Sound Effects

I am in the warehouse with a bunch of former military engineers. Naturally, the conversation turns to Die Hard, as warehouse conversations are wont to do. This quickly leads me into making an imaginary uzi, and shooting a co-worker.

"Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch!" I sound, making the stuttering noise of a semi-automatic rifle that is, if I say so myself, scarily accurate.

Of course, he dodges, because he is a male, and therefore, able to dodge super-sonic bullets. I can't blame him, although really, I should have hit him, because I am a male, and therefore, unable to miss. Anyways, he draws two imaginary desert eagles (I suppose they could be glocks, but if we're gonna deal with imaginary guns, they should probably be cool imaginary guns, right?).

With his deagles, he proceeds to blast at the table I am hiding behind. "Bkchhsss! Bkchssss!" He says, scrunching his face up, Axl Rose style, while he makes the sounds. Of course, he doesn't hit, but that imaginary computer in front of me explodes in a cascade of imaginary sparks.

Another man rushes to my defence with a shotgun, letting out a loud "BOOM!" and then a cocking sound. He covers me while I run to cover, just as two more men rush into the fray on the other side. One sprays the area with AK-47 fire ("ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta!") while the other seems to be working on some sort of shoulder-mounted rocket launcher which is sure to blow a hole in that imaginary wall behind me.

I will walk away from that explosion in slow motion.

It's looking bad. That rocket launcher is being loaded up, and I can hear Marc in the next room, supplying the "pings!" and "Chinks!" as imaginary bullets tear up the warehouse. And then, my compatriot comes to the rescue.

Jill comes out from behind cover, standing in the middle of the doorway like an easy target, and has some sort of derringer pistol which seems to consist of her thumb stuck out like a hitchhiker's along with a pointy-finger... the ol' "Finger-Banger". She points this puny pistol at the rocket-man, and begins firing.

"Pew! Pew!"

Silence rains in the warehouse, the only sound being that of imaginary sparks firing off a broken screen and phantasmal flames lapping at spilled diesel on the floor. The combatants all look at each other, and then put down their arms.

"Girls don't know how to make sound effects," Rocket man says.

Another man holsters his desert eagles. "Did anyone watch that football game last night?"

"I miss my kids," the assault rifler says, strolling out of the room, shaking his head as he looks at Jill's pistol, still in her hand.

Jill looks at me, but I'm trying to avoid eye contact. "What'd I do?" She asks.

I shake my head and get back to work.

Strange times.

Two of my co-workers were talking about a guy that works in the meat department. They were singing his praises:

"Julian is such a nice guy. He did my clean-ups for me, without even being asked!"

"I know, he's the best. He's always willing to do favours for you."

"And he's a great conversationalist. Always willing to listen."

"Last week, I left my wallet at home, and he lent me some money so I could pick up a lunch."

And so on, and so forth. I didn't say anything. I just worked over in my side of the deli, slicing turkey and serving customers. I don't deal well with my "serious" co-workers, mostly because they take everything I say too damned seriously. And, like a serial killer who wants it all to end but can't do it, I don't know how to stop myself.

"Hey, Dave, what do you think of Julian?"

I winced. Ask Dave an honest question, and he'll give you a complete bullshit answer, mostly because he's bored. "Well, I'm not a huge fan of him."

"Oh?" I could hear my co-worker's eyebrows raise up - hell, you could hear that shit from space. Saying you don't like Julian is like saying you voted conservative, or that you think Carrottop is actually kind of funny - it's the shitty skid mark in the world of conversational flounders. "Why not?"

I briefly consider fessing up that, actually, I think Julian is a pretty cool guy. But then I realize that would mean I agreed with my serious co-workers. And I'm a firm believer in that old Groucho Marx bit about never joining clubs that would let me in, yadda yadda yadda.

Naturally, when it comes to shit like this, I pull the hipster card. "Would you believe that idiot thinks that The Suburbs is a better Arcade Fire album than Funeral? And he thinks Sheer Heart Attack is a better Queen album than The Game?"

There is a long pause. "I don't think that's a good reason to dislike someone, Dave."

"Have you listened to Sheer Heart Attack? How can you trust someone who has listened to both Queen albums and doesn't think The Game is categorically better? It'd be like trusting an alcoholic to be your designated driver."

