I read about Gus.
A polar bear born in captivity,
never knowing a life outside 
his little box.
Adored by millions who
stared as he obsessively swam
in a figure eight.
Twelve hours a day.
They gave him Prozac.

I saw a movie about Tilikum.
An orca captured at two.
Put on a great show
and retired to a small tank.
Holding onto the memory of his freedom.
Of the open water.
He killed.
It surprised no one.

Article after article.
Half the zoo is medicated.
None of these problems
in the wild.

Stared at.
Yelled at.
A flash from a camera.
A tap on the glass.
Always trapped.

No connection to the environment.
The one the ancestors
evolved in,
multiplied in,
thrived in.
Now walls, glass, fake rocks.
That is the universe.
Confined and helpless in a system 
they can’t understand,
and never asked for.
Who wouldn’t go crazy?

Medicated by those who want to help
yet refuse to see the real problem.
No creature was meant for this.
All the self harm,
violent outbursts,
obsessive behaviour.
It’s all they can do.
All they know.
No surprises there.

I take my pills.
Look in the mirror,
And laugh.

The Window Squirrel

The house I rent right now is kinda falling apart. I can't step on my back deck without boards coming loose, whenever it rains I get a bucketload of water leaking into my pantry and I have some major cracks in the foundation which cause water to flow freely into the basement. Among all these issues there is one which I never minded so much, the existence of the window squirrel.

I've always had an affinity for squirrels. They're relatively harmless creatures especially when compared with other urban pests like raccoons and mice. They have soft bushy tails and really are just a joy to watch. Put me in a room with a squirrel and I'll be entertained to the point of starvation. 

Because of my love of these fine furry creatures I've neglected to mention the squirrels nest that has existed in my bedroom window since I've moved in. The window itself is one of those two part windows except the top part is missing. My bushy tailed friend decided to take up residence in the space between windows and while it has been upsetting to my dog I've rather enjoyed the company. 

You may be blurry but I loved you all the same.

You may be blurry but I loved you all the same.

The squirrel in question is fairly identifiable. She/He(sorry I have trouble gendering squirrels correctly so I'll just randomly switch gender pronouns because I'm so evolved) is a black squirrel with multiple bare patches on her back. I watch him occasionally running through the backyard or around my street being all squirrel like and awesome. Each time I see her I wonder whether or not she knows that on most nights I'm sleeping a few feet away from him or that I know all her secrets.

I've known for months that I should probably just put in a work order to my landlord and get the window fixed thereby eliminating the nest in my window but I can never bring myself to it. I just feel guilty taking away someone's home for no good reason other than eliminating the occasional scratching that comes with having a small rodent living in your window.

Yesterday the universe decided to take that decision away from me. As I was walking the dog I found my patchy little friend dead in the street. I keep wondering what could have killed him and also if she felt that her life had meaning. Did he know what kind of effect she had on my life or was her mind too filled up with whatever squirrels think about to care some dumb lumbering giant who just happens to sleep right by her?

I guess none of it really matters anyway. All I know is that I'm going to miss the scratching and rustling of leaves that I've become so used to in my boring day to day life. RIP little buddy, even if I'm the only one who ever cared. 

Hey Siri, Quit Fucking With My Breakfast

This morning I made two eggs which isn't that weird since I make two eggs every morning because I only eat two meals a day and I need some protein to go with my coffee and amphetamines so my stomach doesn't implode. I went with soft boiled which again isn't that strange since I have eggs that way at least twice a week and soft boiled eggs when done right give you the satisfaction of slurping up a warm liquid yolk in one go. So far this story is as mundane as people have come to expect from me, not to say it gets much better but I am going to give you more than just my standard breakfast routine.

So we've established that these eggs are going to be soft boiled. For the uninitiated soft boiled eggs need to be timed correctly due to the volatile nature of chicken periods. Overcooking will lead to disappointment and undercooking will lead to me trying to remove globs of runny egg white from my beard and I have enough problems removing opaque loads of protein from my body as it is.

I've seen in old movies and tv shows people use this little plastic fucker known as an "egg timer" which supposedly will assist you in making the perfect egg as described above. Granted the timer probably has other uses but since the name itself refers to eggs specifically I'll assume that's what it does best. Having never actually seen one IRL and this not being 1956 I just use the timer on my iPhone. Since actually opening up the timer app takes a certain amount of thumb coordination which I'm usually not up for I tend to just instruct Siri to set the timer for me.

Our conversation is short and to the point:

Me - "set timer 3 minutes"

Siri(in a male voice since I don't like the idea of having a female being that subservient to me because I'm like a total feminist but it's no big deal because I'm just so honourable and whatever) - "ok, 3 minutes and counting"

This is really all I want out of a machine that helps me cook eggs. I give the instruction, it executes that instruction and we both go on with our day until I hear a friendly honking sound signalling that the timer is done and therefore so are my eggs. For months this machine and I have been successfully communicating in this fashion and my eggs have been treated well as a result.

Except for the exchange we had this morning:

Me - "set timer 3 minutes"

Siri - "ok, 3 minutes and counting. Don't overcook that egg!"

Some of you who frankly I'm surprised have read this far may see this as just a cute little thing that this machine does. Hell there are tons of cutesy things that Siri says when you ask a question or swear uncontrollably at it. However this one thing completely threw me off and made me want to completely disable all my technology for the following reasons:

1. It makes an assumption that the timer was for eggs in the first place. Given that it was the morning and it's probably become a pattern for me.

2. I now carry a device on me at all times that knows all my behaviour.

3. Not only does the device know my behaviour but that behaviour is being stored on a remote server somewhere for some purpose I couldn't even begin to wrap my head around.

4. I don't like having a machine telling me what to do under any circumstances. I have enough issues with actual people telling me what to do and for something that I pay hundreds of dollars a year to use to make those kind of assumptions about me is just too much to bear.

5. My dependence upon machines has reached sci-fi dystopian levels at this point and the next step is probably a one world government launching a crusade against all independent thought.

Still it's easier than buying an egg timer.

Cathartic Self-Indulgence

Warning: the following post is an example of me at my most narcissistic and banal. It’s content should not be seen as a reflection of the quality of this site as a whole. In fact I don’t expect anyone to read it so you should probably stop here and go on to something more productive like watching people change tires on youtube. I will tolerate no complaints regarding this post since as previously stated I recognise the bullshit and have learned to live with it. Thanks for reading this far and thanks again for not listening to me.

I stare at this site almost every day thinking about how empty and useless it is. It would be one thing if I were able to crank out an interesting post once a month or so but I don’t even come close to that kind of output. Then I look at some other blogs and see multiple posts a day of just random crap that I feel I could surely keep up with but to what end? I’m left with a feeling of paralysis when faced with a blank slate and can never figure out what the best use of my efforts is.

So I’m just going to post half-thoughts and derivative jokes that have been swimming around in my head these last couple of months. I would say “Enjoy” but we know that’s not happening.

The Snake Pit

I was watching that nature show narrated by the old guy from Jurassic Park and they showed a bunch of Garter snakes in mating season. Basically all the snakes start slithering around all snake-like in one giant pile right after the first light of spring. The purpose of the pile is to warm up each other but it’s also how they choose and then fuck their mate.

