New Forum

I've added a forum to the site, which you can link to by clicking on the little link to the right, beneath the Dark Quote. I've added the forum because I know I can have controversial opinions, and the comments section isn't really a good place to hold a debate. So, if you have something you want to say about one of my posts, or anything in general, feel free to do so.

Wacky Family Circus

Its been awhile, so its now time for some more

zany, whacky, koo-koo fun with the with

The Family Circus! Yay!

Death Be Not Speedy

I was a part of a funeral procession yesterday, and I'd like to take a minute to talk about what that is like. For people such as myself, the funeral procession is a solemn and dignified ceremony; the last earthly journey for the deceased. It is a respectful journey, with each and every individual car in the line part of a final honour guard. I can't explain exactly why I feel the procession is something sacred, but I do.

So, when some yabbo with no respect or class decides he's going to jam his way into the procession, it tends to boil my potatoes. To anyone who reads this who doesn't offer respect for a procession, I'd like to say a few words. First off, if you see a funeral procession, you should pull over, and allow it to pass. If you're in too big a hurry, at least turn off that street, and take an alternate route.

Perhaps the ceremony and dignity, the integrity of such a procession is meaningless to you. If so, then this is a pity. However, it means something to the people who are a part of it. Show them simple respect and courtesy, and don't drive like your regular self. A funeral procession is a last goodbye, its not some kind of deliberately placed annoyance designed to make you late and piss you off.

One individual in particular comes to mind. Not only did he jam his way into the procession, he actually tried to cut me off. I mean that - when he tried to get in front of me, my front bumper was past his rear bumper. I guess he expected me to panic and back off and let him in. Instead, what happened was that I sped up, forcing him to back off or hit me. I don't like bullies.

All the cars in the procession had their headlights and four-way flashers going. We also all had placards at the front of our vehicles identifying us as part of the funeral procession. So rude drivers cannot claim that they didn't know what was going on. By the time we were half-way to the graveyard, the procession was broken up in to five or six separate groups. We were no longer a part of a procession, we were no longer a part of the ceremony. We were no longer a part of the honour guard.

There were a few people - a few - who had respect. They pulled over and waited for the procession to pass. I appreciate that, as I am sure the close family of the deceased did as well. Sadly, there were only a few. I guess the world we live in is too "fast paced" and "modern" to take a few moments out of their busy days, with their "Internet" and their "iPod personal music devices" to show some respect for a dead man and his family.

So now a plea: If you see a funeral procession, be respectful. Pull over, or if you are walking, stop and bow your head, and allow the procession to proceed onwards at its slow, dignified pace. It might make you five minutes late, but it will make you a better person. Five minutes is a small price to pay for your own dignity, isn't it?

Tim Hortons

Sometimes, something as simple as a trip to Tim Hortons (a very successful coffee chain here in Canada) can be a surreal ride down What-the-fuck Lane. Last night, I went on just such a voyage.

I had never been to this particular Tim's before (the one on Canon Street by Stinson), and was heading home after visiting family. It wasn't too late, only about 9:00 pm on Boxing Day (a Canadian holiday that celebrates the fact that Christmas is over), as I walked in the door. The place was mostly empty, just two guys near the door arguing about jewelry, and four teenaged kids in the corner rolling up characters for a role playing game.

I walked up to the counter to greet my server, who was to say the least odd looking. She was very tall, gangly, and bony. She was in her late fifties, super short hair, and in my mind I immediately nicknamed her Stork Lady. I greeted Stork Lady, and gave her my order: an extra large, double cream, with an orange flavour shot.

She nodded, and turned to walk away. Then she stopped, and came back, and asked me the size again. I told her, and she turned, then turned back, and asked how many creams. I told her, and then noticed she was still standing there. I told her it was an orange shot, and she nodded and walked off to get my coffee.

She walked over to the machine, then stood and listened for about 2 minutes as 2 of her co-workers argued about who was supposed to make the sandwich for the guy in the drive through (apparently, no one had made his sandwich and he was sitting at the window for several minutes waiting). She decided after a listening in for awhile to make my coffee, and came back and gave it to me.

Stork Lady: What was your second order?

Me: I didn't have a second order.

Stork Lady: Yes you did, a coffee.

Me: All I ordered was a coffee. With an orange shot.

Stork Lady: Oh, I thought you wanted a coffee and a flavoured cappucino.

Ok, I don't know precisely where in our previous conversation she had heard the phrase "flavoured cappucino", but apparently she had. I corrected her, so she was off again to make my order a second time. As I waited, a second employee came up, a lady also in her late fifties whom immediately was named "Billy Goat Gruffer", due to her rather large and obvious white-haired goatee. Seriously, numerous, thick white hairs grew out of her chin.