There is another long pause. And an awkward silence. "Personal taste can't be judged."

FYI: People who say that have a record collection that is filled with ABBA, Lionel Ritchie, Meat Loaf, and Creed. Personal taste can be judged. Mercilessly.

Naturally, I say the only thing I could in this sort of situation: "That's only what people with crappy taste say."

I have to say... it's fun messing with my serious co-workers.

In unrelated news, my hours got cut back.

Again.

Anatomy of a Night On the Town:

Following are some of the texts I sent my brother, trying to convince him to leave his computer (he had just bought Skyrim) and come out drinking with me. Except for a few minor interruptions, I'll let them speak for themselves. I'm in blue. Bro is italics.

10:01 PM: Sugar. Come. there is a band. Booze is cheap. Women are cute and plentiful. Also... booze is plentiful and the women are cheap.
10:05 PM: You know what's better than pixels and imaginary adventure? 3$ shots and floozies. Also, parakeets, but that doesn't really apply here.
10:09 PM: K dragons down in free for sugar now.
10:16 PM: Woot! Get your ass down ehere!
10:16 PM: Working on it
10:16 PM: Score.
10:17 PM: Its 20 cover. If you camt get in well bounce and head somewhere
10:17 PM: spotting for NAME. Cant afford 40 in cover.
10:18 PM: Shit. Um. Meet up with us later then?
10:18 PM: ??
10:19 PM: I can do a night out but not a total of 40 cover.
10:20 PM: If youre spotting for NAME.. hm. Were catching a band. Meet us downtown at 1130 or so? You can skip the band and we can drink like pros.
10:21 PM: any ideas where we might just hit somewhere else to start
10:23 PM: Hm. Dunno. Im half blasted already. Hit bbjs?

(BBJs is code for "Big Bad John's", Victoria's oldest and sleaziest bar. The walls are covered in old photos and there's a house rule that if you hang your bra from the ceiling, you get a free drink. It is, in a word, AWESOME. It's a tradition of ours that we start all of our drinking at Big Bad John's).

10:24 PM: Can meet there at 11:30 then
10:25 PM: Gotcha. Will do.
11:14 PM: Muight be late. NAME and i are gonna drink 80 in shots.
11:28 PM: ...That sounds like a GREAT idea
11:28 PM: Agreed.
11:31 PM: Winning?
11:32 PM: Meh.
11:41 PM: K. Were doing this. Ohhhhh yeah.
11:42 PM: lmao
11:45 PM: fuckinjg awesome
11:45 PM: You gonna make it?,
11:46 PM: Oh yeah. they were just pormn stars

(Disclaimer: While I make off that I drank half of the 80$ in shots, this is not entirely true. A buddy bought 80$ in shots, but shared it with about six or seven people. I had quite a few of those drinks - as the original plan was to drink $40 each - but I didn't drink half of the shots.

I did, however, have about $30 in shots before this point, so I did ultimately drink more than $50 in shots before leaving Sugar. And that's not counting the triple rye and gingers I'd been drinking liberally for the past hour and a bit. I figure, by this point in the narrative, I'd already had at least $50 in cheap shots, three triple rye and gingers, and a single rye and ginger. And the night was still young).

11:49 PM: K. leaving sugar. Where you at?
11:49 PM: BBJ
11:50 PM: Gotcha. Wanna meet there or Garricks head?
11:52 PM: Here has table
11:52 PM: K. There in 10.
11:52 PM: 15... hot dog stand

(there was indeed an outdoor hot dog stand. But I wasn't drunk enough to pay five bucks for a hot dog. Apparently, I have standards, even when drunk).

11:53 PM: lol
11:55 PM: theres a line to get in dude2
11:56 PM: Yes there is dude1?
11:57 PM: Don't make if typies. Did you have 40 in shots? No? I didnt think so. All things considered, i am a drunk texting GOD.
11:57 PM: Well maybe a demigod. You are, after all, a dude.
11:57 PM: Think of the tradition dude1 think of the tradition!
12:00 AM: For Rome!
12:00 AM: For Rome!

(So my brother and I have another drinking tradition - we always order a drink known as a "Gladiator", and then clink glasses while making ridiculous postures and shouting "For Rome!". This tradition started on a rather unfortunate night, but for some reason, it's stuck.)