This got me thinking about how in the movies there’s always some pit of snakes that the hero has to avoid lest he be poisoned or strangled or whatever else snakes do to kill guys in funny hats. The pit of snakes looks exactly like the snake orgy I discussed previously which leads me to a really scary point that none of these movies ever made: not only is our dashing Aryan hero perilously close to being poisoned and eaten by snakes but he’s also close to being neck deep in a bunch of hedonistic sex-crazed reptiles who have no bones about throat fucking him while he’s being consumed.


I have nothing against them but I’ve never bought one or used one in any recipe. I don’t even mind the taste it’s just that they never enter my consciousness. In general I take a very hard stance or most foods but with radishes I’m indifferent.


Always felt bad about the teenagers who had really bad acne. I still get zits all the time but I’ve never had a full, beard-like breakout. I attribute my great skin to genetics and never washing my face. I still wash my face so rarely that whenever I do splash some water on it the whole thing feels completely foreign to me. A good layer of dirt protects you against almost anything, why fuck with nature?


Don’t care enough to write anymore. Your mother never liked you.



Lemons are the GOD of all fruit. The sourness is so in your face that it’s become a cliche. Generations have basked in the shitflood of flavour this one awesome fruit produces.

I love you.

I love you.

Check out the local drinks section of any convenience store or fine gas station, 80% of the delicious drinks contain some kind of lemon just to add the in your face attitude that lemons are so great at. “Oh, here’s some boring-ass iced tea. it would be great if someone were to punch it’s pregnant stomach full of radical! Oh wait is that a lemon?” (Everyone’s head explodes).

Ever been to a place where they don’t have fresh lemons? Did you instantly regret leaving a place full of lemons for one that was lemon deficient? Lemons are a key ingredient to any party; I would much rather have someone bring a bag of ice and a few lemons to my house than anything else including themselves.

For years I turned away from the glory that is lemons. I found myself satisfied with weak substitutions like lemon juice and lime cordial. Needless to say none of it exploded in my mouth in quite the same way.

Fact: If someone doesn’t have a fresh lemon in their fridge then you probably want nothing to do with them and they most likely torture puppies every other Saturday.

My love affair with the lemon started along with most of my other problems: in childhood. Whenever my grandmother would make her chicken soup we would always squeeze some fresh lemon juice in there just because we could. Of course after squeezing the life out of them you’d still be left with the pulp. Since I was a hungry little fucker with nothing but time on my hands I’d start scooping the pulp out of the lemons one wedge at a time taking the pith along with it. My allowance at the time was about 30 cents a week so this was the closest I got to regularly destroying sour candy until I was a teenager and was able to finance my own candy collection.

Fact: You can make a battery out of a lemon. Name one other fruit that can power a whole city and I’ll suck on a lemon because I was going to do that anyway. Jerk.

After being satisfied for many years eating just the pulp I eventually graduated to just straight up eating lemons when there wasn’t any decent fruit around the house(we always had green apples around but that’s because green apples are fucking nasty and nobody would really want to eat one anyway). Eventually the price of lemons rose and my family was left bankrupt due to my heroic addiction. At the tender age of 24 I had to quit lemons cold turkey since moderation is for the weak.

Thus began the darkest period of my life. My teeth started falling out and blood spots were appearing all over my clothes. No matter how much meth I snorted the symptoms steadily became worse. One day while scouring the internet for pirate porn I came across a description of scurvy. Instead of being a pussy about it and taking supplements I raced across the street and bought a giant bag of pesticde-laden genetically modified lemons.

Pictured: understatement

Pictured: understatement


Taking that first bite erased all the years of torture. I’d found a lost lover and it squirted it’s life giving juice directly into my eye. The burning sensation made my feel alive again for the first time in years, I’m eternally grateful to the brave souls who go deep into the jungles of the amazon to catch this delicious vegetable! Your fallen comrades did not die in vain.

Limes are OK too.

Apology to the Pizza Guy I Didn't Tip Last Night

Contrary to how most people describe me I like to think of myself as a nice person. I’m good with children and smile at homeless people before spitting on them. I’ve worked enough shit jobs in my life(three) to know that working in the service industry generally sucks sweaty tiger balls and the only thing keeping most workers from waving their dicks at every customer is the custom in North America known as “tipping”. For all the Australians and Germans out there this is where a customer provides some money to the server in addition to the money being spent for the service. This practice dates back to ancient times where it was customary to pay your employees a sub-standard wage for work which you would never do yourself.

I ALWAYS tip. Note the emphasis on always, I’m using italics and CAPS just to show how motherfuckin’ serious I am about tipping. Tipping is a reflection of the person doing the tipping and not on the service. Tipping low for bad service just justifies the server’s belief that you’re a fucking cheapskate. If you can’t afford to tip then you can’t afford the service. Just shut up and do it because trying to rationalize your political stance regarding tipping only makes you look poor.

Now that I’ve preambled enough to scare off all but four of my readers I’ll get to the real story here. Last night I was feeling rather hungry and had the apartment to myself. Since I’ve been eating rather well lately I decided to just say fuck it and order myself a pizza. This is not something I do very often since I’m hella paranoid about what I eat and usually only eat what I make myself(fear of being poisoned, etc). To make it even more special I decided to order from my favourite pizza place that I never get to order from because my wife hates them.

So I place my order and patiently wait. They didn’t give me a total so I made a rough estimate and included what should have been at least a 15% tip and set the cash aside. After about 40 minutes or so I get the call from the lobby and buzz the delivery guy up. I immediately lock my dog up in her crate(because she will fuck up anyone who dares to knock at her door), grab the cash I set aside and get ready to open the door while trying to make it seem like I’m not salivating like a date-rapist at the thought of the food that is about to enter my belly. Dog barks, delivery guy knocks, hands me pizza and announces the total.

My whole body stiffens. Seconds seem like hours as I look over the bill and realise that I forgot to include the tax! I feel the clock ticking as I realize that I don’t have the proper change to give this guy a decent tip. Awkwardly I fumble around in my pocket and fished out some of the larger coins. When it was all over I replayed the incident in my head and realised that I gave this poor guy a tip of less than two dollars!

The guy obviously seemed pissed at me when I paid him. During the whole painful exchange I recall myself apologizing over and over. Worried about what this poor schmuck must think of me! It wasn’t until the pizza guy was long gone that I realised I could have just asked the guy for change and he would have gotten at least 20% from me. The fact that the bill was larger than I thought had simply paralysed me beyond all reason. My instincts had failed.

After all that it was hard for me to even enjoy the food as I felt the pain of the driver as bitter bile coming up from the lowest reaches of my digestive system. I wronged this man and will forever be known as some cheapskate who doesn’t know how to do math.

Now I’m faced with three options and all of them suck:

  • Order something from them tonight and pay the driver double the tip money just to make things right. 
  • Wait it out and hope that by the next time I order they’ll have forgotten what a deadbeat I am.
  • Never order from these guys again unless I move somewhere else.

The first option could work but I really don’t have the inclination for pizza nor the desire to burn all those extra calories that would result. My big fear with the second option is that they keep some kind of list at every pizza place so they know which pizzas to fuck with before delivering them because that’s something I would do. I don’t think I could ever eat their pizza again without fearing that it has touched some type of ass before arriving on my doorstep.