Now, as an aside, as an employer, are you seriously going to hire a lady with a thick white beard? I'm all for equal opportunity, but its not like chin hair is a serious affliction. I mean, it can be cured with the application of a razor blade - a product easily obtainable in pretty much any store. It can't exactly help people's appetites to be confronted by a woman with the same facial hair as Shraggy from Scooby Doo.

So, Billy Goat Gruffer stood at the counter and looked behind me, and spoke. She said something about getting something done, and looked meaningfully at the person behind me. I turned to see who she was talking to, but there was nobody there. There wasn't even someone close enough for me to pretend she might be talking to them.

I then assumed that Billy Goat Gruffer was wearing headphones, and perhaps was talking to a coworker in the back. She was not wearing headphones. She continued her conversation with no-one as Stork Lady returned with my coffee.

Tim Horton's: each trip is a glimpse into Dali's subconscious.

The Silver Tongue Strikes Again

My silver tongue - or in this case, silver fingers - has struck again.

Pat Robertson is, to say the least, a fascinating man. A self-proclaimed man of God, he certainly is more of an Old-Testament Godman. Not to long ago, Mr. Robertson called upon his government to assassinate Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez. Here's what Mr. Robertson had to say:

"If he thinks we're trying to assassinate him, I think we really ought to go
ahead and do it."

Imagine, just for a moment, if a popular religious leader from another country - one with a demonstrated ability to lead millions of people - called for the assassination of the American President. I don't imagine the US government would take such a threat lightly. They'd probably declare a "War on Hate Mongers", to go along with the "War on Drugs", the "War on Terrorism", the "War on Christmas", and the soon-to-be-announced "War on Vague Concepts".

Recently, though, he managed to top himself. When the people of Dover voted out the School Board that decided to allow creationism - thinly veiled as the psuedo-scientific "Theory of Intelligent Design" - into their schools, Robertson was apparently upset. So upset, he had this to say:

“I’d like to say to the good citizens of Dover. If there is a disaster in your
area, don’t turn to God, you just rejected Him from your city."

Wow. Pat Robertson speaks for God. President Bush only speaks to God. Robertson speaks for God. Pretty heady stuff. And apparently, God is more than happy to turn his back on his children - forgetting that whole bit about "infinite love and compassion" - simply because they don't want religion taught in school.

I would love to sit back and pen an intelligent and well-thought out rebuttal to Mr. Robertson's claims. Sadly, I can't, because in my opinion, you can't turn out an intelligent response to a clearly insane, idiotic bucket of bull semen. It's the equivalent of a trained debater being expected to dispute a claim such as "You're a doo-doo head".

As a Christian, one of my greatest balms in life is the mental image of men like Robertson, brought before God on judgement day. I'd love to have some tickets to watch that. Of course, God doesn't really approve of that kind of schadenfreude, so I'm not exactly as good a Christian as I should be.

But on the other hand, I can't recall asking anyone to kill another human being lately.

God Vs. Darwin: Round II

Ok, like many people, I have been following the current debate in the US in regards to schools, and their curriculum. In particular, this is the debate between the teaching of the Theory of Evolution and the teaching of the Theory of Intelligent Design. Apparently there is a lot of debate, funded and spearheaded by Christan groups, as to whether or not the Theory of Intelligent Design should be included in school curriculums.

The fact that we are revisiting the Scopes Monkey trials proves just how far the United States has fallen backwards. We've had this debate before, and it was settled. Of course, some people can't jus take no for an answer, and like some kind of annoying persistent cat, keep batting at the issues and hiding behind psuedo-fact. The fact of the matter is, no matter what you call it, the "Theory of Intelligent Design" is nothing more than a blatant attempt to wrap religion in a scientific blanket.

I am a Christian. I personally believe in guided evolution. However, its not a matter of which theory you believe in, or whether or not you believe in God. Its a matter of identifying the core purposes of varying educational institutes. A school is designed to teach factual information; scientific study, empirical evidence. Where such proof is lacking, then teaching the currently accepted theories from the scientific community is also done.

A church (or a Sunday School) is designed to teach the tenents of a religion. To prepare the individual for a believed-in afterlife, and make them aware of the standards of behaviour that are expected of a follower of that church.

The Theory of Evolution, being a generally accepted scientific explanation for the state of living life today, is a suitable subject for schools. Sure, there are some scientists who debate the validity of the theory, but until such a time as a more scientifically supported theory is proposed, Evolution is all science really has.

The Theory of Intelligent Design is creationism. Just because they've removed buzz words and tried to spiff it up with a nice new psuedo-scientific coating, you can't disguise the fact that, at the core, the so called "theory" is based upon religious beliefs.

If schools can be expected to teach religious theory, then it is only fair that Sunday Schools and churches start teaching Evolution. Quid pro quo. Tit for tat. Now, I don't think any organized religion would ever even consider including Evolution pamphlets with their bibles, and I don't think that Chick Publications is planning any "So You're a Monkey's Uncle" fliers, so that's probably not going to happen.

