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.
Showing posts with label Favourite Blog Post. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Favourite Blog Post. Show all posts
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 started with a dildo.
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.
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.
End to the Year Thoughts
I kind of like the idea of reflection, so I figure I'll finish this year with a recap of some of my favourite and most note-worthy posts.
Bring on 2011!
- Starting up, we have a real-life event that staggers the mind. Imagine, hipsters that work at a record store, being completely in the dark about Radiohead!
- Next up, we have another true story - an overheard conversation between two co-workers. They spoke the truth: death knights are the worst.
- I have no idea why this is, but the number one search topic that brings people to my blog is "pterodactyl porn". Which brings people to this post, which is still one of the most visited pages on my site. People are very, very strange.
- This post, I just find very, very funny. So much so that, after just re-reading it, I am chuckling like a fool. Which pretty much sums up my usual frame of mind, more or less.
- Does anyone remember the blogoff? This was a challenge to see who would have the title of "newt", when I randomly challenged another blogger to a "blogoff". I wound up losing, but it was still a lot of fun. The blogoff begins here, although many of the posts from both participants were great fun.
- And then there were the Olympics, not very far from my little corner of the world. I tried to capture the experience during a day trip down there. I wound up just making stupid faces when I actually overheard a woman say "oh my god, that torch is on fire!"
- Ah, Day as Night. I love making them, but they take just too damned long. This one happens to be my favourite.
- The Crazy Newt Customer Illegibility Scale was something I secretly hoped would catch on. Mostly because at the time, I was spending almost twenty hours a week listening to people mumble into a phone. I guess I was the only person who found it funny - which is pretty much how these things go.
- I love haiku wednesdays. They're fun to write, but they're rarely funny. This one, based off a real conversation I heard at work, is actually kind of hilarious. You can be the judge.
- July was an insanely hot month. So much so that I would frequently spend the night lying in bed while covered in a sheen of sweat. Occasionally, I'd hallucinate. But really, who doesn't?
- I like to make wry observations. I'm all about wry observations. It's my purpose in life, really. Unfortunately, I rarely make wry observations. So when I do, I'm rather proud of them. Apparently, I also like to say "wry observations". Wait, does that last sentence count as a wry observation?
- I took point notes about a night on the town. I thought the post was actually really funny. However, everyone who read the post decided it was "bad" or "ugly", so I guess I was the only person who thought it was funny. Which is generally how this blog works.
- And then there was this. It won an award for "funniest blog entry to include the word 'samosa' in the punchline". Okay... it actually didn't win the award. It would have... but the awards these days have become so political, man.
- This was another post based on an overheard conversation. Kate was right, though - I should have cut it off a little earlier. Damn me and my attempts for accuracy!
- I submitted a post to reddit. It got this blog a huge number of hits. For about three days, I thought I was about to be famous. Then reality slapped me in the face. But still - it was a pretty funny post.
- And then, finally, there was my in-depth coverage of Rifflandia. Probably a little too indepth. But I was pretty obsessed with the music. And why shouldn't I have been? I mean, the Dodos are pretty fucking awesome.
Bring on 2011!
I quote Oppenheimer... mostly because it's funny.
I have started a war with the woman who lives next door to me.
I have never seen her before, though I have heard her talk to her boyfriend as I walk past her apartment. Really, I know nothing about her beyond her voice - she might not even be a she. But I'm pretty sure, based on her accent, that she's french. Or spanish. Or maybe italian.
In any case, she's from one of those countries that is historically unable to win wars. Or remove unwanted body hair. So it was perhaps ill-advised of her to start this little "police action" of hers, but start it she did. She started it a few weeks ago, probably without even realizing it. And she began by cooking salmon.
It was a basic smoked salmon, and the smell lingered in the hallway, twisting in the air every time I opened my door - a hint of the ocean, mixed with butter and a blend of herbs. It was one of those aromas that makes one remember poolside barbecues, enjoying time spent with your family - while trying to pretend that you don't notice that your cousin looks really hot in that bikini... to put it simply, this salmon smelled delicious, and just a little sinful.
She followed this up the next day with a mystery dish that had a hint of jalapeno and heavy cheeses, a mexican fiesta... sans donkey show. And later in the week, there was this brilliant french onion stew accompanied with actual swiss emmenthal.
Naturally, I couldn't let such a challenge pass. So I started baking in response. I made the most aromatic weapons of psychological culinary warfare - chocolate chip cookies one day, and cinnamon muffins the next. Since I can't really eat the things I bake (damn you diabetes!), a lot of my results have been brought to work - after their delicious scent has faded a bit, of course. My co-workers have been steadily gaining weight, to the point where we've had to enlarge the doors and invest in a freight elevator.
I then made up a hearty chili. Followed by a thai stir fry. And I've been making a huge variety of omelets every morning. A few days ago, I wanted to make myself a southwest spinach salad, but I decided against it simply because the smell it made wasn't strong enough. I made a pan-seared peppered steak instead, with garlic mashed red potatoes and flash-fried broccoli.
I'm debating buying a mini fan, and pointing it towards my front door, to better waft the scents over her way. One hundred years ago, we used to waft mustard gas over the french countryside. These days, it's a well-made hollandaise sauce.
I call this progress.
Delicious, delicious progress.
She brought out the big guns tonight, though - fettucini alfredo, with a pepper boursin sauce. The fact that I can smell the precise cheese she used, through the very walls, speaks to the sheer power of this woman's cooking. She is the culinary equivalent of a sherman tank. If I want to win this battle, I'm going to have to follow in the wake of my ancestors, and bring out the weapon to end all wars.
It's time to go nuclear.
That's right - it's time to start cooking with curry.
For today I am become death, maker of samosas.
I have never seen her before, though I have heard her talk to her boyfriend as I walk past her apartment. Really, I know nothing about her beyond her voice - she might not even be a she. But I'm pretty sure, based on her accent, that she's french. Or spanish. Or maybe italian.
In any case, she's from one of those countries that is historically unable to win wars. Or remove unwanted body hair. So it was perhaps ill-advised of her to start this little "police action" of hers, but start it she did. She started it a few weeks ago, probably without even realizing it. And she began by cooking salmon.
It was a basic smoked salmon, and the smell lingered in the hallway, twisting in the air every time I opened my door - a hint of the ocean, mixed with butter and a blend of herbs. It was one of those aromas that makes one remember poolside barbecues, enjoying time spent with your family - while trying to pretend that you don't notice that your cousin looks really hot in that bikini... to put it simply, this salmon smelled delicious, and just a little sinful.
She followed this up the next day with a mystery dish that had a hint of jalapeno and heavy cheeses, a mexican fiesta... sans donkey show. And later in the week, there was this brilliant french onion stew accompanied with actual swiss emmenthal.
Naturally, I couldn't let such a challenge pass. So I started baking in response. I made the most aromatic weapons of psychological culinary warfare - chocolate chip cookies one day, and cinnamon muffins the next. Since I can't really eat the things I bake (damn you diabetes!), a lot of my results have been brought to work - after their delicious scent has faded a bit, of course. My co-workers have been steadily gaining weight, to the point where we've had to enlarge the doors and invest in a freight elevator.
I then made up a hearty chili. Followed by a thai stir fry. And I've been making a huge variety of omelets every morning. A few days ago, I wanted to make myself a southwest spinach salad, but I decided against it simply because the smell it made wasn't strong enough. I made a pan-seared peppered steak instead, with garlic mashed red potatoes and flash-fried broccoli.
I'm debating buying a mini fan, and pointing it towards my front door, to better waft the scents over her way. One hundred years ago, we used to waft mustard gas over the french countryside. These days, it's a well-made hollandaise sauce.
I call this progress.
Delicious, delicious progress.
She brought out the big guns tonight, though - fettucini alfredo, with a pepper boursin sauce. The fact that I can smell the precise cheese she used, through the very walls, speaks to the sheer power of this woman's cooking. She is the culinary equivalent of a sherman tank. If I want to win this battle, I'm going to have to follow in the wake of my ancestors, and bring out the weapon to end all wars.
It's time to go nuclear.
That's right - it's time to start cooking with curry.
For today I am become death, maker of samosas.
Okay, this may be entirely fictional....
I'm sitting on a bus. Across the way from me is a man in his early thirties, who has obviously seen better days - tattered shirt, tattered pants, and a faded AC/DC T-shirt. He holds his head in his hands, blearily rubbing a prickly face with his palms.
"When did it start going wrong, man?" He asks, to no one in particular.
I am to help. "September 18th, 1997."
He looks up, confused. "What?"
"September 18th, 1997," I repeat. "At around 4:43 p.m."
There is a long pause, before he speaks up. "What happened?"
"Hm?"
"On September 18th, 1997?"
"What about it?" I ask, a bit confused.
"Well, what happened."
"When?"
"On September 18th, 1997." He says, a little lost.
"Oh! Right!" I say, nodding my head. "I remember now. The day everything went wrong!"
He nods. "So, what happened?"
"Oh, everything went wrong then."
He is getting a little frustrated. "I know... but how did it all go wrong? Why did it all go wrong?"
I shake my head. "You didn't ask how it all went wrong. Or why it all went wrong. I'm afraid I can't help you."
"What?"
"I specialize only in answering when. I'm kind of a limited prophet."
"A what?"
"Hmm?" Is all I say.
"What's a limited prophet?"
"I don't know," I answer, honestly.
"But you just said you were a limited prophet! How can you not know what that means?"
"Well, I don't answer how...." I begin.
He slams his head into the floor, and then runs off the bus screaming. At exactly 2:33 PM, on June 4th.
Totally knew it was going to happen, too.
Just didn't know what "it" was until it happened.
"When did it start going wrong, man?" He asks, to no one in particular.
I am to help. "September 18th, 1997."
He looks up, confused. "What?"
"September 18th, 1997," I repeat. "At around 4:43 p.m."
There is a long pause, before he speaks up. "What happened?"
"Hm?"
"On September 18th, 1997?"
"What about it?" I ask, a bit confused.
"Well, what happened."
"When?"
"On September 18th, 1997." He says, a little lost.
"Oh! Right!" I say, nodding my head. "I remember now. The day everything went wrong!"
He nods. "So, what happened?"
"Oh, everything went wrong then."
He is getting a little frustrated. "I know... but how did it all go wrong? Why did it all go wrong?"
I shake my head. "You didn't ask how it all went wrong. Or why it all went wrong. I'm afraid I can't help you."
"What?"
"I specialize only in answering when. I'm kind of a limited prophet."
"A what?"
"Hmm?" Is all I say.
"What's a limited prophet?"
"I don't know," I answer, honestly.
"But you just said you were a limited prophet! How can you not know what that means?"
"Well, I don't answer how...." I begin.
He slams his head into the floor, and then runs off the bus screaming. At exactly 2:33 PM, on June 4th.
Totally knew it was going to happen, too.
Just didn't know what "it" was until it happened.
