Tuesday, December 14, 2010

3 Movies I Thought Would Suck, But Kinda Didn't

I've ran into a very specific form of writer's block repeatedly for the past while. You see, my existence centers around this innate, insatiable desire to seek out stupid things and belittle them for my own twisted amusement. The world of movies has, and will always be a bottomless well of stupidity. A mine of comedic gold that stretches for eternity. Writing about them is like falling into the arms of a trusting old friend when the world becomes too dark and overwhelming, who I then proceed to kick in the testicles. Sadly, my last known refuge has been unwilling to grant me something to make fun as of late, so I've been left very disheartened and dejected in spirit.
Tragically, I've had to settle for the boring alternative of actually liking things. So I come to you today not as the extremely handsome literary psychopath you know, but as a changed, humbled man who admits he was wrong. Well, not really. Most movies can still get down on their knees, suck the farts out of my ass and die, but here are three I actually kinda liked:

3. X-Men Origins
So I find myself at the movie theater with some friends. The Hangover is sold out, so we opt for the alternative: X-Men Origins. I remember watching the trailer a couple weeks prior, which ended with Hugh Jackman clinging desperately to a helicopter, a CGI sequence bad enough to embarrass George Lucas. Needless to say, this marked the first time I was looking forward to something taking a shit in my eyeballs. As I took my seat and the lights dimmed, I was expecting a magnificent, gnarled mess of a movie to make fun of. Instead I found myself disturbed halfway in that I was actually kind of enjoying myself. Ignoring the scene with that pretty boy douchebag Ryan Reynolds at the beginning and his dumbass swords, of course. Please, stick to comedy, Ryan. It's the one thing you're sort of good at.


The movie wasn't entirely free from the scope of disparagement, though. The opening credits were stupid, Gambit bothered me and deserves to have his mouth sewn shut with his own pubes, I couldn't fight off the thought that Wolverine could quite possibly have a boner all the time, and I firmly (no pun intended) remember struggling to not burst out laughing when Hugh Jackman and Liev Schreiber had this conversation where they delivered their lines as awkwardly as possible. "Do you even know how to kill me?", "I'm gonna cut your goddamn head off."

Hahaha, ok. Whatever you say, wildman
Also, why the fuck is will.i.am in this movie?

Final word
The only opinion I could come up with for the movie after it was over, is that it isn't terrible. Falls into the realm of a "why not?" kind of movie. If you have the ability to mindlessly enjoy something, this is worth a watch. I'd say it's more highly recommended than going to prison or a five-finger prostate examination after someone puts their hands in a freezer, so the movie accomplished something positive in my mind.

2. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
This one was the biggest surprise of the trinity, because in my opinion, the Harry Potter movies started going downhill when I learned Dumbledore was a homosexual, and the director presumably started wrapping the scripts around his dick and having sex with like, big blubbery walrus asshole.

The first movie was great. The second movie was fairly good, mainly because it was funny that Ron became a giant in the intervening period between the two films. Then Azkaban was awful, Goblet was fucking monstrous and Phoenix was just retarded. Despite the fact that the Harry Potluck series is somewhere around the grade three reading level, I enjoyed reading them. Not to the point where I would bean someone over the head with a bat if they gave even the slightest negative criticism towards them, but I do remember them being something fun to read while taking a shit. The movies just kept straying farther and farther away from the books, which bothered me. Then someone made the point to me how you couldn't make a movie entirely about a book without removing some stuff, otherwise the movie would be several hours long.

... true

... but it is odd how they found time to add in a bunch of stupid random shit that brings nothing to the story whatsoever. Say, in Goblet where the rock band played at Hogwarts. Come on, a mosh pit? Seriously? That's like ordering a big delicious meal, then the chef brings it to your table and puts his dick in the pasta. Sort of.

Anyway, I took my mommy out on a date to see the new Harry Potter. After my mom had her fun blatantly insulting people in the theater, which included calling some guy in a cowboy hat a little bitch, the movie began. Awhile later, and it ended. I was genuinely shocked when the movie ended for two reasons. First, where was the scene where Hermione and Ginny Weasley make out with each other and whip their tits out? Granted, it would have been awkward to watch with my mother, but fuck it, titties rule! Second, not one scene in the movie triggered fits of haemolacria. By god the relationship drama was relentless, and again, I was disappointed at the severe lack of titties, but it wasn't bad at all. It stayed rather faithful to the book, which is nice.
I felt it could have improved on a few things, and it never really went anywhere, but that's just because the book was complete filler. The only purpose it served was to lead up to the last book. Sure Dumbledore dies, but big fucking deal. I was tired of that old bitch anyway. The movie was going to be boring no matter what it did because the book was a snorefest. There was one golden scene though. Harry and company are walking along and happen upon some girl in a field, suspended in mid-air in perpetual nightmare, screaming with this horrified, dead look on her face. The little kid sitting next to me probably still hasn't slept. Something awesome like that always happens everytime my mom and I go to see a movie. It's like when my mom and I went to see Chamber of Secrets, and we overheard this brief conversation between a mother and her child. "Are there any snakes in this movie, mommy?" "Of course not, dear."


Final word
It's definitely not terrible, which certainly breaks the trend the last three movies set. It's not a great movie, but if you like the book, you won't walk away from the movie with the feeling that you just watched an anal sex tape, masquerading as a Harry Potter movie. I also appreciate the fact that this movie can scare children.

Just kidding about Dumbledore being a homosexual, by the way.

1. Watchmen
This is the movie that inspired me to write this article. I had no knowledge of Watchmen until I saw the trailer for the movie one day. I formulated an opinion on it immediately. The trailer made no fucking sense, the director probably eats macaroni out of a sock, also there's some blue guy who has a blue penis.

Afterwards I learned that it's a graphic novel, supposedly the greatest one of all time that I've somehow never heard of. I was on my guard after that, because I have this impression that graphic novel writers think their work is a sophisticated private language to congratulate themselves on their superiority to society. Personally I think they all snort enough cocaine worth more than the gross domestic product of Australia. But hey, Sin City was good, and 300 was... actually pretty stupid, but whatever, I'll watch the men.

I expected the movie to be god awful and utterly incomprehensible, and to a degree, yes, it was a little confusing. The first scene is this guy getting his ass fucking kicked, and I'm sitting there thinking, "what did this sorry bastard do?" That's nothing to detract from the entire movie, and it's certainly not a complaint. There's a lot of movies that could benefit from some senseless ass kicking right out of the gates.


The movie was so compelling, I sat through the entire thing, and at the end I realized I kinda liked it, and actually understood everything. I went into it expecting the worst, expecting a movie just begging to be made fun of, expecting me to ease its misery by writing an article about it, and subsequently instilling mindless rage in a sea of fanboys. I probably could make fun of the movie if I tried, like how Rorschach sounds like a blender full of rocks, and... I dunno, Dr. Manhattan has a blue penis? But then it occured to me that if I'm trying this hard to find something wrong with the movie, it's probably not that bad.

However, word of advice. Whatever you do, an hour into the movie, make sure the phrase, "it takes place in an alternate reality" doesn't cross your mind. You'll lay awake thinking about that shit.

Final word
It was a little long, especially that bit with Dr. Manhattan's emo back story, but the graphic novel it's based off of is thick enough that it would kill your mailman if you dropped it off your house and it landed on his head, so it's understandably long. I appreciate that the director would at least try to stay true to the source material, even if he did get a lot of shit messed up, according to people I've talked to who've read the novel. My paltry complaint about the length is mainly because I'm lazy and have almost zero attention span.
The story was actually quite wonderful and unique, but I couldn't help wanting to see more senseless ass kicking anyway, just to satisfy my unreasonable standards. Too bad the book is more story-oriented, goddamnit. My only real complaint about the film is that the music was absolutely god awful. It wasn't so much "music" as it was vomiting into a microphone. 99 Luftballons can eat my ass.
Also, you know how there's that one strange character in some movies, and you're always curious as to what their penis looks like? Like The Thing from Fantastic Four, or The Nazgul from Lord of the Rings, or The Hulk (I've always assumed giant green anger dick for The Hulk)? Dr. Manhattan answers that call, and it's an answer so obvious and unsatisfying, you wonder why you even bothered asking in the first place. He has a glowing blue penis, which we didn't need to see. Yay.

