Friday, September 30, 2005

My Pledge

Like most of us, I am a work in progress. I try to identify areas in my life that need to be improved, but at the same time, I don't obsess about it. To help me remember, here are a few things that I want to work on:

1. Be happy. You wouldn't think I'd have to tell myself that - hell, that anyone would have to tell themselves that. I believe at my core I have a happy nature (as is evidenced when I get drunk), but I take things too seriously. I am too affected by the crap that life piles on my plate, and I get angry and upset too easily. So, I'm going to try to be happier, and learn to let things go.

2. Be nice. Yes, ok, I admit, I tend to be an asshole. Its not out of any desire to hurt or attack, it just seems to be my nature. For the most part, I don't mean to be, but my behaviour seems to give that impression.

3. Lose Weight. Ok, yes, once again, me and 58% of the world. I have done it in the past, I can do it again. I quit smoking, which was pretty hard. I can do this.

So, thats it for now. I'm sure there's a lot more about me than can use tweaking, but hey, that's enough to work on for now. What, you saying I should work on more? That pisses me off, it really does. Fuck you. No, fuck you! I'm going to go eat a pound of wings.

Thursday, September 29, 2005

Dirty Secrets

As I am sure we are all aware, there is a cover up going on. Its the government, its the media, its the education system, its your boss, its your parents ... they're all keeping secrets from you. Vital intelligence that would - if it were known to you - make your life easier. Well, if not easier, it would just make it make more sense.

As a service to you - and at extreme risk to my own health - I have collected certain heretofore unknown truths, and present them to you. I ask nothing in return.

The most dangerous animal known to man has now been identified as the panda bear. As a result, pandas (which have been photographed purchasing automatic weapons and laying land-mines outside of churches) have been removed from the Endangered Species list.

Midgets cannot digest spinach.

In France, it is illegal to urinate with your eyes open.

Coca-Cola, if mixed with bananas, causes swelling of the testicles.

The little known vitamin, riboflavin, is actually highly poisonous, and was responsible for the death of Janis Joplin.

There. It is my hope that you are slightly wiser, and therefore, slightly safer. The truth is out there.

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

Movie Review - Corpse Bride

For those of you worried about spoilers, I will not say anything to spoil anything that happens in the movie.

I have just come back from seeing Tim Burton's Corpse Bride. If I could go back in time, knowing what I know now, would I go see it again? The simple answer is no. Now, do not get me wrong, this was not a bad movie. It was a very, very enjoyable movie. If you like Burton works such as Edward Scissorhands or Nightmare Before Christmas, then you will love Corpse Bride.

All the classic elements are there - the creepy, Gothic, pale and extraordinarily skittish leading man. Who, by the way, is very likeable in his child-like simplicity. You have the beautiful romantic liason, and the creepy, disturbing, but somehow still pretty object of pathos.

The music was fantastic. Come to think of it, I'm off to download the soundtrack. Kazaa! Geshuendheit.

As an aside, I really loved the wedding music. I have to admit, my ideal wife would want that music to play at our wedding.

So, if the movie is so good, why wouldn't I recommend it? Its too darned short, that's why. One hour, 14 minutes. When you count in the opening and closing credits, its a little longer than a regular 1 hour TV show.

Now, I don't pay movie theatre prices for television-length entertainment. I felt cheated.

As I said, going in, I wasn't aware of how short the movie was. My fault, I know, the information is out there. I just never imagined - even for a moment - that Burton would rip off his fans like that.

As I was watching the movie, I could sense it was reaching its climax - the movie was ending just when I felt it should be getting good. There are entire side plots, the B and C story, that were completely dropped and ignored.

So overall, I guess Corpse Bride was good. Had Burton not cut about half an hour out of the movie, it could have been great.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005


So, recently, someone asked "What is the Hokey Pokey really all about?" I have researched this question extensively. I found this answer on a website about Satanism, taken from texts printed in 1844:
Expedient Spelle For Summation and Controle of Hydeous Demone:

First, taketh thee the right arm of a virgin childe, and placeth it within the Defiled Circle.
Then, removeth thee the right arm from the Defiled Circle.
Taketh thee the right arm of a virgin child and placeth it within the Defiled Circle.
Shaketh thee the arm. All about.
Sayeth "Ho' hahk eE poh-Qui", and turneth thyself about.
Yeah, verily, that is what it is all about.

Pretty scary shit, eh?

We're Nothing but Coals in the Hibachi of Humour

A wise man - I think it was me - once said "A pessimist is just a realist who's well read". Translation, the more you know about the world, and how it works, and what the world governments are up to .... well, the more you know, the more you despair.

I'm not even going to bother going into specifics. You are either (a) politically aware, or (b) blissfully ignorant. If you are the former, you either agree with me, or disagree. My actual opinion doesn't matter here. What matters is, the world is pretty severely fucked up, and I don't see it getting better any time soon.

I would love to be an optimist. I think optimists live longer, and generally have nicer days. There's a good chance that in their world, colours are more vibrant, flowers are more fragrant, and bees are more fun and bumbly than nasty and waspy. However, there comes a point where, after a certain level of exposure to the world, optimism has to give way to pessimism. It just shows that you're paying attention.

As a teen, I thrilled to the promises of the new politician. I believed him when he said "I am different. I will do these things, because these things are right!" And I rejoiced when he was finally elected.

And I was deflated when he failed to keep his promises. He did not do the things he said he would do. Sometimes, he did the exact opposite of the things he said he would do. His promises we're Trojan Horses ... designed only to get him inside my hopes. I was disturbed when he was accused of the same kinds of political nepotism and necrophila that he had accused of his predecessor. I felt defeated when he turned out to be every bit as bad as the last guy.

But then a new guy came along, and I believed again ... although not as strongly as before.

Repeat that process umpteen times over the next 25 years. After awhile, I stopped believing the new guy. His claims were met with bitter disapointment. I expected the worst. And got it. After awhile, I just stopped caring. I stopped paying attention. I didn't watch the news, I didn't vote, I didn't participate. I didn't care.

And you know what? My life was no better or worse off than when I used to volunteer and deliver pamphelts. No, wait, thats not really true. I was happier. I wasn't being lied to and bamboozled. I realized I was better off not knowing, not caring, not ranting and raving over the latest scandal.

Recently, I started following the news again. Can you guess why? I realized that, as an improvisor, I had to have a knowledge of current events, because thats what audiences liked to see. Now, when I watch the news, its with a critically humorous eye. What is ripe for parody? Who can be lampooned? I need to know whats going on simply as fuel for comedy.

Which, when I come to think of it, is all our society really is.

Monday, September 26, 2005

Random Memories - Rear Ending

Sometimes, I think its fun to record random memories of past events. I was talking with some co-workers today about various things, and the subject turned to car accidents. It made me think of an particularly annoying incident from my past.

I was driving along, and was approaching a green light, where I wished to turn right. I pulled up behind two other cars, and stopped, waiting for them to turn, or just drive straight ahead. But they didn't move - they both just sat there.

I stuck my head out the window for a better view, and I realized what the problem was. The car ahead of me had rear-ended the car in front of it. They were both stopped because of the accident. I then returned to my seat, and turned around to make sure that the traffic was clear for me to change lanes.

As I am looking behind me, my car rocks with a resounding thud. I turn back to face the front, and discover that the lady in front of me has actually backed into my car. That's right. After rear ending the poor sucker in front, she backed into my fucking car.

I was furious. F.U.R.I.O.U.S. About as angry as I can get. I got out of the car, prepared to scream and freak out, and have an overall cathartic shout fest. When I reached her car, I found she was sitting there, crying.


I can't yell at someone who is already fundamentally down. It just isn't in my nature. So rather than enjoying a nice screaming match, I ended up feeling bad for her. Which sucked, because my anger had nowhere to go. I returned to my car, and just drove away.

My Muse Only Likes Gang Bangs

So, just to update you, Money said no. There will be no glorious wedding. Money does not love me. *sigh*

I'm currently trying to work past a block I seem to have. You see, I love to write, and have some awesome (in my opinion) ideas. But whenever I start a project, it always seems to grind to a halt as I lose steam.

About 9 months ago, I pitched one of my story ideas to a friend of mine, a man named Craig. Now Craig is an accomplished writer, having written for the CBC, both radio and television. I have the utmost respect for his accomplishments, and have always been somewhat in awe of his capabilities. I hesitated to tell him my idea, because I wanted him to work with me, and I was afraid he'd say no. I had come close in the past to pitching other ideas to him, but always chickened out.