The Crazy Newt Customer Illegibility Scale:
Gah. Indecipherable/heavily-accented/mentally-handicapped customers. Gotta love 'em. I've found that when referring to such customers, some sort of "indecipherability scale" needs to be in place. And so, during a few slow minutes at work, a co-worker and I put together the "Crazy Newt Customer Illegibility Scale".
Note that this scale only measures communication problems. Someone could be very easy to speak to (a rating of "0") and yet be an absolute moron with nothing to say. Which, unfortunately, is often the case.
Enjoy.
Easy Communication (Rating = 0)
Note that this scale only measures communication problems. Someone could be very easy to speak to (a rating of "0") and yet be an absolute moron with nothing to say. Which, unfortunately, is often the case.
Enjoy.
Easy Communication (Rating = 0)
- Customer speaks fluent English. While there may be a slight accent, it is barely noticeable.
- Customer is able to understand what you are saying, and is able to articulate a response.
- Example: "Hi. My name is Matt, and there seems to be a problem with my account at your store location. I was hoping I could talk to someone to, um, clear it all up. Thank you."
- Customer speaks English, but may forget, misuse, or mispronounce a few words. There may be an accent, but it does not impair understanding what is being said.
- Customer understands what you are saying, almost perfectly.
- Example: "Hello? My name is, er, Mattias. There is a.... er.... problem?... with my account at your store. Can we fix it? Thanks you."
- Customer speaks English, but likes to pepper his speech with "colloquialisms" from back home. He also may have difficulty speaking the language, and probably mumbles or cannot pronounce certain vowels. Customer will often use the same words, and may use the same phrase again and again, simply to "beef up" his sentences, even if the phrase has no import on the subject at hand.
- Customer often has difficulty understanding what you're saying, and will often misunderstand and give you completely useless information (when you ask him where he is calling from, he'll say something like "A cell phone" or "Vancouver", rather than a street or something like that).
- Example: "Er, hi. *mumble mumble mumble* I tell you this, *mumble mumble* store... money! No working. *mumble mumble mumble* Fix this, I tell you this! *mumble mumble* many thank yous! I tell you this, Many thank yous!"
- Customer can barely speak English. In fact, it sounds less like English, and more like someone who has never spoken English doing an impersonation of an English speaker. Hand motions almost always accompany the speaker - even when they are talking on the phone, which has its own difficulties. The customer will speak in a very loud voice, and use only a few words, hoping that if he says "money" enough, you'll realize there's a bill jam at an ATM he is using.
- Customer will completely misunderstand what you're saying at least once every other sentence. Often, this will be followed with "I no understand" or the customer just repeating their previous sentence. Sometimes, you get the customer that says "yeah" or "I understand", simply because they don't want you to realize that they know about as much about your language as you know about theirs.
- Example: "*foreign language speaking rapidly* Money! Money... store! *children screaming in the background in pakistani* Yes. Hello? Money. Store. I use... store. *more rapid speaking in foreign language... it sounds like someone is selling shrimp in the background*. Fix! *customer puts phone down to yell at his screaming children. Guy selling shrimp picks up phone, and you can hear him getting attacked by your original speaker. Phone disconnects*
- Customer is not speaking English. In fact, you are pretty sure it isn't any language at all. Not only can your client not speak English very well, but he cannot speak his OWN language very well. You may as well attempt communication through morse code. When the customer does speak English, it is only through words that may or not even be tangetially related to the subject at hand.
- Customer does not understand you. But, in almost every case, the customer is very angry with you. On the plus side, you can call him whatever dirty name you like - he has no idea what you're saying. On the downside, while he can't speak English... he does know how to dial your number. And he will.
- Example: *loud screaming over the phone* BLARESH! Fish! Fish! Ia! Ia! Cthulu Ftaghn!"
A key to success...
I learned something last week: always wear a suit to a job interview. This is really just a great piece of advice, and it works well for me, for about a bazillion different reasons.
For starters, I look amazing in a suit. I mean, I'm already quite handsome, if you ignore the fact that were I to stand naked in front of a white wall, you would only see a floating pair of glasses and some red splotches here and there. I've been compared to an albino Denzel Washington. Granted, I was the guy doing the comparison, but it's still pretty flattering, right?
But put me in a suit, and my hotness goes off the chart. I give you exhibit A, which was taken a few months ago at a Halloween party. Myself and the Shlesbian were at a "Dead Rockstar Party", and yours truly decided to fake dye his hair black and wear a suit and go as Frank Sinatra. Unfortunately, I looked nothing like ol' Blue Eyes, so I wound up being The Shlesbian's manager. Or, "extremely good-looking guy in suit at a halloween party"
So, exhibit A:
For starters, I look amazing in a suit. I mean, I'm already quite handsome, if you ignore the fact that were I to stand naked in front of a white wall, you would only see a floating pair of glasses and some red splotches here and there. I've been compared to an albino Denzel Washington. Granted, I was the guy doing the comparison, but it's still pretty flattering, right?
But put me in a suit, and my hotness goes off the chart. I give you exhibit A, which was taken a few months ago at a Halloween party. Myself and the Shlesbian were at a "Dead Rockstar Party", and yours truly decided to fake dye his hair black and wear a suit and go as Frank Sinatra. Unfortunately, I looked nothing like ol' Blue Eyes, so I wound up being The Shlesbian's manager. Or, "extremely good-looking guy in suit at a halloween party"
So, exhibit A:
To all my female readers - you can make out with your monitor. It's okay. You wouldn't be the first. And yes, that is the Shlesbian's real face. Creeps the hell out of the kids.
So, I'm at the job interview, and the interviewer keeps checking me out in my hot suit. Which is good, because I keep looking down her shirt. This makes me feel kind of bad, because I think one of the major rules of a job interview is to not look down the interviewer's shirt, but I am a male, and I am hotwired to do this. In fact, at one point during the interview, I came to the conclusion that if I didn't get the job, I needed to ask this woman out for a cup of coffee.
Unfortunately, that never happened, because I got the job. I blame the suit.
It got better, though - I found myself in the conference hall, with a bunch of other recent hires. They were all wearing jeans, or crappy "club shirts" that were usually purple with black swirls. They took one look at me, in my snazzy glory, and gulped. I wanted to look at them and say "that's right, boys and girls. I am the king of this little pack, and I own you now."
I didn't get a chance to say that, though, because I was busy staring down the shirt of my new boss.
He's Bald, Jim.
Once, years and years ago, I worked at an A&W restaurant, in the kitchen. I was pretty much a kitchen supervisor, and did my job flipping burgers and all that fun stuff. Naturally, I got bored at work quite often, and I'd mess with my co-workers. Who, not counting me of course, were generally fairly gullible and trusting.
I played all sorts of fun jokes on my companions. Told them we had hidden easter eggs in the kitchen, and watched as they searched for eggs that had never been hidden. Invented silly games similar to shuffleboard and then told them I owned the copyright to the game. And I'd draw silly little public service announcements on the fridge doors with a grease pencil about why you shouldn't brush your teeth with Preparation H.
My favourite, though, was when I convinced a gullible sixteen year old that our boss, who I'll call "Jim", had a prosthetic leg.
It was a slow day, and I came up with the lie to pass the time. She was convinced I was lying (I was), but everyone in the kitchen swore it was true. So, if I go to Hell for this, at least I'll have some accomplices to hang out with. She even went up front to ask the front staff, and they figured it out immediately and agreed.
"Yes, he does have a prosthetic leg. But he doesn't like to talk about it."
For a good two months afterward, I'd watch this girl eye Jim's (covered) leg while in the kitchen. She'd be on line, flipping a burger, and then she'd just look down and watch as Jim walked. She'd wait for him to limp, or some sort of sign to "give away" the fact that he had a prosthetic.
Naturally, I shut my mouth, and would burst out laughing when she left the room.
The crowning moment, though, was when Jim came into work wearing shorts on his day off. He hung out for a few minutes chatting, and then went on his way. The whole time, the girl stared at his leg. His bare, real leg.
Was I busted? Nope.
"Oh, that? It's artificial skin. Like we said, Jim is very self-conscious. He spent almost a year's paycheque to have the prosthesis with hairs planted in. Those are his hairs in the leg."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Haven't you noticed? He's bald."
It took her another week or so before she realized I'm a dick.
I played all sorts of fun jokes on my companions. Told them we had hidden easter eggs in the kitchen, and watched as they searched for eggs that had never been hidden. Invented silly games similar to shuffleboard and then told them I owned the copyright to the game. And I'd draw silly little public service announcements on the fridge doors with a grease pencil about why you shouldn't brush your teeth with Preparation H.
My favourite, though, was when I convinced a gullible sixteen year old that our boss, who I'll call "Jim", had a prosthetic leg.
It was a slow day, and I came up with the lie to pass the time. She was convinced I was lying (I was), but everyone in the kitchen swore it was true. So, if I go to Hell for this, at least I'll have some accomplices to hang out with. She even went up front to ask the front staff, and they figured it out immediately and agreed.
"Yes, he does have a prosthetic leg. But he doesn't like to talk about it."
For a good two months afterward, I'd watch this girl eye Jim's (covered) leg while in the kitchen. She'd be on line, flipping a burger, and then she'd just look down and watch as Jim walked. She'd wait for him to limp, or some sort of sign to "give away" the fact that he had a prosthetic.
Naturally, I shut my mouth, and would burst out laughing when she left the room.
The crowning moment, though, was when Jim came into work wearing shorts on his day off. He hung out for a few minutes chatting, and then went on his way. The whole time, the girl stared at his leg. His bare, real leg.
Was I busted? Nope.
"Oh, that? It's artificial skin. Like we said, Jim is very self-conscious. He spent almost a year's paycheque to have the prosthesis with hairs planted in. Those are his hairs in the leg."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Haven't you noticed? He's bald."
It took her another week or so before she realized I'm a dick.
Stay away from my kidneys...
So, way back when, I had a plenty of fish profile. And after many, many rejections, I got into the habit of writing introductions more to make myself laugh than out of any hope of getting a message back. Kind of a way to reject them before they get a chance to reject you.
Some of those introductory messages were hilarious, and I really wish I had kept them saved on my hard drive. I really had a book possibility in those introductions - they were funny, they were charming, and they got me absolutely nowhere.
A little over a week ago, I put up a Plenty of Fish profile on a whim, and sent out a few "howdy" messages, thinking maybe I'd get a date or two out of the deal. Not really expecting much... that's exactly what I got. Naturally, my first urge was to start sending out silly messages.
I didn't do that. Well, not exactly. Instead, I started writing messages with the intent of getting a laugh, while at the same time complimenting the person and saying a bit about who I am as a person. At the same time, one of the reponses I got back mentioned how I should post some of these messages somewhere. And I agree - I want these saved for posterity purposes.
So, these are two sent messages that didn't get a reply back. Both of them were messages that had me laughing pretty hard. Hope you enjoy.
This next one, though, is a gem. Really should be published.
I'm seeing a potential book in the future. Just post a bunch of Plenty of Fish messages to unsuspecting women, and see how it goes. But I don't know if I'm really comfortable in making a career out of my rejection. After all, neither of these gems got a reply.