So it looks like I’m stuck eating inferior pizza until I move. I’ve made my bed and now I have to lie in it. Never again will I hesitate in asking delivery guys for change. This all could have been avoided had I just asked for my fucking total before hanging up the phone.

I really would like to just apologise again to the delivery guy for all I put him through. I have learned from my mistakes and I’m sure one day we’ll meet again and I’ll have the correct change for you.

May all of your future customers be better than I.



President's Choice Club Soda Is A Misnomer

I haven’t been around much online lately. Mostly because in light of all the recent world events(Japan falling into the sea, that uprising in that country with the oil, another Canadian election) I felt that my usual complaints about trivial shit would be in poor taste. Of course that all changed for me a bit over a week ago and I can no longer stay silent. I’m sure that if you make it to the end of this collection of words you’ll agree that a great injustice has been done to me and you will join me on the battefields to fight with me in solidarity.

It all started for me on Monday. Much like any other Monday I got out of bed and sat down at my desk prepared for another soul crushing day of work. Needless to say my work requires some type of refreshment and a shitload of medication to keep me sane. For reasons that I will not get into here my usual morning beverage as of late has recently changed from diet pepsi(which is far superior to diet coke but try telling that to that whore of a waitress who refused to acknowledge the difference. I refused to acknowledge her right to exist peacefully because of her attitude which is why they don’t let me into Swiss Chalet anymore) to club soda with some lemon. I tend to be very particular about the type of pop* I drink. For any flavoured stuff I like to stick with name brands because the store brand stuff normally tastes like rotten ass. However I fail to see the point in buying name brand club soda since I refuse to pay double for what is essentially water, carbon dioxide and sodium.

Which brings to me the latest tragedy to be unleashed on our society.  I grabbed the glass that had been collecting dust on my desk all weekend and rinsed it out half-assedly. I reached into the fridge and grabbed the first of two bottles of PC Club Soda that I bought over the weekend. They were both placed strategically close to the rear of the fridge so that they were as cold as possible. Now normally it’s really hard for me to open a bottle of soda without having a bunch of it spill on the floor because of my heroic hands gripping too tightly on the bottle. I twisted the cap, saw that I was squeezing the bottle and expected a tsunami of salty bubbles to come rushing forth.

All I heard was “psst”. Silence.

Maybe I’m weaker than I thought? Maybe I finally figured out how to open something without leaving a trail of devastation in my wake? I shrugged at the lacklustre reaction of the bottle and started pouring.

No fucking bubbles.

Like not even a couple of Perrier sized motherfuckers. Just flat water leaving the spout, making a pathetic glug sound and impotently filling up my lemon encrusted soda glass.

I tried to make the best of it. Even if it wasn’t fizzy it was still really cold and could possibly be refreshing if I had a hangover or something like that(not like that happens often enough). I dropped in my lemon and chalked the whole thing up to random chance. Perhaps the bottle was damaged in transport or something. These things happen and since it only cost me $1.29 for two litres it wasn’t much of a loss. And hey I still have that other bottle!

Now I wouldn’t refer to myself as a good example of mental stability but I do have certain rules that I need to follow or else everyone will die or something like that. One of these rules which has been burned into every fibre of my ass-hair is that you don’t waste anything. Wasting food or anything else for that matter is really the worst thing you can do. So even though I didn’t enjoy it for a second and the bottle cost next to nothing I could not allow myself to just pour it down the sink. After all there are like 60 people in Africa who could live on that bottle of water and sodium for a month. Over the next couple of days I finished the whole bottle off with the help of a few lemons and looked forward to opening that second bottle that was behind it the whole time.


How can you sleep at night?

How can you sleep at night?

Fuck me over once, shame on you. Fuck me over for $2.58 and you’ve just made an enemy for life. At this point I feel secure in saying that I will never again waste my money on a bottle of flat water and sodium and if pressed would thoroughly enjoy raping the eye sockets of everyone responsible for allowing this product to get into my fridge and completely ruin my week.

Little tip to grocery stores out there; if you sell me a bottle of club soda it follows that there should be soda in the fucking bottle. The only reason I drink club soda is because I hate drinking water and would rather have refreshing bubbles popping in my mouth(shut up). Water already comes from my tap for free and I don’t touch the shit. Why would a company do this? Do they think I’ll ever forget about this experience?

The whole debacle has deterred me from ever buying a PC product again. How can I be sure that their chicken stock isn’t just water salt and food colouring? If you can’t get club soda right then how can you be trusted with anything else? Is this just some kind of sick game you like to play so you have something to talk about on the golf course? I bet you guys are just laughing your asses of at the poor shmuck who paid $2.58 for 4L of water.

You people sicken me.

*For you Americans out there what I refer to as “pop” you would know as “soda”. Around here we call it pop because it’s too cold to bother with more than one syllable.  lolcanada.

An Open Letter To The Lady Who Didn't Smile At Me When I Held The Door Open For Her

You may remember me from last night. I was the guy walking the little black dog making my way into the building at about the same time you were. From our respective paces and my fine grasp of differential calculus I could tell that our arrival at the door would be almost simultaneous. Being the evolved human being that I am I made a snap judgment to quicken my pace slightly allowing myself to get to the door first. I opened the front door and gracefully stepped aside allowing you to enter first. As a sign of mutual respect I nodded my head and looked you in the eye.

My gesture was met with tight lips and soulless eyes.

Your reaction confused me to say the least as I’m convinced that there are certain social conventions for situations like this. For example waving when a car lets you cut in front or giving a reach around while fucking someone in the ass. It’s simply a matter of courtesy. A nod of the head or a half-smile is all that’s really expected of you and I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

Instead I receive a gaze that I haven’t encountered since that one time I was caught masturbating in church. My penis shrank just as much last night as it did then. In fact that icy stare is now imprinted onto my brain and I doubt I’ll ever be able to maintain an erection again. What did I do to deserve such wrath?

I began thinking that perhaps you were incredibly tired from a long day of crushing tiny rodents beneath your 6” heeled boots. Maybe your energy was so limited that it would take all your strength to reach your lonely junior one bedroom apartment and to crack a smile would have surely led to you collapsing in front of your door while the rest of your neighbours stepped over you and used your hair to rub the snow from their boots.

Or maybe you didn’t want to smile because you hate animals. The sight of someone caring for another creature was so foreign to you that there was no way to react but with disgust. It may have brought back memories of the time you tricked your family dog into eating a pin and calmly watched as it struggled and tore up it’s digestive system. Remember how upset your whore mother was when she got home? You just didn’t see what all the fuss was about. What about that doctor she sent you to after that? Must have been hard to experience that again when you saw me and my dog kindly get out of your way.

I’m not the type of person to expect a thank you for something as simple as holding open a door and I don’t even brag about most of the nice things I go around doing. In fact most of the time I’m a pretty inconsiderate, self-absorbed cunt like you. But I at least try to act as if I weren’t such a shithead and after glancing into your dead eyes last night I’ve resolved to think about others much more than I did before.

So in a way your complete lack of social skills has accomplished something good. Of course I’m sure that none of this makes any difference to you being the dog-torturing, lifeforce-draining harlot that you are. Hope I never have to stare at your wretched countenance again.




Why I’m Never Touching Another Elevator Button

I am not a germaphobe.