Anyway, Craig loved the concept, and was very interested in working with me. Turns out, he had actually wanted to work with me. Imagine my surprise. We've been working on the script idea ever since, and I absolutely love our brainstorming sessions. I have learned a great deal from him about writing, and am dying to learn more.

Since then, I have tried working on my own. I currently have 3 great script ideas that I have put to paper. But each time, I get stuck somewhere. For whatever reason, the ideas seem to dry up, and it starts to feel like I am forcing myself to work. Now, I know from past situations, once I feel like this I have to stop. If I keep pounding away, I get angry and resentful, and end up hating the project.

So I'm starting to wonder ... maybe I need brainstorming sessions? I know for a fact that the best comedy sketches I have ever written have been as a result of brainstorming with others. I guess its not a bad thing to require brainstorming, because it definitely improves the quality of my work. It would just be nice if I could create on my own, too.

My hope is that, with practice and application, my solo work will improve. We'll have to see. Until then, I thank God that I have the level of creativity I do, because it means more to me than pretty much anything else under the sun.

Sunday, September 25, 2005

Money is a Whore (or, Why I Hate Cars)

What's slipping, needs replacing, and costs $500-600.00?

My clutch.

Money is the root of all evil. Or so I've been told. If this is the case then I qualify for sainthood. Me and Money have never really gotten along that well. Oh sure, we talk from time to time, and she nods to me when we pass each other in the hall. But we don't really hang. Whenever Money and I get together, she always finds some excuse to piss off early.

I know its largely my fault. I'm not good at handling Money, and Money likes to be handled well (nudge, nudge, wink, wink). I do tend to blow Money, which you would think she would like, but apparently that just makes her lose respect for me. So I end up alone most of the time. Of course, I usually hanging out with that poor second choice to Money, the slut known as Loose Change.

So, back to my clutch. Or as I prefer to think of it, my fucking clutch. Remember before, I spoke about the hole in my muffler? Well, its been getting louder. Over the last few days, my car has seemed to be losing power. That is to say, whenever I accelerate (and I like to accelerate fast), the acceleration has been less than robust. It just keeps getting worse and worse.

Yesterday, on the drive to work, I had to floor it just to get up to speed on the highway. On the way home from work, I didn't even dare take the highway, and had to putz along on the side street. Like a dork. I called a buddy of mine who understands cars, and he told me it was probably my clutch.

There was already a list of things that needed to be repaired on my car. Number one was the muffler of course. I also need to renew my plates. My driver's side automatic window is broken, and is stuck halfway down. This isn't too bad in the summer (unless it rains), but the winter would be a real drag. And my defrost/heater thingy doesn't blow air anymore.

Now you see, the problem here is that I had just gotten together with Money. We were going to reconcile you see - we had plans. Ah, the things we were going to do together. But then, once Money found out about my car problems, she decided to bugger off once again.

I want to get back together with Money. So I decided to pop the question. I went out, and bought a little slip of paper. For some reason, Money likes paper. Now I just have to wait for her answer (a little formal ceremony known as a "Lotto 6/49 drawing"). If she says yes, she'll make me the happiest man on earth.

Saturday, September 24, 2005

Big time rant

Stupid people make me angry. Let me rephrase that: deliberately stupid people make me angry. There is a big difference. I have absolutely no problem with someone who honestly makes a mistake, or doesn't know a particular fact, or what have you. Its the people who deliberately cling to their idiocy who get me down.

Here's an example. A friend of mine was constantly mispronouncing a word. The word is "behemoth", which he pronounced "BEE-muth". Now, I know that there are words in my vocabulary that I probably mispronounce, because I only read them, and have never heard them used in conversation. If I were to mispronounce such a word, I would hope that if a friend of mine heard and realized my mistake, he would gently correct me.

When my friend mispronounced that word incorrectly after third time, I told him how to pronounce it properly. His response was, "Whatever, like it makes a difference". Well, yes, it does make a difference. One way is right, the other is wrong.

Or take the massive Millenium celebrations of 1999. As a society, we celebrated the new millenium a full year before the actual new millenium. For those of you who disagree, look at it like this: the first year of the first millenium was 1. That makes the first year of the second Millenium 1001. And the first year of the third millenium is ... that's right, 2001. Not 2000. (If you still disagree, see this great site for an explanation.)

It saddens me that our society is so dim-witted that we got the date of the new millenium wrong by a full year. And its not like no one knew - anyone with any sense made sure that our media and society knew the correct date. But the frustrating thing was - no one cared! Whenever someone was told that they were incorrect, their inevitable response was, "Who cares, like it matters!" Well, it does matter.

One way is right, the other is wrong.

What is it about our society and the people in it that makes them reject common sense? Why don't people own up to their mistakes? Do we blame the government? Do we blame our schools?

Do we blame God, or our genetics, or mother nature?

The sad fact is, that while individuals can be quite intelligent, as a society we are stupid. Our society does stupid things for stupid reasons. We put 95% of our wealth in the hands of 5% of our population. That's pretty fucking dumb. Think about that - if we somehow could wave a magic wand and redistribute our country's wealth evenly, everyone in Canada would make about half a million dollars a year. Everyone.

Sure, pure capitalists then start to scream about inflation, and other objections. I'm not saying that we have a system in place that would work. We're too stupid a society to figure out how to do that. Remember, of course, that pure capitalists are the ones that think its ok for little kids to work 14 hours a day for 35 cents an hour.

And no, I'm not talking about 18th century London, I'm talking about modern day Asia. Every time you buy a pair of Nike shoes, remember you are actively supporting slavery. That's another aspect of our idiotic society. I have actually confronted people with the knowledge that Nike - along with most other major shoe companies - utilize slave labour overseas to make their shoes.

Nike literally spent more in one year paying Jordan to advertise their shoes than the total amount of money paid to every single person who made the shoes. Think about that. Take every single Nike shoe-slave, combine their total yearly wages together, and it does not add up to what Jordan was paid for the year to advertise the shoes.

Our society is addicted to style over substance. We want to wear what our sports stars wear and eat where our movie stars eat. We devote insane amounts of television time and newspaper and magazine space to the stars. Who's dating whom, who wore an ugly dress at the Oscars, etc. We even give our celebreties time to tell us what they think of political issues, without ever once examining said celebrity to figure out if their opinion is based on any real knowledge of the issues.

We elect movie stars and fucking wrestlers to positions of power. A wrestler. God. Help. Us.
So, to sum up: People good. Society stupid. Smarten the fuck up. Here are some positive steps we can take to change:

1. Stop watching negative televsion. Shows that glorify nasty, evil, manipulative bastards. If you feed your brain on a diet of negativity and stupidity, well ... you do the math.
2. Read a book. Seriously. Reading stimulates your brain and exercises your imagination. It improves your vocabulary. Most books challenge us, which in turn causes us to grow and improve as people. Television panders to our lowest common demoninator.
3. If someone proves you wrong, suck it up. Don't keep arguing. Its just plain silly.

Friday, September 23, 2005

Poem - Calliope

Here's a poem I toyed with for awhile. It tells the tale of the Siren (from the Odyssey), but from her point of view.


The wind sighed and grew calm, to pay heed to the song
Of the maiden there by the shore.
It had toured the earth, and heard many a verse
But never so lovely before.
Although quite well traveled, it could not unravel
The mystery of each sigh and moan.
A thing only of sound, but strong imagery bound
Within those dulcet tones.

Like an angel of Byron, her name simply Siren
She pleased both the ear and eye.
And when at her leisure it gave her great pleasure
To sing her song to the sky.
With no competition, no dark inhibition
The beauty of song and eye
Did each intermingle both dual and single
That none could ever decry.

And anyone there could not possibly swear
Which of the two was more sweet,
For before such a blend had never been penned
And surely would never repeat.
And Siren did sing for the joy it would bring
To herself, and all who could hear.
Her heart pure and kind, but inside she pined
For a man who would hold her dear.

Often before, off her distant shore
She’d spot a ship sailing by
But they never landed, they just left her stranded
And quietly she’d sit and cry.
She prayed to the gods who dwelt up above
One day her love would arrive
Led here by her song, he’d stay and belong
Forever by her side.