Some of those introductory messages were hilarious, and I really wish I had kept them saved on my hard drive. I really had a book possibility in those introductions - they were funny, they were charming, and they got me absolutely nowhere.
A little over a week ago, I put up a Plenty of Fish profile on a whim, and sent out a few "howdy" messages, thinking maybe I'd get a date or two out of the deal. Not really expecting much... that's exactly what I got. Naturally, my first urge was to start sending out silly messages.
I didn't do that. Well, not exactly. Instead, I started writing messages with the intent of getting a laugh, while at the same time complimenting the person and saying a bit about who I am as a person. At the same time, one of the reponses I got back mentioned how I should post some of these messages somewhere. And I agree - I want these saved for posterity purposes.
So, these are two sent messages that didn't get a reply back. Both of them were messages that had me laughing pretty hard. Hope you enjoy.
Subject: Regarding Astrology and Cults...This girl, who started with a joke about her star sign and her search for a soulmate, before talking about her hypoallergenic dog, gave me about three seconds' worth of consideration before deleting my message. Fair enough. This wasn't one of my better messages, but I don't want to post any that actually got a response. It'd seem like an invasion of privacy, to me.
Now, I have a rule with Plenty of Fish. If a girl mentions her star sign in her profile, it means I should start running now. Because when she catches me, I'll wake up in some compound in Bountiful BC with a shaved head, giving my money to the leader while working on a turnip farm.
But I think I'll ignore that rule this time, because you seemed to be sarcastic. And sarcasm trumps freaky astrology stuff every time.
Now, onto the big questions.
What's your dog allergic to? I'm hoping the answer is "other dogs". Because that would rock. Also what sort of strange books and good movies are you into?
Anyways. I'm a former Timmins/Toronto guy, figured I'd say "welcome to Vic", and if you're at all interested in chatting it up for a bit, seeing if there's any real common ground... there could be a pool game in the future where I would lose horribly.
Seriously. Last time I played, a dude lost his eye.
Take care, and maybe I'll talk to you soon.
-Dave
This next one, though, is a gem. Really should be published.
I'm seeing a potential book in the future. Just post a bunch of Plenty of Fish messages to unsuspecting women, and see how it goes. But I don't know if I'm really comfortable in making a career out of my rejection. After all, neither of these gems got a reply.
Subject: You can't get my kidneys
So, I have a pretty strong suspicion that you get messaged a bazillion times a day. You're a great looking person with a great-looking profile, and that's a rare combination on PoF, it seem. And, because of this, you'll read my quick introduction and start laughing. And then you'll reach through the internet, grab me by the throat, and say "as if, buddy".
I'll wake up in a bathtub somewhere, covered in ice, missing a kidney. But the joke's on you... I happen to have two of the things.
On the off chance that you're not an internet kidney harvester, I figure I'll say "hello". I'm a pretty nice guy, with a good sense of humour, a fairly active life, and my belly is closer to a six pack than a keg. I like to write, try new things, and love cooking. My kidneys are in excellent shape.
I like to joke around, am pretty playful, and a romantic and nice guy. and I'd love to learn a bit more about you - what sort of books you read, your top three movies, what sort of games you're into (that sounded dirty... not what I meant!), and all that awesome stuff. Hopefully, you'll pop back, read my profile, realize how awesome I am, and we'll take it from there.
If not, well, that's cool too. But stay away from my internal organs, please.
Take care,
-Dave
Competitive Showering
It occured to me this morning, during my shower. Competitive Showering.
Showering is boring. You stand in an enclosed space, rubbing soap over yourself and usually thinking about random crap that's going to happen to you in your day that you can't possibly avoid. If you're the self-pleasuring type (I'm on an abstinence vow right now! "Master of Your Own Domain" and all that cheese), you might unwind a little bit.
But generally, showering is a boring thing.
We need to jazz it up.
I'm not sure of the rules in competitive showering. All I know is that there's a ball involved, someone has to hide a pickle, and that it's not as gay as it sounds.
Well, actually, it probably is.
Showering is boring. You stand in an enclosed space, rubbing soap over yourself and usually thinking about random crap that's going to happen to you in your day that you can't possibly avoid. If you're the self-pleasuring type (I'm on an abstinence vow right now! "Master of Your Own Domain" and all that cheese), you might unwind a little bit.
But generally, showering is a boring thing.
We need to jazz it up.
I'm not sure of the rules in competitive showering. All I know is that there's a ball involved, someone has to hide a pickle, and that it's not as gay as it sounds.
Well, actually, it probably is.
Death to Americans: The Musical
As a diabetic, I occasionally suffer from low Blood Sugar levels. Basically, the concentration of glucose in my blood gets too low (either from not eating enough food or from doing too much insulin), and I start acting loopy. During severe low blood sugars, I've actually hallucinated and thought I was having conversations with angels. Usually, though, I just say some weird things.
Or think in unusual ways. And we're not talking about the thoughts that hit drunk people, or stoned people, although I guess there are certain similarities. See, my mind is still working at normal strength... it's just drawing different conclusions, and making different priorities. Often, it becomes super-focused on one point, and lingers on that to the exclusion of everything else. Like the time I went to a Future Shop to help pick out an iPod, and suffered a low blood sugar level that convinced me that speaking up about any sort of iPod would ruin the impartiality of the sale.
I say this because, the other day, I woke up thinking I should write a book. In my head, I knew that this would be a great book. Barack Obama would love my work, and I would get invited to a White House dinner. CNN, upset at the book's title, would focus on this over the actual content, and Obama would get all sorts of Flak. Ditto from FOX news, except even worse. See, the book I wanted to write was about foreign relations with the U.S. from the perspective of a Canadian. And it was called Death To Americans.
Never mind that I know very little about politics. Or that I've never been in the United States. Or that I'm not particularly interested in foreign affairs. At 6 in the morning, I was convinced I had to write this book. And I kept collecting notes in my head.
First, I decided that I'm not much of a non-fiction writer, so I'd have to make the whole thing an allegory. I'd have to add characters, illustrating my thesis statement clearly. Naturally, one of the characters would have to be a Black American in a position of power, so Barack would still want to invite me to the White House.
Second, I realized that books are overdone, these days. Everyone has a book. And a book with an incendiary title is nothing. Absolutely nothing. No, if I wanted to really get my point across, I'd have to try a different format. What would be a new and novel way to present a politically-charged thesis on U.S. foreign relations?
I've got it! A Musical!
It was during my composition of the musical's first song, a happy march called "Hello. Death To Americans!" that I realized something was wrong. I sat up in bed, and thought to myself, Am I having a low blood sugar?
I didn't feel low. But that doesn't mean anything. But then, I don't usually start writing musicals at six a.m. I should probably check.
So, I got out of bed, did the finger prick test, and got a reading of 2.7.
The average for the common man is aroud 5 to 7. For a diabetic, it should be between 6 to 8. I start feeling the effects of a "low" around 4.0. Unconsciousness can happen anywhere below 3.0. Death happens around 1.0 (I think).
So, I grabbed some candies I keep for just such a situation, made myself some peanut-butter toast, and finished off the milk, waiting for my sugar level to reach normal again. And, once it was, I started thinking a bit more clearly.
Death To Americans: The Musical, is a really bad idea.
Too bad, though. I really wanted to meet Mr. Obama.
Or think in unusual ways. And we're not talking about the thoughts that hit drunk people, or stoned people, although I guess there are certain similarities. See, my mind is still working at normal strength... it's just drawing different conclusions, and making different priorities. Often, it becomes super-focused on one point, and lingers on that to the exclusion of everything else. Like the time I went to a Future Shop to help pick out an iPod, and suffered a low blood sugar level that convinced me that speaking up about any sort of iPod would ruin the impartiality of the sale.
I say this because, the other day, I woke up thinking I should write a book. In my head, I knew that this would be a great book. Barack Obama would love my work, and I would get invited to a White House dinner. CNN, upset at the book's title, would focus on this over the actual content, and Obama would get all sorts of Flak. Ditto from FOX news, except even worse. See, the book I wanted to write was about foreign relations with the U.S. from the perspective of a Canadian. And it was called Death To Americans.
Never mind that I know very little about politics. Or that I've never been in the United States. Or that I'm not particularly interested in foreign affairs. At 6 in the morning, I was convinced I had to write this book. And I kept collecting notes in my head.
First, I decided that I'm not much of a non-fiction writer, so I'd have to make the whole thing an allegory. I'd have to add characters, illustrating my thesis statement clearly. Naturally, one of the characters would have to be a Black American in a position of power, so Barack would still want to invite me to the White House.
Second, I realized that books are overdone, these days. Everyone has a book. And a book with an incendiary title is nothing. Absolutely nothing. No, if I wanted to really get my point across, I'd have to try a different format. What would be a new and novel way to present a politically-charged thesis on U.S. foreign relations?
I've got it! A Musical!
It was during my composition of the musical's first song, a happy march called "Hello. Death To Americans!" that I realized something was wrong. I sat up in bed, and thought to myself, Am I having a low blood sugar?
I didn't feel low. But that doesn't mean anything. But then, I don't usually start writing musicals at six a.m. I should probably check.
So, I got out of bed, did the finger prick test, and got a reading of 2.7.
The average for the common man is aroud 5 to 7. For a diabetic, it should be between 6 to 8. I start feeling the effects of a "low" around 4.0. Unconsciousness can happen anywhere below 3.0. Death happens around 1.0 (I think).
So, I grabbed some candies I keep for just such a situation, made myself some peanut-butter toast, and finished off the milk, waiting for my sugar level to reach normal again. And, once it was, I started thinking a bit more clearly.
Death To Americans: The Musical, is a really bad idea.
Too bad, though. I really wanted to meet Mr. Obama.
Us... And Them
TV appeals to the lowest common denominator, I think most of us will agree on that. And, as of the last few years, it's become increasingly worse. We take average people, and we see what they'd be willing to do for their fifteen minutes and a small cash prize.
This, by the way, isnt' truly what bothers me - there are a lot of dumb people out there, and I don't need TV to convince me of that. What bugs me is how popular these reality shows are. How there is such a huge market for stupid people eating bugs. Women competing for the attentions of some mass-market male in the fakest of "relationships". And so on, and so forth.
We like watching the dregs of society. What's the deal?
I had an idea for game show last night, just before I drifted off to sleep. It's called "Us... or them?" and it's really pretty simple.
Each episode starts off with two contestants, and each contestant begins the game with fifty thousand dollars. During each "challenge" (and the challenges vary from fear-factor-esque bug-eating challenges, to trivia questions, to embarrassing deeds), the two contestants compete against each other - and whoever wins gets to take money from the other person's pool, and add it to their own.
Here's the kick, though. One of the contestants is a celebrity, and is working for a charity of his choosing. Any money he earns goes towards the charity. Naturally, this being TV, the "Celebrity" is probably someone long-forgotten, who really wants his fifteen minutes of fame back. He's going to do his damnedest to win some cash for those poor starving Ethiopian Vegans who are also members of PETA and believe in free-trade organic coffee.