Saturday, December 4, 2010

My lawnmower is an asshole

Note: I wrote this article on July 17th, 2009 at 5:00pm Mountain Time, if you wanted to know. It was summer then, but I'm posting it here in winter. Figured I'd let you know that before you start to wonder if Canadians mow mounds of snow in their spare time.

In the course of my brief existence on earth, there are several inevitable activites that I've come to dread. Going to the dentist, renovations, getting my hair cut (only because my hairdresser doesn't speak english), and the one which will be the focus of my contempt today: mowing the lawn. For as long as I care to remember, I've been involved in a cruel and exacting feud with my lawnmower. It's a contest of strength and dignity, a battle that routinely leaves me wearied and ashamed.
Apparently no one in my family is capable of mowing the lawn besides me (kinda like how no one is capable of shovelling the walks in winter), so I'm always the one left to do it. This is probably not the worst thing that could happen to me, but you don't yet fully appreciate how shitty my lawnmower really is. Come to think of it, my family may be smarter than I am... Anyway, lately I've been really down in the dumps because Emma Watson refuses to make out with me and won't return my calls, so to cheer me up, I was ordered to mow the lawn this morning. However, this was to mark the first time I was genuinely looking forward to mowing the lawn. You see, I've just recently acquired a new, impressively more badass lawnmower. One lawnmower to rule them all, and in the darkness... put a finger in your ass and laugh. I've affectionately named it, The Supreme Grass Fucker:

Behold the big dusty fat ass

I sincerely expected all manner of sexy bitches to flock to me and my slick ass lawnmower when I fired it up. I expected all those sexy bitches to massage my well tanned, muscular, glistening body as I sculpted a lawn so glorious, you'd question at the end whether you were gazing at a lawn, or the right ass cheek of God himself if that makes any sense.

Yes it seemed like nothing could go wrong, until I tried to turn it on and realized it wasn't charged. This meant I had to enlist the services of my old lawnmower, the one I hate. On reflection, I suppose it could have also been an opportunity to just charge it and mow the lawn later, sparing me from ignominy, but I have an innate inclination towards self-abasement. So I had to put big sexy back in the garage, then move all the strange, dangerous shit in my garage to make way for the old crusty dick lawnmower. What you're about to see, I can only describe as the distant cousin to the rape van outside the concert:

Was the sight of me taking pictures of my lawnmower confusing for my neighbour? Very possibly. Is my lawnmower a hunk of shit? Yes. The first thing that should have struck you was the fact that my lawnmower is bright red and very gay looking, adding to the humiliation of using it. Allow me now to draw your attention to the gimped front right wheel. That wheel leaves you handicapped in the area of general maneuverability, and is typically the catalyst for a volley of swear words, and to my neighbours, what appears to be a grown man kicking the shit out of a lawnmower in broad daylight.

My lawnmower has a few other defining qualities. The grass that's permanently embedded into the frame, making the back a royal pain in the ass to emplace. But the main one that probably went largely unnoticed, is the fact that this lawnmower isn't gas powered, but is in fact electric. That brings me effortlessly to mentioning the infamous cord that haunts my dreams. Seriously, it does:

Don't be fooled, for behind the cunningly treacherous and deceitful facade of a regular cord lingers a disquieting evil. One that somehow frequently tangles itself and gets in your way every chance it gets, for no reason other than to trigger episodes of violence, typically towards children, and arson. Depends how I feel.

So I wheeled the lawnmower to the front yard. After about five hours, I managed to unsnarl the cord and plug it in. I approached my lawnmower, and I was about to turn it on, when suddenly I was overcome with a feeling that has somehow never occured to me before mowing the lawn. It's similar to that of the one I'm faced with everytime I turn on my xbox 360, or my toaster. Jesus, this son of a bitch might explode.

... sadly not. So there I was, mowing the lawn. There would be no sexy bitches rubbing my body, pausing only to dump buckets of sunscreen on each other. There was just me and my weak, pasty body with the weird hairs around my nipples, subject to the quiet judgement of my neighbours, who I'm sure watch me whenever I mow the lawn.

The main problem is the cord. It always gets in your fucking way, no matter what methods you take to prevent it. You end up having to turn off the lawnmower, whip the cord behind you, then start again. As I mentioned earlier, the fact that the back of the lawnmower was never really designed to snap into place, isn't helped by the barricade of petrified grass embedded into the frame. So your shins are treated to a ceaseless bombardment of grass shrapnel with every step.

My lawnmower is also a tad schizophrenic. It can't seem to decide on a tone. The amount of effort it puts into cutting the grass seems to be completely arbitrary. Most of the time it seems to struggle with grass more than an inch tall, whereas other times it'll rip shit up with force lightning, Emperor Palpatine style.

The cord is then quick to remind you that it exists solely to drive you mad. It'll get stuck on anything it can and bring the project to a humiliating, screeching halt. Like today when the cord popped out of the lawnmower, and I discovered the problem was that the cord mysteriously lodged itself inbetween two sidewalk blocks, which doesn't seem physically possible. That incident was simply more evidence to support my theory that the cord has a mind of its own.

You see, whenever my lawnmower gets too full, it creates a chemical imbalance that causes the back of the lawnmower to tilt towards the ground, because the front isn't heavy enough to support it. And because the back of the lawnmower is never really fully secured, it enjoys snapping off, treating you to a small pile of grass upon your return to the lawnmower. Whenever this chemical imbalance occurs, the cord always pops out, and it's always a fair distance away so you can't stop the lawnmower from being a jackass, causing the chain reaction, which yes, does often include me punching children in the stomach. You may suggest preventative measures such as, giving myself lots of slack on the cord, but then you have to deal with moving the goddamn thing out of your way everytime you want to move. The only purpose the cord serves is to annoy your tits off.

Also, a bug flew into my eye.

I did finish mowing the lawn, but it wasn't a moral victory. I'm atleast comforted by the fact that I will never use that lawnmower again. When big sexy is up to speed, I intend to rent out a highrise apartment, just so my old lawnmower will fall further when I hurl it out the window.

Friday, December 3, 2010

8 Humiliating Injuries I've Sustained Today

Every once in awhile, strange forces are at work that coerce me into self-mutilation. I am called upon to experience several small, but very painful and degrading injuries, for no reason or purpose at all. Today is one of those days, sadly. My clumsiness and the ominous death traps peppered throughout my household have achieved perfect harmony, resulting in the most miserable day ever. I've decided to barricade myself in my room and chronicle the injuries I've endured today for your pleasure, because I bet you think this is funny. Well I got news for you, this isn't funny. This is shit:

8. I got a golf club up my ass
Hahaha, nah, this didn't actually happen. I just wanted to grab your attention.

Actual 8. I pulled my groin
Time: 8:37am
Desire To Kill Someone: Negligible, outweighed by desire to eat breakfast

This morning I had a dream that I was in a car with my friends Sophia and Brendan. Brendan couldn't stop laughing for some reason, Sophia was carrying a sack of potatoes, and I was dressed in nothing but my underwear. I woke up from whatever that signifies at 8:25. At 8:37, I got my ass out of bed. When I did, the first thing I did was step on my keys, which caused me to slide across my floor and pull my groin. I hate pulling my groin. It's like my leg and testicles are confused as to which one should be in pain. But lest we forget, not only did I pull my groin, but I stepped on my jagged keys as well. I like to call that the jackpot.

7. I smashed my hand on a door knob
Time: 8:39am
Desire To Kill Someone: Nugatory, I still want breakfast

I felt as if I didn't have quite enough fun stepping on my keys and pulling my groin, so I took it upon myself two minutes later to walk out into my hallway, and wildly hurl my hand into a door knob. It's the most pain I've endured in awhile, which is confusing because I wasn't swinging my arm, and I wasn't moving fast at all. Regardless, my hand and the door knob collided with tremendous force, resulting in a sonic boom, and me in a crumpled mess on the floor. It's like the door knob was a cruel metaphor for... something, I can't think of a good example.

