Humour

**** WARNING **** THE FOLLOWING POST DETAILS INFORMATION REGARDING TO ASH'S SENSE OF HUMOUR, WHICH HE BELIEVES TO BE WELL-DEFINED, ERUDITE, AND PERFECT. IF YOU SHARE ASH'S SENSE OF HUMOUR, THEN YOU ARE WELCOME TO CONTINUE READING. IF YOU DO NOT THINK ASH IS FUNNY, THEN HE HEAPS DERISION AND SCORN UPON YOU, AND URGES YOU TO GO READ THE LATEST EDITION OF FAMILY CIRCUS.

I consider humour and comedy to be a large part of my life - definitely one of my defining characteristics (along with intelligence, fashion sense, and a humble and self-effacing charm). My sense of humour is well-developed and defined, and I love performing improv, as this gives me a chance to exercise my comedic skills in a controlled environment.

Naturally, I didn't develop in a vacuum; there have been a number of influences that have had their jocular way with me, and have helped me develop my sense of humour. I'm listing these influences here, in order of importance.

Monty Python: No one else has influenced me more than Monty Python. Above all, my sense of humour, and indeed life philosophy, has been modified and nurtured by this fantastically talented crew. It was Python who taught me that there is humour in insanity. Who else would show you a forest glade, filled with peaceful forest creatures, and over the course of a show, blow them up, one by one, for no adequately explained reason?

They also showed me how humour could be blindingly witty and intelligent. I learned most of what I know about philosophy merely to be able to understand some of their jokes. I realized from an early age that I would have to learn a lot about the world around me, because you can't make fun of something you don't understand (well, ok, you can, but you're usually the one who ends up looking stupid).

From the ridiculous to the sublime, from the heights of intelligence to the bottoms of ridiculous body noise humour, Monty Python established not only the boundaries of my sense of humour, but also the zones, provinces, and territories.

John Cleese: My choice of John Cleese might seem redundant ... after all, I just talked about Monty Python, right? Well, not only was Cleese (in my not-so-humble opinion) the driving creative force behind the troupe, he also did brilliant work on his own. Fawlty Towers was a brilliant show, with intelligently crafted characters. One of my favourite bits was the hotel sign itself, which reads "Fawlty Towers". After a few episodes, the sign starts to change, and the letters rearrange themselves. They never reference this fact, and they never explain who is mysteriously altering the sign. Alternate signs read as follows:

1. Farty Tower

2. Warty Towels

3. Flay Otters

4. Fatty Owls

5. Flowery Twats

(this last one is fucking brilliant)

Mr. Cleese is also responsible for the brilliant "A Fish Called Wanda", which is second only to "The Princess Bride" as one of my favourite movies of all time.

Dave Allen: Dave Allen was an Irish comedian (geez, a lot of UK comedians here, eh?) who had a show called "Dave Allen at Large". I watched this show religously as a kid. It was a mixture of sketches, interspersed with Mr. Allen telling jokes, as he smoked a cigarette and drank his martini. Dave Allen had a wickedly dry sense of humour; he would tell the most amazingly hilarious joke, and rarely laughed or cracked a smile. If a joke was utterly hilarious, he might allow himself a rare half-grin.

Dave taught me the value of dry humour - if you crack a joke and laugh along with everyone else, that's one thing. But if you can crack a joke, and keep a straight face while everyone else is laughing their bags off, then the joke itself is somehow even funnier. I don't pretend to understand it, but that's the way it is.

Douglas Adams: Douglas Adams (hey, another Brit) is the author of the incredible Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (A Trilogy in Five Parts), a series of books that I adore. Not only are they hilarious, but they also contain cleverly concealed bits of philosophy and an intelligent world view. These books have not only helped form my sense of humour, but also my life philosophy. He is, naturally, one of the single greatest influences on my writing style.

The books were amazing. The British produced TV series and radio program were fantastic. The American-produced movie blows Arcturan Megadonkey.

Alan Alda: Yay, finally an American made the list! Alda, in his role as Hawkeye Pierce on M*A*S*H had a huge effect on me as a kid. I learned a great deal about delivery and timing, as well as the strengths of silly humour and intellectual humour. Also, it was Hawkeye that first introduced me to the next individual on my list.