The other contestant is not a celebrity, and he gets to keep all the money for himself. Essentially, he's taking money that could be going to a charitable cause, and using it for personal gain. To insure that we don't get some guy that's going to take a dive and let the charity get all the money, though, we'll make sure our non-celebrity really needs the money. In fact, we'll frame the show by showing just how desperate "Matilda the Crack Ho" is. If we play this right, the audience could get mad at the celebrity for winning and taking the money away from Poor Matilda, just to feed some silly Ethiopian children.
The point of it all is, the audience watches a show where, no matter the outcome, there is no clear winner. I want to see a TV show out there that makes the audience feel dirty. Shamed.
...Oh. I forgot to mention. The host is Bob Barker.
This, by the way, isnt' truly what bothers me - there are a lot of dumb people out there, and I don't need TV to convince me of that. What bugs me is how popular these reality shows are. How there is such a huge market for stupid people eating bugs. Women competing for the attentions of some mass-market male in the fakest of "relationships". And so on, and so forth.
We like watching the dregs of society. What's the deal?
I had an idea for game show last night, just before I drifted off to sleep. It's called "Us... or them?" and it's really pretty simple.
Each episode starts off with two contestants, and each contestant begins the game with fifty thousand dollars. During each "challenge" (and the challenges vary from fear-factor-esque bug-eating challenges, to trivia questions, to embarrassing deeds), the two contestants compete against each other - and whoever wins gets to take money from the other person's pool, and add it to their own.
Here's the kick, though. One of the contestants is a celebrity, and is working for a charity of his choosing. Any money he earns goes towards the charity. Naturally, this being TV, the "Celebrity" is probably someone long-forgotten, who really wants his fifteen minutes of fame back. He's going to do his damnedest to win some cash for those poor starving Ethiopian Vegans who are also members of PETA and believe in free-trade organic coffee.
The other contestant is not a celebrity, and he gets to keep all the money for himself. Essentially, he's taking money that could be going to a charitable cause, and using it for personal gain. To insure that we don't get some guy that's going to take a dive and let the charity get all the money, though, we'll make sure our non-celebrity really needs the money. In fact, we'll frame the show by showing just how desperate "Matilda the Crack Ho" is. If we play this right, the audience could get mad at the celebrity for winning and taking the money away from Poor Matilda, just to feed some silly Ethiopian children.
The point of it all is, the audience watches a show where, no matter the outcome, there is no clear winner. I want to see a TV show out there that makes the audience feel dirty. Shamed.
...Oh. I forgot to mention. The host is Bob Barker.
A guest post from my friend...
Hey everyone. So my friend and neighbour, Eric Munchausen, has been following my blog now for some time. Yesterday, he asked me if he could make a post or two for the masses. I was more than happy to oblige - after all, "guest posts" are a sign you've made it in internet bloggery. But, out of concern for my reader(s), I told Eric that he had to have a topic to write about. He could not just rant and rave on my blog, after all.Eric's Cooking Corner
You see, Eric has been going through some rough times, and I did not want to subject you, my dear reader(s), to Eric's darkest thoughts. I suggested he do an upbeat, happy post. After much discussion, we agreed that Eric would deliver a cooking-themed blog post. Eric has been trying some new forms of cuisine out over the last few months, and I'm sure he would love to share them with you.
So, without further ado, I give you... Eric Munchausen's cooking corner. Enjoy!
-Dave
Hi. And thanks, Dave. I'm a huge fan of your blog, and read it in the evenings after work to keep the bad thoughts away.
A few months ago, after a court-order to stay five hundred yards away from my old home, I had to move into this new apartment and embark on a new life. And part of that new life, apparently, is to subsist on cheap, substandard foodstuffs. The Canadian Justice system, my friends, is not kind towards hard-working fathers and divorcees. Because that cheating whore never worked a day in her life, apparently I have to support her after she kicked me out of my own home, and now I'm stuck living off garbage while she eats caviar.
Sorry. My therapist says I should just let it all out.
Dave asked me to give you some cooking advice, which I'm excited to do. I've discovered new cuisine of unimaginable variety over the past few months of enforced bachelordom - Kraft Dinner, Instant Ramen, Minute Rice, Lipton's sidekicks, instant potatoes, frozen perogies, and more! Today, I plan on showing you how to turn a humdrum dish like Kraft Dinner into something a bit more exciting.
Yes. I said exciting. Kraft Dinner can be spiced up, and given a little pizazz. Who's exciting now, Sheila?
Eric's Pizazz'd Kraft Dinner
What You'll Need
- Box of Kraft Dinner
- 1% milk (2 tablespoons)
- Butter or margarine (1 tablespoon) (optional - use garlic butter instead)
- Shredded Medium or Sharp cheddar cheese (roughly 50g, or 1/4 cup)
- Louisiana hot sauce (add to taste)
- herb and garlic cream cheese (1 tablespoon)
- Cooked Black Beans (1/4 cup)
1. Boil six cups of water in medium pot, like the medium pot I had to steal from a thrift store downtown. Add macaroni noodles, and boil until noodles are tender like my breaking heart.
2. Drain water, leaving noodles in the pot soft and flaccid (God, I'm so lonely). Add the remaining ingredients and stir. Take the cheese package from the kraft dinner box, and add about 1/3rd of the package. My wife, the cheating slut, will want the other 2/3rds, because she's "entitled" to it from court-order. I can't even see my kids anymore. Stir the mixture.
3. Salt to taste. I use my bitter tears of reject and loss as flavouring. You can use, salt. Makes a great pre-suicide snack!
An Open Letter to the Drummer who lives Above Me...
Dear sir,
I would like to preface this by saying that, generally speaking, I am a fan of music. I encourage people to pursue their musical ambitions. I am not generally bugged by loud noises, either, and I can honestly say that if you were practicing your drums at a decent hour, I would have very little complaint (but see below).
That being said, I would like to remind you that you and I are both residents of an apartment complex, and as such, we should be aware of those who live around us. What this means for you, unfortunately, is that there are certain times when practicing your drumming is a poor idea. Midnight on a weekday, for example, is probably not the time to be practicing - it may be perfectly fine when you play at your parents' place in the middle of rural nowhere, but in a grungy apartment in downtown Victoria, midnight drumming is a bad idea. You'll wake the homeless.
I remember last year, lying in bed at 11:30 pm, staring up at my ceiling. I wasn't particularly perturbed by your drumming at this point; it bugged me a little (I must admit) that you would be so inconsiderate as to play at such a late hour, but the sound itself was not the problem. However, my girlfriend at the time - who had to be at work for 5 am the next morning - was quite annoyed, and spent the better part of an hour ranting about the manner in which she would kill you. I was able to keep her away from the sharp knives, and eventually succeeded in calming her down.
Sir, you do not know me, but you should thank me, for it is very possible that I saved your life last year.
However, your drumming has only escalated since then. I can hear a piano playing as well during these late night drumming sessions, so I can only assume you are in some sort of band, and that this band is composed of people as equally insensitive to the presence of neighbours as yourself.
Again, when I started hearing these band practices, I was not truly annoyed. But as time has gone by, I've become increasingly agitated. Not so much at the volume, although - as I've said earlier - I find your inconsideration offensive. Instead, I am becoming more and more upset about the nature of the songs you practice.
You see, for the past year, you have been playing the same song.
I am sure you know it. It consists of you wailing on the bass drum in a slightly off-rhythm manner, while the piano plays a line that could have easily been lifted off the Charlie Brown Christmas Special. This line then proceeds into a slow, somewhat melodic piece, before once again regressing to some sort of major-scale march.
Sir, I beg you. Play another song. I mean no offence when I say this, but that song you play is horrible. I get it stuck in my head, and it won't get out. I dream about this piano line. And I'm not talking about good dreams. I'm talking about those dreams where you can hear circus music playing in the background, a mime is laughing at you on a carousel while spiders crawl out of your eyelids.
This is not like how I'll get The Beatles' Octopus' Garden stuck in my head for a day or two. Because, while that song is not particularly good, it is at least a cheerful, happy song. This is more like when I get that annoying song by Rihanna stuck in my head for days on end, to the point where I'm seriously debating drilling it out with some sort of blunt instrument. And then, when I finally get rid of the song through liberal use of alcohol and self-pleasuring around the hour, I'll soon thereafter hear the song play on a cell phone ringtone, and have to begin the entire process over again.
I do not want to hum your song, sir. And I'm currently on a vow to avoid as much self-pleasuring as possible.
Until recently, I worked for the BC Provincial Government, and my job was to help process applications for Security Guards (among other things). One day, while mailing out licences, I came across an address. After doing a double take, I realized that I was holding the licence of a worker that lived directly above my apartment. "This is the guy who plays the drums," I said to myself, shocked and surprised. What were the odds I would chance upon your information, after all?
I must admit, a mischievious grin played across my face. I imagined all sorts of ways I could abuse my power - I could "accidentally" forget to mail out your licence. I could get ahold of your phone number, and call you at 2 am and give you a taste of your own medicine. Or I could include a veiled threat in the envelope along with your licence.
I did none of these things, because I had taken an oath as a government worker. But I did have your name, and all of your relevant information, because I had fallen upon it and once seeing it, could not automatically forget it. I knew, though, as long as I was a government worker, I could not act upon the information I had, no matter how annoying your drumming and tone-deaf piano marches got.
Only now, I'm not a government worker. I'm an unemployed, pissed off, bored person.
Sir, I know a lot about you, through random chance. I know your name. I know where you work, and what you do at work. I know how much money you make (and I apologize), when and where you were born, your phone number, and your criminal background. And of course, I know where you live.
Dear sir.
Stop playing the fucking drums at midnight, or you will regret it.
Thank you, and have a great day.
I would like to preface this by saying that, generally speaking, I am a fan of music. I encourage people to pursue their musical ambitions. I am not generally bugged by loud noises, either, and I can honestly say that if you were practicing your drums at a decent hour, I would have very little complaint (but see below).
That being said, I would like to remind you that you and I are both residents of an apartment complex, and as such, we should be aware of those who live around us. What this means for you, unfortunately, is that there are certain times when practicing your drumming is a poor idea. Midnight on a weekday, for example, is probably not the time to be practicing - it may be perfectly fine when you play at your parents' place in the middle of rural nowhere, but in a grungy apartment in downtown Victoria, midnight drumming is a bad idea. You'll wake the homeless.
I remember last year, lying in bed at 11:30 pm, staring up at my ceiling. I wasn't particularly perturbed by your drumming at this point; it bugged me a little (I must admit) that you would be so inconsiderate as to play at such a late hour, but the sound itself was not the problem. However, my girlfriend at the time - who had to be at work for 5 am the next morning - was quite annoyed, and spent the better part of an hour ranting about the manner in which she would kill you. I was able to keep her away from the sharp knives, and eventually succeeded in calming her down.