6. I smashed my elbow on a wall
Time: 9:45am
Desire To Kill Someone: Rising

Injury number three is usually when I start to realize something is up, especially if that injury is something stupid that could have been easily avoided. That's a niche that my smashed elbow fit beautifully. I just got out of the shower, and for some reason I swung my arm backwards and smashed my elbow on the wall. After it happened, I couldn't even remember why I had swung my arm in that direction in the first place. Is my brain turning on me, or did the evil elbow smashing gremlins lasso my arm? You tell me.

5. I stepped on a nail
Time: 11:00am
Desire To Kill Someone: I'm focused more on the nail in my foot at the moment

Having nothing else to do today, I decided I might as well deposit my cheque from work at the bank, so I went outside to snatch my bike. Normally I don't have any problem with this. Little did I know that the outside world is far more perilious than the inside of my house. You see, there are these pieces of wood in my carport that my dad keeps for no goddamn reason, and one piece has little nails sticking out of it. Usually I avoid it or move it, but I was clumsy today, so naturally the only option available to me was to step on the fucker, so that's exactly what I did.

Stepping on a nail is a lot like getting a papercut. You feel like you should be in tremendous pain, but you don't feel anything. The mental aspect is the worst part. There was a nail in my foot, and I didn't know how to deal with it. I felt calm and hysterical at the same time. Frozen in indecision. Being stabbed did strip me of all my desire to deposit that cheque, so I just kinda pulled the nail out of my foot and walked back inside (Don't worry. I put polysporin and a band-aid on it, Mom.), which was a decision equal parts good and bad. Bad in that it lead to more injuries, but good in that I didn't go out into the world. Given my track record, I'd have probably ended up like that poor fucker in Armageddon that The Empire State building falls on. That's about as irrational as fears get. I live in Edmonton. The most that could fall on me here would be a bus shelter or a homeless person.

4. I snapped my neck and ruptured my spleen
Time: 2:30pm
Desire To Kill Someone: It would be nice, but crippling myself is far more interesting

Well this was sure fun. I was sitting here playing videogames, when I felt an enormous sneeze coming on. Now, sneezing and I have never gotten along very well. Something weird or painful always happens, or both. Like that time I had my sleeves rolled up, and I sneezed into my arm, which resulted in a collosal fart noise for my parents at 1 in the morning, or the day I sneezed while eating rice krispies. I decided to see what sneezing had to offer today, so I sneezed.

The sneeze erupted from my face with herculean force, causing a small portion of methane to be discharged from my anal cavity simultaneously. The sneeze was the phonetic equivalent of a blue whale cock slapping a bus. I sneezed so hard, one of my vital organs felt like it detonated inside my body. In this sudden rush of pain, I instantly grabbed my side, and whipped my head in that direction to... I guess survey the damage? Whatever I was thinking, all I ended up doing was snapping my neck. I just kind of rolled onto my bed, clutching my neck and my side. On reflection, that was probably the best time to just hurl myself out my window, but I decided on curling into a ball and writhing in agony instead.

3. I stubbed the same toe three times

Incident ATime: 4:17pm
Desire To Kill Someone: DEFCON 2

First I decided to stub my toe on a wall, and that really hurt. Not only because of the immediate pain you feel after you stub your toe, but your spirit takes a hit as well. You'd think a wall would be an easy thing to avoid.

Incident B
Time: 4:19pm
Desire To Kill Someone: I've already purchased a rug to roll your ass up in

Two minutes later, I stubbed that very same toe on the table in my television room. My mom was in the next room reading on complexity theory, so I had to for-go my usual practice of biting something and swearing extremely loudly. Worst of all, I was going downstairs to watch The Day After Tomorrow, which has Dennis Quaid in it. That made it worse somehow.

Incident C
Time: 5:04pm
Desire To Kill Someone: Unable to summon enthusiasm

That toe was nothing if not eager to hurl itself into every blunt object imaginable in my house. This time I was going on my computer, so I pulled out my chair, and I stubbed my toe on one of the wheels. Somehow it just didn't occur to me that my chair has wheels, and that it would probably hurt if I rammed one into my toe, until it was too late. You may have noticed that I referred to my toe in the past tense at the beginning of this paragraph. That's because I shit-canned his ass.

2. A crumb lodged itself in my arm
Time: 6:14pm
Desire To Kill Someone: Far too defeated to bother

I was in my room playing guitar, when I was called for supper. I sat down, and I put my right arm down on the table. Tragically I didn't have the innate foresight to notice that the sharpest crumb in the world was lingering on that section of the table that very moment, and I was rewarded with an awkward pain that defies classification. It felt a lot like... getting a crumb embedded in my flesh. I got a fucking crumb stuck in my arm, what do you say to that?

1. I canned myself
Time: 6:47pm
Reaction: "No..."
Desire To Kill Someone: After I'm finished moarning for my sweet, sweet testicles

What better way to cap off an uplifting day of disquieting injuries than whipping myself in the testicles? That question was rhetorical. So I go up to my room after supper, make a facebook update about my mom saying a girl I know should be "horse-whipped and thrown outside", knowing that everyone will be interested in it, then I noticed my xbox 360 controller is sitting on my bed. I could have just left it there, but I was compelled to roll up the cord and put it away. I was rewarded for my good work ethic appropriately. I rolled up the cord a little too vigorously, and I slapped myself in the testicles with it.

I have nothing further to add. I'm going to do something else now that hopefully doesn't result in injury. Although no matter which way I turn, this fruit fly that's currently flying around my room, is going to end up flying into my eye at some point this evening. Whatever it is that I've done, I'm sorry. Please make it stop.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

An Open Letter To The Fuck That Stole My Bike

Since my tenure in the retail industry, I've become increasingly interested in the kind of thoughts that people use to rationalize the retarded thing they're about to do or say. Like the woman who yelled at me because the cabbages we had on sale were too big and wet, clearly not realizing that it's called the "wet counter" for a reason. Although on reflection, she may have been trying to have sex with me... Then there was the man who asked if he could get some rotton tomatoes half price, because they were rotton and he dropped them on the floor. So, person that stole my bike, what were you thinking?

I was sitting here in my room last night, peacefully writing, when I realized I was experiencing a case of irreversible writer's block, and had infact only managed to draw a rough sketch of a pair of chimp tits, and had been staring at it for the past twenty minutes. I figured I should instead be focusing this time to more noble ends, like not neglecting my parents. So I went downstairs to watch the movie they were watching. Upon my arrival to the TV room, the look on my mother's face suggested she was being held hostage by someone's noxious fumes. My father at her side, looking like he wanted to rage-fuck the TV and twist someone's head off.

Against my better judgement, I sat and watched the last ten minutes of the movie "Australia", a movie which I would recommend you never watch. Five minutes in, I was seriously beginning to wonder if it was physically possible to die of boredom. The only cool part was when Professor Lupin got gored by a harpoon; but that was overshadowed by the near thirty six endings, all of which included Nicole Kidman looking like someone microwaved Barbara Streisand, and Hugh Jackman looking like someone shaved their ass and haphazardly taped the hair to his face.

Awhile after the movie ended, my parents announced that they were leaving somewhere for about half an hour. This seemed like the perfect opportunity to finally film my music video for The Hot Show by Prozzak, but I decided to do the dishes instead. Sometime after that while urinating upstairs (in the toilet), I heard some rustling in my carport. At first I thought it was the wind from the snow storm knocking stuff over, but when I walked outside, sure enough, someone had trashed my carport, being that there were foot prints everywhere. I was about to shrug it off, thinking someone had just stolen some bottles or something, then I realized my bike was gone.

I'm imagining your thought process right now, bike snatcher, and it's glorious. "I'm going to go walking outside in the middle of a snow storm, break into this garage, and steal the shit out of this bike." Why my house, and why my bike? I live right in the middle of a neighbourhood. Not the corner house or the one right next to the entrance of an alley, I live a ways down my street. Why the fuck would you target my house? You son of a bitch. That bike was like family. It was the perfect excuse to inform a crowd of attractive women that my penis also has 21 speeds, and you took it from me without remorse.