Groucho Marx: Good God, what can I say about this man? His wit was sharper than any other individual I have ever encountered. His wit was truly frighteningly sharp, and he could come up with some of the most incredible material you have ever seen. Even though those old Marx Brothers movies don't really stand up to today's society (which is sad), they are brilliant and incredible, and are definitely worth revisiting.

Batman: That's right, you heard me, Batman. Not the movies, but rather the incredibly funny 1960's TV show. This show taught me about camp humour. I found myself watching this show, and laughing, even though it appeared to be an action program. I realized right away that the humour was deliberate; they were gently making fun of this genre by indentifying and emphasizing its elements to catapult them into the realms of humour.

Camp is generally seen as a very sophisticated form of humour, which is probably why the majority of North Americans didn't even realize that Batman was a comedy program. Another good example of camp humour can be found in the Brady Bunch movies.

Peter Cook: Peter Cook could pour more derision and contempt into a single world than most people could put into an entire book. His sense of humour was so dry and brittle that it seemed like it could snap at any moment. And yet, he had an incredibly appealing sense of the ridiculous, and could be playful and light as well.

And now, finally, a list of incredibly funny people/troupes that I love. I can't say they were an influence on my sense of humour, as they came along too late, but still, they have created some of the funniest shite I have ever encountered.

Family Guy: Brilliant. Like Python, they run the gammut from low-brow fart jokes to eriudite social commentary. Watch this show.

Kids in the Hall: The Canadian Heirs to the Python legacy.

Soap: Utterly hilarious. They not only lampooned the soap opera standards, but also introduced much in the way of social commentary and intelligent discourse. This show, like WKRP in Cincinatti, was cancelled while in the Top 10, because of pressures brought to bear by the fucking Moral Majority. Fuck you, Moral Majority. I hope someone fucks you up the ass, and you go to hell as a sodomite.

WKRP in Cincinatti: Incredibly real and compelling characters, placed in situations that were simultaneously real and fantastic. Amazing writing.

Red Dwarf: The Brits are Back! Red Dwarf is a television show and a series of books. Similar to Hitchhiker's Guide in that it takes place in space, the show offers some brilliant writing and very memorable characters.

The Simpsons: You've seen it. 'Nuff said.

Creative Pause (Paws?)

I've found myself in a bit of a creative Sargasso. You see, I'm currently sharing accomodations with some people who, God love them, can be so annoying you want to smack them with a wet towel. People who cannot seem to understand the simplest concepts of privacy.

In this location, writing tends to be a bit of an annoying process. Despite my pleas, there there are various interruptions from people who can't seem to understand that writing is not like doing the dishes. You can't just stop, do something else, and come back in half an hour to pick up where you left off. For every interruption, for every delay, you lose material and ideas, which will never come back to you again.

When I am writing, I chafe at every delay. Each and every single interruption, even if only for a few moments while someone asks if I know where the TV remote control is, pisses me off to a huge degree. I have spoken to these individuals, and explained my feelings. And yet still, when I am writing, I am interrupted.

Why can't they understand even the simplest of concepts? If am I writing, don't talk to me unless it is an emergency. Do not knock on my door to tell me someone is on the phone for me. That’s why I bought a fucking answering machine. Do not ask me if I want a cup of tea. Do not remind me that tomorrow is garbage day. Just don’t fucking talk to me.

In fact, do not interrupt me unless my fucking cat is on fire (even then, you should try to put out the cat first, and if successful and the cat was only lightly singed, do you really need to bother me about it right now?).

So, when I found out about this apartment I'm hoping to get, I made myself a promise. I would not do any further work on my novel until I am in my new place. This might seem a bit extreme, but there was a reason apart from the annoyance factor.

In my novel, I have reached a point where I am unsure of what happens next. Everything I have written down thus far as been as a result of weeks of thought and planning before I sat down to write it. I find that I work best when I don't actively think about the work, but rather plot and plan subconsciously. I let things percolate and stew in my brain, and sooner or later I know it’s done, and I'm ready to start writing again.

Quite often, I dream of a perfect plot point, and wake up and hurriedly write down my notes before I lose the memories. Other times, I am doing something mundane (walking, driving, etc.) when an idea just comes to me, and I have to write it down or voice record it to make sure I don't forget.