Sure I’ve had problems in the past when it comes to being hyper-sensitive to how dirty the world is but I’m pretty much over it. Germs are a part of everyday life and doing anything short of wearing a full biohazard suit all the time is pointless and only adds to my frustration. I have grown as a person and my unwarranted fears have been driven into a dark corner in my mind never to be heard from again. Of course the universe likes to make my life miserable and once in a while I’m forced to dick-slap my personal demons.

As a child it was beaten hourly with a pork shoulder and during those disciplinary sessions was forced to repeat “always cover your mouth when you sneeze” until either my vocal chords gave out or the pork was tender. I dutifully followed this command since it was the only thing my parents told me that didn’t seem completely full of shit. Eventually I started working in fast food service where it became inconvenient to sneeze into my hands since they would become contaminated which would then poison the food which is supposedly a bad thing I guess. Being the master of deductive reasoning that I was I figured it would be better to sneeze or cough into my shoulder so neither my hands nor the air in front of me would be filled with millions of little germs having anal sex(I never really paid attention in biology). Now I’m normally not the type of person who lives his life based on helping others but in this case I feel like my consideration for other people would force everyone to do the same making the world a much better place for myself. Think of it as selfish altruism.

Now of course as a counterpoint to my enlightened intellect I’m prone to occasional moments of phenomenal stupidity. Being as bright as I am I often forget that most people are not all there and haven’t figured out germ theory yet. One would think that with all we know about viruses people would have the sense or courtesy to do as much as possible not to spread their own nastiness to other people. Thankfully last week the universe cockpunched me back into reality.

Now after all of that excessive preamble most of you have already figured out where I’m going with this however for those who are like the person I’m about to describe I’ll spell it all out. I was having an unusually relatively pleasant day at the office. I had just stepped onto any empty elevator and pressed the button for my floor. A few more primates in suits also entered and in turn selected the floor which was correct for them. With everybody on the elevator having fulfilled their responsibility the doors began to close. One or two stragglers came in at the last minute delaying our departure but I was in a decent mood and chose not to let that bother me. The doors closed and our journey was underway. One of the people who rushed into the elevator at the last second seemed to have a cold and was wiping their nose with an over-saturated tissue. I paid no mind as the ”lady” wasn’t touching anyone or coughing into the air.

As the first group of passengers debarked from the elevator the ditch pig lady realised that the button for her floor wasn’t pressed yet so she quickly reached her snot tissue over and pressed the button with her fingers between the tissue and button. Just to make this crystal fucking clear to everyone reading this I’ll say it again; she pressed the elevator button with the very tissue that was being used no more than two seconds earlier to sop up the excess snot from her dripping snout!

I couldn’t believe what I saw! I blacked out for a few seconds and when I came to the ditch pig had exited the elevator leaving only an invisible film of mucus on a helpless elevator button. I didn’t even get a chance to reprimand her or even shout out a few choice adjectives(cunt is an adjective right?). I walked from the elevator in disbelief back to my desk and covered my arms, face and neck with Purell; I knew I didn’t touch anything but even being witness to such acts makes me anxious and my skin needs cleansing before my mind can even think of recovery.

Once I felt safe within my own skin again I started wondering what would possess a person to think that spreading your fluids all around town is acceptable behaviour? Were you using the tissue to make sure that other people’s elevator mucus didn’t touch yours? Did you not have a free digit that wasn’t covered in snot to press the button with? Maybe the lady just panicked and didn’t think about what she was doing. In my mind none of these explanations can justify those actions.

So now because of one disgusting sub-human I can never feel at peace in an elevator again. I will only touch the button with a key or my foot, never on bare skin. If I do happen to touch anything I immediately go into the bathroom and scrub the poison from my hands. Because of one inconsiderate cow my quality of life has been destroyed. When the revolution comes she and her ilk will be the first against the wall.

This is what it’s like to be me.

I'm Cured

Apologies for the infrequent posts but it’s been a crazy couple of months for me. Luckily I’ve been cured of at least some of my insanity as you will soon discover.

I lost a part of myself again on Tuesday; something that my own body created to express my masculinity to all who dare gaze upon my face. It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you that my moustache is gone for the time being. I could go on for days expressing the great pain that I have inflicted upon myself and the rest of humanity but now is not the time for it as I’m still in mourning. Instead of my usual MO of trying to bring down everyone with me I’ll share with you all the single positive element to be born of this experience:

The day started as any other with me waking up promptly at 10am ready to take on the world and rape all of it’s precious metals. Scarfing down two soft-boiled eggs along with the usual anti-depressants I began going over the day in my head. There was really nothing pressing for me to do so I sat back in the dining room chair and stroked my victorious moustache in reflection. Seeing as my mind is usually only occupied my what my hands are touching at that time of the morning I decided to re-evaluate my facial hair situation.

The sentence was death. 

It was a young moustache, precision cut from my beard no more than two weeks ago. Although mighty and virile I figured the loss of it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Also I was sick of shaving and as summer turns to fall I felt it easier to just let everything grow.

With a heavy heart I stumbled gracefully into my bathroom and stared in the mirror for a good twenty minutes giving me time to say goodbye to my multi-coloured mouth accessory. With manly tears of regret I reached for the electric razor and commenced my ritualistic castration. I began by trimming down the handlebars on each side making my moustache into something more straight and pedophiliac(I don’t know if that’s a word but it seems like it should be). Seeing how something so panty-drenching could turn into a line of failure below my nose was more than I could bear. Shaver in hand and failure in my heart I trimmed it down to a single patch of hair right beneath my nose in the style of Robert Downey Jr in the movie about that old guy who was a communist. Although the moustache in it’s current state could never be worn outside it occurred to me that some of the internet people who I’ve never met would get a kick out of seeing a picture of me like that.

That’s where I stopped.

My image in the mirror began swirling and distorting. A large void opened up in front of me and I could see the whole of time and space in one instant. This in itself was not unexpected as the loss of my facial hair releases so much energy into the universe that a wormhole must be created every time I shave otherwise the whole planet would be in danger. 

From the void appeared an image of my future self. A figure with fire in his eyes and a moustache that would turn Lemmy into a crying mess. I had a 60oz bottle of Jack in my left hand and in my right was some kind of flamethrower/lazer/air compressor. From the top of a pile of charred corpses my future self growled to me in a deep weathered voice:

Stop what you’re doing right now! The next step you take is the most important one you have ever taken. Both of us know that looking like Hitler is pretty much the funniest thing you could ever do but think about the consequences first! Posting such a picture is simply giving ammunition to the pussyfaggotcommies who want nothing more than to bring you down. It’s easy for them to take it out of context and vilify you more than you deserve. Having such a thing last forever on the internet will destroy all that you have worked so hard for. For my sake and the sake of the entire earth please continue shaving.

I was taken aback! Never before have I thought of the consequences of my actions thinking it was only something that the Belgians did. I watched the void close before me and was back to staring at my own reflection. Taking my own words to heart I put down my camera phone, did about 20 minutes of Hitler pantomime and shaved the remainder of my upper lip.

When it was all over I walked out on the balcony to have a smoke and survey the land around me. Deep in thought I realised that even a few months ago I would have just posted a picture of myself as Hitler without a second thought. It was at that moment that I knew there was a scratch of sanity left in me. I cracked a slight smile and continued smoking knowing that all I surveyed would soon be mine because of my actions today.