After many a year, and many a tear
A ship sailed close to shore.
As they drew near, their eyes wide with fear
One man stood to the fore.
Through his rugged pallor his eyes shone with valour,
As he strode onto the sand
Siren looked to the skies and gave thanks with her cries,
For finally, here was her man.

He was handsome and fair, wind blew through blonde hair
As he marched towards the lass
But his eyes they were hard, and his glance was a shard
That pierced her like broken glass.
“My love,” she did sing, “The gods they did bring
You to me here by my side.”
But he made no answer, and swift like a dancer
Pulled his sword and he did chide.

“Foul enchantress, for your death I am anxious,
“Your song has brought much pain.
“Your silken breath has sung men to their death
“But this shall not happen again.”
His sword glittered bright as a sudden light
Flashed within her eyes
Her love, this young man, had come with a plan
In which the young maiden would die.

She sung to her love, to the gods up above,
She sung to her only friend.
She sung of her pain, her sorrow, her strain,
Trusting her song to defend.
But her love’s cruel eyes did her song defy
He ignored her final request.
With a howl most fierce, his sword it did pierce
Through lovely Siren’s breast.

“My darling, how cruel,” Siren dying love’s fool,
“My song does not touch your heart.
“I would grant you my soul, your virtues extol
“I gave you my love from the start.”
The light in her eyes grew dim, and then died,
And she sang her final note.
The hero relaxed, and from his ears he pulled wax
And turned back towards his boat.

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Crystal Gets Adopted

Ok, I loved Crystal, the Nasty, Hateful Young Kitten so much that I had to write a further a adventure for her. Here, she gets adopted by a young girl. If you haven't read the first poem, just click the link above to do so before reading this one. (edited 9/25/05)

Crystal Gets Adopted

Her brothers had sisters had mysteriously died,
And nobody suspected dark fratricide.
She was ecstatic, on Cloud Nine she was sittin',
Crystal the Nasty, Hateful Young Kitten.

Crystal was happy, that nasty young elf,
Because she finally had the place to herself.
Stretched out in the sun, on a bone she was nibbling,
Finally now she was rid of her siblings.

She could scratch at the post, she could have any toy
Whenever she wanted, no one to annoy
Her by wanting to play, or tug on her tail,
She could do what she wanted, each time without fail.

Late one afternoon, on a sill she was sunning,
When suddenly a human young one came running.
“Oh Momma, she’s pretty! Oh Momma, she’s mine!”
The human young one was heard then to whine.

“I’m sorry,” said Missus, the head of the house,
While the young one grabbed Crystal like she was a mouse.
“We have only one left, we used to have more!
The others are knocking on heaven’s door.”

“I want this one Momma!” the young one did nag,
And then she tossed Crystal in her school bag.
“It’s ok,” said Momma, “Thank you, Mrs. Heaper,
But Sally loves this one, so this cat’s a keeper!”

And off they did go, and jumped in their car,
Drove Crystal away, and man they went far!
To a place that was odd, and chuck filled with danger
And Crystal, alone, felt quite the stranger.

On the way to the house she escaped from the bag!
But the human girl grabbed her and proceeded to drag
Her up by the tail, up the stairs and inside!
Crystal was frightened! She ran off and cried.

“Oh Mom-cat I’m sorry that I was so mean!
This is the worst house that I’ve ever seen!
I’m sorry I killed off my brothers and sisters!
This human’s a bitch – Yes that’s right, I dissed her!

The human girl caught her, said “Your fur’s a mess!”
Then proceeded to groom her, stuffed her in a dress!
She sprayed her with perfume, then she lit some incense,
“I know!” she shouted, “I’ll call you Princess!”

Crystal’s eyes widened, her grin became feral,
She unsheathed her claws, her eyes then did narrow.
Her lips then did sneer, her whiskers did twitch.
That was all she could take from that human bitch.

She looked to her left, she looked to her right,
She glared at the girl, gave her quite a fright!
Satisfied now that they were alone
Crystal then casually cut the cord to the phone.

The girl now was frightened, the girl now was scared,
She backed away slowly, then ran for the stairs.
She probably thought she had then had made it,
But she stopped in her tracks, her hope then it faded.

Crystal was there at the top of the steps,
She was holding a stone, and her claws she did whet.
Suddenly then, to the young girl’s surprise,
Crystal moved off to let the girl by.

The young girl immediately felt great elation,
Which faded slowly to great agitation.
She walked past Crystal with some trepidation
She knew now that her kitty was an aberration.

She thought then she’d finally escape from this cat,
When Crystal jumped right up and grabbed on to her back.
The young girl then struggled, she grabbed at the air
Then tumbled and slid and fell down the stairs.

As the human girl fell, she wished she could turf her,
But Crystal was riding the girl like a surfer.
At the bottom was heard a loud crack on the head,
And the young girl lay still, finally dead.

Then Crystal curled up, and started to yawn,
Fell asleep on the back, the body still warm.
The human girl failed to heed that rule, unwritten:
Don’t fuck with Crystal, the Hateful Young Kitten.

Fun With Heartattacks

So I'm pretty dumb. Yuh huh. Ok, don't everyone yell out "No, not you Ash!" at the same time. How dumb am I? Well, first off, I forgot to renew my plate stickers. In July. To be fair, they never sent me a renewal notice. They only reason I even remembered was I was reading Rachel's blog and she mentioned renewing her stickers. On time, because she's smart like that. I will renew my plates, just as soon as payday comes.

Now, about a month ago I was having a bad car day. You know, one of those days where you are late for a meeting, and every damn twat with a vehicle is on the road, in front of you, driving slowly or stopping in no stopping zones for no evident reason? My patience was nearing its end when I realized something: I was driving to the wrong meeting place. Not only was I late, I forgot we changed the meeting site, and I drove to the wrong spot.

That was it for my patience. I pulled into a parking lot to turn around. I was driving from the lot for a strip mall into the lot next door, for a shoe store. I thought the two parking lots were connected. They were not. There was about an 8-inch drop from the lot I was in to the new one. Angry, frustrated, and at my wits end, I thought fuck it, and drove over anyway. And heard a really loud bang. And put a hole in my muffler. Yeah, I'm that kinda dumb.

So, its 2:00 am, and I'm driving home from Gary and Laura's place. I stop to get gas, then pull out onto the road .... directly in front of a cop car. Expired plate, and a car that idles louder than that really loud girl/guy you used to have sex with. You remember - the loud one. I look down on my passenger seat, and there rests an certain object. An object which, if seen by a police man, would be certain to arouse certain chronic suspicions.

I played it cool. I gradually reached over and tried to hide the object. While parked at a light, with the cop behind me. Then I realized he could probably see my arm moving around, and that might look suspicious. So I just hid it in my lap. Then I worried he might pull me over. So I dropped it on the floor. The light is still fucking red.

The light finally turns green, so I start to accelerate, at a speed calculated to be fast enough to avoid suspicion but so fast as to attract attention. Yeah. So, the cop is right behind me. All the way. We drive to the next lights - red. I stop. Cop behind me. Expired plates. Loud muffler. Illicit object. Which has now, as I accelerate again, moved under my gas pedal. Fuck me.

My car halts and hitches as I try to remove the foreign object. Cop still behind me. I decide to change lanes, hoping Mr. Policeman will, to put it politely, fuck the hell off. Red Light. We sit beside one another again, as I try to look nonchalant. I look up, down, adjust my mirror, and take great interest in reading the signs outside a pizza shop. I look everywhere, except directly at the cop.

Green light, and off we go. Thankfully, the cop pulls away, slowly, and drives off into the distance. I learned a valuable lesson tonight. Always - and I mean always! - hide any item that might make a cop arrest and strip search you.

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

Crystal, The Nasty, Hateful Young Kitten

“Come!” Said the Momma Cat, “Come one, come all!”
“Bed time is coming, hear Momma call!”
And the kittens all scampered right back to their mother
Where they tumbled and fell atop one another.

All the kittens were there, together and safe
But one sat alone with a glare on her face.
Chuck full of anger, with hate she was smitten,
Crystal the Nasty, Hateful Young Kitten.

“Come Crystal!” Cried Mother, “Come lie with me!”
But Crystal just snarled, “Oh Mom, let me be!”
“I don’t need you to help me to bed!”
And she stamped her foot, crushed a mouse dead.

While her siblings did frolic and play with each other,
Crystal grabbed a pillow, and tried hard to smother
Each little sister and each little brother
Only to be foiled each time by mother!

