jesus.
It still turns my stomach to think of it.
How stupid I was.
Now I wish I had uploaded it.
Just so I could search the internet until I found it again.
Save it in 'my favourites'.
I'm not into that, though.
Posting ex-sex chums on the internet.
I find the notion vile and uncouth.
It takes a tremendous amount of self-confidence for me to bed a woman.
Never mind record it.
This I usually need to amplify with alcohol.
And talking.
And being charming, but not too charming.
Cool clothes that aren't too cool.
I need to be sweet and I need to cook stuff when it's unexpected.
I need to stand outside her window in the rain, holding a boom box over my head.
Why would I go through all of this?
Have this intimate piece of media to share with this person.
Just to have some unit in Wisconsin find it, watch it and keep it forever more?
For free!
He doesn't even need to get out of his chair.
And he has it.
The thought is honestly ludicrous to me.
It really is.
I wouldn't even show it to my good friends unless she was dead and I was really hammered.
So, ladies, just so you know.
You can bring your Coolpix along on the first date.
I'm on the level.
You can dump me and I won't even keep a copy for myself.
Idiot!

Man and the Box

2011-03-20T13:24:00.003-02:30

Never one for fashion, Colin was once heard to say:
"What the fuck's a Billabong?"
It's a good question, really.

The great thing about your father's hearing loss is that when he's using a saw in the basement, you can hum Alicia Keys tunes and he has no idea.
Dad and I have been working on a box to put my Playstation 3 in.
I originally used the cardboard box it was packaged in to transport it.
But someone who will remain unnamed (and therefore less embarrassed) threw up in it.
So now we're constructing one.
He's constructing one.
While I hold stuff and turn on the air thingy that keeps the sawdust out of my coffee.

Last night I watched a kickboxing tournament with Pete and Robert.
Watching a kickboxing tournament really makes you appreciate how out of shape you are.
I made lewd 'wooing' noises at the girls who carried the Round 1, 2, 3 signs.
Because nobody else was doing it.
And they wanted to hear it.
Why else would they carry the signs in the first place?

The Feeling is Mutual

2011-03-16T12:03:00.008-02:30

Dogs love me.
If I was trying to sleep with dogs instead of women, I'd be a total stud.
If that had been the case growing up, I would have been Peter.
Peter would have been me.
If we grew up in the dog sex world.
Another lifetime, perhaps.
Anyway!
Dogs love me.
Which I'm entirely cool with.
Because I love them, too.
And dogs know that.
They can smell that.
Possibly.
Scientists haven't produced anything that detects smell as well as a German Shepherd.
Who knows what they can smell and what they can't smell?
I met Jennah's dog, Herman, a couple of weeks ago.
Here he is:

The house he was in contained two full-grown bulldogs.
And the three of us were having a grand time.
While Jennah kept mentioning that they were behaving oddly.
The owners of the two gippers came home.
And they kept insisting that their dogs were "Never like this with strangers."
One of them wagged his tail so much that he had to go to the vet.
To get it looked at.
Which made me feel awful.
And also made me wonder if that's why Bulldogs traditionally have their tail removed.
Because they're so jubulent.
Ashleigh Sobol's dogs pulled the same move:

Here's one of them.
The other one looks just like this one.
Neil's Shih Tzu, H, hates my guts.
But even they tell me that she hates my guts less than most.
It's a fun gimmick.
And it's terribly vindicating when it happens.
I always tell dogs my secrets.

My Turn

2011-03-16T10:46:00.005-02:30

You can't appreciate Joel Plaskett's hair of today until you see his hair of yesterday.

I'm helping Turpin do a play with the kids in Placenta.
I haven't met them yet.
I'm anticipating disappointment.
They probably are too.
Turpin wrote the play and I edited it here and there.
Our first project!
Years from now, when we're writing films for Zach Galafanakis-
("He ate all of the danishes off of the snack table. Again!")-
We'll think back to this play for the Placenta drama team...
And then we'll go right back to being tremendously drunk.
"Get in the shopping cart, Zach! This is gonna be awesome.
Zach! Where's he going? Zach!? Get in the shopping cart!"