Here’s a picture of two penguins wearing sweaters.


Drink Fight Fuck

Most things in pop culture I tend to find out about after everyone else is done. There’s this new movie starring Eric Robert’s less-talented younger sister called Eat Pray Love which is based on some book of the same name. Now I haven’t read the book or seen the movie and I have no intent to do so but I’ve heard enough about the general idea of it that I feel like I’m qualified to comment on it. As always I trust the opinion of Stephen Hawking who referred to the film as “shameless wish-fulfillment, a Harlequin novel crossed with a mystic travelogue, and it mercifully reverses the life chronology of many people, which is Love Pray Eat.”  Not sure what he meant by that but the dude knows his way around a black hole so I’ll just assume he’s right about this.

It turns out that in the movie Erin Brockovich ends up travelling around and doing stuff that other women would do if they had an advance on a book large enough to let them travel around the world to find themselves because they can’t seem to get their shit together. The climax is Pretty Woman hooking up with that guy from No Country For Old Men that used the air compressor to kill people(I really don’t understand why Hollywood hasn’t made an entire franchise about that guy but I guess no one else has the same vision that I have). I can only assume that the body count rises exponentially after this point in the film which would redeem it in the eyes of all the bored husbands and boyfriends forced to sit through two-plus hours of the bad kind of chick porn.

All of this money has inspired me to come up with my own enlightenment plan geared towards men. In the spirit of the original work I have titled it “Drink, Fight, Fuck” which I believe better serves my target audience. I would ask for a book deal but men don’t read books and I really don’t have the patience to write one anyway. A movie could be ready by next summer if Hollywood decides to get off their asses and stop blocking my calls.

I will now outline(AT NO COST TO YOU!!) my programs for better male enlightenment and feminine oppression. All of my programs will cost you less both in time and money than the alternative Italy, India, Bali excursion. Please take into account that all prices are based on half-assed estimates and probably don’t represent anything close to reality. 


DFF Gold Package ($500 - whatever)

This is for guys that can get at least a week off of work. It could be crammed into a long weekend but really a week is better since it’ll give you some recovery time. As with all the packages this one is pretty flexible but there a few core points that need to be hit for the mission to be deemed successful.

  • you must travel a minimum of 200 km from where you live
  • the place you go must be somewhere you’ve never been and you’re pretty sure you won’t run into anyone you know
  • take up residence in the cheapest hotel/motel you can find
  • stay away from tourists, drink only with the locals
  • drink, fight, fuck, repeat

Since I’m not good at explaining stuff clearly or whatever I’ll give an example of how I would go about one of these sojourns.  First step is to buy a one week round trip ticket to Budapest, 6 pairs of underwear, 8 pairs of socks, a pack of baby wipes, box of condoms and 17 mini-bottles of Baileys. Put all of the items into a sturdy plastic grocery bag and hop on the plane. Make sure to finish the Baileys as fast as possible as the stewardess will try to take them from you once she realises that you plan on drinking all of them. Get sick since you’re lactose intolerant and spend the rest of the flight in the bathroom with the baby wipes. The whole air travel sickness is to get your mind and body ready for the week ahead.

Upon arrival make sure to get into an argument with the customs agent regarding his/her english speaking skills and the sexual promiscuity of his/her mother and/or sisters. This will save you at least 1 nights hotel stay since they’ll most likely want to keep you around until they figure out what to do with you. Jerk off in the holding cell while you wait. You now have one DFF under your belt without even trying.

If they’re actually dumb enough to let you into the country you should then wander the streets in search a small bar where you’ll find no native english speakers or sanitation practices.  Order the cheapest drink you can get and find a small corner where you can scope out a good target for your next fight. When you have your mark try to get him involved in some light conversation. This is good opportunity to develop your social skills and learn about a different culture while also giving you a chance to identify the target’s weaknesses. As the night rolls on become more and more insistent with every drink that the man you’re drinking with is displaying homosexual tendencies by wearing those shoes. If you’re mouth isn’t full of blood by midnight you should probably just give up and shoot pictures of bridges for the rest of your trip because you’re obviously not meant for this kind of thing. If you have success then celebrate by finding the most cracked-out whore possible and haggle over the price of handjob. Be sure to refuse payment as this could potentially make you a target for her pimp thereby setting up the next fight for you.

Continue the week in the same manner trying variations of what was done previously. Try to become more efficient at starting fights and make sure to sample as much local booze as possible. On the flight back home try to convince the stewardess to at least rub your ass just so you can finish off with a bang. Also try to walk through customs coming home without stopping since after all you’re a citizen and don;t have to put up with stupid questions like  “do you have any fruit or vegetables?” or “what is that purple stuff oozing from that gash where your ear used to be?”.


DFF Silver Package($20 - $500)

Similar to the Gold Package except that you can just go out to a bar where you live. Try to find a place that you wouldn’t normally unless you like the idea of your friends and neighbours never speaking to you again. As for the fucking part you can just pussy out and come home to your wife or girlfriend if grabbing random sluts isn’t your thing. Prostitutes also work as with the Gold Package


DFF Bronze Super-Saver Package($20 and an internet connection)

  • down 40 oz of jack
  • troll message boards
  • jerk off and fall asleep


I expect to hear a lot of success stories in the future regarding this program. Feel free to pass it on to your friends so long as I’m credited if it works out. If it doesn’t work out then I don’t know who you are or where you got that information and really fuck you for asking.


The Great Ketchup War

Marriage is a wonderful institution. You always have someone around to scratch your back, you get to wear a super cool ring without feeling like a fag and the sex can last up to five minutes. It’s also great for turning two people into stubborn, childish idiots who cannot let even the smallest matter go without a fight. What follows is my description of one of my more recent confrontations which I shall refer to as “The Great Ketchup War”.

A little background on the situation and my state of mind. I’m very obsessive when it comes to cleaning up and discarding anything I can’t use. I have enough shit to sort through already and most of it just needs to go. In my opinion you shouldn’t own more than what you can fit into a small minivan in case the apocalypse comes and you need to get the fuck out of dodge fast. Conversely I also despise wasting anything since I was brought up in a household where to not finish your plate or throw something useful out was right up there with theft and genocide on the list of shit you should never do. This basically means that it takes a lot for me to just throw something in the garbage if it has any use. Usually I prefer to give stuff away or even better sell it so I can start saving up for a one way ticket to Belize if I ever get too frustrated with my life in general.

Now that the foreplay is finished I can begin the penetrative tale of the kaustic ketchup kontainer. I don’t care much for the condiment in general. If it’s already on a burger that I order or someone has it on some fries they’re sharing with me I’ll eat it but that’s just because I’m not a picky eater. You will never see me putting ketchup on anything myself. My wife is very similar to me in this except that she will only put ketchup on a burger. It of course follows that any ketchup in our fridge gets about as much use as that delicious box of baking soda that’s been slowly disintegrating since Biggie was shot by the CIA. As a result the ketchup bottle that started this whole skirmish belonged in a museum rather than being stuck in the back of our fridge.