Sir, you do not know me, but you should thank me, for it is very possible that I saved your life last year.
However, your drumming has only escalated since then. I can hear a piano playing as well during these late night drumming sessions, so I can only assume you are in some sort of band, and that this band is composed of people as equally insensitive to the presence of neighbours as yourself.
Again, when I started hearing these band practices, I was not truly annoyed. But as time has gone by, I've become increasingly agitated. Not so much at the volume, although - as I've said earlier - I find your inconsideration offensive. Instead, I am becoming more and more upset about the nature of the songs you practice.
You see, for the past year, you have been playing the same song.
I am sure you know it. It consists of you wailing on the bass drum in a slightly off-rhythm manner, while the piano plays a line that could have easily been lifted off the Charlie Brown Christmas Special. This line then proceeds into a slow, somewhat melodic piece, before once again regressing to some sort of major-scale march.
Sir, I beg you. Play another song. I mean no offence when I say this, but that song you play is horrible. I get it stuck in my head, and it won't get out. I dream about this piano line. And I'm not talking about good dreams. I'm talking about those dreams where you can hear circus music playing in the background, a mime is laughing at you on a carousel while spiders crawl out of your eyelids.
This is not like how I'll get The Beatles' Octopus' Garden stuck in my head for a day or two. Because, while that song is not particularly good, it is at least a cheerful, happy song. This is more like when I get that annoying song by Rihanna stuck in my head for days on end, to the point where I'm seriously debating drilling it out with some sort of blunt instrument. And then, when I finally get rid of the song through liberal use of alcohol and self-pleasuring around the hour, I'll soon thereafter hear the song play on a cell phone ringtone, and have to begin the entire process over again.
I do not want to hum your song, sir. And I'm currently on a vow to avoid as much self-pleasuring as possible.
Until recently, I worked for the BC Provincial Government, and my job was to help process applications for Security Guards (among other things). One day, while mailing out licences, I came across an address. After doing a double take, I realized that I was holding the licence of a worker that lived directly above my apartment. "This is the guy who plays the drums," I said to myself, shocked and surprised. What were the odds I would chance upon your information, after all?
I must admit, a mischievious grin played across my face. I imagined all sorts of ways I could abuse my power - I could "accidentally" forget to mail out your licence. I could get ahold of your phone number, and call you at 2 am and give you a taste of your own medicine. Or I could include a veiled threat in the envelope along with your licence.
I did none of these things, because I had taken an oath as a government worker. But I did have your name, and all of your relevant information, because I had fallen upon it and once seeing it, could not automatically forget it. I knew, though, as long as I was a government worker, I could not act upon the information I had, no matter how annoying your drumming and tone-deaf piano marches got.
Only now, I'm not a government worker. I'm an unemployed, pissed off, bored person.
Sir, I know a lot about you, through random chance. I know your name. I know where you work, and what you do at work. I know how much money you make (and I apologize), when and where you were born, your phone number, and your criminal background. And of course, I know where you live.
Dear sir.
Stop playing the fucking drums at midnight, or you will regret it.
Thank you, and have a great day.
(signed)
David S. Percival
You know I'm a hemophiliac, right?
I had to get bloodwork done the other day. One of the downsides of being a diabetic (are there many upsides?) is that you have to get bloodwork done pretty frequently. I've turned it into a game, though.
It helps that most medical people I know have a sense of humour almost as fucked up as my own. It's pretty amazing.
Some of the replies I've heard to my fun little games:
Today, I played the "You look big and strong, so I'll be super nice so you don't hurt me" game. Coupled with the "I have to give you a urine test today, so I'm not going to bug you any more than I have to" game. Because everyone has their limits.
- There was the time I said "hey, you found a vein! I'm amazed. Could you mark it with a pen? I'm doing heroin later on tonight, and that will really help."
- ...or the time I asked for a lollypop afterwards. "Aren't you a diabetic?" the confused technician asked, making this scrunched-up face. And then I got all pouty and said "geez, what are you, my mom?"
- My personal favourite moment, though, was to wait until the woman had stuck the needle in the vein before saying "You know I'm a hemophiliac, right?". Seriously. I've never seen someone's face fall like that. It was priceless.
It helps that most medical people I know have a sense of humour almost as fucked up as my own. It's pretty amazing.
Some of the replies I've heard to my fun little games:
- "Of course I found a vein. If you'd ask me to find muscle, though, we'd be here all week."
- "No, if I was your mom, I don't know how I'd sleep at night."
- Okay. ...The nurse who thought she'd just stabbed a hemophiliac freaked out a little bit. Like she'd just driven her Miata into me, or something. I may feel a little guilty about it, but I really think that made everything funnier. Her friends thought it was pretty hilarious, too.
Today, I played the "You look big and strong, so I'll be super nice so you don't hurt me" game. Coupled with the "I have to give you a urine test today, so I'm not going to bug you any more than I have to" game. Because everyone has their limits.
Why Dave Should Never Speak
In other news today, I won ten bucks on the lottery. It was a four dollar ticket, so I'm up six dollars. Also, I'm an idiot, and should learn to never speak. Allow me to explain:
It started, as many stories do, with a turkey-salad sandwich. I had been given some leftover turkey from my mother a few days ago, and I figured tonight I'd have a sandwich for dinner. You see, when you're on EI and living alone, you eat silly things for dinner. I think I'm going to have pancakes tomorrow. With jam. And chicken wings on the side.
But tonight, my plan was to make a turkey salad sandwich. Shredded turkey, a little bit of mayo, black pepper, green onions, and celery, all with a bit of cheddar cheese on multigrain bread. Pretty much the best sandwich in the world, really. However, to make this dinner of champions,I needed green onions, and celery.
I didn't feel like running all the way down to a grocery store, because if you go to a grocery store to buy a stalk of green onions (99 cents) and a single piece of celery (about 20 cents), you'll get laughed out of the store. Seriously - if your total purchase is less than a pack of gum, they have the right to refuse service. Or think you're going to rob the place, or are "casing the joint" for some reason.
We used to have people like this when I worked at a deli. People that would come to the grocery store every day, making the twenty minute walk from their house, just to wander around the store and buy a two dollar jar of mustard or a block of swiss emmenthal because "hey, I forgot it last week". These people would come every day, because they wanted the human contact. You might think it's cute. I think it's sad as hell. And I'd sooner die than be that guy.
No, if I went to the grocery store, I'd have to spend at least ten bucks. And who wants to do that?
So, I went to the corner store. Because, while the produce will cost more, I can get away with just buying produce. Nobody judges you for your purchases at a convienience store. Unless you're buying porn. And then only if your purchases involves x girls and x-1 cups.
Now, there are three choices in the corner store market, ever since I did some light exploring yesterday and discovered a new (to me, at least) shop on the waterfront. My options consisted of:
Why, in the name of god, would a store not sell green onions, but instead sell radishes? Are radishes a best-selling product? Are they in high demand? What is the rationale, here? Grimacing, I instead decide to buy a bottle of orange juice, because I need something to drink on my run, and I like the bottles with a wide mouth. There's a dirty joke there, I'm sure.
I make my way to the counter, and have to fight between two people I'll discreetly refer to as "Neighbourhood locals" and leave it at that. They were wearing torn jean jackets, and had hair that was frazzled and had a definite "unwashed" quality going for it. They smelled like stale tobacco, and were busily going through the fold-out knives at the counter, trying to find the best blade. And this gave me pause.
Imagine, if you will, that you are a convienience store owner. You run a store that will be open late at night, in a neighbourhood that is not really "high class". You sell products to drunks, drug addicts, and those who are "down and out". Your store is open until 11 pm, every night, and is staffed by only one staff member after the sun goes down. What do you do?
Why, you put a bunch of knives on your counter, within the customer's easy reach! This is a great money-making idea! Sell them a knife for a couple of bucks. And then get robbed. Brilliant.
Anyways, I avoid the local colour, give the vendor my two bucks, and start to leave, before deciding to self-check my lottery ticket. And, wouldn't you know it? I'm a winner. Ten bucks. Not much, but hey, I won!
What do I do?
"Hey, cool! I have a winning ticket!" I loudly proclaim. As if I've won a lot more than ten bucks, I should add.
The shop owner looks up at me.
The two jean-jacket knife afficianados look up at me. And they're armed.
Little alarm bells are ringing in my head. I should have just worn a shirt that said "rob me. I'm an idiot!" and left it at that.
"Uh... I'll cash it later" I stammer out. Not, say, "Hey, cool, I won ten bucks." or anything like that. No, instead, I am saying to these people: "I have won a large amount of money that I will not identify. And instead of cashing that money now, I will walk away, piquing your curiousity. By the way, I like your knives. Hey, did I mention I'm a scrawny ginger kid?"
When I got out that door, I could feel the eyes of the local colour on the back of my neck. I power-walked home at a good twenty clicks, my lottery ticket burning a hole in my pocket.
I think a "never speak!" policy should be implemented.
It started, as many stories do, with a turkey-salad sandwich. I had been given some leftover turkey from my mother a few days ago, and I figured tonight I'd have a sandwich for dinner. You see, when you're on EI and living alone, you eat silly things for dinner. I think I'm going to have pancakes tomorrow. With jam. And chicken wings on the side.
But tonight, my plan was to make a turkey salad sandwich. Shredded turkey, a little bit of mayo, black pepper, green onions, and celery, all with a bit of cheddar cheese on multigrain bread. Pretty much the best sandwich in the world, really. However, to make this dinner of champions,I needed green onions, and celery.
I didn't feel like running all the way down to a grocery store, because if you go to a grocery store to buy a stalk of green onions (99 cents) and a single piece of celery (about 20 cents), you'll get laughed out of the store. Seriously - if your total purchase is less than a pack of gum, they have the right to refuse service. Or think you're going to rob the place, or are "casing the joint" for some reason.
We used to have people like this when I worked at a deli. People that would come to the grocery store every day, making the twenty minute walk from their house, just to wander around the store and buy a two dollar jar of mustard or a block of swiss emmenthal because "hey, I forgot it last week". These people would come every day, because they wanted the human contact. You might think it's cute. I think it's sad as hell. And I'd sooner die than be that guy.
No, if I went to the grocery store, I'd have to spend at least ten bucks. And who wants to do that?
So, I went to the corner store. Because, while the produce will cost more, I can get away with just buying produce. Nobody judges you for your purchases at a convienience store. Unless you're buying porn. And then only if your purchases involves x girls and x-1 cups.
Now, there are three choices in the corner store market, ever since I did some light exploring yesterday and discovered a new (to me, at least) shop on the waterfront. My options consisted of:
- The Asian-Run Corner store that smells of bleach, but at least it's clean. They overcharge, but that's what convienience stores do, right?
- The East Indian Corner store that always intimidates me with it's grunginess and glaring cashiers. These cashiers are always accompanied by a child under the age of twelve. These kids stare out at you from behind the counter, with large sad eyes. I have a sneaky suspicion there's a hostage situation here, but I don't want to pry.