12:01 AM: Are we doing those? Or is it every man fior hisself?
12:01 AM: Sure thing!
12:03 AM: Groovy.
12:03 AM: How far back in line
12:03 AM: 3rd
12:04 AM: Cool beans

(while texting here, I was also talking to two women well into their forties, trying to get into the bar. Eventually, I got in, had a few drinks with my brother and his friend, and we wound up wandering around Victoria.

In about an hour and a half, we hit both the Garrick's Head Pub, where we were kicked out because it was "last call" - at 1 am on a saturday night! - and then in some nameless bar that I insisted was the best bar in Victoria.

There was also an incident at a Burger King where I dared my brother to make his entire meal order in the form of haiku, which earned me the title of "Coolest guy ever" from some other drunk dude waiting in line.

Then the night ended, but not before I shot out one brilliant little text as I stumbled home).

1:46 AM: I have it all figured out. We form a band. Somehow, this gets me chicks. Then, world domination. Also, juno award.

How to Annoy Dave:

I work with some very "interesting" people. This is a conversation I had a few days with a co-worker, pretty much verbatim. He was talking about crappy movies, and the conversation went from there:

DAVE: Um, I don't really watch too many movies these days. I mostly read.
CO-WORKER: I'm reading a good series right now.
DAVE (Not really interested): Oh?
CO-WORKER: I'm reading the Earth's Children series. It's good.
DAVE: I've never heard of them.
CO-WORKER: The first book is called "Clan of the Cave Bear". It's -
DAVE: Oh, right. I've heard of that. It's by that girl-
CO-WORKER: Her name is Jean Auel. The first book is Clan of the Cave Bear. It was written in 1980. The second book is called The Valley of Horses. It was written in 1982. The third book is called The Mammoth Hunters. It was written in 1985. The fourth is called The Plains of Passage. It was written in 1990. The fifth book is called The Shelters of Stone. It was written in 2002. The sixth book is called The Land of Painted Caves. It was written in 2011.
DAVE: Um. Wow. That sounds like, uh, quite the production run.
CO-WORKER: Yes.
DAVE: Um.
CO-WORKER: The story starts with a young cro-magnon woman, named Ayla, who is split with her tribe. She doesn't eat for a week, and nearly dies of exposure, but she is able to stay hydrated during this time. She comes along a tribe of neanderthals, who adopt her. They don't seem to use language, but (this continues for a few minutes that felt like hours, where he goes into Neanderthal custom and whatnot before I interrupt)
DAVE: Oh, wow. So, it's someone's story about what neanderthals were like.
CO-WORKER: Yes.
DAVE: It's funny, though. A lot of those theories no longer work - there are different theories on neanderthals than there were years ago.
CO-WORKER: Oh, it's just fiction. Everyone knows cavemen didn't exist.
DAVE: Wait, what?
CO-WORKER: I don't believe in Evolution.
DAVE: Ah. I see.

He then proceeded to try and sell me herbal vitamins that he pimps on the side, in an Amway-esque pyramid scheme, and told me he had stuff that would help fix up my diabetes. I told him I only bought herbal vitamins from people who believed we descended from apes. Stony silence ruled my workplace.

And no, I don't feel bad mocking someone with obvious mental issues. Not one iota.

Either that, or she thought I was an asshole:

Sometimes, I like to give very general answers to questions that expect a specific answer. If someone asks me what I feel like having for dinner, I'll them I feel like having some food. If I'm asked what I'm listening to, I'll say I'm listening to music.

And so forth. It's pretty obvious I like to be a smartass. It's less obvious as to why I still have friends.

Usually, people will roll their eyes at such a response, ask the question again, and I'll give a normal answer. Sometimes, though, I get an answer that makes me quite depressed.

I was on a break at my restaurant job, when a rather doe-eyed teenage co-worker sat down next to me. She saw I had my nose buried in a book (Shadowmarch, by Tad Williams, for those that are curious), and piped up.

"What're you reading?"

"A book."

She paused for a moment, vacant-faced. "Oh."

As if my answer was perfectly normal, and she had never seen a book before. Which I suppose may be true. Kids these days.