So, to all those who are trying to force religion into schools: imagine how you would react if you found out scientists were trying to force your priests and pastors to teach Evolution? Or the true age of the Universe? Religion is important, which is why it is up to the churches to teach religion. Schools are not the place for religion. So piss off.

For another view on this (which is remarkably like mine, only better thought out and with less swearing), check out On Intelligent Design.

TV People

Hurrah, and such. I now have Internet access at home. They were supposed to come next week, but as I mentioned earlier, they did not. I called up Cogeco on Monday, and politely informed them of my disappointment. The lady who I spoke (Karen) to was fantastic. She was honestly apologetic, and she took my feelings seriously. She told me what the problem was; apparently, I had been misinformed by the first lady I had talked to. My appointment had not been for last Saturday, but rather for yesterday.

Karen believed me, and she had them waive the service and set-up fee (almost $40.00) by way of apology. I was quite happy with this, as I can put up with a lot as long as I feel the company I am dealing with is willing to make amends for their errors. So, here I am, a week later, and I have Internet at home.

So now, here’s a long and weird story I wrote last week.

Legal Shit: The following is a work of fiction. Any similarity to any person or character, living or dead, is purely coincidental, and not the intention of the author. This work is protected under Canadian and international copyright law. Reproduction of this work, in whole or in part, may be done only with the express prior written consent of the author.

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TV PEOPLE
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While their friendship was rather odd and completely erratic, Neil Wellington and Davis Wentworth could not be said to have had a unique relationship. Certainly, the relationship was peculiar. Davis was extraordinarily wealthy, and had been since birth. He possessed the unique calm and devilish superiority of those for whom money will literally never be an object. No matter how expensive his merest whim might be, it could be fulfilled by simply verbalizing the desire; someone would hear, and make sure it happened. Davis’s family was Genie-in-the-bottle rich; only this genie was not so miserly as to limit its beneficiaries to a paltry three wishes.

On the far arc of the pecuniary pendulum, Neil was from a very poor family. So poor, in fact, that it had subsisted solely on the income derived from the public welfare system for three successive generations. Neil was unlike his parents, and possessed an inner fire and frenzy, a burning desire for success that was welded inseparably to a near psychotic need for acceptance and love. Neil’s family was foraging-in-dumpsters poor; a family for whom “dumpster” was synonymous with the words “grocery store”.

The fact that the two were friends at all was largely considered to be vaguely surprising. The fact that they later decided to share the same dorm room at the university was widely regarded by friends, family and acquaintances as being pretty amazing, but hardly unique. While none of them had ever witnessed this particular combination of seemingly conflicting personalities and widely divergent socio-fiscal life philosophies in person before, they had most certainly seen similar parings on a number of different TV shows.

Because sometimes, TV people are more real than real people.

Neil and Davis were both, naturally, aware of their nearly-television-famous relationship. They enjoyed the notoriety that this reputation brought to them, and banked upon it, invested it, and turned it into a nearly infamous degree of fame on the local party scene. Once a month, on the 15th of each month (regardless of the day of the week upon which this date fell), the two would host a television-show themed party. Davis’ money paid for professional set designers, who would, overnight, transform their dorm room into the set from any one of a number of different TV shows.

Because everyone – everyone – has a deep and lifelong fantasy about becoming a TV person, and living out their life amongst the cast of a popular television show.

The first party thrown was the now-legendary The Odd Party. Davis, naturally, played the anal-retentive neat freak Felix, while Neil was a curmudgeonly and slovenly Oscar. Each stayed true to their characters for the entire evening, playing their roles to the hilt. They refused to break character for anything. In fact, at the end of the evening, Neil ended up having sex with a woman because she looked like the lady that played Oscar’s ex-wife on the show. Davis also stayed true to his character, and had unprotected anal sex with a 17 year old twink from New York.

As their local fame and reputation grew, the two grew even closer together. They became as brothers, and each confessed to the other their most secret shames. A true bond grows between men when they share these secrets – secrets that no other person alive knows. They trade trust, and vulnerability, and even a small portion of their individuality. They become something more. It’s the kind of relationship that makes the whole “blood brothers” thing (with it’s relatively wussy cutting and sharing of blood) look a bit silly.

Their lives had been perfect, but everything came crashing to a halt when Neil won the Power Ball Lottery. On Friday, he was checking the couch for change for coffee. On Saturday, he was now rich to the tune of 65 million dollars. A few days after cashing in his ticket (before the Lottery Company had paid out, but not before he had charged the limit on all of his credit cards in anticipation), he received a phone call from the Lottery Company. They wanted him to, if he would be so kind, come in and speak to their lawyers about an “unexpected matter”. They would say no more, which left Neil feeling as if they deliberately wanted him to be frightened and angry when he arrived at their offices.