- The Lebanese corner store I just discovered yesterday on the waterfront. It has a nice name, and the cashiers seem nice. They also only have about ten products in the entire store. And they overcharge like you wouldn't believe. But hey, at least they sell toothpicks.
Why, in the name of god, would a store not sell green onions, but instead sell radishes? Are radishes a best-selling product? Are they in high demand? What is the rationale, here? Grimacing, I instead decide to buy a bottle of orange juice, because I need something to drink on my run, and I like the bottles with a wide mouth. There's a dirty joke there, I'm sure.
I make my way to the counter, and have to fight between two people I'll discreetly refer to as "Neighbourhood locals" and leave it at that. They were wearing torn jean jackets, and had hair that was frazzled and had a definite "unwashed" quality going for it. They smelled like stale tobacco, and were busily going through the fold-out knives at the counter, trying to find the best blade. And this gave me pause.
Imagine, if you will, that you are a convienience store owner. You run a store that will be open late at night, in a neighbourhood that is not really "high class". You sell products to drunks, drug addicts, and those who are "down and out". Your store is open until 11 pm, every night, and is staffed by only one staff member after the sun goes down. What do you do?
Why, you put a bunch of knives on your counter, within the customer's easy reach! This is a great money-making idea! Sell them a knife for a couple of bucks. And then get robbed. Brilliant.
Anyways, I avoid the local colour, give the vendor my two bucks, and start to leave, before deciding to self-check my lottery ticket. And, wouldn't you know it? I'm a winner. Ten bucks. Not much, but hey, I won!
What do I do?
"Hey, cool! I have a winning ticket!" I loudly proclaim. As if I've won a lot more than ten bucks, I should add.
The shop owner looks up at me.
The two jean-jacket knife afficianados look up at me. And they're armed.
Little alarm bells are ringing in my head. I should have just worn a shirt that said "rob me. I'm an idiot!" and left it at that.
"Uh... I'll cash it later" I stammer out. Not, say, "Hey, cool, I won ten bucks." or anything like that. No, instead, I am saying to these people: "I have won a large amount of money that I will not identify. And instead of cashing that money now, I will walk away, piquing your curiousity. By the way, I like your knives. Hey, did I mention I'm a scrawny ginger kid?"
When I got out that door, I could feel the eyes of the local colour on the back of my neck. I power-walked home at a good twenty clicks, my lottery ticket burning a hole in my pocket.
I think a "never speak!" policy should be implemented.
Procrastination and Hair-Cutting
So, being on E.I. and all, I have a lot of free time. I've been spending whole days where I stay inside, doing pretty much nothing but watching movies or TV shows on DVD. I've been composing an opera in my head about a guy that has so much free time that he does silly little things, like composing operas in his head. I think I have it pretty well planned out... I just need a fat guy to play "Fat Guy that sings opera" - the lead part.
Of course, I've also been hitting the streets, dropping off resumes... but there are days where that's just not possible. And there are only so many office jobs to apply to - I'll be damned if I'm going to apply to a place that pays less than I'd make on E.I. That seems, um, ass backwards.
In an effort to keep myself from going crazy, I've been giving myself chores. Tasks. Little jobs like "get some exercise", "kill the president", or "do some grocery shopping". Nothing major, mind. Just little tasks to keep my body busy.
Unfortunately, little jobs that would seem like nothing if you were at work become much larger in scope when you're a lazy little shit lounging about your apartment. My three tasks for today? Write an e-mail to a friend, make a cheer up e-mail for Kittens, and work on my Office Resume. Perhaps an hour of work, at most.
Were I at the office, I would tackle this, no problem, while multi-tasking and tackling a bazillion other chores. But, at home, it becomes a dilemna. Do I watch some lame movie on DVD... or get some work done? And so, I put it off. And off.
Procrastination. Gotta love it. I should teach a class on it, really. Except, of course, I wouldn't show up. Neither would much of the class. On the plus side, I imagine I wouldn't have many papers to mark. Not that I'd mark them.
A while back, I had to go to the interior to see Kittens for a couple of days. One thing I knew I wanted to do was cut my hair - it had been getting long and shaggy, and I wanted a nice clean hair cut before I went to make a good impression on her friends. After all, who wants to see a ginger with a fro? However, I kept putting it off. And off...
...Until the night before I got on the plane, at around 1 am in the morning (I had to be at the airport for sevenish). I finally decided to buzz off my hair. As soon as I started, my hair trimmer started acting funny - it wasn't really cutting, just sort of sawing into my hair, and making this low griding noise, sort of like the death rattle of R2D2. Needless to say, it was painful - imagine getting your hair cut by having your angry little sister trying to pull it out in clumps. So, I took off the guard (the plastic threads that regulate the length of your haircut; I had the 3/8" guard set in), and started cleaning the blades, pulling out chunks of ginger hair in the process. But the trimmer was still making bad noises. So, I oiled it, and it suddenly started working like a charm.
Being a little tired, and not really thinking, I decided to check to see if it worked by running the buzzer through my hair.
Yeah, it worked.
Of course, I had forgotten to put the guard back on, so I now had a streak of bald skin, right down the centre of my head. It was a like a highway through a dense forest of red shrubbery. I stared at myself in the mirror, a thick head of hair cleanly bisected down the middle by a shiny, nearly-bald scalp that was surprisingly wrinkled. For a while, my mouth just kind of opened and closed, before I finally managed a quiet, "....fuck."
I wound up having to shave off all my hair - and bald gingers are not a sight to see. Needless to say, I looked like a total ass in front of Kittens' friends, and it caused her all sorts of stress. I think she told most of her friends that I had just escaped from a cult of some sort. It was not a good weekend. Especially because it was remarked to me several times that my story didn't really fit - my running shoes just weren't up to cult snuff.
The point of this story is that, had I not waited until the last possible moment, I could have at least had the opportunity for my hair to grow out a bit after the disaster, so I wouldn't have been completely bald in front of Kittens.
Geez. You'd think I'd learned from my mistake, eh? But here I am. Updating my blog instead of, you know, getting work done.
In short, I'm awesome.
Of course, I've also been hitting the streets, dropping off resumes... but there are days where that's just not possible. And there are only so many office jobs to apply to - I'll be damned if I'm going to apply to a place that pays less than I'd make on E.I. That seems, um, ass backwards.
In an effort to keep myself from going crazy, I've been giving myself chores. Tasks. Little jobs like "get some exercise", "kill the president", or "do some grocery shopping". Nothing major, mind. Just little tasks to keep my body busy.
Unfortunately, little jobs that would seem like nothing if you were at work become much larger in scope when you're a lazy little shit lounging about your apartment. My three tasks for today? Write an e-mail to a friend, make a cheer up e-mail for Kittens, and work on my Office Resume. Perhaps an hour of work, at most.
Were I at the office, I would tackle this, no problem, while multi-tasking and tackling a bazillion other chores. But, at home, it becomes a dilemna. Do I watch some lame movie on DVD... or get some work done? And so, I put it off. And off.
Procrastination. Gotta love it. I should teach a class on it, really. Except, of course, I wouldn't show up. Neither would much of the class. On the plus side, I imagine I wouldn't have many papers to mark. Not that I'd mark them.
A while back, I had to go to the interior to see Kittens for a couple of days. One thing I knew I wanted to do was cut my hair - it had been getting long and shaggy, and I wanted a nice clean hair cut before I went to make a good impression on her friends. After all, who wants to see a ginger with a fro? However, I kept putting it off. And off...
...Until the night before I got on the plane, at around 1 am in the morning (I had to be at the airport for sevenish). I finally decided to buzz off my hair. As soon as I started, my hair trimmer started acting funny - it wasn't really cutting, just sort of sawing into my hair, and making this low griding noise, sort of like the death rattle of R2D2. Needless to say, it was painful - imagine getting your hair cut by having your angry little sister trying to pull it out in clumps. So, I took off the guard (the plastic threads that regulate the length of your haircut; I had the 3/8" guard set in), and started cleaning the blades, pulling out chunks of ginger hair in the process. But the trimmer was still making bad noises. So, I oiled it, and it suddenly started working like a charm.
Being a little tired, and not really thinking, I decided to check to see if it worked by running the buzzer through my hair.
Yeah, it worked.
Of course, I had forgotten to put the guard back on, so I now had a streak of bald skin, right down the centre of my head. It was a like a highway through a dense forest of red shrubbery. I stared at myself in the mirror, a thick head of hair cleanly bisected down the middle by a shiny, nearly-bald scalp that was surprisingly wrinkled. For a while, my mouth just kind of opened and closed, before I finally managed a quiet, "....fuck."
I wound up having to shave off all my hair - and bald gingers are not a sight to see. Needless to say, I looked like a total ass in front of Kittens' friends, and it caused her all sorts of stress. I think she told most of her friends that I had just escaped from a cult of some sort. It was not a good weekend. Especially because it was remarked to me several times that my story didn't really fit - my running shoes just weren't up to cult snuff.
The point of this story is that, had I not waited until the last possible moment, I could have at least had the opportunity for my hair to grow out a bit after the disaster, so I wouldn't have been completely bald in front of Kittens.
Geez. You'd think I'd learned from my mistake, eh? But here I am. Updating my blog instead of, you know, getting work done.
In short, I'm awesome.
This blog post was based off a true story...
So, I started counting the dimes and nickles in my change dish. I have something like twenty two bucks in nickles and dimes. I think this is awesome, and I told Kittens today that when she comes to Victoria, I'm going to pay our cabby in dimes.
"here, sir. Here's your cash. And, here's your tip. It's in a baggy - no charge."
Kittens basically told me that if I do that, she'll be sleeping on the couch. Or getting back on the plane.
I think it'd just be fun. Especially if I counted out the nickles and dimes, one by one. And perhaps lost count halfway through.
"Thirteen fifty... thirteen sixty - hey, when did I cut my hand? Oh, shit. Where were we? Damn. Um.... ten.... twenty.... thirty..."
Or, even better, pay him while driving. The fare starts at around 3.50, I think. So, I hand him the cash, and every time the fare meter goes up by ten cents, drop another dime in his lap. I mean, how can he even complain about that? I say it's pretty considerate, on my part.
I do want to buy something using only dimes and nickles. Way back when, I was silly, and would get embarrassed doing something like this. Nowadays, I say, why not?
I kinda want to count my pennies, and use them to buy penny candies. Because it's fun being just so dang literal.
"here, sir. Here's your cash. And, here's your tip. It's in a baggy - no charge."
Kittens basically told me that if I do that, she'll be sleeping on the couch. Or getting back on the plane.
I think it'd just be fun. Especially if I counted out the nickles and dimes, one by one. And perhaps lost count halfway through.
"Thirteen fifty... thirteen sixty - hey, when did I cut my hand? Oh, shit. Where were we? Damn. Um.... ten.... twenty.... thirty..."
Or, even better, pay him while driving. The fare starts at around 3.50, I think. So, I hand him the cash, and every time the fare meter goes up by ten cents, drop another dime in his lap. I mean, how can he even complain about that? I say it's pretty considerate, on my part.