Scene from a job:

DAVE: (talking to a supervisor about a different co-worker) Go easy on her. You're only nineteen once, and I'm sure you were just as bad.
EAVESDROPPING COWORKER: That's not true.
DAVE: Hunh?
COWORKER: You're not only nineteen once.
DAVE: Um. Yeah you are. You're nineteen for exactly one year.
COWORKER: Not true. You can be as old as you want to be.
DAVE: Uh...
COWORKER: For example, I never stopped being twelve.
DAVE: You never stopped being.... twelve?
COWORKER: I've been a twelve year old boy for more than fifteen years.

(Long pause)

DAVE: Stay away from my kids.

Yeah, this pretty much happened, word for word. My supervisor roared with laughter, and we proceeded to good-naturedly tease my co-worker.

Happened to a friend of mine:

True story.

A friend of mine was driving his truck and came up to a stop light. He stopped slightly too late, and his truck was about halfway blocking the crosswalk - there was still enough room to cross without having to cross into the other lane, so my friend didn't reverse or anything.

He was talking to his passenger when, suddenly, WHAM! someone walked, full speed, into the driver side door.

My friend rolled down the window, furious, because the speed at which this guy had hit the door was sure to leave a dent.

"What the fuck, buddy? Are you a goddamn idiot!?" He shouted, red in the face.

And that was when he realized a blind man had just walked into his truck. A blind man who was now apologizing profusely. Even though, in the circumstances, it was entirely my friend's fault.

Did my friend point out to the blind man that this was the case? Nope. He just graciously accepted the apology, and drove off when the lights changed.

My friends are awesome.

A snippet:

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Puns will get you nowhere

SCENE: I'm at work, talking to a female client. She's not my client, so I feel like I'm allowed to make stupid jokes and generally act like an ass. Actually, I feel like I'm entitled to this behaviour because it's a temporary job, and I barely make minimum wage, so it's not like I'm really trying too hard.


Plus, she's cute. She has a boyfriend, so I'm just having fun and making stupid jokes about my prowess as a fine male specimen. And I'm making her laugh.  Which is probably a bad sign.

GIRL: Yeah? You play the clubs, then? Pick up a bunch of women?
DAVE: Not really. Although I've got a good trick to picking up women.
GIRL: Oh?
DAVE: Yyup. Always lift with the knees. That way, you don't throw your back out.
GIRL: (Pauses, and then groans) That's not funny.
DAVE: A bad back rarely is.

That, gents, is how you don't pick up women.  Figuratively or literally. 

The Fucking French

I live next door to a very annoying french couple. 

Some of you non-Canadians may assume that, as this is Canada, there are an abundance of francophones.  Thankfully, this is not the case in Western Canada - the number of cheese eating surrender monkeys is quite small.  However, there are one or two that have somehow found their way on the island.

Actually, there are exactly two.  And I know this, because they live right next to me.  We share a wall, in fact.

That wall is enough.  Because of that wall, I get awakened at least two or three times a month by the french woman screaming - literally, screaming - at her boyfriend.  Sometimes, she'll start at six a.m.  Or I'll wake up at three a.m. by a french drug dealer, tromping up the stairs to sell marijuana to my french neighbour - since the drug deal is entirely in french, we can presume that there, in fact, three french people that live on the island... and at least two of them do drugs. 

So, I'm not a fan of the french couple that live next door.  But sometimes, they amuse me.  For example, this morning.  When, at the nice and happy time of 8:30 am, I was awakened by the sound of the french couple having sex.

He was pumping very hard, and my wall was, in fact, shaking.  At first, I was annoyed.  But then I burst out laughing.  Because, you see, she's a screamer.  Her Screams (and I quote):

Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  Oh!  Oh........ OWWWW!

It was a loud "ow".  It was a surprised "ow".  And it was a very angry "ow", because it was followed with some very irate cursing in french.