It reminds me of Miami Vice

It reminds me of Miami Vice

As you can see the labelling on the bottle itself looks rather retro. If one were to try to date it would probably fit nicely in with the late 90’s era of product packing developments. The actual date of purchase on the bottle is unknown since careful inspection revealed no date information whatsoever. Not even an expiry date which as you’ll see was part of the problem. By the most conservative estimates the bottle is at least 7 years old since it comes from a time when my wife moved out of her mother’s house and took the ketchup bottle with her. How old the bottle was before that I cannot being to speculate.

Since most people don’t enjoy keeping old disgusting relics in their fridges unless they’re trying to hide something from the authorities I decided to clean out everything we didn’t use or that looked gross. Now I can clean like a fucking meth addict at 4am on a Tuesday; getting rid of everything in sight that I deem unworthy. This time however my wife yelled out a stern “No” when I was about to throw away the wretched bottle of red sadness. When I gave her all of the logical arguments for removing such a biohazard from our lives she was unmoved and would not change her mind.

These were all great arguments on my part by the way. Here’s a list of some of my better points:

1. Our average ketchup consumption is less that a tablespoon a month.

2. Ketchup is similar to a food.

3. Food doesn’t last forever which is why it needs to be refrigerated after opening.

4. Even in the fridge food will eventually go bad.

5. Food that does last forever is not really food and thus doesn’t belong in the fridge at all.

6. Ketchup sucks.

7. Glass is a much safer way to store food as it does not leech chemicals like plastic does.

8. The cost of a small replacement glass bottle of ketchup is about $2.

9. The cost of getting sick from bad ketchup is much greater than $2.

In the spirit of fairness here are some of her points:

1. It’s still good.

There are many confrontations in our marriage that I choose to let go of mostly because they aren’t worth the trouble. When it comes down to it you can’t be picky about everything and fighting over something as pants-shittingly retarded as the fate of a condiment really isn’t worth more than 5 seconds of my life. In this case I used my powers of awesome to concede and let the bottle stay in the fridge. Better to focus my energy on paying the rent and dealing with my crippling depression. So I guess you could say my wife won.

Of course that was just the first battle in a war that spanned years. Every few months I would start on another mad cleaning spree and again pick up the ketchup bottle and present it to the little lady. Every time this was brought up I received the same answer. I even started plotting a way to get rid of the bottle without her knowing. I could have simply thrown the whole thing out and the issue would be resolved except that knowing my luck the very next day she would want the ketchup for something and I would have to explain to her what happened to the bottle which at this point I was starting to resemble the Ark of the Covenant both in age and Nazi-killing power. I could have just bought a new bottle first but I never remember to buy it for the same reason I don’t buy adult diapers.

Some of you might be thinking that I’m some kind of stereotypical neutered male like you see in every fucking television commercial. Well you’re fucking stupid. I can handle my own as a man but as any great warrior knows you have to choose your battles.

After careful consideration I decided to conduct my plan of attack like the siege of Constantinople(history!). My plan of slowly cracking her outside walls with cannon and starving her until she had to give up seems like the best plan of attack. All that was required was a bit of patience and some light jabbing. After four years of pummeling the castle walls she herself would admit how disgusting this entire ordeal was and promptly end it by buying a new bottle and saying those magical words that really deserve to be said more often than they are.

“Tony, you were right.”

Turned out that a half filled bottle of ketchup of an indeterminate age doesn’t really taste too great. Of course she later explained to me that if I hadn’t made such a big deal about hating the ketchup bottle she would have thrown it out years ago. Spite is a very important part of marriage and if you’re not acting out of spite 70% of the time your marriage is surely doomed. Spite keeps us aware and ready to strike at the first sign of some invading military force trying to steal our carefully stockpiled warehouse full of ammunition and fleshlights. Evolution has given us spite and we should embrace it just as we embrace our natural fear of anything that’s different.

So what can we learn from the Great Ketchup War? For me it solidified my long held belief that when you know you’re right you should just shut up and wait for the world to evolve around you. Any intervention on your part will simply delay the process of enlightenment and make people think of you as a dickish know-it-all. People, much like the crotches of my pants, can be worn down over time when treated with just the right amount of friction.  

I could also say that my wife has learned that in most circumstances I’m usually right and disagreeing with me just for the fuck of it will only bring sadness and mild symptoms of food poisoning. I know better than that. In the end nothing was learned and we’ll both just continue on with the many other campaigns that are already well under way.

Neither of us would have it any other way.


According to some smart motherfuckers a spring is defined as:

a source of supply; especially : a source of water issuing from the ground

I prefer to think of a spring as a piece of some material wound in such a way that applying pressure to one end will contract it and create resistance in the object but that really isn't important. My point is that people don't appreciate springs enough and I think it's about time they got their due.



Did you know that without springs we wouldn't have foldable metal futons? That awesome Swiss watch that you're going to buy me? Worthless without a spring. Our entire society would be overrun with mice and rats if it weren't for the spring powered mouse decapitation device.

The real victor is mankind.

The real victor is mankind.

Now when I speak of springs most people will think of a Slinky and normally I would think the same thing but there are a few things on my mind regarding the Slinky that you should be aware of:

  1. A Slinky is like a spring that's been through a lot of trauma and is weak because of it. There's almost no tension on the thing and that alone should make it inferior.
  2. One used to be able to hurt people with a Slinky even though they were the theatre-loving cousin of the almighty spring. The ends were just a thin piece of wire that could break skin and lodge into the eyeballs of your enemies. This one activity accounted for 90% of child blindness in the 70's and 80's. Now they have these little caps on the ends to make sure that no small children will be maimed. This is why China is going to take us over one day.
  3. The name Slinky is weak and kinda creepy. If an old man came up to you in a park and said that he'd let you play with his Slinky I'm willing to bet that you'd be hearing rape whistles sounding from every treetop.
  4. It doesn't go up stairs, you have to actually pick it up and carry it up a bunch of stairs in order to have any fun with it(except for the fun activities outlined in point 2). Any "toy" that requires that much effort is not worth the .01 cents of metal it's cut from.

So I guess the point of all this is that you all should start giving springs some respect. I'm not asking for a donation or anything like that to save endangered springs(even though that would be a good start). I just think that you need to take a look at the world around you and appreciate the little things in life because my penis gets enough attention as it is.

Ok I'm done.

I was born on the SAME DAY as Rosario Dawson!!

My birthday is many things to many people. For some it is the time where they thank me for all of the joy and entertainment I've provided them in the past year. Others see it as a time of misery knowing that I've still gone on living another year without you fuckers getting to me and don't think that I don't know who you are because I do know and the only reason you're still alive right now is that I'm much to busy trimming my moustache to give a shit about you but you should still watch your fucking front because I'm too much of a man to attack someone from behind.

Also it was mother's day this year. I have another rant relating to that subject but we'll leave it for another time.

enough with the bullshit

enough with the bullshit

I had something really great to write here but looking at that picture has made me a bit distracted. It's not just her dead-fucking-sexiness that has me at a loss for words, it's also the whole idea of her.

I'll can explain.

Every year I look up people to see who has the same birthday as me along with other notable events that have happened that day. When I first started doing this I was pleased to find myself among the likes of Ghostface Killah, Mike Wallace, Billy Joel and Candice Bergen. Also on that day in 1950 L. Ron Hubbard published his masterpiece of erotic fiction "Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health".