Do you rob innocent men for sport, or act on impulse to satisfy your own twisted addiction? Oh no, I imagine you've been eyeing my house for many, many days. You waited for the cover of darkness. Ever waiting for the shield of a snow storm to abduct my bike and disappear into the wind. Did you need a bike for the spring or something? I appreciate the sentiment, but so did I, you stink fucker. This is the second bike of mine that has been robbed from me. At least the first one was stolen by my friends. But you... You are a sadistic animal. You've succeeded only in taking something away from a man who has nothing.

But please don't mistake my intent with this letter. It's not meant to scare you, and it should not be seen as a death threat. Infact, I'm here to congratulate you. To thank you. I see now that you were just trying to help me. This situation is very prophetic. I probably should learn how to drive now, which does kind of put a hamper in my plans to workout every day in spring and summer, which inturn instills a desire to find, kill you and cannibalize your body, but I must thank you for your generous foresight. I needed this dramatic example to shake myself awake and better my life. Perhaps one day in the future, when the dust settles and I emerge a better and stronger person because of this experience, perhaps then, I will see my precious bike again. Take good care of it for me.

Oh, and if you wake up some day soon, chained to your bed, your daughter's right index finger on your stomach, the silhouette of my dick inching closer to your door, don't scream. This is just my way of saying thank you.

... and no one will be able to hear you anyway, so you're wasting your time. Just because I didn't see your face, doesn't mean that I can't find you.

Friday, November 26, 2010

Renovations can go die under a tractor

Barely a week ago, it seemed as if my ability to turn a blank piece of paper into a graceful, poignant masterpiece about my genitals was slowly drifting away from me. I had lost my jump. Writing, which had always been second nature to me, even as a child, was now a mysterious, impenetrable fog. Everything I tried to write felt forced and awkward, and quickly plummeted to a harsh oblivion. I attributed this to the fact that I haven't been getting out much lately. I knew that when I did, something stupid would eventually have the good grace to show itself, so I could needlessly make fun of it.

As it turns out, I didn't need to leave my house to find something at all. It came to me. The irony of this is just sickening, or at least I think this is how irony works. I wanted to get out of my house, hoping to conjur some inspiration, when I didn't actually have to move at all. Now that terror itself has found me, presenting me a golden opportunity to write about something, suddenly I don't feel like writing anymore. Sadly, the reality I'm faced with is harsh, unavoidable, and now it's become personal. I'll be damned if I let the renovations win.

A couple days ago, my father asked me to empty the linen closet downstairs. My father has the unique ability at any moment of his choosing, to pick the very last thing you want to do in the universe. I wondered what the purpose behind this task was, but I didn't ask any questions for fear of getting answers, so I tried not to think about it. Everything became clear to me yesterday when I heard the faint sound of a drill downstairs, my father yelling "fuck" very loudly, followed by what sounded like something getting its shit ruined by a hammer. When shit is getting demolished by hammers, the air smells of renovations. Cold, retarded renovations, or if you beat me at Halo ever. May I present to you, the progression of the room downstairs:

Stage One: Regular linen closet

Stage Two: Linen closet removed to make way for upgraded bathroom

Stage Three: Valuable pipes discovered lingering within the wall designated for smashing. Project crippled, reverted back to regular linen closet with different doors

Stage Four: Several months later, linen closet removed again, upgraded bathroom in progress, and by "upgraded" I mean adding a useless sink and some cabinets, effectively reducing our storage space

Stage Five: What the FUCK?

The feeling this instills is a lot like when I sit down, and accidently sit on one of my testicles. So we're renovating our renovations now. Exquisite. This project is particularly bothersome, not simply because my father can't plan anything properly, but because it's already failed once before, which will drive my father to perform and take several, "creative liberties". These are divided into two distinct categories. The first being what he wants to do, the second being something horrifying or dangerous, which usually happens. I have little faith in the project, partly because I'm an asshole, but mostly because we don't have a good track record when it comes to successful renovations.

Allow me to take you back about a year ago, when my dad endeavoured to renovate the kitchen while my mother was on vacation. I was expecting the counter-tops to come off, all the cupboards to come out, removing the backsplash, etc. etc. All that ended up happening was the mournful removal of a useful spice rack, the stove being disconnected for no fucking reason, the backsplash simply being painted over, and for the icing on this delicious pastry, our counter-tops being painted with some shit that you're only supposed to use outside on your steps, or driveway. I don't even know how you manage to screw that up. There was pictures of people outside on the fucking can.

Not being able to use the stove was a pain in the ass, but starvation wasn't nearly as worrisome, or perhaps as fascinating as watching my father toil away in the face of continual failure and disappointment. You see, the instructions for this material read very plainly that you only need two coats of laminate. It was around coat number seven that my father began to wonder if he'd just destroyed our kitchen and was beyond the point of no return. He'd try and get my brother and I enthusiastic about the project, perhaps in an effort to reverse his mistake, but at a certain point we had a difficult time acknowledging him as our father and instead just stared at him with looks of blank disappointment.
I've never seen someone try and ignore their own better judgement for so long before. At some point he actually ran out of laminate and went out to buy some more. Five coats later and he finally called it quits. The counters weren't going to get any smoother, our kitchen anymore hideous. Naturally the counter-tops were smoother than a pair of titties, being that they were frozen in perpetual laminated terror and looked like stinky asshole, like Han Solo's carbonite prison. The edges of the counters, however, are something that frequently appear in my nightmares.

My father underestimated the viscosity of the material, so while painting it on it leaked over the side to create what is essentially a cheese grater that stretches the entire length of the counters. Every edge is serrated and has every intention of fucking up your hand if you aren't paying attention opening the dishwasher or getting a spoon from the drawer. Best of all, my father didn't bother to cover up any of the drawers or knee cabinets, so bits of material splashed on everything and froze without my father noticing. Being that this material is made to stand up to a fucking ice chipper, my father was forced to violently scrape the material off, making all of our cabinets look like they barely survived a bombardment of shrapnel. The cabinets looked like any building in Stalingrad circa 1942. If the goal of the project was ultimately to surprise my mother, my father certainly succeeded at that. I thought she was going to shit an onion when she got home.

This wasn't the first renovation disaster. My dad unexpectedly blew a hole the size of a basketball in the wall of his bedroom once, we sawed our bathtub in half to remove it, then we had to whip a rug out of the top window of our house because we couldn't get it down the stairs, which left an enormous, penis shaped crater in the front lawn. Well, I suppose those weren't the best examples I could find. Those were all fucking awesome, especially the bathtub. I've never seen anything so goddamn bitchin' in my life. It was like the cover of Metallica's St. Anger album came to life and punched my eyeballs straight in the dick. But the key difference between those examples and this bathroom renovation, is that those were funny, this isn't.

Yet my father is still skipping about the house, acting like he just high-fived an orgasm, completely disregarding his past experiences. I'm much less optimistic. My faith in humanity died long ago when they discontinued Astros candy.


Wednesday, November 24, 2010

6 Of My 8 Fears Just Kicked My Ass

This morning, I experienced a sensation most unordinary. It wasn't morning wood, because that happens all the time. You may struggle to believe this, but I felt... good, this morning. In fact, I felt fantastic. This is impressive for someone like me, who is generally acknowledged to be the most miserable asshole on the face of the planet. Nothing could hope to stain my spirits. I woke up before my alarm, it was cold and shitty outside, then I smashed the absolute piss out of my hand on a doorknob. Normally a chain of events like that is the catalyst for hatchet murder or vehicular manslaughter, but I was much too content.

For no reason either. I don't know what it was, but I felt like grabbing my large bags of fairy dust and skipping everywhere I wanted to go, which could be anywhere. Even the moon! My elated state has even driven my parents to conclude that I'm on drugs, which could very well be possible. But the point I'm trying arduously to get to, is that my good mood in the morning caused me to drop my guard, while life was poised to strike.

Allow my well-tuned sense of humour and stunning mastery of Brobdingnagian vocabulary to gently ease you into this chronological list of immobilizing terror.