I have a new, foolproof way to pick up women at clubs:

DAVE:  Hey baby, come here often?
GIRL:  Um.  Ew.  Do me a favour - get a time machine and go back about thirty years, when that line was only "really old".
DAVE:  Ha ha.  Kitty's got claws.  Don't act like you can resist my charms, baby.  What's your sign?
GIRL:  Please don't call me 'baby' again.  I think I threw up a little. 
DAVE:  You know you like it, baby-doll. 
GIRL:  I said don't call me-
DAVE:  I said "baby-doll", not baby.  See, I'm sensitive to your needs and shit, baby.... doll.
GIRL:  Just, um, go away.  I don't want... anything.... wait, what's happening to me?
DAVE:  I'm wearing a suit.
GIRL:  But that's not... so... irresistable... what's... going.... on?
DAVE:  It's not just a suit.  I also have a shiny tie.
GIRL:  But, but...
DAVE:  And club girls, like common magpies, are unable to resist shiny objects.
GIRL:  Helpless... to... fight.....
DAVE:  So, do you like my suit?  Baby? 

a joke:

Ladies and gents, there are four kinds of female orgasms:

1. The Religious Orgasm:  Oh God!  Oh God!  Ohhhhh Gooooooood!
2. The Positive Orgasm:  Oh Yes!  Oh Yes!  Ohhhhhhh Yesss!
3. The Negative Orgasm:  Oh No!  Oh No!  Ohhhhhh Nooo!
4. The Fake Orgasm:  Oh Dave!  Oh Dave!  Ohhhhhh Daaaaave!

That is all.

A history lesson:

So, waaaaay back in the 1960s, some people got together and wrote a book.  It was a pretty groovy book, filled with all sorts of crazy and wild things:  magic, wizards, plagues, murders, crazy incestual love schemes, haircuts, and more baby murder than you could shake a stick at!  The whole thing centred around this bearded hippy who spoke about free love and shit, before he got killed and turned into a zombie.  It was a pretty trippy read - they called it "The Bible", although I have no idea where they got the name from.

It was turned into a movie in the 1980s, called Total Recall.

I loved this part where this guy named "God", who was like the king of the wizards or some shit, created the earth.  And he did it in only seven days.  I don't remember all the details, but in the first day he made the earth or something.  The second day he made the oceans, fish and stuff were day three, day four was animals, day five was more animals, day six was the human race, and day seven he cleverly buried dinosaur skeletons so that people would deduce that he didn't exist.

Because he was a very tricky wizard, you see, and wanted to cover his tracks.

Anyways, it's a little-known fact that on day eight, he completed his best creation:

Jalapeno Pringles.

Tasty, crunchy, and spicy like the pits of hell! 

...Which is probably where I'm going after making this post.

Oh yeah, I'M responsible

Had a conversation with a half-brother of mine who lives on the other side of the country.  I think he was looking for some "grown-up" advice about sex that wasn't going to just parrot the crap he heard from "responsible" adults around him.

I did the whole "adult" thing, tried to present the facts, gave my honest opinion on his situation, and tried to be rational, reasonable, and responsible.

But of course, I'm a clown with an oversized coconut head.  So I started making jokes about halfway through, to break the serious tone.  And then I said something that, I think, is probably the funniest (and maybe rudest) thing I've ever said:

Remember, a good woman is hard to come by... and even harder to come on.

I'm pretty sure that's the best sex advice any half-brother can give, wouldn't you agree?

True Story:

GIRL:  I wish I lived on the waterfront.
DAVE:  It's nice.  I live, like, two minutes away from the waterfront.
GIRL:  That's awesome.
DAVE:  Yeah.  I go down there sometimes at night when I'm in a bad mood.  You can actually see the parliament buildings from there.
GIRL:  So pretty...
DAVE:  Gotta be careful, though.  I kicked a seal once.
GIRL:  (Pause)  You kicked a seal!?
DAVE:  Well, it was a baby seal...
GIRL:  You kicked a baby seal!?
DAVE:  Not on purpose!
GIRL:  (laughing hysterically) YOU KICKED A BABY SEAL!?
DAVE:  It was dark out!  I didn't see it!
GIRL:  Why didn't you start with 'I accidentally kicked a baby seal', instead of 'I kicked a baby seal'?
DAVE:  Well, I don't-
GIRL:  Why would you kick a baby seal?  How bad are you?
DAVE:  It was dark out.  And the seal was sleeping, and...
GIRL:  You kicked a baby seal while it was asleep?
DAVE:  ...Crap.  There's no way I can come out of this looking like the hero, can I?
GIRL:  No way in hell.

Commission Tricks

I had this little trick when I was selling crap at Future Shop.  It was a spiel I would use when trying to convince a customer into buying the service plan for an ipod or something.  Because, while it's generally a good deal, a lot of customers don't like the idea of putting down extra money for an extended warranty.