Neil arrived frightened and angry, having never even thought to ask his own lawyer to come along. He was led immediately into a dark, wood-paneled office designed in precisely the kind of way that is meant to look old and venerable, but instead looks new and shiny, so ends up looking like some geeky, pretentious teenager pretending to be Moses.

“An unexpected matter has arisen,” Mr. Wolf introduced himself as he rose, guiding Neil to a chair at the head of the panoramic oak table.

“Yeah, I know that much already, buddy!” Neil complained, looking up at the lawyer. “So how do we go about turning the phrase ‘unexpected matter’ into some kind of phrase that makes some damned sense?”

Mr. Wolf glanced over at Mr. Hood, and was rewarded with a nod. Mr. Wolf sat down next to Neil, and looked earnestly into his eyes.

“Your ticket has been contested,” he said calmly.

“What? What? What the fuck?” Neil had apparently made the decision to bypass incredulity, anger, rage, and blood-thirsty rage and jump straight to barking mad.

“We understand that you are upset-”

“Upset? Upset? Do you think I’m fucking upset? Do you think Poland was upset to discover the Germans had come to visit? Do you think Caesar was upset when he was stabbed to death by 22 of his closest friends? Do you think-”

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Wolf raised his hand, stemming the flow of Neil’s ire, “I believe I speak for us all present when I say that we can dispense with the amusing analogies and safely assume that you are distressed. Now, perhaps if we are finished reenacting the first scene of Shakespeare’s little known and very obscure play Felonious the Whining Sprite Bitches on Endlessly about Twat All, we can move on to slightly more helpful discourse.”

“Yes. Well, fine.” Neil felt like a twat.

“Apparently, a mister Davis Wentworth has contested legal ownership of the ticket.”

“What?”

“Yes, apparently he is claiming that it was he who had purchased the ticket, and that it was stolen from his night stand – along with an expensive gold watch.”

“Why? What? How?”

“I see our list of interrogatives has tripled. Very nice. At this rate, you’ll be able to ask complete questions by Thursday lunch.”

“Fine. God. Why would he do something like that?”

“You are aware of the enormous cash prize that belongs to the ticket holder, are you not?”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing, I am afraid, until the case goes before a judge. Which will take place by,” here, he paused to consult a few pages in a file folder, “March the 7th. A little less than 3 weeks from today.”

“Court? This is going to court? Is it a legal matter then?”

“The theft of a ticket worth 65 million dollars? Yes, I believe the police just might consider such a matter to be of a criminal nature.”

“So, are they going to arrest Davis?”

“No, Mr. Wellington. They are here to arrest you.”

The door to the office opened wide, admitting two uniformed police officers, who took up position on either side of the doorway. As they stepped apart, a man garbed in a long brown London Fog trench coat, a worn black two-piece suit, and wearing a black leather fedora, stepped into the room.”

“Are you Neil Allen Wentworth?” he asked.

“What’s going on here? I-”

“I ask you once more,” the man interrupted, “are you Neil Allen Wentworth?”

“Yes. And you are?”

“Detective Archer. You are under arrest. Come with me.”

Over the next few days, Neil had visitors from his public defender, his father, and an elderly man who claimed to be his priest. It was possible that the priest was telling the truth, Neil supposed, but considering the fact he hadn’t seen a priest since he was nine years old, there was no real way for him to know for certain.

From his court-assigned public defender, Neil learned that: (a) the police had found Davis’ gold watch in Neil’s briefcase; (b) Davis had hired a team of insanely expensive lawyers to assist the prosecuting attorney in court; and (c) as far as he was concerned, he was not really confident that they had anything even remotely approaching a chance for a “Not Guilty” verdict.

From his father he learned that: (a) pretty much all of the family agree that Neil was guilty – everyone except Nancy, and everyone knows that she refuses to vote the same way as her sister Susan; (b) it was a good thing that Neil’s mother was not currently alive to witness this shame; and (c) did Neil still have the phone number of that guy he knew who could get some good weed?

From the priest, he learned that he was going to hell. The priest said a lot of different things, and told a number of different stories, all of which ended with him going to Hell. The priest pointed out that his visit was more or less analogous with a doctor’s visit to the bed of a terminal cancer patient.

A day went by with no visits, because his public defender had an emergency court date to attend for another client. Neil’s ex-girlfriend had jumped on a Greyhound bus from her home over 700 miles away when she heard about his winning lottery ticket, but she had turned around a little over half-way there when she heard about the criminal charges. On the next day, Neil was told he had a visitor, and was taken to the viewing room. The inmates were seated in a row, separated by thin green privacy walls; between them and their visitors was a protective glass wall, with telephones provided for communication.

Neil blinked in surprise as Davis took the seat across from him. Davis picked up his phone, and began to move his lips. He waved at Neil, and gestured towards his handset. Neil grabbed it, and placed it to his ear.”

“Neil, how are you? Keeping that anus virgin territory, I hope?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Are you really that stupid Neil? It’s 65 million dollars.”