6. Gardening
It all started when my mom asked me if I could handle some gardening. What's so bad about gardening, you ask? Everything you can imagine, that's what. I'm terrified of gardening, because I fucking suck at it. I don't know anything about it. I have no idea if I'm giving these plants life or murdering them with my gay little shovels. I don't like working under pressure, and there's no immediate shortage of that when you've been ordered to do the gardening. I'm working with someone else's vision that I don't understand, and I'm expected to do a good job. The problem is that I'm all about low expectations. My mind is so gripped by fear when I'm gardening, I can't even pause to laugh at the phrase, "trim the bush".

Ok so maybe I can, but seriously, it's nerve racking. I'm also wearing these girly gloves, picking away at the dirt with my delicate tools (one is this adorable tiny rake), and gently planting lovely little flowers. It gives this inscrutable feeling of unease, like I can feel someone watching me and calling me a homosexual. The thing is, I'm not gay, so it's demeaning work. But my biggest fear while gardening, is my mom coming home, looking at the garden, letting out a little shriek, then uttering the piercing words, "we can fix this..."

I was able to narrow that down for you, because that's exactly what happened. She wouldn't even tell me what I did. She just smiled and walked inside. Why ask me to do something if you know I'm going to fuck it up? Come on! Anyway, while gardening itself is terrifying, it also lends itself to certain abuses. Such as:

5. Farmer's Tan
When you're gardening, it's common knowledge that the practice tends to take place outside. It's also fair to assume that you're doing it on a sunny day (sexual implication not intended). This means you run the risk of a farmer's tan, one that everyone will notice and earn you ceaseless mockery.

There was one year when I was a kid, where my family and I went to Hawaii and I had a nice tan. It was a glorious vacation, where on any given day, you would see me walking out of the ocean with five chicks in each arm. I was a pimp even at the tender age of 12, a time when I thought my dick was only used for urination. I was so naive. It wasn't until much later did I discover the humour in peeing on a building or in someone's pumpkin on Halloween. So perhaps I didn't learn much... Anyway, every year since then, I've rocked the farmer's tan, and every year I tell myself I won't be getting a farmer's tan. However, this year will be different. This year I'm going to bend farmer's tan over a chair and spank its ass with a meat tenderizer.

I feel like I'm disregarding my own experiences by saying that, but this year, I devised a cunning stratagem to elude any possibility of a farmer's tan. I rolled my sleeves up. This exposed my sexy muscles, and farmer's tan was soundly reduced to rubble. My glistening muscles and I laughed, until it dawned on me that while I may have bested farmer's tan, I wouldn't be able to best tan lines in general unless I took a more drastic approach. Unfortunately, it just so happens that one of my fears is:

4. Taking my shirt off

Back in the high school days, I was so sexy that I got every woman in a 10 block radius pregnant just by stepping outside. My sex life was so vigorous you'd think a fucking asteroid was heading towards earth, and I needed to celebrate every last glorious second of life by boning. My dick was invincible. It came to the point where it was difficult to fend off all the hordes of women who wanted a piece of my sexy ass. I caught a bunch on a ladder trying to pry my window open with a crowbar one night. When I went swimming on fridays, my superhuman physique even managed to attract the attention of the monstrous, frightening man who lingered in the hot tub, covertly masturbating.
What has changed over the years? Well now I'm a bitter old man who greatly exaggerates his age, and spends all his time working and doing absurd amounts of school work. I seem to have lost all the pigment in my skin, and I have a veritable forest of errant hairs on my chest. I don't have the confidence to remove my shirt anymore. What if my old ass neighbour walks outside and the sunlight reflects off my chest and blinds her? What if a crowd of attractive women are walking past my house and see me? I don't want to be judged! So until I conquer my fear, it seems that tan lines will again tragically plague my existence this year.

It was at this point where I began to wonder just how the day could possibly get worse. Which is of course when:

3. I went inside to take a break, only to realize that I'd already eaten the last Fudgsicle

2. Failing to jump on a shovel and falling into a tree

Self-humiliation. It's a wonderful thing. An unusual thing. A wonderfully unusual thing. It's when you manage to do something so unimaginably stupid to yourself, all by yourself, that results in extreme humiliation. It's like whenever I'm in the shower and I get shampoo in my eyes. No one but me will be aware of this for as long as I live, so I shouldn't feel bad, but no contrived rationale can convince me that I'm not an idiot.

So after planting a bunch of flowers, I was told to dig up the grass around the tree in my backyard. This is a bothersome task, because it's near impossible to dig the grass up without snapping one of the branches since the fuckers are so low to the ground and stick like a meter out of the trunk. I also found myself attempting to dig through solid roots, so it was necessary at several points to jump moderately high, and land on the shovel to drive it into the earth. I was doing this for the whole lawn, since I didn't feel like stomping on the shovel. When it came time to dig around the tree, however, I knew it would be wise to simply stomp on the shovel, since I couldn't maneuver the shovel in effectively enough for a jump.

However, when I get an idea in my head, regardless of impending, assured moral and spiritual deterioration, it's hard to stop myself. I knew that jumping on the shovel so close to the tree was a stupid idea. I knew that if I did it, that I would fall into the tree and look like an idiot. But it was too late. My brain was already convinced it was an incredible idea, before my body could stop itself. Care to take a guess as to what happened?

I was aware of what just happened. I couldn't laugh it off though. I could only sit there, wallowing in a pool of self-humiliation and ant droppings. Speaking of ants, there was something that I uncovered while digging up my yard:

1. Bugs
I must say, I'm not the biggest fan of insects. It seems that insects are aware of this as well, and do everything in their power to make my life miserable. First of all, I was digging around a tree that blossoms. What do blossoms attract? Bees, of course! What do I not enjoy having near me? Bees! Seeing a 20 year old man running away from a flying fuzzy thing the size of a dime is a sorry ass sight.

Next up on the list is worms. The most horrifying day of my life, I can sincerely remember being that day I walked home from work in the rain, and all the sidewalks, even the goddamn roads, were crawling with tens of thousands of orcs! I mean worms. That's right, millions of disgusting, writhing worms. I thought worms were taking over the fucking world. These were no rabble of mindless worms. These were Urah-Kai! Their armor was thick and their shie- sorry I'll stop this reference now. I ran the whole way home screaming. So naturally, what was the first thing I stumbled on? Why, an enormous colony of earth worms! It didn't bother me too much at first surprisingly. Then I dug up a piece of earth, and I couldn't pick up the goddamn thing with the shovel. I had to pick it up with my hands, but it was covered with worms so I couldn't. I actually got a stick and rolled that bitch to the side of my house. Like balls I'm touching that and having worms crawl under my skin to slowly eat me alive.

Speaking of the side of my house, that's where I was instructed to deposit all the pieces of sod that I was digging up, so they'd dry out faster. The only problem was, that leaning against my house were two ladders. I merely needed to move these ladders five feet over so they would be leaning against the fence, so I would have enough room for all the pieces of sod. Don't be fooled, it only sounds simple.

I knew I had to reach under the ladders to pick them up. This was a dilemma, because being that the ladders have been sitting there for ages, I knew there were going to be spiders under there, and I'm absolutely terrified of spiders. I eventually decided that it was extremely improbable for me to choose the exact spot where a giant spider would be hiding. I mean really, the odds of that are minuscule to the point of being negligible. So I picked up the ladder. I felt something strange on my hand a second after I did it. I looked down to discover an enormous spider on my hand. My immediate reaction was to shake it off. That seemed to work, until I discovered that I'd only managed to propel him onto my chest. I shrieked again, swiped him off, and I got the fuck out of there in the most embarrassing manner possible.

I returned later with a full hazmat suit, ready to move those ladders. I got the first ladder, then I picked up the second ladder. Doing so revealed an enormous colony of insects of unknown classification. I can't describe them, so I drew you a picture:

Like the bulk of insects I dislike, I doubt very seriously that this insect could cause me bodily harm. Sadly, my survival instincts kicked in before I could tell myself that, and I found myself running away again, shrieking vaguely femininely. What a shitty afternoon. I'm hoping tonight will be better, since I'm going to a friend's birthday party, but I just know I'm going to show up, and I'll stumble right into a Goosebumps plot where the populace has transformed into deranged bug people. Fuck.