But the salesmen like pushing for it, because it's where the bulk of their commission profit comes from.  And so, they push.  Everyone pushes for it differently.  I did it with humour. 

I'm pretty sure I stole my joke from somewhere, but I can't remember where.  Oh well.

It'd go like this:

You know, these ipods are great.  About the only complaint I'd have is the batteries.  You can go with our service plan, or trust in the ipod warranty.  Ours will cover the battery, no questions asked.  Theirs, you have to pay shipping and handling, but they give you a little ipod stamp and a card.  When you get eight little ipod stamps, apple will generously give you... a free subway sub.

It'd get a laugh, usually.  And about half the time, I'd sell the warranty, which is kind of the point.  While Future Shop kind of sucks, they do have a good ipod warranty, and I really do recommend it. 

But at least a few times, I'd get a customer who'd hear that spiel and say something like, "A free subway sub?  Can they even do that?  Aren't they owned by seperate companies?" 

And then I'd have to say "Um, it was a joke" and they'd scratch their heads in complete confusion. 

Another guy in my department had a much better - if totally unethical - way of getting these idiots people to buy the warranty. 

You have to buy the warranty.  Otherwise, the battery won't work.

And they'd unquestioningly put down the ninety bucks for the warranty.  Personally, I say he's selling his soul for a couple of bucks, but whatever.  He's still working there. 

I'm not.

A very strange moral dilemna: (Warning: A bit raunchier than most of my posts!)

I've been talking to an ex over facebook the last few weeks, little three-sentence messages where we catch up with our respective lives.  It wasn't a particularly messy or angry breakup, mind you, but we had been together for a long time when it happened, and I think we both needed a bit of space.  And now, just shy of two years' later, we're able to kind of look back on things.

It's kind of nice.  And it's got me thinking about those times of old, some funny, some not.  I've decided to share one of my particularly uncomfortable stories with you all, for your amusement.  Apparently, it's my job in life to make you ingrates laugh, regardless of my personal comfort with everything. 

Actually, let's call a spade a spade.  I'll do anything for a laugh.  This is a true story, only slightly embellished for comedic effect - I've compressed a few events and tweaked some dialogue, here and there.  Otherwise, it's a completely factual re-telling.

Here goes.

It started with a dildo. 

We had been together for a few years, living together for maybe a year, when we decided we wanted to kind of broaden our sex lives a bit.  We did the usual things that couples do in such situations - I won't go into the gory details, but it was really the standard stuff.  Blindfolds, a bit of rope, and some Star Wars costumes... I won't divulge any details, but one of us was Boba Fett.

After a few months of this, it was decided that we'd pick up a Dildo for her.  You see, my girlfriend had never used one of these "self pleasuring devices", but we both decided it'd be kind of fun to play around with one in the bedroom.  Use it on her as sort of a foreplay thing.  However, after some searching through the busy store, she seemed very nonplussed with the offerings.  So, she turned to me and said something that she probably meant as a compliment.

"These are all way too big.  Why isn't there one more your size?"

Bear in mind, she said this in a fairly crowded place of business.  My face went red, and I went into "inadequate male" mode.  Seriously, if I had felt any more inadequate, I'd have been driving a sports car and talking about quarterbacks.  I wanted to throw something in the air and shout "It's a perfectly normal size!" and then rush out, screaming. 

Instead, I looked nervously at my shoes and smiled awkwardly at the woman working there, counting down from five until my girlfriend realized what she just implied.  Then she got to play a very awkward game those in politics refer to as "Damage Control".

"What I mean is, yours is the perfect size for my, um, no, uh, yours is more than enough, er..."

"Oh god..." I kept muttering to myself, trying to figure out an escape plan.  Throw the mannequin wearing crotchless panties through the window, push those lesbians buying a strap-on out of the way, and make a break for it...

The girlfriend kept going on, "It's about this large, a perfectly normal size" she said, announcing to the room.  "About six inches or so.  Which is much better than these monstrous, huge..."

This went on for about five minutes, by which time I was halfway dead of embarrassment.  This was worse than the time I called my teacher "mom" in the fifth grade, and he decided to tell my parents about it.  This was worse than the time my dad found an issue of Playgirl in my backpack (put there by a friend who thought it'd be the funniest prank ever... actually, it was).  This was even worse than that time I had really bad allergies, and everyone thought I was crying during an assembly about losing your virginity.