“But you … you don’t need it.”

“You’re right, I don’t. I don’t need it at all. After I win, I will forget about the money entirely. It’ll just fade into the pile.”

“Then why? What’s the point?”

“Because,” Davis’s eyes narrowed, and his face seemed somehow more intense, and he locked eyes with Neil, “I don’t like the idea of your kind with money.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Neil was simultaneously personally shocked and morally stunned.

“Your breed wasn’t meant to have money. When it happens, its an accident, a malfunction, a malfeasance, a malady. It’s the kind of illness that puts our society at risk. And it’s up to men like me to strike with surgical precision to excise such malignant tumours.”

“What do you mean breed?”

“Your kind, your ilk, your species,” Davis somehow made the last word sound as if it had more in common with the word feces than just the rhyme. “You’re a sub-par, sub-standard sub-species.” He did it again.

“We were friends,” an accusation.

“We were never friends,” Davis leaned back and spat on the screen. Neil watched the spit wad drip and slide slowly down the screen. “You were a pet. You were fine and fun when you were in your place. You were well-trained, and I could amuse my friends by having you do tricks. But like any dog, give it too much freedom and it starts to think like maybe its actually your equal. It forgets its place, and needs to be reminded again. Consider this your metaphorical swat across the nose with a newspaper.”

Neil sat back slowly, stunned, the phone sliding from his fingers. As the enormity of Davis’ words washed over him, his mind wandered to various scenes in the past in which Davis had provided monetary assistance. Phrases such as Don’t worry about it, I’ve got more than I can ever spend, and It’s just a few bucks, don’t deny me the pleasure of helping you out floated through his mind. He saw it all, this time from a different perspective. This time, it was not a supportive and caring friend doing what he could to lend a helping hand. This time, it was a dog owner, indulging his pet with an expensive toy or a fancy new food.

It made him feel unhealthy. It made him feel unclean. It made him feel like a whore.

“Well, Oscar, its not like I didn’t warn you,” Neil could hear Davis’s voice drifting from the receiver, doing his very convincing Tony Randal impersonation.

“What?” he asked sluggishly as he raised the phone to his ear.

“I always warned you Oscar, if you didn’t clean up your act, I would enact my revenge.”

“That was … a bit,” Neil whispered. “That was a fucking scene.”

“It sure was, Oscar,” Davis whispered back. “It sure was.” He hung up his phone, and blew Neil a kiss before turning his back, and walking outside.

Because sometimes, something slips, and we become TV people.

Cranking Ward

After yesterday's mostly-fictional* account of my encounter with Bill Keane, I decided to share my entirely non-fictional account of my encounter with Burt Ward. Now Burt is the guy who played Robin on the 1960's TV series Batman. This show was a delightfully camp version of the comic book, and was satirical and hilarious. The best part was, Ward had no idea he was in a comedy, and played the role completely straight, which was the best thing he could have done (considering his relatively limited acting skills).

So, its about the early 90's, and I was staying with my friend Tom in Toronto. It was our intention the next day to attend the Auto Convention, because Batman and Robin (i.e. Adam West and Burt Ward) would be there in costume to sign autographs. While I had absolutely no interest in the cars (ok, so that's a lie, the Batmobile was cool), I did want to meet Batman and Robin, and get their autographs.

It was the night before the convention, and Tom and I were up late, goofing around. At about 3:00 am, I suddenly had an epiphany: if West and Ward were going to be in town, then chances are, they were probably staying in a hotel downtown! We immediately grabbed the phone book, and started calling hotels in the area of the Convention Center. We would call the hotel, and ask them if they had an Adam West or a Burt Ward in the hotel.

I tried a few properties, with no results. I called the Royal York hotel (I use their name here solely in the hopes of annoying them), and asked for Adam West: no luck. I asked for Burt Ward, and the guy said "Yes, we do have a Burt Ward staying here". I asked to be patched through, and much to my shock and surprise, the guy did so.

The phone started ringing, and I called Tom over, and told him I was getting through to Burt. I had no idea what to say to the guy; it was 3:30 am, what the hell was I going to say? "Hi, I like Batman?" Here's the conversation as it took place. Please note, when you see the "***", I have switched from my regular voice to my Riddler (Frank Gorshin, the real riddler, not that idiot Carey) impersonation. Also note, the phone only rang twice, so chances are I didn't wake him up.

Burt: Hello?
Ash: Is this Burt Ward?
Burt: Yes.
Ash: The Burt Ward? From Batman?
Burt: (Getting annoyed). Yes. Who the hell is this?
Ash: (*** - switching to Riddler mode). We're gonna get Batman, and put him in a pot of oil!

I then let out a long, giggly Riddler-laugh, and hung up the phone. And proceeded to laugh like a bastard.