As for my other fears, I'm afraid of heights in malls, and I'm afraid of my laundry machine. Laugh all you want. Just wait until your laundry machine comes alive, rips your arm off while you're feeding it clothes then eats you alive!

... it could happen!

Monday, November 22, 2010

My Recollection of The Dragonball Evolution Premiere

This is a story that I cannot ever hope to justify to anyone. This is a story of two young adults going out of their way to attend the Dragonball Evolution premiere. There's no way to reiterate that sentence that will explain it for you in a satisfying or logical way, no way to defend my actions. There's only one thing I can do, and that's chronicle the plunge we took into disquieting abashment on April 10th at 7:30pm. Maybe then, you will understand.
Plans to attend the Dragonball Evolution premiere were inscribed in stone long before its release. It was engraved into our very souls the moment it was announced, perhaps even long before, since we always knew the day would come. I say "we" and "our" because I was not alone on this quest. I was accompanied by my comrade Charles, a man equally deranged as I. We were destined to see Dragonball Evolution. We had to see it. It felt almost like it was our duty to see it, after being obsessed with the cartoon as kids. We had high hopes for the film. We were certain it wouldn't disappoint, and do the cartoon complete justice, not pausing to consider that maybe the source material is a little weird and kinda shitty. Watching the trailer only increased our hype for the film. If while watching your nipples don't experience tumescence to the point where it's physically possible to grate cheese with them, you're either a little weird, or you're lying.

... stop lying. Sweet jesus, look at those dislikes.

We had planned to neglect our education and catch the premiere during the day on a friday, where no one we knew would see us. But we discovered that the theater we chose refused to play it in their theaters, and it became clear that we could not enshroud our intent to see Dragonball Evolution. We began our journey later in the evening to the larger movie theater under the faint cover of darkness... in my mother's baby blue car. Yes only hierarchs of society are worthy enough to bare witness to Dragonball Evolution. Despite our excitement, our paranoia held no disguise when we arrived at the theater. We were certain someone we knew would spot us, and instituting a conversation in a movie theater leads to the inevitable question, "what are you seeing?" There would be no way to explain our intent to them. They wouldn't understand. We would be lauded as outcasts, and probably called homosexuals.

Luckily, no one we knew was at the theater. However, the theater was still crawling with people. We were careful not to speak of Dragonball Evolution out loud, and instead referred to it as DBE. We approached the front of the line. There sat a lady who asked me the question, "what can I do for you?" There was no escape from this, so I spoke the words, "I would like one ticket to Dragonball Evolution, please." I tried to fight it, but I burst out laughing before I even finished what I was saying. Telling another human being that I was seeking entertainment from Dragonball Evolution, that I was willing to spend hard earned money on it was absurd. Her reaction made it apparent that she was thinking the same thing. All became quiet, and she just stared at me, disturbed and confused, "... really?" "Yes", I replied.
We walked into theater eleven, expecting to see a mass of avid Dragonball fans, maybe even one or two in Goku costumes. We saw nine people. They were all so mysterious. Who were these people? The only ones I could understand were the two kids who dragged their poor mother along to see it with them. More people entered the theater after us after we'd found our seats, and we reached a final head count of thirteen, including us. Dragonball Evolution was within our grasp.
The lights began to dim. We could scarcely believe it. Dragonball Evolution was here, there was no turning back now. Within moments, Justin Chatwin as Goku, in an effort to make everyone in the audience instantly regret wasting money on a ticket, humiliated everyone by gritting his teeth and "grring" at us. Soon it was James Marsters turn to degrade and mortify us. I don't even remember exactly what he did. I think mostly he just looked like an idiot. If you're wondering why James Marsters sounds familiar, that's because he's Spike from Buffy The Vampire Slayer. Now he plays the part of Piccolo, and he's gonna chew your tits off.

The shit he was taking in this picture must have been biblical
In films where the protagonist still gets random erections in class and has difficulty speaking to women, all you have to do is wait for the unavoidable fight scene with the school douchebag(s). So Justin Chatwin is invited to a party by the hottest bitch ever, and sure enough, upon his arrival to the party, Justin Chatwin got his chance to impress the girl and give those bullies at his school the beatdown, who are naturally at the party, and of course hate Justin Chatwin for no reason, which is actually fairly impressive bully profiling. It may have been ok if it wasn't the most embarrassingly choreographed fight scene I've ever seen. It was the last straw for the man who sat in the back of the theatre, who came to see Dragonball Evolution by himself. He couldn't take that shit anymore, and he got out. Soon after, Chow Yun-Fat as Master Roshi was introduced to us. The camera zoomed in close enough to his face to reveal that he was stoned right the fuck off his balls.

I suspect he needed to be for the entire course of filming to keep himself from committing suicide. This is when three more people left the theater, the woman I mentioned earlier with her two children, now desperate to get them out of there. I'm amazed she had the presence of mind to get her children out with her. She got up so quickly you'd think the theater somehow caught fire. Our ranks were now diminished back to the original nine, all of us determined to make it to the end without suffering haemolacria. The couple that decided a romantic evening of Dragonball Evolution was just the thing their relationship needed could have been having sex in the corner and no one would have noticed.
There are only minor things I can tell you after that. Charles and I turning to each other at the same time at the sight of Joon Park and his enormous, inexplicable drill (an actual drill, not his penis. I know, it doesn't make any sense) and saying, "oh no, is that Yamcha?" The Kamehameha Wave is no longer a giant energy beam of blood murder anymore, but is instead used to light candles and make out with hot Chinese ass, which I can't really argue against, come to think of it. The end fight is easily the most uncomfortable thing I've ever watched, and also, Jamie Chung is the goddamn hottest spank ass bitch ever.

The only question remains, how did the world respond? It scored a 3.3 out of 10 on IMDB. From the thirty seconds I spent researching the matter, it appears Dragonball Evolution has grossed a total of $13,000,000 worldwide, which is laughable and downright embarrassing. There are dozens of websites that exist solely to insure that a sequel is unthinkable. There is a veritable armada of YouTube users, begging you to sign petitions to cease the possibility of a sequel. We know that people behind Dragonball Evolution were intent on releasing a sequel as well, because Charles and I stayed for after the credits (which were two minutes long). After everyone got out of there, we stayed, and watched five seconds of James Marsters in bed, getting his head patted down with a damp cloth by some unknown woman. Oh NO.

It's been weeks since that day, and now I must conjur an opinion on the movie. It doesn't matter how many negative things I, or anybody else says about it. I know I'm going to buy this movie when it comes out, and I know I'm going to watch it again. I also know exactly why Justin Chatwin agreed to playing Goku. Not for his love of the cartoon, but:


Sweet, beautiful jesus

You are forgiven, Justin Chatwin. Movie of the fucking year.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

2 Terrifying Obstacles You Must Face In A Restaurant

There are a lot of dangerous professions out there, just waiting to snatch your existence from you. Miners, bomb squad, loggers, firefighters and so on. These are all dangerous jobs. Working on a farm is a dangerous job. You could get sucked under a combine or kicked in the testicles by a horse. Supposedly the most dangerous job in the world is a crab fisherman. Talk about a disproportionate reward there. But I'm afraid whatever you think you know about dangerous jobs... is so very wrong. I work in a restaurant, and I have it on high authority that it is the single most dangerous profession on earth, next to those cavemen way back in the day who had to defend their territory against those giant bears.

"This sucks..."

It is a job fraught with peril, where around every corner there lingers a disquieting evil, intent on depriving you of your earthly vessel. There is something people don't quite understand about working in a restaurant. There are plenty of hazards to most any job. If you work in a grocery store, you may have to talk to someone stupid eventually. But for most hazards, it's usually very clear that you should stay away from them. For example, if you work with poisonous snakes, don't put your dick in one of the cages or jam a snake in your eye. It's just common sense. It's not like that in a restaurant. In a restaurant, you don't have the luxury of safety.