Luckily, the saleswoman came to my rescue.  "If you want, there are kits that you can buy, so you can make the perfect replica of your lover."

We all agreed this was a great idea, although I think my contribution to this conversation consisted mostly of tiny yelps and frequent glances at the door.  And so, we ordered one of these kits, and waited for about six weeks for it to be delivered.

It's called a "Clone A Cock" kit, which is probably the best name EVER.  When we got the kit, we were pretty excited, and flipped through the instructions like kids flipping through a dirty magazine- lots of nervous tittering, pointing, and trying to figure out exactly what all the pictures meant. 

I won't go into the details on how we went about making "Newt #2".  Because it involves a large amount of nudity and what those in the adult entertainment industry refer to as "fluffing".  But at the end of the process, we had a near exact replica, save for a single air bubble.  And Newt #2 went on to have an illustrious career, which again, will not be detailed here. 

And then, one chilly spring morn, the girlfriend and I broke up.  It sucked, but we both knew it was coming, and we've since both moved on and generally became happier people. 

Anyways, we were dividing our stuff one day.  We divvied up our DVD collection.  Our book collection.  Our music collection.  Utensils, plates, pictures, furniture. 

And then came Newt #2.  Who gets to keep it?  After all, she had been the only person to use it.  But it was completely inappropriate for her to keep it - basically, she no longer got Newt #1, so why should she keep Newt #2? 

And so, I kept it.  Sitting in my bedroom, in the nightstand by the bed, for about a year.

I know, I know.  I should have thrown it out.  There was no use for the thing - I obviously couldn't use it with the next girlfriend.  How would you even introduce such a thing?  "Hey, baby, this was used on a different girl, now I want to use it on you".  There's a reason there's not much of a market for second-hand sex toys, y'know. 

But every time I decided I was going to chuck it, scenarios began to run through my head:  what if the garbageman finds it?  My garbage bags are see through - what if the neighbours see it?  I'm a single male, what will they think? 

I thought about destroying it, but that just felt wrong.  After all, it looked very much like Newt #1, and I'm a pretty big fan of Newt #1's work.  Tearing it in half, or even just slicing off the tip, didn't really sit well in my head (either of them). So it sat there for maybe a year, slowly being forgotten by yours truly until it was nothing more than a hazy memory. 

And then, almost suddenly, I was dating the Special Lady.  One night, we were in my bed, doing all sorts of fun things that are detailed on all sorts of websites that are not this one.  The Special Lady whispered those magic words that every guy likes to hear, and I replied with haiku-like brevity "they're in the nightstand". 

It was dark, and all I could hear were some fumbling noises.  Papers were overturned as she rifled through the contents.  And then:

"What the hell?"

I hadn't caught on yet.  "What's wrong?"

"What is this?"

"aw, crap."

She tittered nervously.  "Is there, um, something I don't know about...?"

This was embarrasing.  It was more embarrasing than that time I called my teacher "mom" in the fifth grade.  It was more embarrassing than the time I got my tongue stuck to the flag pole in front of the school.  It was even more embarrassing than the time my girlfriend implied I had a tiny wang in front of a bunch of sex perverts in a "love shop". 

What do you say in such a situation?  I went for that oldest of guy's cliches:  "It's not what it looks like."

The lights came on.  We got dressed.  And I told her the whole dirty story.  And this lead to the usual questions:  why would you keep it?  do you still love her?  why don't we do dirty stuff like that?  is it me? 

And so on, and so forth.  I slept on the couch that night.  In my own apartment.

We threw out newt #2 the next morning.  It was double-bagged. 

On the subject of feet:

I'm working at future shop the other day when I have to make a detour through the digital imaging department - in other words, an area filled with camera displays.  Row upon row of moderately expensive cameras, fawned upon by moderately wealthy yuppies. 

As I cut through that swath of men wearing scarves and women with expensive knee-high boots, I couldn't help but notice that digital imaging seemed to be filled with an abundance of attractive people.  And I couldn't help but compare that abundance of attractive people to the rather unpresentable folk who crowded the audio department - unshaven, self-obsessed sound snobs who would shrivel up under any form of natural light.  And the customers were just as bad!