I do want to buy something using only dimes and nickles. Way back when, I was silly, and would get embarrassed doing something like this. Nowadays, I say, why not?
I kinda want to count my pennies, and use them to buy penny candies. Because it's fun being just so dang literal.
The Luongo Incident
It seems like everytime I go out drinking with the King of Swing, strange things happen. Misfortune and disaster seem to cling to the King, and follow in his path. Part of this is definitely due to the king's personality, but I sometimes think weird things just happen to him more often than most folks.
Once, he was arrested and thrown in the drunk tank, and became convinced that all jail cells had to have a "secret way out", and spent a good hour trying to squeeze through the bars. He has had his nose broken after mouthing off to a much larger man than he (which isn't hard, as I'm quick to point out). He will hit on anything that moves, if it has nice breasts. And there are other stories, equally fun to tell, but that probably shouldn't be put on the internet, I'm sure.
And one of those stories will be told here.
We look back on this as "the Luongo Incident", and it's one of the most awkward moments I've ever had the pleasure of witnessing. And I once saw a friend make out with a Jack Russell terrier. No, seriously. But that's another story.
The Luongo incident happened a few months ago, during the second round of the Stanley Cup playoffs. My team (the choke-artist sharks) had already been knocked out of the playoffs - to the Anaheim fucking Ducks, no less - so I had started to cheer for the local team... the Vancouver Canucks. And the King of Swing is a well known Canucklehead. We had decided to watch what was fated to be the Canucks' last game of the season - a very disappointing game #6 against the Chicago Blackhawks. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
The King of Swing and I met in my favourite bar, and had a few drinks while waiting for the Faux Frenchman. Now, the great thing about Heckler's is, during a game, you get all sorts of bonuses. Free popcorn at your table. Everybody gets their name entered in a draw for a Canucks jersey. And, most importantly, every table gets assigned a random canuck - if that player scores a goal, gets an assist, or gets in a fight, you get a free pitcher of beer.
Also important - I don't drink beer. I think I'm allergic, or something. I stick to the hard stuff (I've been known to say "Fuck it. Let's switch to 151!").
We had Kyle Wellwood that night, or, as I like to call him, "That fucking nerd". As we're watching the game, I'd start shouting out "shouldn't you be an extra on star trek, you fucking nerd?" at the top of my lungs, while the King made passes at our waittresses. And when Wellwood showed me up, and got a goal, the whole pitcher went to the King. Who stoically drank most of it, before knocking the rest on the floor while making a grandiose gesture of some sort. Or, more likely, he was describing his masturbation technique.
The beer is dripping on to the floor, and the King is already drunk enough that he just stares at it. Stares at it. I'm grabbing napkins and stuff to clean up the mess, while the King laughs and carries on with his story. Two waittresses are cleaning up, and he's apologizing to them, but not helping at all. And he's still talking to me. It was a moment of jackassery that is always fun to watch.
It was going to be a good night.
Around this time, a man wearing a Roberto Luongo jersey approached us. Luongo, of course, being a tall, hairy italian man who plays goalie for the Vancouver Canucks. He is, quite literally, one of the most-loved people in Vancouver. Even if he is from Quebec.
This man, however, looked very little like Roberto Luongo:
At the time, I thought it was just because this weird Luongo didn't fully grasp English, and so didn't realize his double entendre. (Look at me using fancy words). So, we were polite enough, and he meandered away. We all kind of looked at each other, shrugged without speaking, and got on with watching the game. Around this time, the Faux Frenchman showed up, insisted on calling me "Gollum", and got dirty looks from yours truly for the next hour or so.
It's hard to call a hockey player that makes millions a "Fucking Nerd", when the guy sitting next to you insists that you look just like fucking Gollum. Totally threw me off my game. I'm pretty sure that's why I didn't take a waittress home that night. Had to be the reason.
But at least the game was good. It was one of those swingy, back and forth games that have "Clutch" written all over it. It caused us to have celebratory drinks. It forced us to groan and mutter "I need a drink", just as often. In the space of about half an hour, I think I had two rye and gingers, a shot of 151, a prairie fire, and some other nondescript drink. I can't remember which ones were celebratory, and which ones were in mourning.
I hugged a random woman when the Canucks got a goal - and I hugged her boyfriend, too. It was one of those long, lingering hugs, where you smell their hair. Like I said, I'd been drinking. And I wasn't even as blasted as the King.
In fact, the King was so drunk that later, after the "Luongo Incident", he wound up getting into a "battle rap" with the Faux Frenchman. Which is about as cool as it sounds. There was also a dance involved, that sort of reminded me of the type of thing you'd see some out-of-touch jewish uncle performing at his embarrassed nephew's bar mitzvah.
Near the end of the game, when the Canucks were doing what the Canucks do best - failing miserably - our Luongo wannabe won a drink. We looked over, and saw that he had about half a dozen player cards at his table. Turns out, he was a friend of the owner, and so got all the leftover cards after every other table had been served. So he'd been winning free pitchers of beer all night.
He came up, and offered the King and I a pitcher of our choice... because "I've had waaaay too much".
An aside: when I'm out drinking, and I'm about to do something where there could be two possible outcomes (amazing success or disastrous failure), I often precede my action with a declaration of just how drunk I am. So that, if I fail miserably, I can at least blame the booze and save face. Normally, I use this technique when hitting on girls. It very rarely works. I think Luongo had picked up on my strategy.
We took him up on the offer of beer, and I sat back and watched as Luongo and the King talked. The King, barely able to stand at this point, was doing his best to chat amiably, mostly to be polite. Then Luongo leaned in, conspiratorily.
"So, King," he began, "You seem like the type of guy that does crazy things."
The King just laughed. "Yeah, I'm the king of swing, baby! Crazy is my middle name!"
Luongo smiled. That sort of smile that usually only hangs on the faces of paedophiles and televangelists. "I bet you haven't done stuff as crazy as I have."
The King grinned, while The Frenchman and I backed up a little bit. "Please! I'm nuts. I've done all sorts of crazy shit. Please, there's no way you've got me beat."
"You want to hear some of the crazy stuff I've done, man?" Luongo carries on.
"Yeah, fine, let's hear it," King says, taking another long pull from his beer.
"One time, I was at a wedding. A bachelor party, you know?"
"Oh, wow. You were at a bachelor party? That's totally 'crazy'..." King rolled his eyes.
"There were strippers and all these girls, and we drove around in a limo. I stuck my head out the window." Luongo carried on like this, describing a night of hedonism that can only be found on old episodes of Full House or Saved by the Bell. I fully expected to hear a story about how they found Screech in a locker the next morning, or something.
"...and then, we started playing Truth or Dare. Have you ever played Truth or Dare, King?"
Imagine this. A balding, olive-skinned man with a bit of a gut, at a bachelor party, playing a game with (presumably) other balding, gutty men. A game that is usually only played by men when said "men" are actually sixteen, and hoping they get to french the hot chick. Or the hot chick's friend. Or the hot chick's mildy retarded little sister.
I think the King was thinking just this. "oh, wow. You played truth and dare? Hard core, man." He shot me a glance, as if saying "can you believe this shit?" while rolling his eyes.
"What was it you were dared to do? Streak?" The King laughed at his own joke, as he is wont to do.
Luongo just smiled that creepy smile. And then he dropped the bombshell. "No. I was dared to Suck the Groom's dick. And I did."
It all got weird, then. But Luongo wasn't finished. He leaned in, and lightly touched the inside edge of the King's arm, with just the right amount of familiarity. "Have you ever done anything crazy like that, King?"
While staring with these intent eyes.
King just shook his head nervously, while hoping for a way out. Looking for his buddies to get him out of trouble, come with guns blazing like the fucking cavalry or something.
The Faux Frenchman and I were nowhere to be seen. We had escaped to the pool table, and were busy laughing our asses off while the King floundered.
Luongo's assault didn't stop there. He kept pressing, until the King retreated to our pool table, quietly relating the later events of the story - a story of Luongo's "game".
Luongo eventually dropped chasing the King, only to go after the Faux Frenchman, at one point loudly telling the Frenchman to "get on your knees!" and even trying to push the Frenchman down to the ground by pressing down on the shoulders.
I have to say, I was a mite offended when Luongo didn't go after me. I'm guessing it's because I ooze heterosexuality. But the FF would probably say it's because I look like Gollum, and even gay lebanese hockey fans have their standards.
Once, he was arrested and thrown in the drunk tank, and became convinced that all jail cells had to have a "secret way out", and spent a good hour trying to squeeze through the bars. He has had his nose broken after mouthing off to a much larger man than he (which isn't hard, as I'm quick to point out). He will hit on anything that moves, if it has nice breasts. And there are other stories, equally fun to tell, but that probably shouldn't be put on the internet, I'm sure.
And one of those stories will be told here.
We look back on this as "the Luongo Incident", and it's one of the most awkward moments I've ever had the pleasure of witnessing. And I once saw a friend make out with a Jack Russell terrier. No, seriously. But that's another story.
The Luongo incident happened a few months ago, during the second round of the Stanley Cup playoffs. My team (the choke-artist sharks) had already been knocked out of the playoffs - to the Anaheim fucking Ducks, no less - so I had started to cheer for the local team... the Vancouver Canucks. And the King of Swing is a well known Canucklehead. We had decided to watch what was fated to be the Canucks' last game of the season - a very disappointing game #6 against the Chicago Blackhawks. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
The King of Swing and I met in my favourite bar, and had a few drinks while waiting for the Faux Frenchman. Now, the great thing about Heckler's is, during a game, you get all sorts of bonuses. Free popcorn at your table. Everybody gets their name entered in a draw for a Canucks jersey. And, most importantly, every table gets assigned a random canuck - if that player scores a goal, gets an assist, or gets in a fight, you get a free pitcher of beer.
Also important - I don't drink beer. I think I'm allergic, or something. I stick to the hard stuff (I've been known to say "Fuck it. Let's switch to 151!").
We had Kyle Wellwood that night, or, as I like to call him, "That fucking nerd". As we're watching the game, I'd start shouting out "shouldn't you be an extra on star trek, you fucking nerd?" at the top of my lungs, while the King made passes at our waittresses. And when Wellwood showed me up, and got a goal, the whole pitcher went to the King. Who stoically drank most of it, before knocking the rest on the floor while making a grandiose gesture of some sort. Or, more likely, he was describing his masturbation technique.
The beer is dripping on to the floor, and the King is already drunk enough that he just stares at it. Stares at it. I'm grabbing napkins and stuff to clean up the mess, while the King laughs and carries on with his story. Two waittresses are cleaning up, and he's apologizing to them, but not helping at all. And he's still talking to me. It was a moment of jackassery that is always fun to watch.
It was going to be a good night.
Around this time, a man wearing a Roberto Luongo jersey approached us. Luongo, of course, being a tall, hairy italian man who plays goalie for the Vancouver Canucks. He is, quite literally, one of the most-loved people in Vancouver. Even if he is from Quebec.