I can't remember the last time I had a heart-to-heart with someone.
That's a lie.
I remember my last heart-to-heart perfectly.
Well, by 'perfectly' I mean I can remember who the person was.
Where it was.
Mark what's his face (I can't remember his last name).
Does that mean I actually can't remember who the person was?
I'd be able to pick him out of a Mark lineup.
He used to play 'Message in a Bottle" at Bruno's.
That's the place that had the Reuben sandwiches.
I lost one once.
Anyway.
In Banff.
He just started speaking to me one night about...whatever.
He probably wasn't even there to see me.
He was probably there to do drugs with someone.
And he just started telling me things.
About his childhood and upbringing.
His decisions after school and why he made them.
Things he'd never mentioned to anyone.
And as he's telling me all of this he's saying,
"I don't know why I'm telling you all of this."
But it wasn't a surprise to me.
Much like myself with dogs (remind me to talk about that later).
People used to open up to me like that all of the time.
Because I was easy to talk to.
I used to hear that all of the time, too.
"You're easy to talk to."
I can't remember the last time someone told me that.
I'm not easy to talk to any more.
I suppose it's because I'm not listening.
People assume I've never been listening.
Because I can't remember.
But that's because I can't remember.
I'm still not a good rememberer.
But I used to be attentive.
Maybe that's why people used to tell me stuff all of the time.
Because I wouldn't remember where they said that they stashed the diamonds.
So it was okay to tell me where their 'wicked hiding place' was.
Really it's because I used to like people back then.
And they could figure that out for themselves.
But I stopped liking people during my time there.
Because no one is meant to habitate in a tourist town.
Entire families wearing matching Crocs while eating matching ice cream cones.
Three rubes standing immediately in front of an escalator or stairwell.
Talking about how many pictures they've taken so far.
I used to always see the good in people.
Even if I was dealing with someone who irked the shit out of me.
"Sure, he's irritating.
But he's probably suicidal, so he's not so bad."
...
Maybe I just need to go to more parties.

In my youth I used to fantasize about meeting everyone in the world.
Shake hands, say hello, move on to the next person in the gas station.
I was too shitty at math to realize that billions of people were too many.
I wouldn't have enough time to pull it off.
Regardless, that's a true anecdote.
I envisioned this as a sort of pilgrimage.
We used to have this substitute teacher named Miss Bennett.
She was amazing because she wouldn't feed us lies like everyone else.
Most thought she was 'burnt' because she claimed to see letters-
and people-
in colours.
I thought it was fine and probably lovely to see people that way.
She was just picking the wrong hues to mention it to.
She took over for my literature teacher halfway through the year.
Presumably because my lit teacher had some sort of a breakdown.
During parent-teacher getting in trouble night, mom and dad spoke with her.
"Here's what I can tell you about Paul:
Paul loves school.
Paul loves life.
Paul will be fine at whatever he does."
She was right at the time.
And that's it.

Selling Out

2011-03-15T12:05:00.004-02:30

I just moderated some comments that the blog has received.
They were spam for Gucci knockoffs.
Gucci!
I wouldn't have expected this blog to be good enough to sell Bugle Boy knockoffs.
But Gucci!
That gives me a reason to go on.
Despite the overwhelming number of reasons to quit.
I guess I should have let one of their comments onto the site.
In case one of you wanted to buy a Gucci bag.
They're not real Gucci bags, mind you.
But no one who couldn't afford a Gucci bag would notice.
If you prefer the real thing, you should probably know:
Only assholes spend $800 on a purse.

The least muscular part of my body?
Definitely my back.
I don't even know how I walk around and pick up objects.

Bullfrogs Keep Landin' on my Head

2011-03-08T23:02:00.013-03:30

You have an old friend from college who you wanted to get close with.
But you couldn't figure out how to make it happen.
Because this is Paul Warford's blog.
And it's written from his perspective.
Point is, you might as well look up that friend now, find them, and bang them.
Cause the world is comin' to an end.
It's gonna happen.
We're not making it to hover cars.
By the time we hit the year 3000, it'll be The Renaissance again.
Don't have the sense to believe me?
Ask these millions of sardines what they think of my theory.
Oh wait.
None of them are talking:

I wouldn't mind, y'know?
The apocalypse in my lifetime.
Really, I should have predicted it ages ago.
Regardless, why couldn't it occur due to too much of a good thing?
Rather than too much of a bunch of bad things (idiots in ties; energy drinks)?
It could have been much more pleasant.
So many gummy bears that we all stop making normal food.
And die of malnutrition.
Something like that.
Actually, that doesn't sound all that pleasant...
And I don't even like gummy bears that much (I really don't).
I don't know why I wrote that.
Okay! Try this:
Everyone gets a kissing disease and we all have to keep kissing or we'll die.
But we start to die out anyway because we have to stop kissing long enough to eat the gummy bears.
Until all of our friends are kissed out and dead, and we can't kiss our families.
Cause that's weird.
So we all die.
Cause of the kissing disease.
That's an end of humanity that you can cuddle up with.
I thought locusts and plagues were only in fairy tales.
Of course, I may be wrong.
Maybe this is just the end of sardines.