So I am in one of those "building" phases. I do have ideas I could be writing, but I need to allow them to mix and mingle and process before putting them down on paper. Once I have moved, and I am afforded the inestimable luxury of privacy, I am sure it will be time to get back to the keyboard and start writing again.

Feelin' Like a Pool

As a part of my plan to lose weight and get healthier, I’ve decided to start swimming again. First off, it’s a great exercise, and a very effective way to get in shape and drop the pounds. Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, I really enjoy swimming. It’s the one exercise that I love doing, each and every time. Thirdly, there’s a great pool just down the street, and more importantly, right across the street from the place I want to move to. Talk about convenient! If I get this apartment (still waiting to find out, btw), I can literally just walk across the street to go swimming.

So, today I went swimming. I got there early, and hit the water right at the pool opening time. I swam a few laps (ok, 2 laps) before getting tired, then rested and swam 2 more. As I’m gaining my breath, some more people started to come in, and they began swimming too. One lady decided to swim in the same lane I was swimming in, so I would wait patiently for her to get ahead of me, and then I would swim behind her.

She starts giving me dirty looks whenever we pass. So, naturally, I grin really widely at her and nod, hoping this will piss her off even more. Obviously, I’m doing something that annoys her, but I didn’t give a shit. The way I figure it, I’m probably disobeying some kind of unwritten pool rule about lane usage. However, she can see that I’m new here, and any idiot should be able to figure out that I might be unaware of this rule.

She was presented with 2 options. She could introduce herself, say hello, and gently and kindly explain the pool rules to me, so that I would be informed, and stop pissing her off. That’s the adult way. Or, she could just glare at me every time we passed, like a petulant, pathetic fucking child, which is the way she chose. So, considering that she was a irritable, dismal fucking bitch, I had no problem trying to annoy her further.

After I was done (for those of you who are interested, I did 6 laps in 10 minutes, and was exhausted) I got out of the pool. One of the lifeguards explained the pool rule for me (swim out in the middle lane, swim back in the outside lane), and I thanked her for letting me know.

The moral of the story is this: if you’re an ill-tempered, cantankerous old twat, you can just go fuck yourself.

Suck it Up

Last night, my friends and I used our karaoke powers for evil. Here's the skinny: There's a guy who comes to our karaoke bar who, for the sake of protecting the innocent, I'll call Jeff (Jeff is actually his real name; he's just not particularly innocent). Now Jeff is an ok guy for the most part - I used to like him. Sure, he's stupid (his IQ exceeds his belt size, but only by 7 points), but I can deal with that. And, yes, he's a drunk (during which time his IQ drops down to 3 points lower than his shoe size), but that's ok, I can deal with that. Oh, yeah, and he's a coke head (unless he likes to go into a one-toilet bathroom with 3 other guys for some other form of recreational activity). And while he is a passable singer when sober, when he gets drunk and coked up, he sings like an asthmatic Jabba the Hut. He also, incidentally, has the annoying habit of choosing to sing songs that I like, and doing them very, very poorly. For instance, he likes to sing the song Brandy by Looking Glass. When he sings the line "Brandy, you're a fine girl", the mental image that is conjured up by his tortuous rendition of the song is that of a toothless, withered hag, smoking a stunted black cigarello, with a tattoo of a dead fish on her stomach.

So, last week on our way back from the football game (Hamilton beat Montreal, proving inconclusively, and for all time, that I am petty enough to give a shit), Cokey McCokeHead (as I like to call him) takes my friend Gary aside, and delivers a warning. Apparently, "some people" at the bar are sick and tired of people in my group singing songs from the movie "Chicago". Apparently, they don't like that music, and wanted us to stop singing those songs.

Now of course, considering that I am a sensitive and caring individual, my initial reaction was "fuck you, you tone-deaf, dripping syphilitic twat". I spoke with my friends, and announced my intentions for the next week. It was my plan to sing nothing but songs from Chicago for the entire evening, and others indicated their plans to join me. You see, once I learn that something irritates a jerk, I like to make sure that I continue to do that something. If jerk's could produce pearls, I'd be rich by now.