So she sat alone, and glared out the window,
Watched as the sunlight faded and dwindled,
And schemed and she plotted, conspired and planned
To kill off her siblings, and do it by hand.

Snowflake and Tiger fell down the stairs,
They each broke their necks, but did Crystal care?
Somebody poisoned Buttons and Mittens,
No one suspected an innocent Kitten.

Trouble and Stranger were run over alive,
The day after Crystal learned how to drive.
They found a note, so it was a fact,
That Cuddles and Boo died in a suicide pact.

And the last one was left, cute little Twister,
Who was inexplicably killed by a drifter.
And Crystal the Nasty, Hateful Young Kitten
Made yarn from their fur, and she took up knittin’.

Yes, admittedly, I did write this.

I'm in the Mood to Ramble

You've been warned. Today was a nice day. Monday is always hectic at work, thanks to the fact that most of my customers are rich. First, a side note. Where I work, we are encouraged to refer to our clients as "members", and discouraged from using words such as "customer". For some reason, the latter is seen as being somehow disparaging - as if they only way we would be talking to these people is if they were paying for us to. Which they are. But we don't want them to know that.

So we call them members. Which leads to such humorous situations as when someone accidentally hangs up on the customer, and loudly proclaims "I cut off my member".

So, my members are rich. Big time filthy stinking rich. Not psuedo-rich like those assholes from a certain car company I cannot mention or I could get sued. Seriously, I could get soooo sued if those assholes knew I talked about them. Anyway, these are people that own a certain kind of car that is seen to be the car of choice of semi-rich businessmen. About 30% of these guys were pure assholes, for honest and truly. Grade-A rectal meat.

No, the members I have now are real, honest to God rich. Old rich. And these people don't do shit on the weekends other than play golf, go sailing and pay off poor white girls to go somewhere far away to have the baby and keep quiet. Ok, so thats a bit mean. They don't all sail. Anyway, I digress. They don't do jack on the weekends. Which means weekends are nice and serene, very quiet.

The bastards make up for it on Mondays though. Every damn rich bastard calls in, and the phones ring constantly. Now I'm one of those people who tends to get engrossed into a task. I'm very goal orientated, so I like banging back the requests and finishing them off at a very fast rate. Now, each of these requests has a point value, ranging from 1 for easy shit to 5 for "fuck me that was a bitch". We're expected to do 23 points a day. I get annoyed if I pull off anything less than 30.

Now on Sunday I managed 52 points, which is pretty fucking good. Monday came, and the phone volume was huge. I still managed to hit 42 points for the day though, which was nice. But while I work on those requests, being goal-oriented and all, I get pissed off when I am interrupted. Every time the phone rings, its some member interrupting me. To make things worse, they are almost all uniformly very nice, which makes me feel guilty for being mad at them.

The upshot is, by the end of the day Monday, I'm probably in my worst mood of the week. This
really sucks ass, because Monday is my Friday - which is to say, because I am off on Tuesday and Wednesday, Monday is like my Friday night. I want to go out and have fun, but I'm in a fucked up annoyed mood.

So after work, we went and had our first Improv Class teaching under the Theatre Nefarious banner. It was a relatively small class - 4 students - but it gave us a chance to do some excellent work on characters. One of my co-workers, Tasha, came with me (we met at an improv class that I wanted to teach at work, but only 2 people came to), and she seems to have a real interested in improv. Now, when I agreed to teach that class at work, I was telling people that "As long as I get one good student interested in coming to classes, then the work was worthwhile". I love improv, and really feel good about introducing a new person to that world.

After class, Gary and I drove Tasha and and Tina home. Then Gary insisted on stopping so he could felate a stray dog. I stayed in the car. Later I went home.

Monday, September 19, 2005


I didn't write this. I don't know who did. But I love it.

In the beginning there was the computer. And God said

%>Let there be light!
#Enter user id.

#Enter password.

#Password incorrect. Try again.

#Password incorrect. Try again.

#And God logged on at 12:01:00 AM, Sunday, March 1.

%>Let there be light!
#Unrecognizable command. Try again.

%>Create light

%>Run heaven and earth
#And God created Day and Night. And God saw there were 0 errors.
#And God logged off at 12:02:00 AM, Sunday, March 1.

#And God logged on at 12:01:00 AM, Monday, March 2.

%>Let there be firmament in the midst of water and light
#Unrecognizable command. Try again.

%>Create firmament

%>Run firmament
#And God divided the waters. And God saw there were 0 errors.
#And God logged off at 12:02:00 AM, Monday, March 2.

#And God logged on at 12:01:00 AM, Tuesday, March 3.

%>Let the waters under heaven be gathered together unto one place and let the dry land appear and
#Too many characters in specification string. Try again.

%>Create dry_land

%>Run firmament
#And God divided the waters. And God saw there were 0 errors.
#And God logged off at 12:02:00 AM, Tuesday, March 3.

#And God logged on at 12:01:00 AM, Wednesday, March 4.

%>Create lights in the firmament to divide the day from the night
#Unspecified type. Try again.

%>Create sun_moon_stars

%>Run sun_moon_stars
#And God divided the waters. And God saw there were 0 errors.
#And God logged off at 12:02:00 AM, Wednesday, March 4.

#And God logged on at 12:01:00 AM, Thursday, March 5.

%>Create fish

%>Create fowl

%>Run fish, fowl
#And God created the great sea monsters and every living creature that creepeth wherewith the waters swarmed after its kind and every winged fowl after its kind. And God saw there were 0 errors.
#And God logged off at 12:02:00 AM, Thursday, March 5.

#And God logged on at 12:01:00 AM, Friday, March 6.

%>Create cattle

%>Create creepy_things

%>Now let us make man in our image
#Unspecified type. Try again.

%>Create man

%>Be fruitful and multiply and replenish the earth and subdue it and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the fowl of the air and over every living thing that creepeth upon the earth
#Too many command operands. Try again.

%>Run multiplication
#Execution terminated. 6 errors.

%>Insert breath

%>Run multiplication
#Execution terminated. 5 errors.

%>Move man to Garden of Eden
#File Garden of Eden does not exist.

%>Create Garden.edn

%>Move man to Garden.edn

%>Run multiplication
#Execution terminated. 4 errors.

%>Copy woman from man

%>Run multiplication
#Execution terminated. 2 errors.

%>Create desire

%>Run multiplication
#And God saw man and woman being fruitful and multiplying in Garden.edn

#Warning: No time limit on this run. 1 errors.

%>Create freewill

%>Run freewill
#And God saw man and woman being fruitful and multiplying in Garden.edn
#Warning: No time limit on this run. 1 errors.

%>Undo desire
#Desire cannot be undone once freewill is created.

%>Destroy freewill
#Freewill is an inaccessible file and cannot be destroyed.
#Enter replacement, cancel, or ask for help.


#Desire cannot be undone once freewill is created.
#Freewill is an inaccessible file and cannot be destroyed.
#Enter replacement, cancel, or ask for help.

%>Create tree_of_knowledge
#And God saw man and woman being fruitful and multiplying in Garden.edn
#Warning: No time limit on this run. 1 errors.

%>Create good, evil

%>Activate evil
#And God saw he had created shame.
#Warning system error in sector E95. Man and woman not in Garden.edn.
1 errors.

%>Scan Garden.edn for man, woman
#Search failed.

%>Delete shame
#Shame cannot be deleted once evil has been activated.

%>Destroy freewill
#Freewill is an inaccessible file and cannot be destroyed.
#Enter replacement, cancel, or ask for help.

#Unrecognizable command. Try again



%>Create new world
#You have exceeded your allocated file space. You must destroy old files before new ones can be created.

%>Destroy earth
#Destroy earth: Please confirm.

%>Destroy earth confirmed


#And God logged off at 11:59:59 PM, Friday, March 6.

Sunday, September 18, 2005

A New Blog-Home

Well, I moved my blog over from myblogsite dot com, because they sucked ass. Well, overall it was an ok service ... until they started messing with my posts. You see, they take words from your posts that could have advertising potential, and turn them into hyperlinks to advertised websites. So if you used the word "dating" for instance, it would turn that word into a hyperlink.

I don't mind ads, but I don't like them turning my posts into advertisements. So, a friend recommended, and here I am.