If it was my intention to release this article on my 50th birthday, I would go to the trouble of walking you through maybe a quarter of the hazards to working in a restaurant. But instead I will focus on the two most terrifying prospects you have to face while working in a restaurant. If you have an aversion to descriptions of carnage, you may want to avert your eyes now.

2. You may have to turn off a light
Have you ever stared good and hard at a lightswitch and thought, "my god, that thing could kill me..."? Well you should, because it can kill you, or inflict the necessary psychological damage to make you wish you were dead. In fact there's not a lot stopping it from doing so. It is possibly the most twisted, nefarious, oddly convenient (and simple!) invention ever concocted by man. Everyone desires illumination at some point in their lives, whether it be literally or metaphorically. The only question is, are you brave enough to set your life on the line?


This is a question I had to face two days ago. I had finished mopping the floor, so after I'd dumped the water outside, I locked the back door and put the mop away. After returning the mop to its proper domicile, I have to turn off the light in the back hallway. Don't be fooled, it only sounds simple. Luckily I managed to turn off the light without causing myself serious harm. It almost felt as simple as just... pushing the switch down. Tragically, my co-worker Eddie was not quite as fortunate. This was a test which he would fail completely and miserably.

My co-workers and I were all sitting in the restaurant, relaxing, when suddenly our eyes widened in terror as a bloodcurdling shriek emanated from the back hallway. I went back into the kitchen to investigate and there stood Eddie, white as a ghost. "Scott, I'm not finished the bottles yet. You turn off the light too fucking quick, I gotta do the bottles!! Fuck!!!!" He wasn't making any sense. It's like he could have just turned the lightswitch back on instead of taking a shit and yelling at me nonsensically. I tried to calm him down before he made another grave mistake, but I was too late. He walked right into what people in the food industry dare not speak of. It has a codename...

Prospect 1.

1. You may have to open a door
Oh not just open a door. This door could also be locked, so you could very well have to unlock it, then open it. My heart quakes in fear at the very thought of it. What sick, desperate straits would drive a man to invent something sinister like that...?

As I said earlier, when I'm finished mopping the floor, I have to open the back door so I can dump out the mop water. It takes a special kind of courage to open a door. Courage that I never knew I had. What could be hiding behind that door? What could happen if I open it...? What if there's like... a fucking ogre behind it waiting to club me to death? Thankfully these are questions I never have to face, because the door I get to open is a screen door. All I have to do at the end of the night is close the actual back door and lock it. Closing a door is remarkably simple, so logic would dictate that opening the door would be just as simple. But as Eddie proved with the lightswitch, simple concepts are often unreasonably demanding.

There was a bit of miscommunication between myself and the waitresses. I was told that the bottles were done, and I didn't hear Eddie vacuuming, so it seemed everything was done for the night, so I closed and locked the back door as always. Then Eddie lost his shit when he went into the back to discover that it was a bit darker than normal, then he was on the verge of internal hemorrhaging when he realized I had closed the door. I had already loosely apologized and given an explanation where it really wasn't necessary as to why I turned off a light. I was about to explain the whole door thing, but my efforts went unnoticed.

"Oh fucking fuck shit fuck bitch fuckin' stupid fuck cocksucker!" is what Eddie mumbled as he wrestled with the back door. I think he was trying to convey his anger to me in a way that his words could not by opening that door as menacingly as possible. It was possibly the saddest thing I've ever seen in my life. This old man, red in the face with baseless rage, locked in a fight to the death with this door, and the door appeared to be winning. Eventually he did manage to turn the knob and boot the door open, but by that time I had already turned around and walked away.

I wasn't upset. In fact I have great sympathy for the man. The tactical nature surrounding a door is preposterous. I'm amazed he made it out of that one without a scratch. I feel like he could have just, y'know, opened the door instead of screaming like 10 year old child, but that's irrational thinking. I could have killed a man two days ago by closing that door, so I must applaud his gallantry.
If you're wondering why my banter feels so warm and sarcastic in this article, it's because it is! This isn't the serengeti, wild man. These are very paltry, non-trivial irritations. Settle your ass down. If you don't have the ability to, at least write down some of the absurd shit you say, because it's always classic comedy gold. Seriously. Eddie is this 75 year old man who grew up in the bronx, so he has a wicked accent and is completely serious about everything he says.
 He once caught some kid peeing on the side of the restaurant and threatened to cut his dick off and jam it up his ass. I didn't see the end of that exchange, so it's entirely possible that kid is still out there somewhere with his own penis in his butt.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Scott's Product Line: Guaranteed Only To Fuck You Over

A few minutes ago, a deadly neurotoxin had covertly worked its way into my bloodstream, and was shutting down all of my primary functions. I was in a state of partial paralysis, but was still aware of all my surroundings. In other words, I was watching television.

I was watching some reality show that I didn't understand, or at least I think it was a reality show, then it cut to a commercial break. It was at this point I remembered I really didn't want to be doing this, so I started to get up. Then some woman popped up on the TV and started complaining about migraines. "Every light, every sound, it all makes it worse." Following this were two more people with similar sentiments. After the first minute and a half passed, they revealed the miracle prescription migraine medication. The same three people were then interviewed again, and now their lives were a cavalcade of sunshine and happiness. Then came the list of potential symptoms.

Now, I'm no stranger to excessive lists of unrealistic symptoms. I was on Accutane in junior high. The list of symptoms for that medication came in a book thick enough to beat a bear to death with, and it didn't even include the pregnancy section. But the list for this medication was egregious. Have you ever been to a bidding? Me neither, but I hear the people at those things talk absurdly fast. Try to imagine that, but in fast forward, and you have the narrator's approximate speech velocity.

I wanted to leave, but the commercial just wouldn't stop. It altered the very fabric of reality and ceased to make any logical sense. Some guy teaching his kid how to ride a bike, a couple cooking supper together, all laughing maniacally like some kind of deranged creature on a permanent caffeine buzz.

Does taking this medication mean you're at risk of laughing so hard you vomit your own asshole? It makes no sense, why are these people so happy, can they not hear the narrator? He's still going, y'know. "Upon taking this medication, you will be beset with the desire to devour your own vagina." "If you take this medication, you will hail the coming of the zombie apocalypse and extinguish the human race." "If you are a human being, please do not take... whatever the fuck this is."

So after about three hours, the commercial finally ended. I stood there for awhile, benumbed in stupefied wonder. I couldn't come up with a satisfying or logical reason why this commercial, or the drug it was advertising exists. How can this possibly be legal? Then it started to make sense. There's a market out there for preying on weakness, and making other human beings miserable for your benefit. Provided you have no morals, are declared insane, and have the negotiation skills necessary to convince someone else that taking a pill that could set their ass crack on fire to relieve them of a headache or whatever, is actually safe. Having no compassion for the human condition can go a long way.

Upon becoming fully aware of this, I raced upstairs and discharged all the ideas I had, then with my judo grip on Microsoft Paint, illustrated them for you. Coming soon to nameless retail stores near you:

They Do Stuff!

Got a stiff back? Stop being a whiny pussy. You got to take Scott's Back Pain Remedy, you stinky ass-faced bastard! It's the baddest son of a bitch medication on the block.
They're designed specifically to relieve back pain. That's all the information we have on these terrifying fuckers, because we aren't qualified scientists and have no idea what we've done. But don't take our sketch ball word for it, try it for yourself! What are you waiting for? But seriously, don't take our word for it. We aren't liable for any negative side-effects that may occur as a result of taking this medication.

- Paralysis
- Meningococcal disease
- Multiple forms of cancer
- Peeling your own skin off


It'll CREAM Your Shit!

Do you suffer from itchy skin? That's fucking nasty. You should really take care of that or else no one will ever love you. Oh you've tried, but all the products you use never point to a permanent solution? Fear not, comrade, for Scott's Skin Ointment has been called into existence! This pocket sized ointment is the only absurdly expensive, horrifyingly dangerous permanent solution to irritable skin. Guaranteed! And, if you call within the next five minutes, we'll also throw in a complimentary sledge hammer so you can brutalize yourself to death in just about the most painful and difficult way possible.