The next day, Tom and I went off to the convention center, and got in the insanely long line to see Batman and Robin. The only line in the whole place that was longer was the line to see Morganna, the Kissing Bandit (a stripper who had gained brief fame for running onto baseball fields and kissing the players). Yes, after Batman, I did go stand in line for Morganna, and I met her, and I kissed her.

While we waited, Tom threatened to tell Ward that it was me who had cranked him the night before. I countered by threatening to tell Ward that it was the both of us that had called, and while I was speaking, it was Tom that had dialed. We reached an impasse, and decided and that it was best if we said nothing.

So I got both their autographs, each of them signing an original bubblegum card from 1967 (that Tom found in his attic - the guy who lived there before them just moved out and left them). I still have the cards, and they occupy positions of pride on my bar.

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* The true part of the Bill Keane story is the fact that, as a child, I had a dog. Her name was Storm, not Lady.

Not Keen on Keane

Sometimes, people ask me "Hey, Ash, why do you hate 'The Family Circus' so much?". My response is simple: I don't hate 'The Family Circus', I hate Bill Keane. You see, when I was twelve years old, Bill Keane raped my dog Lady with an aluminum yard stick.

It was like any other summer's day; we were loading up the station wagon with warm, soft, gooey pies. We would do this daily, and drive off down to the homeless shelter. There, we would eat the pies while we gently mocked and teased the homeless people. My dad would always do this trick with a quarter on a string. He would drop the quarter into the homeless person's styrofoam cup, and when he would reach for it, he would punch him in the stomach for using styrofoam and polluting the planet. We'd all laugh, because it was for a good cause.

Anyway, on that day, I decided to stay home and keep my dog Lady company. You see, normally she would come along with us, but she was expecting a package to be Fed Exed from Singapore, and wanted to be home to sign for it. I stood on the porch, laughing and waving as my family pulled out on the driveway, then blew them a kiss as they turned around the corner.

Lady had already gone into the den to smoke her cigars and read the paper (she only smoked when Mother was out of the house), so I decided to climb up onto the roof to begin neighbourhood surveilance.

While some people think a standard Neighbourhood watch is sufficient, I much prefer to trust in the power of a pair of high-powered binoculars and my video recording equipment. Not only was my constant monitoring keeping the neighbourhood safe, but there was a surprisingly large number of homes where people never drew their curtains. I hadn't had to purchase any new porn since I was seven.

Up on the roof, I fired up the hibachi and put on a couple of souvlaki skewers, then settled down on my brown leather recliner, and began my vigil. I scanned the neighbourhood quickly, looking for any signs of malfeasance or nudity. I spotted a brown Ford Tempo coming down Canal Street, and zoomed in on the driver.

Ye gods, I thought to myself, it's Bill Keane! I was, at the time, probably the biggest Bill Keane fan ever. I had every "Family Circus" book ever printed, and also had a scrapbook filled with Bill Keane memorabilia: newspaper interviews, candid photos - even a lock of hair I stole from his barber!

Bill turned the corner, and drove onto Sanderson Avenue - he was coming towards my house! Not only that, but he was pulling into my very driveway! I was so excited, I nearly dropped my Clamato and Coke. I put my binoculars down, and ran across the roof to the access ladder. In my haste, I forgot about the piano-wire tripline, and tripped and fell off the roof. Luckily, I landed on a pile of feathers that we keep in the yard, next to the tar, just in case a Mormon shows up.

The fall did knock the wind out of me though, and I lay in the feathers, wheezing like some kind of asthmatic chicken fetishist. I think I passed out, because when I came too, I was naked. A quick trip to the clothes line had me dressed up once more (blue velour track suit with a red silk shirt), and I ran for the front door.

I was hoping that Mr. Keane was still at my house, but I was disappointed. His car was gone, so he must have driven off while I was unconscious. The front door to my house was open; in fact, it had been kicked off the hinges. I went inside, and found the place in a shambles. Bill had evidently been on a rampage. I picked up a small sandwich baggy which was lying next to the front door. It was encrusted with a white, powdery residue; apparently, Bill had been coked up. It could have been worse, he gets really nasty when he's on glue.

I began searching the house, and noticed the sounds of sobbing coming from the den. The door was open, and I came in to find Lady crying on the sofa. I comforted her, and we sat and talked. She told me what had happened: how Bill came in, his eyes wide in a cocaine-induced frenzy, the twin smells of vodka and pig semen blowing into the room every time he farted.

She pointed to the aluminum yard stick, and told me the sordid details. I'll spare you the graphic descriptions; suffice it to say that Bill Keane raped my dog Lady with that aluminum yard stick.

I tried to get revenge, but Bill was too smart. When I showed up at his house, hired goons beat the shit out of me while Bill watched and masturbated. I was defeated. I tried calling the cops, but when they asked him who had attacked my dog, he told them it was someone named "Ida Know", and they laughed and they laughed and they dropped the charges.

So now you know why I hate Bill Keane.