Dating Tips for Boys

Dating Tips for Boys
(The Successful Date)

Creation Date: August 15th, 1969

Target Audience: Young boys aged 10-17

So, you've just asked Suzy out on your very first date! Good for you! Sure, you could have asked out Mary-Ellen, but everyone knows she is "loose". Suzy is a good, kind, God fearing Christian. Ok, chances are, she won't be doing any of the fun things that Mary-Ellen is said to do, like kissing or oral sex, but she is on the debate team!

If I know you, and I think I do, you're probably as nervous as a naked man in a Turkish sauna. You're probably thinking Hey, this is silly! I needn't be this nervous! And, of course, you are wrong. Dead wrong. You should be nervous. Deathly afraid. Because if you mess this date up, chances are, you will die unhappy and alone.

Boy, that certainly is a lot of pressure for one simple trip to the Drive-In! And, of course, it's thinking like that that has made you the sad, pathetic loner everyone mocks during lunch hour in the school cafeteria. Get with it, boy! Dating is vitally important. Especially the first date.

Where you take your date tells her a great deal about you. For instance, taking her to a church social tells her that you are a decent, respectable boy, with good prospects. Taking her to a Drive-In sends an entirely different message. This tells her you are a degenerate, hormone-crazed psychopath, interested only in touching her nether regions. Is that really the message you want to send?

You may also be asking yourself What should I wear? While this is important, it is not quite important enough to be your second question. Again, it is an example of just what a miserable, pitiable twit you are. No, now you should be concerning yourself with the question of transportation. How will you get Suzy to and from the Social?

Remember the song "Bicycle Built For Two"? Sounds quite romantic, doesn't it? Another example of how sad a person you are. You're never going to get any of this right, are you? Well, I suppose we can but try.

This is a vitally important rule: You must absolutely have a car. If you do not, I suggest you borrow one. Failing this, I suggest you cancel your date, and join the chess club. Return this pamphlet to the school library, and sign out "Dealing With Loneliness - A Loser's Guide to Life".

If you are continuing to read this, then you probably have access to a car. Either that, or you are irretrievably stupid, or lacking certain key chromosomes. We'll assume that this is not the case.

Now, you know where you are taking Suzy (the Church Social), and you know how you are getting there (via a car). Now you probably think it is time to consider What should I wear? Will you never learn? No, now it is time to take a bath or shower. Chances are, being an average, dirty teenage male, you have done more sweating today than a football team in a sauna (if the concept of an entire football team in a sauna interests you, I suggest you return this pamphlet to your school library, and sign out "Billy and Steven - More than Just Friends"). Let's face it, son, you smell. A shower or bath is a very good way to rid yourself of unwanted odor, and stains in your nether regions.

So, now you have had your bath or shower (remember, the water is not enough on it's own - soap is vital!). After the shower, deodorant and cologne should be applied. If you don't have any of your own (you filthy, disgusting creature), then I suggest you borrow your father's. Under no circumstances should you borrow your Mother's. Unless, of course, you have exhibited an interest in the "Bobby and Steven" pamphlet. When using cologne, remember, moderation is key. You don't want to smell like a "Lounge Lizard".

When choosing a cologne, give thought to the way you want to smell. You want to smell nice, but manly and respectable. Roses smell nice, but you could hardly respect a man who smelled like a flower garden, now could you? I suggest a cologne that conjurs up manly images. Avoid any cologne which mentions flowers or fruit in it's name.

Now, you've showered, and used deodorant and cologne, you probably think you're ready for your date. Wrong, wrong again. I'm really beginning to despair for you here. My God, man, you're naked! What were you thinking? Showing up naked for a date might be the type of thing that Mary-Ellen would appreciate, but it would most certainly upset poor Suzy!

Yes, now is the time to wonder: What should I wear? Your choice of clothing is of vital importance, as it says a great deal about you. Remember, "the clothes make the man". Sure, dungarees (otherwise known as "jeans" or "hobo pants") and a white T-shirt might be comfortable, but they make you look like a hoodlum. Still, borrowing your Dad's suit is not yet an option, as you are still a sad, awkward and gangly teenager, and hardly a man. Dressing you in a man's suit would be ludicrous, wouldn't it? The answer is yes, it would indeed.

So, you ask, what can I do? Well, you should go to your mother, and ask her to purchase you a suit of your own. For God's sake, boy, put a towel on first! Do you want to show the world your shameful nether regions? Puberty has made them look quite odd, hasn't it? That is why we have published another pamphlet, entitled "Puberty - Nature's Not-So Practical Joke".

If your mother balks at the idea of purchasing a suit for you, you may wish to try to use "guilt" as a persuasive method. Point out that you really should have a suit for church. Ask your mother if she wants you to burn in the fires of Hell because you were dressed poorly. This assumes, of course, that you go to church. If you do not, then I suggest you return this pamphlet to your school library, and sign out "So You're Going to Hell".

At this point, you may say Wait a minute! I'm wearing only a towel, and my date starts in under an hour! I don't have time to go out and buy a suit now! Well, well, my boy, I'm afraid you have no one to blame but yourself. You shouldn't have left as important an issue as clothing to the last minute. Why didn't you worry about this earlier? I can't do everything for you, you know.

Assuming that you are intelligent enough to have anticipated this little quandary, things are undoubtedly moving along quite nicely now. Your car waits in the driveway, you have showered, used deodorant and cologne, and are wearing a very attractive three piece suit. If you purchased a two piece suit, then shame, shame, you penny pinching little weasel.

Now, you're in your car, backing out of the drive way. Everything is going wonderfully, isn't it? WRONG!!!! You haven't bought Suzy a present yet! What were you thinking? At this rate, you're speeding recklessly towards a lifetime of "TV dinners for one".

Well, you're probably now asking yourself What makes an appropriate gift for a first date? You really do like to leave things to the last minute, don't you? Oh well, thank God you have a car. Could you imagine the pickle you'd be in right now if you were on the back of your ten speed?

Well, you'll just have to head right over to the store to purchase a gift. You do have money, don't you? If you're shaking your head in despair right now, knowing you are broke, then there's only one thing you can do. I suggest you yank hard on the steering wheel, and bear left, aiming the car into oncoming traffic. A head on collision is the quickest and most merciful thing that could happen to you right now. Better that everyone talk the next day about your "tragic accident", rather than snicker about the "stupid boy in the two piece suit who forgot to take money on his date".

If you're still alive at this point, then you must have money. Good for you! You might actually manage to pull this off! But the question now is What should I buy for her? Well, the best and safest course is to purchase a corsage. Flowers are relatively inexpensive, but women seem to like them for some reason.

There are, of course, other options, but I strongly advise you to ignore them. For instance, many boys feel that candy is an appropriate gift. This is just plain wrong. Candy encourages women to over-eat, and soon, your attractive, svelte young Suzy will be disgusting, chunky Suzy.

If there are any girls reading this, then take note. You absolutely should not be reading this pamphlet, young woman! Return it to the library immediately! This pamphlet is intended for boys! You should sign out "Dating Tips for Girls - Waiting Patiently for a Boy to Notice You". This information does not concern you.

Other gift ideas to avoid include (but are not limited to): stationary, vegetables, lumber, cheese, household appliances (save those for later, after you are married), and cough and cold remedies. Under no circumstances should you give intimate gifts, such as panty hose, under garments, or douches.

Two years ago, one pathetic young twerp had the audacity to give his young date a box...(I hesitate to say this - my hands shake as I type)...a box of condoms. You are probably shaking your head in amazement right now, your jaw hanging open in shock. If you are chuckling or smiling, then you are an evil, evil person, and should report yourself to the local police.

Needless to say, the young girl's father was quite upset by this depraved and vile so-called gift, and beat the young man to death. The local authorities, of course, considered this to be a justifiable homicide, and the father was released without ever going to trial. Let that be a warning to all you would-be perverts out there.

No, a corsage it is. Better safe than lying dead in a cold grave. So, you've stopped at the florist, and purchased a corsage (if you went to a hardware store to purchase the corsage, then I suggest you volunteer for "special" school in the morning). Corsage in hand, you drive on to Suzy's house.

At this point, you may be wondering Where does Suzy live? I mean, really. Come on, you imbecile. Can't you think of anything in advance? You really should know where your date lives for the love of Pete!

Now, you've stopped at a phone booth, and called Suzy to inquire as to her address. She gave it to you, but now obviously thinks that you are a bit goofy. Still, can't be helped. Try to think of these kind of things in advance next time, okay?