- Rotting of testicles
- Unidentifiable fungus on feet
- Collapsing of lungs
- Someone runs your cat over with a lawnmower
- Demenia
- Vomiting out of every orifice in your body
- Nausea
- Cannibalism
- Melting eyeballs
- Insanity
- Loss of vision (generally associated with melted eyeballs)
- Nuclear diarrhea
- Priapism


One Pill To Rule Them All, And In The Darkness, Bind Them

Is your life just fine? Are you craving attention, but lack the experience of real life tragic circumstances for people to feel sorry for you? Then it's your lucky day, you whiny little bitch. Take Scott's Angst Medication, and within seconds, you will be swimming in the outward manifestations of the ridiculous scenarios you concoct in your mind on a daily basis. Guaranteed to make your friends (who don't care about you) continue thinking you're a loud, whiny bitch who's so slutty she needs to hire a traffic cop for her vagina.

- Hallucinating

- Maybe you'll actually shut up before any more dicks get in your mouth
- Updating your status on Facebook with song lyrics that allude to imaginary problems purely for the sake of attention like an angsty cunt

That's all I could come up with, because my life is so tough. My heart quakes with sorrow.

Monday, October 18, 2010

The woes of not being able to take a shower

Friends... I come to you today humbled. I come to you as a different man. A broken man... But more specifically, a greasier man. It's been 24 hours since I last took a shower, and I fear these may be the last words I write to you as a sane man. Before my fleeting grip on sanity and reality is surrendered, and the assiduous grease takes me, I'd like to tell a tale of the last few stinky hours of my life that have been spent without a shower. I'm not sure of my own intentions with this contrivance. Perhaps so you can diagnose the signs with ameliorate haste, and elude them better than I.

Showering follows a routine all across the planet, unless you're a hippie and rely purely on water fountains or rain to clean yourself. At night you sleep, then when you wake up, you take a shower. So you see, spending a portion of the day without a shower is no stranger to anyone, assuming you don't shower while you sleep. Subsequently, it's fair to assume you wake up mildly greasy, your breath smelling faintly of a decaying corpse. Unless you wake up next to someone else and cannot remember how they got there, or if you wake up in jail spooning with your cellmate Jamal, there's no need to feel bad. Smelling like shit in the morning is just nature playing a prank on you. Thankfully the instrument commonly referred to as a shower exists, so that you may become clean, exude confidence in your fine acknowledgement of proper hygiene, and show your face in public. When the aforementioned pattern is disrupted, things spiral out of control. This has been my life for the past few hours.

I awoke this morning to the euphonious sound of someone doing the dishes. This meant two things. First, I didn't have to clean the kitchen. Second, I wasn't going to be able to take a shower right away. It didn't bother me though. I planned to relax for awhile, have my breakfast, and eventually procure a shower (in the non-prostitute sense, obviously).

I was concentrating very much on writing, so I had neglected my shower temporarily. Thankfully I remembered before it became too late, and schemed to emend my oleaginous self with undue haste. I departed from my lair and proceeded to the bathroom. Before I turned on the shower, I decided it would be wise to investigate the rest of the house, and ascertain whether water was already in use. Turns out it was, infact. The laundry machine was active. I wasn't in a hurry to get anywhere, so it wasn't a problem. I'll just play some guitar while I wait. Just to clarify, I mean actual good guitar, not douchebag playing at a campfire guitar.

After a fair amount of time had passed, I felt another attempt was in order. Sadly, my brother was occupying the shower. Fair enough, I suppose, he has to go to work. While telling you that acceptable hygiene standards are fundamental at a grocery store would be difficult (i.e. falsehood), he required the shower more than I, so I was generous in not flushing the toilet, and anxiously, but patiently, awaited my turn.

After more time had passed, I once again attempted to take a shower, but it appeared the dishwasher was on... again... I wasn't abruptly besieged with a crazed sense of bewilderment, but this was starting to become irritating. The task of the dishes had already been completed. I felt we'd exhausted our supply of dishes, but apparently not. Evidently the few remaining cups in my house took priority over my cleanliness. My beloved hot water, employed uselessly without adequate return...

I found myself collapsed on my bed sometime later, having been choked to a state of partial consciousness by a foul miasma. Taking a shower was now imperative. Integral to my survival. I journeyed to the bathroom, was about to open the door, and was rewarded with a fart of extraordinary magnitude from inside the bathroom, occupied by my father. The sheer force of his ass was enough to make the door shake. It became clear to me in that moment as to exactly why he had been eating fiber-enriched cereal in the morning, and had packed himself 4-bean chili for lunch.

I started writing this story after that defeat, made some supper, still staggering with humiliation. But finally, the long anticipated shower had arrived. I stepped into the bathroom, and two things became immediately apparent to me. The bathroom was still beset with a vile, poisonous stench, and the window was open, so the bathroom was freezing cold. When I finally got in the shower, there wasn't very much hot water remaining for me, then someone flushed the toilet 30 seconds in.

So it wasn't a moral victory, but at least I don't smell like whatever would come out of my ass after an extensive cherry-pie-only diet anymore. If nothing else, I've proven that my massive vocabulary can be applied nicely to internet obscurity, but not to my research paper which I should be working on right now. Suck it, english.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

What is this "Sun" you speak of?

I wrote the following article on March 28th, 2009. Figured I'd tell you this before you got all confused why snow starts melting in October here in Canada. This is actually when it starts falling and we all bust out our polar bears to ride to work. It's fucking sweet.

Over the past while, an alarming number of people have been talking complete nonsense. A large practical joke, no doubt. Something about "summer" and this thing they call "sunlight" that comes from the "sun". Luckily my ears are finely tuned to detect bullshit, so I dismissed these wild notions of "heat" and "warmth" immediately. I know what warmth is and isn't. What it is, is the feeling shortly after I put on a massive sweater and sit infront of my heater. It's not something that is, or can be produced in nature. That is the work of science fiction. It's a myth. As you can see, my intellect is far too vast for your Machiavellian scheming. I will not be fooled so easily.

But lately, the number of people foolish enough to fall for these tricks is growing at a frightening rate. The majority of the population seems to have been infected by some kind of parasite, or there's some sort of diabolical compound floating around, twisting human beings into hollow shells incapable of rational thought. I fear I may be next, because as I walked outside today, it appeared that the snow outside my house was... actually melting. It wasn't just my house either, it was happening everywhere. Everywhere I went, slush and puddles. What's more disturbing, is that I found myself without my winter jacket, because I was... warm.

I knew that it simply couldn't be happening. Something was horribly wrong, and the truth needed to be exposed. Tragically, the majority of the population now consists of a bunch of mindless drones, so I decided to look into this more deeply myself. Just when I thought I was on the verge of extricating mankind from mass delusion, I discovered through my tireless research in that astronomy book I got when I was a kid, to my horror, the sun is an actual fucking thing.

It has a FACE!

The sun is a celestial body in our solar system that your average world of warcraft player has no knowledge of, has the ability to turn vampires into sparkly homosexuals, all while looking like a giant flaming testicle. Its energy comes from nuclear fusion. From the 30 seconds I spent investigating this matter, to my narrow understanding, what that basically means is, a couple hydrogen atoms get forced together which eventually creates helium atoms, and this process releases a shit tonne of energy. This energy comes to earth as light. The big bitch keeps us warm is what I'm saying.

What does this mean for us?

Just as I was about to make a joke about destroying the sun, I learned that she's a bit of an important attention whore and holds our planet and several others in our solar system in place. So we orbit the sun and spin on a rotational axis, which is where the seasons come from.
Sometimes half of the planet is tilted towards the sun, and sometimes it's not. These points in the earth's orbit are called solstices. We are currently in a transition between the seasons of winter and summer called "The Vernal Equinox", which is a really faggy way of pronouncing "spring". Both hemispheres are receiving roughly the same amount of exposure to sunlight. So because of earth's orbit, very simply, the northern hemisphere will soon be exposed to more sunlight, and soon it'll be summer.

... so I guess the sun isn't scary at all. Well, with that in mind, I'm going to assume I speak for everyone when I say FUCK WINTER! Goodbye, asshole. Thanks for nothing. I sincerely hope someone molests your face with their balls.