Zany Fun with Family Circus

I Miss my High Speed Internet Access!

So, as the more Holmesian among you may have been able to deduce (by the fact that I did not post anything all weekend), the bastard cable guy didn't show up at my apartment on Saturday. I sat around between the hours of 12:00 pm and 5:00 pm, wasting my day, waiting for him/her to show up, all for nothing.

I'm not exactly sure what I might have done wrong to cause the cable guy to shun me so. Perhaps I failed to fill in the right form, or pressed the wrong button during the oh-so-convenient automated telephone sign up system (convenient for them, not for me). Perhaps I was supposed to sacrifice something personal to appease the cable gods. Oh, wait a minute, now that I think of it, I did sacrifice something - my fucking Saturday.

I've also been trying to plan a New Years party, but there have been some delays (due to issues regardig location) that have now, at last, been finalized. Sadly, I took too long, and two of my friends (Bernie and the Bear) have already told me that they have made other plans. I was saddened to hear this; to me, New Years has always been one of those holidays that us Improvisors spend together. Still, I understand that people can't be expected to delay their plans indefintley. They did tell me they might drop in after their other party is over, so that would be nice.

I've sent my invites out today, and hopefully its not too late for the others to attend. Fingers crossed and all that.

On Sunday, I went out for breakfast again with Bernie and Bear. I love these guys, as we can have some great conversations, ranging from scientific topics to modern politics, history, and more. Considering that they're a damned funny couple to boot, its a very enjoyable little breakfast tradition I hope will continue.

Sunday night, I went out to see Narnia. It was awesome, I loved it. Very true to the book (from what I remember); definitely worth seeing.

I did manage to get some writing done over the weekend - I produced about 6,000 words over three days, so I'm definitely happy with that. I've reached a stage in my novel where I find myself writing disjointed scenes, which will all be later woven into the plot line (or so I hope). Still, I'm definitely producing stuff I like, so I'm happy with my progress.

Old Man Winter can Kiss My Ass

As I stepped outside today, a blast of cold air swept across me. This gust of wind took one look at my winter parka, my large, thick scarf, my sweater, and my gloves, and laughed itself silly as it pierced through each and every layer. It proceeded onwards, like some phallically targeted groinal Cruise missile, and proceeded to freeze my testicles to ice. My testicles, naturally, reacted to this freezing deluge by immediately shrinking to the size of grapes (or, more accurately, raisins).

So I proceeded to my car, which had, predictably I suppose, been covered by a thick layer of frost. Much like Antarctica can be said to be covered by a thick layer of frost. Luckily, I have a window scraper thingy. Unluckily, its one of those cheap wooden ones that you buy at the dollar store. It serves well as a paint stir-stick, and does a reasonably decent job at removing thin layers of snow. As far as nasty, frightening hoarfrost is concerned, the tool was sadly inadequate.

After about 10 minutes of heavy scraping (which sounds like the S&M version of heavy petting), I had managed to produce a series of thin scratches and nicks in the frost, enough for me to see through if I squinted my eyes and turned my head sideways. The heater had been running in the car now for more than 10 minutes, full blast, which meant that the car was still blowing ice cold air (my heater takes about 20 minutes to warm up, which is very handy considering that the majority of my drives are 15 minutes in duration or less).

I got into the car, slamming the door against the artic gale that was trying to flay the flesh from my bones. I cursed the cold. I looked at my car's thermometer reading and discovered that the temperature outside was only -9 celsius. -9. That's not very cold. We will be soon dropping down to temperatures in the -20's, without even factoring in the wind chill.

I am so not ready for winter. If winter was a person, and that person was male, I would cock-punch Winter.

By the way, if you look carefully at the picture of the raisins above, you will see that they have all been the recipients of a chocolate snowflake.

Let's Improve Dumbledore

Do you hate the new Dumbledore? Do you hate his cringing, his yelling, his shaking of Harry? Do you long for the kindler, gentler Dumbledore? Ok sure, Harris is dead, but the new guy is an ass. If you want him replaced, follow the link below to sign a petition.

http://www.petitionspot.com/petitions/NewDD

Dumbledore is a Pussy

Ok, so due to some late timing, I ended up seeing Harry Potter 4 for the third time at the theatre again last night. I saw it the first time because I wanted to go, and some friends were going. I saw it the second time because my mother wanted to see it. I saw it the third time because I thought the movie I was there to see (Aeon Flux) started at 10:40 pm when in fact it started at 10:20 pm.

So, I saw the movie for a third time. What can I say? It doesn't really stand up to a third viewing. While the special effects are incredible, the writing and character dialogues seem weaker every time I see it. As much as I love George and Fred in the books, in the movies their dialogue seems hackneyed at best.