Now that you know where Suzy lives, you pull up in front of her house. What should you do now? Perhaps you should honk your horn, to let her know you are waiting. If this sounds like a good idea to you, then you should smack yourself in the face right now. Go ahead, do it! I'm waiting……good. No, honking the horn is quite rude. Instead, safely park the car (remembering to remove the keys from the ignition), and approach Suzy's front door.

Be prepared - Suzy's father will probably dislike you. Why, you may ask? Well, apart from the obvious reasons, such as your pathetic acne scars and irritating cracking voice, Suzy's father has a more personal reason for wanting to see you dead. You see, he used to be a teenager himself. He remembers those years. He knows that, despite all your training during Church, puberty has turned you, changed you.

As a child, you were a respectable, loving, God-fearing young boy. Puberty changed you into a lustful, hormone-crazed maniac, interested only in "necking". Suzy's father knows this, and hates you. You're blushing now, aren't you? And well you should. Be ashamed - be very ashamed.

By now, you're knocking on the door. You know everything you need to know, and are ready for your date! Wrong, wrong, wrong! You know nothing! Read on, or your date will certainly be a disaster, and leave you socially and psychologically scarred for the rest of your life!

During your date, there are many key rules to remember. I have placed them down here for your convenience. Memorize them. If you don't, you'll have only yourself to blame.

Itchy nose?
Tough! Never, ever, and I mean ever pick your nose while on a date. You may scoff at this. If you do, you are a disgusting, filthy animal.

Keep your hands to yourself!
There are very few portions of your date's anatomy that you may touch. Basically, you may touch her index finger, the tip of her nose, and, perhaps, her left elbow. If your date lets you touch anything else, she is a shameless floozy, and you should flee immediately.

Also, be on the lookout for the "accidental" brush, in which a forbidden portion of your date's anatomy "accidentally" brushes up against you. This is a favorite trick of brazen hussies the world over, used to entrap and ensnare innocent young men such as yourself. Should this happen, stand up in the middle of the restaurant, and loudly declare "Get thee away, Jezebel! Keep thy vile and naughty plumpy bits away from me!" This is a traditional curse, taken straight from the bible, used by saints to damn sinning women to hell.

Always stay in public!
If you spend too much time alone with your date, she will probably get a "reputation" as a loose and immoral girl. You wouldn't want that to happen, now would you? If your date does get a reputation as being sexually promiscuous, it will undoubtedly ruin her life, and she will probably die of syphilis in the future, having lived out her life as a drug-dependent prostitute.

Oddly enough, if your date does get a "reputation", nothing bad will happen to you. Even though you both share an equal portion of the guilt for your actions, she will be ostracized, while you will be secretly praised by your male friends, teachers, and uncles. It may seem unfair, but that's just the way society works. Just be happy it's unfair in your favor, you little ingrate.

At the restaurant, avoid ordering "phallic" foods. Don't know what "phallic" means? Then get a dictionary, you infinitesimal moron. Foods to avoid include hot dogs (otherwise known as "wieners" or "frankfurters"), corn (cob only - nibblets are okay), popsicles, and whole raw carrots. These foods promote illicit thoughts, and should be avoided.

There is one last thing I must warn you about, before your date begins. It is a topic that I find distasteful, and would rather ignore. However, I am contractually obligated to cover it in this pamphlet. This topic is drugs.

While there is nothing wrong with smoking (tobacco acts as an expectorant, and aids in digestion), there is a special kind of cigarette that should be avoided like the plague. Satan's cigarette. This is, of course, the marijuana cigarette. Or, as it is known to the cool "hep-cats", "Mary-Jane", "tye stick", and "reefer".

Reefers are wrong, pure and simple. Some may say it "loosens the woman up", or "it gets her in the mood". Well, the mood for what is what I'd like to know! An evening of reefers and music played by rock and roll bands such as the "Chubby Checker" and "the Beatles" is all these lay-abouts ever want.

Marijuana is wrong, pure and simple. One suck on a "tye stick" will send you straight to hell, no mistake. So, if someone offers you a "toke", you should run screaming from the room, and report that person to the authorities at your earliest convenience.

Well, we're almost done here. I've helped you as much as I can. You're about to embark on your date, confident that you possess all the skills you need to make it a success. I wish I could be as confident. I have no doubt you're going to screw everything up, despite my warnings. Oh well. I wash my hands of the whole affair.

Saturday, September 17, 2005

My Old House

Poetry time again. To explain this one: a few years ago, I found out that the house I used to live in had been sold to a local biker gang. They were now using my old house as a biker club headquarters. Which lead me to write this poem.

My Old House

There's a biker in my bedroom,
And a pimp moved in downstairs.
There's a hooker in my basement
I think that's kinda rare!

There's a crack fiend in my bathroom
And a mugger in the tub.
And the wino in the kitchen
Just opened up a pub.

There's a junkie on the front porch
And a pusher by the sink.
And the flasher on my chesterfield
Just showed me something pink.

It sure is fun to visit with
The new friends I have made.
And it will be safe to go downstairs
Once protection has been paid.

There's only one real problem
And it really is a chore.
We keep on getting beat up
By the cops who live next door.

Friday, September 16, 2005

Why am I a Fun-Slut

Hi. My name is Ash, and I'm a fun-slut. I first realized I was a fun-slut last night. You see, like other fun-sluts, I am incapable of putting a stop to fun. Sure, my common sense tells me that I have to get up early in the morning, but if I'm having a good time, I just can't stop.

Take Thursday night. I went out to see a movie (The Exorcism of Emily Rose, if you're curious) with some friends. The movie ended late, and I had to be up early the next morning to go to work. I should have gone straight home and gone to bed. But there was still fun going on, and *sob*, I couldn't stop myself. We went out for something to eat, drove around Burlington, and talked and laughed. We even spent time parking in a lot and just chatting. I got home at 3:30 am.

Friday night, you think I would have learned my lesson. But I didn't - my fun-slut instincts took over. We went out for karaoke, like we do most Fridays. This time was special, as it was my friend Bernie's birthday party (happy birthday Bernie!). We had a great time, we sang, we laughed, we told very bad jokes.

At the end of the night, I was a little drunk (fun-sluts like to get intoxicated), and didn't feel it was wise of me to drive. So I went over to Gary and Laura's house, as they live nearby. Now, its already 2:30 in the morning. We decided to sing songs together, and even recorded a few that sounded great. We're probably going to work on putting a combo together. (Guys, if you read this, as thrilled as I am to be working with both of you, we have to establish a "No Arguments" rule, mmmmkay?).

Laura finally got smart, and went to bed. I was still having fun ... and I stayed. I went to bed at 5:30 am. And woke up at 9:00 am. Very, very tired. Very, very cranky.

I am a fun-slut.

Thursday, September 15, 2005

Tim Hortons

Ok, I admit it. Tim Hortons, that caffeinited Mecca that I once adored, is now nothing more than another evil corporate machine. Still, it was born in Hamilton, so I do have a soft spot for the giant fucking wad of deep-fried dough.

But these mother-humping "Steeped" commercials have got to go. They redefine stupid in a medium that has consistantly hit knew depths of stupid. To begin: the real reason that Tim Hortons is selling steeped tea is not because it is in any way shape or form superior to bagged tea. They do so because it allows them to charge more for a large than they do with a medium (something they currently do not do with bagged teas).

Now, as far as thess "That's so steeped" commercials are concerned. Please, oh God, let the human race be smart enough to not actually start using this phrase (you know, describing something you think is cool as "steeped"). Its a fucking commercial, trying to put a positive spin on a negative thing.

If I ever hear anyone using the word "steeped" to mean anything other than " To soak in liquid in order to cleanse, soften, or extract a given property from", I will personally steep them in cow urine.

But you may think I'm worrying too much - after all, why would people allow a phrase from a commercial to creep into everyday language? Well, how about the slang term for McDonalds - Mickey D's. Who started that? McDonalds. Probably to try and detract from the popularity of other slang terms for McDonalds, such as McCrap, McPukes, and McRaunch.

Now, back to Tim Hortons. I have to admit that this is not the first time I have taken issue with one of their decisions. Take, for example, the bonehead who figured it would be a great idea if, instead of serving fresh baked donuts, it would be much better if they were all preprepared in a factory, and then shipped off to individual locations where they were nuked and served. Fucker.