With the Band

2011-03-07T23:12:00.005-03:30

Y'know what's funny about high school students?
Very little.
Except this:
When they tell you, "You're cool, sir," they think that they're saving you from something.
When you woke up this morning, you were an itch of society's groin.
But now!
Now! Well, now you're cool.
Sir.
I have almost said (and still may), "Like I give a shit what you think; you're in high school."
I really could say that, you know.
I casually swear around high school students.
Because they always do so first.
And they use way worse words than I do.

Musicians are pansies, really.
Pussies!
And the famouser they get, the pussier they are.
Purely from a performance standpoint, that is.
Not a sex-with-women standpoint.
If we're looking at it that way, the weiner is still me.
And Esteves.
But on stage? Big deal.
You have two or three other people with you, first of all.
So if you black out or forget which guy in the band you are, they can cover for you while you figure it out.
(Regain consciousness)
Slipknot has like, ten guys in the band.
One of them could have an allergic reaction to shellfish they ate on the tour bus.
Crowd probably wouldn't even notice.
Go on Letterman.
Do one song.
One thing.
Of the things you do.
You do one.
The crowd can't wait to hear it.
They've sung to it off-key at intersections for weeks.
Naueseated!
They want to hear your stupid song so bad.
Can't sleep.
You play the opening note of the song.
Crowd loses their mind.
Your work's already done at this point.
You fuck up a chord.
You forget a word.
Your wind chime guy has an allergic reaction to shellfish.
Whatever.
Doesn't matter.
Cause they saw you play that song that time.
You are Right Said Fred.
You are Chumbawamba.
You can be horrible and you're still amazing.
Therefore. Pussies.
Comics do it alone.
No one gives a shit about who you are unless you have a TV show.
You do things they have never heard.
While you hope that they'll like it.
And if you do one figment.
One sliver of a line they know:
"Oh, this guy sucks. I heard this joke before."
And unlike musicians, we're not even cool.
We have to act like we are.

The Room With All the Balls In It

2011-03-07T08:03:00.003-03:30

I haven't tied my tie yet.
So we can't speak for very long.
I'm about to head to Ascension to fill in for the gym teacher.
It just seems like something that warrants mentioning.
I don't get what it is that these people do, exactly.
Hand out the ball hockey gear and hope that no one ends up requiring stitches.
Mark down the names of those who aren't prepared for gym.
Because they hate gym.
Really you're handing out the equipement, and then recording who dislikes gym.
And I can do that.
If there's more to the job I'll be able to let you know about it before the day is out.

I'm also judging a public speaking contest at Amalgamated this evening.
Which I was initially excited about.
Until I figured out that I'll be judging speeches written and spoken by grade sevens.
Nervous grade sevens.

Suicide Sous-Chef

2011-03-02T21:46:00.011-03:30

So, I'm not into microwaves.
"That Warford. Always got to be different!"
Whatever.
Food tastes soggy out of a microwave, whereas out of an oven it just tastes warm.
Takes an extra four to six minutes.
Like you need to reheat leftovers within seconds of your removing them from the fridge.
Like you're closing that many business deals.
You need a microwave as much as you need an escalator installed in your house.
You're saving inconsequential amounts of time.
Time that you spend on quizzes about Charlie Sheen.
Or what kind of a cat you'd be if you were a cat (hairless!).
I can't remember what my point was.
Oh yeah!
So I use ovens a lot.
But I still have a habit of sticking my face in front of the food after I open the door.
Can't break it.
I don't know why.
I want to look like the people in the Pillsbury commercials, maybe.
Or perhaps, as my old hockey coach used to say, there's a little Sylvia Plath in all of us.
And scene!

...
...
Y'know, I didn't even want to get into the microwave thing today.
I just wanted to do the Plath line.
That was the whole purpose for this post.

This ad doesn't even have people sticking their face in front of an oven.
But it was too great to not use.
You know that gag on TV where a couple will swipe everything off of the kitchen table?
Because they're about to screw on it?
These two invented that.
They were the first to do it.
And it happened as soon as they finished shooting the ad.
Right there on the set.

Without Going Over

2011-03-01T12:45:00.002-03:30

My mother once said that it was time for me to settle down and be a man.
"Get a car for yourself," she'd said.
And I tried to explain to her that fullfilment was a little more compliacted than that.
Unless I have it wrong and the car commercial writers have it right.
But sometimes I think that those commercials have ulterior motives.
Like owning a car would ever make me happy.
Here's another expensive thing for me to spill things on and lose.
If anything it would make me less happy.
If I owned a car, I would no longer have a concrete reason to go on The Price is Right.

Another Round

2011-03-01T11:02:00.007-03:30

Sure, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros have a fun tune with that Home song.
Still, I doubt I'd want to spend any amount of time with them on a bus.

This morning I dismantled a bird house that my father once built.
Dismantled with a hammer.
Isn't life funny?