Just for a moment, I dreamt about becoming a camera salesman.  I dreamt of slyly winking at the numerous women folk as I spoke of shutter speeds, tripod mounts, and exposures.  And some other, less interesting, crap about cameras. 

But then a flash went off, and I was snapped back into the real world.  And my jaw dropped at what I saw:

One of those super attractive women had just used one of the demo cameras... to take a picture of her feet.  It took all my willpower to refrain from saying "dude, can't you at least wait until you get home to do that!?"

You see, I have never understood this ritual.  And apparently, I'm not the only one. 

I have nothing against feet.  While I'm far from a foot fancier, I have absolutely no problem with a girl rocking the sandals.  In fact, I've even kissed a foot or two in my time.  What bugs me about the photos are the pure cliche of it all! 

Self foot photography is the equivalent of a guy playing stairway to heaven on a guitar.  Or an author naming his novel after a line from the bible.  Or a dancer doing the macarena. 

Ladies - this is something you do when you're thirteen, and then feel embarrassed about when you're twenty one.  This is not something you do in your late twenties, in a crowded future shop showroom, for all the world to see.  I mean, if you want to take a photo of a body part, I can think of at least five different parts I'd rather see first.

(Yeah, I went there.  Sorry.)

A Joke.... a very long joke.

A few years back, I heard the doorbell ring.  I got up from my chair, wearing nothing but a ratty pair of boxer shorts and one wool sock pulled up to the knee.  Opening the door, I at first saw absolutely nothing.  And then, I looked down. 

It was a giant snail. 

Now, by "giant", I don't mean "Oh my God, that snail is bigger than a building!"  What I mean is, of course, "Comparatively Giant".  Around other snails, I'm sure this guy would be like King Kong to those chimpanzees that smoke cigars and wear diapers.

But to me, it stood about a foot tall.  Roughly the height of Tom Cruise. 

"Excuse me, sir, but if I could...." it began, in a voice that sounded strangely like Art Garfunkel's. 

"Get the fuck out of here," I said, and promptly kicked the snail in the air and went back into my house.

I have to admit, I felt guilty about the whole event.  I mean, who was I to treat someone like that? Sure, can we really refer to a giant snail as a "someone"?  Is a hermaphroditic wanderer of an entirely different, almost alien, species still something worthy of our respect as human beings?  I mean, despite all that, people like Carrot top, right?

Okay, bad example.

But this got me thinking about the nature of empathy.  It plagued me for months - I would lie awake at night, tossing and turning as I stared up at my ceiling, wondering... Who am I?  Why would I do such a thing?  And, most importantly, if I was able to treat another entity with such calloused disdain and hatred once, would I do it again?

Would I be able to stop myself?

Eventually, after a year of being plagued by demons, wondering about the nature of my eternal soul, I sold all my worldly possessions and went to Asia.  I wandered Tibet, where I held long conversations with buddhist monks.  I meditated in India, speaking with hindus about the nature of rebirth and reincarnation.  And I did some other religious stuff in, oh, I don't know, China or something.  Lit some candles and snorted rice or whatever. 

After two years of soul-searching, I finally felt at peace with myself.   While I could not change the past, I could at least accept my new understanding of humanity and the nature of empathy that keeps all of us individual organisms connected in one world-spanning web of interconnectedness and mutual debt. 

I got home, got my house back, and got back to living. 

One day, as I was busy repainting a wall in my living room, which was soon to be my meditation den, the doorbell rang.  I opened the door, and saw nothing.  And then, I looked down.
It was a giant snail.

In a voice, not unlike Art Garfunkel's, he piped up "What the fuck was that all about?"

Actually overheard at work:

And I quote... verbatim: 

GIRL:  You downloaded the bible onto your iPhone?
GUY:  Yeah.  It's this great Bible app. 
GIRL:  Seriously?
GUY:  Yeah.
GIRL:  Seriously.
GUY:  Yeah.  Check it out, I can even search for my favourite lines of scripture and -
GIRL:  You're not gonna, like, show up at my door with a tie and pamphlets, are you?
GUY:  What?  No!
GIRL:  What about a shotgun and a shovel?
GUY:  Seriously?  You're going to go with that?
GIRL:  Hey.  My iphone just has music on it, buddy.