I really, really, hated their English Toffee Cookies. As is evidence by this letter I once wrote to them:

Tim Hortons
874 Sinclair Road
Oakville, ON
L6K 2Y1

Dear Tim Horton’s Person:

I recently had the misfortune of trying your new English Toffee Cookie. The experience was, to say the least, extremely disagreeable. I like your English toffee cappuccino. I like English toffee ice cream. It would therefore come as no surprise for you to learn that I like English toffee. It was, however, a surprise to me that I very much disliked your English toffee cookie.

The experience of eating one of your English Toffee Cookies can be referred to as unpleasant; in the same way that being buried alive under a pile of rotting dead toads can be referred to as unpleasant. It would be an understatement to say that your English Toffee Cookies are disgusting. It would be similar to referring to the bombing of Hiroshima as a “tad unpleasant”. If given the choice between suicide, and eating an English Toffee Cookie, I would, of course, eat the cookie. I’m not insane.

But I would seriously have considered the options.

If asked to explain the taste of your English Toffee Cookie to someone lucky enough to have never tried one, I would have to compare it to the taste of a dried sponge, soaked in perfume, and then baked to perfection in a compost heap. On the big list of Gross Things to Eat, it would fall squarely between “oil-soaked Styrofoam” and “your own anus”.

What, dear God, were you thinking?

I can only assume that someone was actually responsible for creating the English Toffee Cookie; most likely a mid-to-high level executive with more clout than working brain cells and/or taste buds. As all executives should be held responsible for their decisions, I suggest that this individual be dealt with in order with the magnitude of his crime. I believe a suitable punishment would be to confine him to a stalled elevator, alone with a flatulent Jehovah’s Witness, who happens to sell life insurance. For eighteen hours.

Then, please fire him.

On other matters:

1. Good coffee.
2. The donuts. Stop the factory bullshit, and go back to fresh baked. My God, have you heard the words “Krispy Kreme”?
3. Would it kill your servers to smile?
4. You couldn’t make a real bagel to save your own lives.
For some reason, they did not answer my letter.

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

The Exorcism of Emily Rose

So, I went and saw The Exorcism of Emily Rose last night. As a horror movie, I have to rate it "A Big Bucket o' Suck". It wasn't scary. Not even mildly. The total amount of time they spend dealing with the actual exorcism and the scary demon bits is about 5 minutes. Seriously.

The rest of the time is spent dealing with the court case surrounding the trial of the priest who performed the exorcism. As a courtroom drama or an examination of the spiritual realm, this movie was ok. But the geniuses in marketing decided to advertise this as a horror movie. Which it is not.

So, to summorize, if you like scary movies, don't bother seeing The Exorcism of Emily Rose. If you are very, very easily scared, you might like this movie. Of course, if you're that easily scared, save your ten bucks and just go around at other things that probably scare you, like cans of tuna or those novelty foam cowboy hats.

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

I Hate Reality TV

For the most part, reality TV is crap. It is, face it. Sure, I believe you have an example of a time when reality TV was really, really good. Honestly, I believe you. Stop waving that TV guide at me. But the vast majority of it is crap. Pure shit. And if I handed you a bucket filled with shit with a Lindoor chocolate truffle in it, would you eat the shit to get at the tasty candy?

I hope not.

So ... why do people keep shoveling up the shit? Well, most reality shows celebrate certain aspects of humanity: greed, treachery, intolerance, bigotry ... you know, fun stuff like that. I'm not going to list examples, and if you doubt me, just watch a few programs. So why do we like to watch that junk? Well, most people do it because they report that "Watching those freaks makes me feel better about myself because my problems aren't as big as theirs".

Folks, it doesn't take a Psychiatrist to tell you that you should feel good about yourself for your own individual accomplishments. If you need to watch others suffer to feel good about yourself, its rather unhealthy. The Germans even have a word for it: Schadenfreude. Taking malicious satisfaction in another person's troubles. Damaging joy. Its unhealthy folks, plain and simple.

Why does a show like American Idol parade an endless collection of pathetic dolts who can't sing? Because millions of people at home gloat and giggle at how bad they are, and delight thinking "I may not be able to sing, but at least I'm not as bad as that guy".

So lets disect. Person A has small feelings of inferiority because he can't sing. The healthy response: take singing lessons, go to karaoke, learn to sing, improv with practice. Results: inferiorty complex gone.

The unhealthy response: Watch American Idol and make fun of that Huong guy. Or even worse, go to karaoke and mock the people who have the guts to get up and sing. Getting up and singing takes balls foks (unless you're drunk). Sitting back and heckling is a cowardly and - yes, I'm going to say it - freaking pathetic thing to do.

Competition shows such as Big Brother and Survivor consistently reward the players who are nasty, sneaky, backstabbing bastards. Remember folks, our media affects our thought patterns - television, advertising, etc. is the food we feed our brains. It has an effect on us, our children, and our society. If we consistently show that the people who win, the people who get ahead, are sneaky and malicious, we encourage that behaviour in others.

Monday, September 12, 2005

I'm So Tired

Part of the fun of having sleep apnea is dealing with the fact that I am severely out of shape. For the last year or so, I have been so tired that I have spent way too much time staying in and resting. Which means my body is in horrible shape. I can't climb a flight of stairs without being winded. More on this later.

Today I had the final shoot for a student film project I have been doing in Toronto. This has been a bit of an eye opener for me - I've been used to relatively professional productions where they make certain they take care of their actors.

On this shoot, it hasn't been like that. Not too much of a problem, but there were definitely time issues. We were only making a 7 minute short, and it ended up taking us about 20 hours of filming. A lot of this is due to inexperience. For example, the director was making changes during shoots. We'd just get a scene finished, and then he'd have a "great idea" and we'd shoot again.

There were other issues that slowed things down. It really got hard to be able to schedule more and more days for this project. Just in gas and parking, this thing cost me more than $100.00 to be part of. But its done now, thank God. The finished product had better be good.

So, back to the sleep apnea and horrible out of shapeitude (fuck you, its a word now). I decided it would be a good idea to take the bus in to the shoot. After all, it costs me about $15.00-20.00 in gas and parking, and only about $17.00 to take the bus. Also, I could relax and read instead of dealing with the crap traffic. The kicker was the weather - it was supposed to rain, and my car window (driver's side, natch) doesn't roll up all the way, so driving in the rain means I get wet.

Turns out, the bus depot in Toronto was a bit farther than I had thought, about a 5 minute walk. I was carrying a rather heavy case, but I made the walk with only one small heart attack. I couldn't believe how out of shape I was - I used to consider any walk less than a half an hour to be easy and quick, and now here I am dreading 5 minutes.

Then I had a realization - on the way back, I would have to carry my heavy case and an even heavier golf bag filled with swords (props I had lent the director for the film). I have to admit, I almost turned around and went home at that point, but I soldiered on.

Turns out, it was a damned good thing I took the bus this time. There was a U2 concert taking place that night, so I would have had to shell out like $20.00 just for parking. Fucking U2.

So, we shot, and things went well. Ahead of schedule for a change, and I was out by 9:00 pm. So, one long (ok, 5 minute) walk back to the bus terminal. I gratefully sank my ass down on a bench next to an arguing white-trash couple. The man and woman were arguing about something.

The woman had a very bad cough, and was angry because she had forgotten her inhaler in her purse. A purse which apparently her boyfriend had forgotten at Jerry's house. This was evidently a cause for concern for her, as Jerry has a tendancy of pawning anything he can get his hands on (or, as she so clearly put it "That cocksucker Jerry will pawn any fucking thing he can find, you stupid fuck").

Her boyfriend reminded her that the doctor said her asthma was pretty bad, and she would have to quit smoking soon (oh, did I mention that the asthmatic white trash lady was smoking a cigarette?). She said fine, but "...there's no way I'm givin' up the weed, eh".

So, the bus finally came, I loaded up my swords, and had a nice nap listening to my iPod (one of the single best purchases I have ever made, btw). You'll notice I don't recommend many products, but the iPod kicks ass.

Then, back home to watch Team America: World Police. And now, off to bed.

Sunday, September 11, 2005

Green Things

This is the kind of poem I used to get in trouble for. For English class, I'd write a normal poem and get good marks, then I'd hand in something like this to mess with the teacher.

Green Things

What do you find at the back of the fridge?
Green things.
What grows on the feet of your cousin Midge?
Green things.

What tickles your nose when you have to sneeze?
What do doctors insert when they work on your knees?
Green things.

What do frogs mate with when they are in heat?
Green things.
What do you find when you turn down the sheet?
Green things.

What goes into your dog and out of your cat?
What grows under logs and smelly door mats?
Green things.