The next time you watch this movie, study the new Dumbledore. The guy is a pure pussy. I counted at least 7 different situations in which he flinched in evident fear - from fire, from loud noises, from the scary Krum and his school chums. You name it, it makes Dumbledore flinch. Now, compare this to only 3 flinches from Harry, and that little fucker had to fight Voldemort.

The big dance also bothered me a bit. Two of the four champions are Cedric and Krum. Now, we establish early on that both boys are at least 17 years old, perhaps older. When it comes time for the dance, Krum decides, that out of all the women at Hogwarts, he should invite Hermione. A 14 year old girl.

Cedric, being smart and handsome, also has his pick of eligable young women. He decides to ask Cho who is ... well, a 14 year old girl. Now, is it just me, or does the idea of a couple of 17-18 year old guys deciding to date 14 year old girls feel just a little creepy?

There are also a number of just plain foolish mistakes. Take for instance Harry vs. the dragon. He has the bright idea to cast accio (a spell which makes distant objects come to you) to have his broomstick come to him, so he could fly around the dragon and fetch the golden egg. So why the hell didn't he cast accio on the damned egg?

So, overall, its a fun movie and worth seeing, but someone really needs to start tooling the dialogue and story. And maybe cast some kind of magical de-pussifying spell on Dumbledore.

Missing in Inaction

I've been gone for a few days as I am currently without Internet access. Of course, I say that casually, as if it were of little importance, but for me being without Internet access is similar to an Amish person being without horse-access. Or being George W. Bush without access to the little green men in his head that tell him what to do.

I use the Internet a lot, as do most of us, for email, blogging, and such. I also rely on it heavily when writing. After all, who wants to suffer through the tedious process of dressing, going out in the cold, and driving to a library to do research?

Of course, I am suffering for good reason. I have moved to my new apartment, which I love, and have been having a great time. This is the first time in a long, long time that I have enjoyed the actual process of moving. The place is great, and it means a lot to me to have not only a place I love, but my privacy and peace and quiet.

I moved in on Friday, and met up with John (my landlord), who was finishing up by installing 2 smoke alarms and a carbon-monoxide sensor. I moved about 3 car loads when Ron, my upstairs neighbour and fellow improvisor, came down and offered to help out. I got him to help me with the heavy stuff, and managed to get almost everything moved that day.

Ron and I hung out afterwards, then I headed off to watch a friend of mine do stand up. Larry did an awesome show, and had the audience in laughter and tears (not crying tears, laughign tears) all night long. After the show, some friends came back to my place and we sat around and chatted and got pleasantly wasted (my friend Gary has nick-named my apartment "Ashterdam", as its one of the few places he can do this indoors).

After everyone headed out, I decided to try out my whirlpool bathub for the first time. Whirlpool bathtubs are incredible, and thats putting it lightly. I love these things! I loaded the tub up with bubble bath, assuming that the whirlpool jets would likely cause the bubbles to grow pretty high. I assumed it might be a problem, but I wanted to test the theory out, rather than be the wussy guy who was afraid to add bubble bath to his whirlpool "in case something bad happens".

Sure, the bubbles did get high, but it was pretty cool anyway, and no damage was done. Now that I am used to having a whirlpool tub, I don't know if I can live without one in the future.
Saturday was more moving (just a few boxes, a microwave, etc.) followed by a mid-day bath in the whirlpool (a great way to relax, by the way). Later in the day, some more friends dropped by (Kim and Peter), and we sat and had a nice chat. After they left, I went and had another whirpool bubble bath.

Sunday came pretty early for me - 10:30 am. This might not seem early to you, but I had been up until 4:00 am that morning, so it felt pretty damned early to me. It was Kim on the phone, asking me if I wanted to come out for breakfast. Even though I was tired, I really wanted to go out for breakfast, so I tagged along.

Overall, it was a fantastic weekend, and I love my new place. I may have an unhealthy addiction to whirlpool bubble baths, but apart from that, everything else seems great.

Don't Read This

There's are a large number of sexual slang phrases out there: Hot Carl, Philly Steamer, Dirty Sanchez, and more (if you really have to know what they mean, then google them). I've come up with one of my own that I would like to put out there. Please feel free to use this term, and spread it around to your friends, coworkers, and family.

Warning - what you are about to read is really, really, really fucking gross. If you are the kind of person who gets annoyed at people who use the word "cunt" lightly, then don't read any further, you silly cunt.

Chocolate Snowflake: In order for a chocolate snowflake to occur, a man must be having anal intercourse with someone (gender does not matter). After ejacualtion, he digs two fingers into the semon-filled rectum, and scoops out the contents. He then flicks his wrist, splattering the contents of his fingers onto the back of his sexual partner. The patterns created across the back are referred to as "chocolate snowflakes".

There you go. Told you it was sick. So, please be sure to spread this phrase around your local bars, hotel lobbies, street corners, churches and synagogues. If someone asks you where you heard such a disgusting thing, refer them to my blog. Thank you, and have a great cunting day.