This man, however, looked very little like Roberto Luongo:
- He was not very tall.
- He was bald, and not very hairy.
- He did not play goalie for the Vancouver Canucks.
- He was not one of the most-loved people in Vancouver. Actually, I don't know that for sure, but I'm 98% sure I'm right.
- He was not from Quebec. I think, from his accent and use of mid 1990s slang probably learned from watching friends, that he was from Lebanon, or from some other wussy country that can't win wars.
At the time, I thought it was just because this weird Luongo didn't fully grasp English, and so didn't realize his double entendre. (Look at me using fancy words). So, we were polite enough, and he meandered away. We all kind of looked at each other, shrugged without speaking, and got on with watching the game. Around this time, the Faux Frenchman showed up, insisted on calling me "Gollum", and got dirty looks from yours truly for the next hour or so.
It's hard to call a hockey player that makes millions a "Fucking Nerd", when the guy sitting next to you insists that you look just like fucking Gollum. Totally threw me off my game. I'm pretty sure that's why I didn't take a waittress home that night. Had to be the reason.
But at least the game was good. It was one of those swingy, back and forth games that have "Clutch" written all over it. It caused us to have celebratory drinks. It forced us to groan and mutter "I need a drink", just as often. In the space of about half an hour, I think I had two rye and gingers, a shot of 151, a prairie fire, and some other nondescript drink. I can't remember which ones were celebratory, and which ones were in mourning.
I hugged a random woman when the Canucks got a goal - and I hugged her boyfriend, too. It was one of those long, lingering hugs, where you smell their hair. Like I said, I'd been drinking. And I wasn't even as blasted as the King.
In fact, the King was so drunk that later, after the "Luongo Incident", he wound up getting into a "battle rap" with the Faux Frenchman. Which is about as cool as it sounds. There was also a dance involved, that sort of reminded me of the type of thing you'd see some out-of-touch jewish uncle performing at his embarrassed nephew's bar mitzvah.
Near the end of the game, when the Canucks were doing what the Canucks do best - failing miserably - our Luongo wannabe won a drink. We looked over, and saw that he had about half a dozen player cards at his table. Turns out, he was a friend of the owner, and so got all the leftover cards after every other table had been served. So he'd been winning free pitchers of beer all night.
He came up, and offered the King and I a pitcher of our choice... because "I've had waaaay too much".
An aside: when I'm out drinking, and I'm about to do something where there could be two possible outcomes (amazing success or disastrous failure), I often precede my action with a declaration of just how drunk I am. So that, if I fail miserably, I can at least blame the booze and save face. Normally, I use this technique when hitting on girls. It very rarely works. I think Luongo had picked up on my strategy.
We took him up on the offer of beer, and I sat back and watched as Luongo and the King talked. The King, barely able to stand at this point, was doing his best to chat amiably, mostly to be polite. Then Luongo leaned in, conspiratorily.
"So, King," he began, "You seem like the type of guy that does crazy things."
The King just laughed. "Yeah, I'm the king of swing, baby! Crazy is my middle name!"
Luongo smiled. That sort of smile that usually only hangs on the faces of paedophiles and televangelists. "I bet you haven't done stuff as crazy as I have."
The King grinned, while The Frenchman and I backed up a little bit. "Please! I'm nuts. I've done all sorts of crazy shit. Please, there's no way you've got me beat."
"You want to hear some of the crazy stuff I've done, man?" Luongo carries on.
"Yeah, fine, let's hear it," King says, taking another long pull from his beer.
"One time, I was at a wedding. A bachelor party, you know?"
"Oh, wow. You were at a bachelor party? That's totally 'crazy'..." King rolled his eyes.
"There were strippers and all these girls, and we drove around in a limo. I stuck my head out the window." Luongo carried on like this, describing a night of hedonism that can only be found on old episodes of Full House or Saved by the Bell. I fully expected to hear a story about how they found Screech in a locker the next morning, or something.
"...and then, we started playing Truth or Dare. Have you ever played Truth or Dare, King?"
Imagine this. A balding, olive-skinned man with a bit of a gut, at a bachelor party, playing a game with (presumably) other balding, gutty men. A game that is usually only played by men when said "men" are actually sixteen, and hoping they get to french the hot chick. Or the hot chick's friend. Or the hot chick's mildy retarded little sister.
I think the King was thinking just this. "oh, wow. You played truth and dare? Hard core, man." He shot me a glance, as if saying "can you believe this shit?" while rolling his eyes.
"What was it you were dared to do? Streak?" The King laughed at his own joke, as he is wont to do.
Luongo just smiled that creepy smile. And then he dropped the bombshell. "No. I was dared to Suck the Groom's dick. And I did."
It all got weird, then. But Luongo wasn't finished. He leaned in, and lightly touched the inside edge of the King's arm, with just the right amount of familiarity. "Have you ever done anything crazy like that, King?"
While staring with these intent eyes.
King just shook his head nervously, while hoping for a way out. Looking for his buddies to get him out of trouble, come with guns blazing like the fucking cavalry or something.
The Faux Frenchman and I were nowhere to be seen. We had escaped to the pool table, and were busy laughing our asses off while the King floundered.
Luongo's assault didn't stop there. He kept pressing, until the King retreated to our pool table, quietly relating the later events of the story - a story of Luongo's "game".
Luongo eventually dropped chasing the King, only to go after the Faux Frenchman, at one point loudly telling the Frenchman to "get on your knees!" and even trying to push the Frenchman down to the ground by pressing down on the shoulders.
I have to say, I was a mite offended when Luongo didn't go after me. I'm guessing it's because I ooze heterosexuality. But the FF would probably say it's because I look like Gollum, and even gay lebanese hockey fans have their standards.
Davevaginitis.
Recently, being jobless and whatnot, I've reverted to my night owlish nature. I am perfectly fine with this. A problem arises, however, when one is hungry and wants food, and it is three in the morning. Choices, as you can imagine, are limited. Within, say, a ten block radius, there are relatively few places to get food - an East Indian Convienience Store, an all-night Subway, Denny's, and Tim Horton's.
I was hungry, and didn't like the options in my fridge or cupboard. So, I decided to run down to Timmy's. I haven't been there in a few days, though I'm usually a regular (it's a two minute walk away). I'm usually in there every day on my walk home from work, to pick up a small iced capp.
Kittens has told me, multiple time, that the term "iced capp" is a misnomer. Because it is physically impossible to ice cappuccinos. See, a cappucino is mostly foam, and you can't really freeze foam.
But, I quit drinking Iced Capps (and diet coke, in fact) a few days ago, both in an effort to save money and to take better care of myself. Because that shit is poison. There's this river in Atlanta that takes the run-off from the coca-cola factory, and they found that the fish in this river are 335% more likely to develop birth defects, and many birds have been found dead in the water from an increased intake of unhealthy carbolic acids.
Sounds true, right? I made it all up, but I'm sure it's fact. Some way or another.
But any port in a storm, and Timmy's does have some decent menu items beyond their chemically delicious iced capps. As I head down the street, hands thrust in my pockets, I decide to pick up a bagel, and maybe a little bit of cream cheese. Not a super healthy choice, but not a terribly unhealthy choice, either.
I head in, nod at the face behind the counter, and take my place in the line. Yeah, Timmy's is awesome. They have a line at three in the morning. Mostly drunks, the homeless, security guards, paramedics, and students. And asians, for some weird reason. As if, they were never able to acclimatize to the new time zone, and they're all still stuck on china time.
I'm thinking all this when I step up to the counter. And a small iced capp has already been made, and placed before me.
"1.98" I'm informed, and an empty hand is thrust at me, waiting for my toonie.
Yes. The night staff at Timmy's have seen me often enough to know that I always order Iced Capps, and were confident enough in this fact to make it for me without asking. It was ready before I got to the till, pretty much.
I was a bit stunned. Should I return the iced capp? After all, I didn't order it. But then, isn't this really my fault? I mean, I'm a regular, and I order this all the time, so is it really their fault for assuming? Most times, I'd be flattered if they remember me enough to know my order. Do I want to discourage their assumptions and attentions?
All this runs through my head before I give them the two dollars. And then, after I give them the money, I casually say, "hey, can I add a bagel to that? They look good."
As if the bagel is an impulse purchase in addendum to my iced capp. I don't know why I do this, but I'm sure there's a psychological term for it. I imagine it's some sort of "conflict avoidance" thing. Or maybe it's just "Davevaginitis". I hear it's treatable.
I took two sips of the iced capp in the store, and threw it out on my walk home.
I was hungry, and didn't like the options in my fridge or cupboard. So, I decided to run down to Timmy's. I haven't been there in a few days, though I'm usually a regular (it's a two minute walk away). I'm usually in there every day on my walk home from work, to pick up a small iced capp.
Kittens has told me, multiple time, that the term "iced capp" is a misnomer. Because it is physically impossible to ice cappuccinos. See, a cappucino is mostly foam, and you can't really freeze foam.
But, I quit drinking Iced Capps (and diet coke, in fact) a few days ago, both in an effort to save money and to take better care of myself. Because that shit is poison. There's this river in Atlanta that takes the run-off from the coca-cola factory, and they found that the fish in this river are 335% more likely to develop birth defects, and many birds have been found dead in the water from an increased intake of unhealthy carbolic acids.
Sounds true, right? I made it all up, but I'm sure it's fact. Some way or another.
But any port in a storm, and Timmy's does have some decent menu items beyond their chemically delicious iced capps. As I head down the street, hands thrust in my pockets, I decide to pick up a bagel, and maybe a little bit of cream cheese. Not a super healthy choice, but not a terribly unhealthy choice, either.
I head in, nod at the face behind the counter, and take my place in the line. Yeah, Timmy's is awesome. They have a line at three in the morning. Mostly drunks, the homeless, security guards, paramedics, and students. And asians, for some weird reason. As if, they were never able to acclimatize to the new time zone, and they're all still stuck on china time.
I'm thinking all this when I step up to the counter. And a small iced capp has already been made, and placed before me.
"1.98" I'm informed, and an empty hand is thrust at me, waiting for my toonie.
Yes. The night staff at Timmy's have seen me often enough to know that I always order Iced Capps, and were confident enough in this fact to make it for me without asking. It was ready before I got to the till, pretty much.
I was a bit stunned. Should I return the iced capp? After all, I didn't order it. But then, isn't this really my fault? I mean, I'm a regular, and I order this all the time, so is it really their fault for assuming? Most times, I'd be flattered if they remember me enough to know my order. Do I want to discourage their assumptions and attentions?
All this runs through my head before I give them the two dollars. And then, after I give them the money, I casually say, "hey, can I add a bagel to that? They look good."
As if the bagel is an impulse purchase in addendum to my iced capp. I don't know why I do this, but I'm sure there's a psychological term for it. I imagine it's some sort of "conflict avoidance" thing. Or maybe it's just "Davevaginitis". I hear it's treatable.
I took two sips of the iced capp in the store, and threw it out on my walk home.
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