I taught a lot this week past.
Which was fine.
At no point did I have the 7-3s.
You have to relish the small victories.
Did I mention that I took a bath last week?
What a trip.
I almost puked when it was over.
It was so hot.
Sweltering.
And my nude body probably wasn't helping.
Anyway.
I'm becoming endeared to a fellow teacher who once went to high school with me.
And I feel gross about it.
Because she plays sports.

So, the Laugh Off happened on Thursday.
My goal was to say soemthing onstage that I have never said before.
Consequently, I said a bunch of things that I have never said before.
And most of them turned out to be funny.
Semi-finals funny!
Coombs has footage of it that I hope to upload as soon as his kids are off to college.
The evening was not without its complications, though.
First of all, I receieved a call to teach the following day.
And I'd never been so sad to receive a call to teach.
Sad!
Like a mourner.
Depressed about it.
Driving to Bay Roberts at 11 in the evening.
To potentially fill in for my old drama teacher, Mr. Warren.
Who has the shittiest smammering of classes a sub has ever seen
(The 7-3s are his home room).
And there were other emotional complications as well.
Have you ever had a comedy set that went really well, and it makes you want to have sex immediately afterwards?
It happens.
It's how Steve Coombs had his second baby.

If we're to believe mourners, as asshole hasn't died yet.

Let Me Check My Calendar (Girls)

2011-02-22T20:14:00.005-03:30

Teaching again today.
Teaching again tomorrow.
I'd be depressed about it.
But I combat this by concentrating on how many cardigans I'll be able to afford.

I thought I was going to be able to finally attend my first burlesque show.
Call me old-fashioned.
But spending a moderate amount of money to watch girls-next-door shimmy about in lingere on a well-lit stage...
...That's just a good night out.
But I can't watch the underwear women because I have to do comedy for firemen the same evening.
Another of my classic scheduling conflicts.

Holy shit.
I'm very attracted to a Student Jeopardy contestant.
Either because of her shirt, her haircut, or the fact that she's in last place.
Cosi is a stupid name, though.
Still, she's far more a looker than that computer plain-and-tall.

Dressed for Success

2011-02-21T21:14:00.007-03:30

I taught today.
I took over another teacher's lunch duty.
Because, I can only assume, they didn't want to do it.
It was outside.
By myself, apart from a group of four guys.
Approaching them, I asked if they were doing anything bad.
We talked about whatever it is that grade nines talk about.
And this somehow resulted in one of them asking, "Why, do you live with your parents?"
And when I realized that, yes, I did, I couldn't think of anything to say to them any more.

I ate Mary Brown's in the Village Mall food court recently.
While wearing a suit.
And while I stood in line, trying not to inhale too deeply, I realized something:
If you hang around in a food court all day while wearing a suit, women will begin to assume you're successful.
I wouldn't even need a briefcase.
Even better - I don't need one because someone else must be carrying it for me.
"This guy doesn't even need a briefcase!
Who cares about his personality!?"
But, then I thought I might just end up being mistaken for a guy who works at Tip Top.
Which is where the suit was purchased from.
But I had to get this suit, you don't even understand.
Like butter!
It was as well the guy was fitting me for pyjamas.
I meant to buy some shirts and ties because I was doing my education degree.
Which, logically speaking, meant I would have a job soon.
Which meant that I wanted shirts and ties and pantses for Christmas.
Because boring people have jobs and this is what boring people buy.
So, I was supposed to get a smammering.
A smammering of items.
But this suit was on some sort of suit deal and the dude knew how to sell suits.
And when I put it on...
Butter!
I had to buy it then.
Well, my mom.
My mom had to buy it.
I live with her.

I Like Those Odds

2011-02-18T02:38:00.005-03:30

For those who are counting, you and I know that the number of women whom I have bedded.
Currently. On this planet.
Is small.
But!
Of that quantity, two of them have a birthday on the same day.
This one.
So, I guess the only question left to ask is this:
Is today...your birthday?

We hope you live to be a hundred, ladies.
May your memories of me be spotty and exaggerated.

edit: Facefuck lied to me (as it does all of you).
Only one sex person had her birthday on this day.
But still.
It's something to think about.

Best In Show

2011-02-15T22:28:00.003-03:30

When the dog show comes on TV, and your father settles in and asks you to turn up the TV...
...You can't start playing video games.
'Family' is another word for 'sacrifice'.
Having paid for all of my post-secondary education, this is a lesson my dad already knows.
There's something funny about watching someone in formal wear jogging with a dog.

I wonder how many treats it takes to teach a dog to remain nonchalant while a middle-aged woman cups their balls.

So Long, And Thanks For All The Shoes

2011-02-14T21:30:00.001-03:30

I'm single once more is what I'm trying to say.