All of these wonderful coincidences pale in comparison to the big revelation; that someone who I find totally fucking sexy was born on the exact same day as I was! This gets me thinking about how many ways this could be used to my advantage in building my future life with Rosario.

Reasons why Rosario Dawson should totally get with me

We were born on the same day 

Of course this has already been mentioned before but allow me to elaborate. If I were to allow Rosie into my life birthdays would be very convenient since I would never have to worry about forgetting hers. We could even have our first date on our birthday so it would be easy to know how long we were together when the paparazzi asks. Then when we decide to settle down and get married we could pick that day as well making the entire history of our passionate affair revolve around the greatest coincidence in the history of whatever.

Some would say that it sucks to share your birthday with anyone but those people are generally un-evolved and think only of themselves. A birthday celebration involving Ros' and me would be a spectacular annual event making the Oscars look like your last birthday party where only three people came and they were all from work. I guarantee these naysayers will be begging to get over the 16 metre electric fence that we set up around the private island where Ro' and I will be holding this extravaganza.

We both got our start in films made by perverts about kids having sex

Of course the only public screening of my film was at the trial and my only compensation was two snickers bars and the loss of my innocence.

She dated the guy who played Pacey on Dawson's Creek 

I've been told by some that I look like a bloated, more rugged version of Joshua Jackson. They probably broke up because she's more into the alpha male type which works more in my favour. Also I'm willing to bet that she got sick of the whole "Dawson's Creek star dating someone who's last name is Dawson!" thing.

We are both really hot North Americans of African descent

When you think about it we're all from Africa if you look back far enough. I learned this from "Boyz n the Hood". What the fuck happened to Cuba Gooding Jr?

Women love married men who write about all the celebrities who should hook up with them on blogs that nobody reads

I am so fucking in!

Feel free to call on me anytime R-Daws. Probably best to just send a text since I'm super busy thinking of ways to stalk Katy Perry.


The Facial Hair Chronicles

I originally wrote about this subject a few days ago but was retarded and forgot to save my work. Please trust me that the original was much funnier and was written so well that Margaret Atwood would have to blow me if she even read one sentence. Sorry to disappoint but you should be used to it by now.

Up until last week I hadn't shaved or cut my hair all year. I did this for two reasons, the first being that I'm an incredibly lazy slob who really doesn't like shaving and the second being that I wanted to see if I could look like "that guy from The Hangover". Since I can only look like a dirty hobo for so long and since I've been told no less than 60 times in the last few months that I looked like Zach Galifianakis I decided it was time for a change.

Now as my longtime readers(ha!) know I generally sport a moustache because it both shows off my awesome face while perfectly framing my mouth. Since I had a decent month or so of hair growth in my beard(I did trim the the beard a couple of times because much like myself my facial hair has a mind of it's own and would have choked me if it had the chance) I was picturing how impressive a moustache carved from such sturdy cloth would be. I spent weeks just looking at my face and trying to find the perfect angles. I went over my shaving plan in detail and every slight snip was mapped out. This was going to be epic, I'm sure some of you are shitting your pants in excitement now and I can't say I blame you.

So after months of looking like a man of the verge of a Micheal Douglasesque breakdown here was the crowning achievement of my experiments in shaving:

Apologies for the ruined panties.

Apologies for the ruined panties.

I know what you're thinking now. How do they allow that much man to be posted on the internet? What if a little boy is searching for information about bikes or tortoises or whatever and then comes accross that picture? Surely he will grow up feeling insignificant and feminine since there is no way in hell that he could possibly to be that awesome.  Why do you hate children?

There's no need to worry anymore. The glory that is depicted in the photo above is gone; a shadow of it's former greatness. As men have known since the beginning of time there is only one enemy capable of taming such power.


Now of course I'm not suggesting that dames aren't totally wet over the 'stache or the slick-as-fuck hair. In fact I got more attention than ever with it. But that didn't stop me from selling out and trimming it down a bit because what many fail to realize is that while broads go apeshit at my appearance it doesn't do me any good because I'm not interested in any of them. I already have a wonderful wife who satisfies all my needs which aren't related to alcohol.

She hates the moustache.

So I'm left with a choice. Keep an epic moustache to exhibit my glory to the world or continue getting laid on a regular basis. As much as I love the way I look I love orgasms much much more. Of course I expect a lot of comments about me being cunt-whipped but that's not what this is about. As a highly evolved organism I have the ability to empathize and not think only about myself for short periods of time. My wife is so into me that even a layer of hair separating her from me is traumatic. So it's really in my best interest to make her happy as it will inevitably make me happy which is more important than funding abortions in impoverished countries(politics yo!).

So yeah the moustache is still there but it has been tamed. Now I can get the the subject of my hair:

I cut it.

Since I spent close to 700 words talking about my moustache I'll say only this about hair: I hate going to work on the day after a haircut. Everyone feels the need to make a comment about it and very rarely is it something other than "you got a haircut" or "hey you cut your hair". It's conversation like this that gets me back to figuring out a way of blowing up the sun just to shut everybody up.

Until Today I Thought That Miniature Horses Only Existed in the Imaginations of Boring Little Girls

They are real and they are scary.

I was first made aware of these freaks of nature when someone on twitter linked to this story. A record breaking horse usually isn't a big deal to me but since previous to reading that article I thought the entire species was just some kind weird folklorish joke like unicorns or global warming; the story blew the fuck out of my mind and shook my soul down to my highly impacted colon.


So now that the horse is out of the barn. I have a few questions that I can't be bothered to google the answer  to.

Question 1: What the fuck?

I'm not really expecting a good answer to this one but I just had to get it out there.

Question 2: Seriously who's idea was this?

Perhaps repeated exposure to South Park has turned my brain into some kind of pop-culture quoting automaton but when I try to imagine the being responsible for this blasphemous creation I find myself thinking of a cross between Bill Nye and Kimmy Gibbler. The two names aren't really related to each other in any way but they were the first to come to mind and if you really think about it it could make sense.

Question 3: What purpose do these monsters serve?

Now I know that you're getting into strange territory when you're looking to justify the existence of anything but nevertheless I need to ask in this case. I can understand owning a dog for companionship and such and I can even accept that some people are into really small, yappy dogs that can fit easily into a designer purse; but I can't imagine these little equine nightmares being anything but a giant chore.

Sure horses have been around man for thousands of years and we've accomplished quite a lot together. For a long time they were one of our most reliable forms of land travel and history would have been much different if we went around riding on ostriches. Most of the horse's life was spent outdoors as they are known to produce jaw-dropping loads of shit every 4 minutes or so. Living in the city as I do I couldn't see anyone having the room to have a miniaturized version of this poop machine.

Also horses aren't as affectionate or cool with people as dogs are so the whole thing sounds a lot like trying to train a gerbil to give you anal pleasure.

Question 4: What the fuck?

I think I already covered this one.

Question 5: Where can I get some?

I was thinking of re-creating the battle of Stirling Ridge using ring-tailed lemurs for the English and sugar gliders for the Scots. Both of these mammals can fit on the back of one of these horses and I'm sure the battle would be epic. I even have a large cardboard cutout of Mel Gibson that could be used to remind everyone just what kind of low-life, hypocritical racist he is.

Question 6: Does this mean that miniature hippos are just around the corner?