Saturday, September 10, 2005

Labour Day Blues

Ok, so Labour Day is over. For most people, the weekend is bittersweet – sure, it’s a long weekend, but it also marks the practical end of summer, the return to school, and the beginning of the fall season. And fall means winter is coming.

For me, and for about 40 others just like me, the Labour Day weekend is the height of the summer, the pinnacle, and the acme. We look forward to he weekend because we are improvisers, and we get together on this weekend to camp and party. One of our group, an amazingly generous and loving man named Bear, has a cottage up at long point.

This cottage has a very big back yard. So, we all pack up our tents and head up to Long Point. We all bring food, and kick in some cash, and share the cooking and cleaning duties. We laugh (a lot), we sing, we party, we do improv (on a state in town on Saturday), we explore haunted houses (we actually did that), we swim, and we imbibe alcohol and other recreational substances.

Come Monday, we pack up, we hug, we say tearful goodbyes, and we head off to our homes. That’s a bit of a sad moment, and usually we suffer withdrawal symptoms … but we know that we’ll see each other again in just a few days, so it’s not too bad.

In my entire life, I have never met a better group of people. They are fun, honest, intelligent, damned funny, and respectful of others. 7 years in a row, 30-40 people get together in a relatively small area and get drunk, and there has never been a single fight. No one has even come close to having a fight. We’re not that kind of people.

God, I love improv.

Peer Review - Hugh

Hugh is an amazing man. He is pretty much single-handedly responsible for bringing improv to Hamilton. If it were not for him, I definitely would not be involved in improv or acting today, and I am sure that many others feel the same way.

Hugh is an emergency room doctor, devoted to saving lives. He is also a husband and a father of 2. Unlike most doctors who are content to sit around and live rich and cozy lives, Hugh pours his own money into keeping improv alive in Hamilton. He realized a dream about 5 years ago when he purchased the old Hydro building on Dundurn street and turned it into an incredible improv theatre.

Well, time and erosion have colluded, and the Staircase is temporarily out of action. But Hugh once again came to rescue, purchasing the building next door and turning the first floor into a rehearsal space. Thanks to him, improv will continue to be a presence in Hamilton.

It would be easy to be overwhelmed by Hugh, and all that he does. He could easily be considered an improv deity. Yet, the man himself is humble and nonassuming - a regular joe. He is a great guy to sit and chat with, and doesn't seem to have an egotistical bone in his body.

I have the utmost respect and love for this man, and hope to study under him for years to come.

Friday, September 09, 2005

Ok, So I Suck at Blogging

I freely and cheerfully admit it. I update my blog about as often as W. has a clear and cogent thought (which mostly seem to involve bodily functions). I knew it when I started, and yet I continue to try and keep a blog. Ah well, all I can do is try. :)

Well, lets see here. To update from my last post: turns out, I didn't have any kind of infection whatsoever. Nope. What I have is something called sleep apnea. Basically, when I go to sleep, the soft tissues in my throat collapse, blocking my airways. Hoo-fucking-ray.

This lovely little fact causes me to "wake up" - while I don't really come to full consciousness, I do essentially move to that state just before you are conscious. As a result, I can never enter full, deep, restful sleep. I wake up 96 times an hour, and even have micro-seizures. Wheee.

So, the reason I was feeling so freaking tired was that I had not had a decent night's sleep in something like 2 years.

Just to warn you: I'm gonna get a little blue here.

What cocksucking, idiotic, fucked up and pathetic fucking doctor fails to identify this condition in me for TWO CUNTING YEARS??? I had been to the doctor numerous times to complain of feelings of tiredness. I had blood work, X-rays, and numerous physical examinations. The genius's fucking diagnosis? "Probably a chest infection" - despite the fact that my bloodwork showed no such infection.

Unfortunately, my regular doctor (Dr. Bernard Wolos, a truely wonderful gem of a doctor whom I have had most of my life and love dearly) has been battling cancer for a few years. Several other doctors are assisting with his practice, and these jackasses couldn't diagnose an axe wound to the head if the handle was still sticking out.

So, eventually I was staying in Chicago with some friends for the Chicago Improv Festival (which rocked), and one of them (thanks Pat) heard me snoring while I slept (oh, did I mention that I snored like a freaking tractor trailer with the muffler broken?), and said "Dude, you have sleep apnea".

Think about that. Two highly trained medical men, with like a combined 20 years of schooling and another combined 35 years of practicing, failed to diagnose my problem. Then, in one night, an ex-wrestler turned DJ acurately diagnosed my condition.

So, I went to my idiot doctor, and told him that I had sleep apnea. He suggested I leave the diagnosis to the professionals. I suggested he keep his moronic opinions to himself and book me an appointment with a professional. Bitch.

He did, and 2 months later, I went to the sleep clinic. Had a preliminary exam, and told the doctor what had been happening. He felt I had sleep apnea, and booked me an overnight stay so that I could be studied. This doctor (Dr. Gottschalk) was awesome, a great man, compasionate listener, and a true healer. He reminded me once again of what a doctor could be.

I had the sleep-over study. They taped me up with more wires than I thought were possible. If you don't happen to be a person with body hair, let me tell you, when that tape comes off, it takes the hair with it. A lot of hair. I couldn't wear shorts for 2 months because I looked like a miniature gardener had started to mow my legs then went off on strike.

So, a few weeks later I came back for my results. I had sleep apnea. Sure, it took them an extra 3 months to tell me after I knew, but at least it was official. Now something could be done.

I cannot express the depths of depression I was feeling up until then. My energy levels were so low, it was slowly killing me. I wasn't suicidal or anything, but death wasn't at all frightening to me. I once fell asleep at the wheel (at a stoplight late at night), and when I woke up, I wasn't even slightly frightened, as the idea of death didn't hold much fear for me. But I digress.

I had to wait another 2 weeks to get a prescription. But finally I had it. Dr. Gottschalk told me that all I had to do was go next door (to a company that, to prevent lawsuits, I will call "Twatigas") to Twatigas to get my breathing machine - a device called a CPAP (Continuous Positive Air Pressure or some such).

The sense of relief was enormous, like a flood. I went next door and spoke to Jerkoff (not his real name), a disco lothario dressed in a silk shirt (for really), gold chains, gold rings, and a gold bracelet. The top 4 buttons of the shirt were undone so you could see the necklace and his chest hair. For really.

The first thing I thought was "wow, what an oily rip off artist". But I wanted my CPAP. I told him what the doctor had said, and he told me that it would take about another 2 months to get the machine.

I was stunned, and devastated. I left, went back to the sleep clinic, into the bathroom, sat in a stall, and cried for 15 minutes. I'm not normally given to tears, but the crushing depression and defeat was overwhelming. I had thought relief was at hand, and that after more than 2 years I was actually going to get a good night's sleep. When Jerkoff snatched that away from me, it was more than I could take.

After I calmed down and washed up, I went back to see my doctor and explained the situation. He was literally livid, and I saw his face turn red. He asked me to wait outside, and was dialing the phone as I left his office. After a few minutes, he came outside and told me to go back over.

I did, and immediatley Jerkoff was there, groveling and apologizing. He took me into a room and we discussed getting me a machine. They told me seeing since I was covered at work (thank God), I wouldn't have to pay the $700-800 bucks for my machine (which is only about 25% of the price, the government pays the rest).

As a side rant - how come a guy can get a vasectomy (which, no matter how you slice it, is elective surgery) for free on the government's dime, but someone who is suffering from apnea has to kick out $700 for a good night's sleep? I'm no doctor, but I think sleeping is a little more important than plugging up the old sperm shoot.

Anyway, Jerkoff told me he could give me a loaner CPAP until mine came in, and I would only have to pay $100 a month to rent it. Lucky me. Angry now, I told him that he had competitors, and I was going to see them.

He immediatley backtracked. Fucker. "Oh, we can waive that fee, of course". What a freaking prick. I'd call him a cunt, but I don't want to offend anyone. Anyway, I told him that I wasn't terribly happy with Twatigas at the moment, and if anything else happened there that made me unhappy, I'd be leaving. For some odd reason, since then they've been fine.

So, I got my loaner. I've had it for about 2 months now, and I have noticed a HUGE difference. I'm not back to 100% yet, but I think I've hit 50. I can sit on a couch now without falling asleep. I can drive without falling asleep. I can sleep without waking up. Its pretty fucking sweet.