The answer better be yes.

Three Things That People Should Protest But Don't

So I just saw a news story in the elevator at my office talking about increased security at the G8 summit in Halifax. There are probably much more important stories that I could cover but since I only get my news from elevators and by listening in on other people's conversations this is the best I can do right now.

Personally I've never been much of a protester. It's not that I'm not angry at the world or that I see no injustice in the way the lower classes are treated; it's just that I have three seasons of Veronica Mars to get through so I don't really have much time to hang around government buildings with a bunch of smelly "anarchists".  After some deep examination of my own mind and a lot of prescription drugs I've come up with a few things that given the chance I would totally go out and protest if it weren't for the Veronica Mars situation mentioned previously.

1. Parking spaces for people with children

Congratulations, it's a girl! Now you get to lord your ability to fuck without birth control above everyone else who hasn't sacrificed everything they had for a child who will most likely end up disappointing them in the end. But not just that you get to park closer to the store because businesses want your money more than money belonging to non-breeders who have much more disposable income.

I'm willing to bet most businesses hate this kind of pandering as much as I do and the only people in favour of it are new moms who feel that the entire community should recognise how special they and their children are. These spots teach our children that they are entitled to special treatment because of their age which is something that a fascist would do.

My plan here is to find one of these retailers and have a group of people outside who are unable to have children. Try to convince anyone trying to get into the store that the policy of reserved spaces for families violates the charter as it is basically discrimination against those who are unable to have children. One could argue that not being able to pro-create is a disability since it's as much a part of life as being able to breathe and walk without assistance.

I guarantee that this would work and it has the added bonus of putting parents in their place.

2. The cost of stamps

Anyone know how much it costs to send a letter? I don't and since I'm a pretty smart guy I doubt others do as well. The next time Canada Post tells of an increase everyone should line up at their nearest post office and ask for a one cent stamp. then go to the back of the line and wait to buy another one. The time this will take up would ruin any other business that the post office and make them think twice about charging an extra cent to send something across the country.

3. Poorly labeled mp3s

This is fucking 2010 and whenever I steal mp3s from Metallica whoever ripped them has failed to include any ID3 tags. For fuck's sake pretty much every program for ripping CDs out there will auto-populate the ID3 tags so how come I still get albums with names like "Track 1" and "Weather Girls - 1982 - IT'S RAINING MEN(1982 1ST JAPANESE PRESSING ripped by - eV1lRet4rd3648" with no information regarding the artist and album. It's refuckingdiculous that I have to go in and manual change every tag so my mp3 library doesn't look like it was sorted by an 8 year-old with cerebral palsy.

Since the 3rd circle of Hell is reserved for people who mislabel mp3s their punishment on earth needs to be more severe than the other two cases already discussed. In this case I propose finding out who these people are(it won't be hard really since anyone with half a brain knows how to label their shit) and just fucking murdering them. In my experienced legal opinion these people do not actually count as one of us due to their limited intelligence and lack of motor skills. Perhaps some torture before the actual killing could take place but really it's up to you guys to do what feels right.

After about 5 or 6 people die because of this I guarantee you will never find a badly labeled track on any filesharing site again.

You're welcome.


I Just Want to Drive

I failed my driving test yesterday. The following entry is just me outlining how I got into this whole thing. It will most likely be unfunny, pointless and rather boring for anyone who isn't me so if you're looking for some entertainment I suggest you go elsewhere. Just think of this as my own form of therapy. Now that you all understand my intentions I will continue for my own benefit.

As someone who was born and raised in Toronto I never felt much of a need to have a driver's license. When I was a teenager I could get anywhere I needed to go quickly using either public transportation or paying for a cab. I also didn't have much money at the time and what little I did have was spent on brown liquor and strippers and there was no way I was going to trust myself to drive after a night of partying.

I figured I had lots of time to do this whole driving thing and since there weren't many times where I NEEDED to drive to whole issue fell to the back of my mind(as most things that don't have anything to do with sex, money or drugs tend to do). I got my G1(or learners permit for those unfamiliar with Ontario's crazy laws) when I was 17 and now that I was approaching my 30s I thought it time to got my act together and learned to do what most 16 year-olds who can't grow a moustache could already do.

With the encouragement of my dear wife who was in a similar situation we signed up for driving school. Naturally I resisted making appointments for lessons so it took me much longer to finish the course than her. I should note that this was the second time I had paid for lessons since I tried the whole thing out a year or two earlier but never went to more than two classes(anyone see a pattern here?).  She completed the course, took her road test and passed on the first try.

Since I tend to avoid "doing stuff" as much as possible it was impossible for me to follow so simple a path. I had finished my lessons and tried to book a test online. I thought I had everything ready to go when I realized that a computer error had made it so there never was an appointment for me. Shortly afterwards my G1 expired again(as it does every 5 years) and I stopped caring. It took at least another year for me to go down to the government office and get another one. My reasoning for waiting so long was that the government sucks and I didn't feel like spending 4 hours lining up with a bunch of kids and foreigners so some failure could take my picture and write some stuff in a computer. I'm really great at rationalizing anything that allows me to be more lazy.

This all happened last year and I was firmly determined to get everything right this time. I booked a road test for the beginning of September and was planning to go out and get some practice before that. Then the driving examiners decided to go on strike for FOUR FUCKING MONTHS! I kept making appointments during that entire time just in case the strike would be over soon. Not only was I making appointments but I was also booking those days off of work so every onth of the strike sucked up more of my vacation time. Finally when the strike ended in January I was ready to go and nothing was going to get in my way.

So I failed the first test.

The tester had to grab the wheel since I wasn't paying attention at a red light. Instant fail but the guy giving the test said that otherwise my driving was excellent and if it weren't for that one incident then he would have surely passed me. I re-booked as soon as possible and got even more practice in. Now that I knew what my mistake was I could be better prepared for the next test.

Which I failed.

This time it was just nerves. I kept trying to not fuck up but all that did was make me fuck up more. The guy just said I made too many mistakes and seemed like I was drifting off(which I was). Once again I had to pay $40 and book another test. This time I only had to wait ten days for another appointment and since it was early in the morning I didn't have to take the day off work.

And yes in case you didn't already figure it out I failed for the third time.

I didn't give the right of way to someone and that equals failure. At this point it almost feels like the universe is telling me that I shouldn't be on the road. Though I haven't given up yet I doubt my sanity or my wallet can take much more than this. I have something booked at the end of this month and if I can't get it this time I'm thinking of just bringing some bribe money and see if I can pay off one of these guys. This has been way too much stress for something that should have been finished when I was 18.

Nothing to do really but sit back and laugh at dogs.



Problems I've Noticed With The World Since 3:30

  • It's almost impossible to get a decent soda that doesn't have sugar in it from any place that isn't either a large convenience store or a grocery store.
  • There aren't enough shorts.
  • People using action as a verb has become totally acceptable and annoying.
  • I need new shoes.
  • Kristen Bell has still not contacted me after I've mentioned her on this site about 12 times. This leads me to believe that she hates common people and wouldn't piss on me to stop a fire that I started just to get some attention.
  • Not enough people pay attention to what I say.
  • April Fool's day brings out the lamest shit you will ever see on the internet. None of you are funny especially myself.
  • More attention should be paid to the wind.