So, last night finally came. Sure enough, Jeff was there, at the bar, pretty much already drunk by 9:30 pm. I was the third singer, and I got up and sang "All I Care About". Then Bernie followed, singing "When You're Good to Mamma", followed by Peter, who sang "Mr. Cellophane". Co-incidentally, all three of these songs come from the movie Chicago. It was a coincidence, I swear.

Apparently, Jeff stormed out of the bar shortly thereafter, and was heard to remark "I'm never fucking coming back here again." A comment which, by the way, was not greeted with any particular degree of dismay. In fact, quite the opposite.

The rules for karaoke are fairly simple. One of these rules is that you should always clap for other singers, no matter how good or bad they might be. Its nice to support people. Wait your turn. And one of the major rules is this: No matter how much you might hate a song, you have no right to dictate someone else's choice of music. If you don't like it, suck it up.

Fuck you, Jeff.

Now, on an unrelated note, Peter made a lady vomit last night. Well, when I use the term "lady", I actually mean "drunken bar fly". Barb is a regular at the bar, and possesses somewhat of an ... interesting personality. Our first encounter with her was when she informed Bernie that she shouldn't sing a particular song because it was about something dirty. You see, the song is about a pussy cat, who gets overheated, shaved, and soaked, and contains lyircs such as "hot, bald, wet pussy".

Now, apparently, Barb felt that these kinds of lyrics were certain to cause problems in a bar filled with truck drivers, factory workers, and cocaine addicts. Good people, but definitely not the kind of crowd that one might label as "sensitive". You know, the kind of folks who think its ok to: tell off-colour jokes in public; fart in an elevator; or punch someone in the face if he or she happens to disagree with your opinions on off-coloured jokes and farting.

Bernie told Barb that, as far as she was concerned, the song was about a cat. If she felt the song was about anything else, then that was just her dirty mind conjuring up images. I told Bernie that I would have just told her to fuck off, and that I'll sing about cunts if I want to. That's right, I said cunt. Suck it up.

So, back to Peter, and how he made Barb vomit. Peter likes to smoke cigars, mostly because he is just that kind of manly, mature male who likes things like cigars, motorcycles, and being spanked during bathtime. He has some rather nice cigars he picked up in Cuba, and headed outside to smoke one.

Now Barb was outside smoking a cigarette, and digesting her ninth vodka and orange juice (which was being kept company by 4 beers, a burrito, and 2 ounces of Norwegian semen), and she and Peter sat together. At one point in their conversation, she asked Peter if she could smoke his cigar. Peter assumed she was talking about the Cuban, and handed to her.

Later, Peter claimed that he wondered briefly if he should warn Barb not to inhale, but assumed that an adult would already know this. Apparently, this was not the case, as Barb inhaled, and immediatley vomitted onto the sidewalk/road (for those who are interested in this kind of thing, thats where I learned about the burrito. The semen, I just assumed). As she later claimed, the vomitting incident had nothing to do with the copious amounts of alcohol she had consumed, but rather with the harsh and nauseating sensations which accompany the inhalation of a cigar. Now I, for one, tend to agree, because she drinks like that all the time, and I've never seen her vomit before.

When I heard the news, I had to come outside to see for myself. Barb was standing a few feet away, explaining to everyone that it was the cigar, not the alcohol, and Peter was seated by himself, looking rather embarrased. I told him that, as far as I was concerned, the entire box of cigars had just paid for itself, which made Peter giggle. Then I told him I was serious, and that he could probably write the entire box off as an entertainment expense. This made him laugh louder, and he asked me not to make him laugh anymore, because he didn't want to upset Barb.

You see, Peter's that kind of guy. He's nice. And considerate. And I love him for it. Me? I'm an asshole.

Fuck you, Barb.

Dieting: Week Four

STARTING WEIGHT: 281.6 pounds
THIS WEEK’S CHANGE: - 2.6 pounds
TOTAL WEIGHT LOST: 15.6 pounds
CURRENT WEIGHT: 266.0 pounds

I've had a fairly good week, diet wise, but there have been ... issues. I miss chicken wings more than ever. I've made a promise to myself: when I hit 240 pounds, I'm going to have a big plate of chicken wings - at least 2 pounds. That makes me happy.

House Hunting

So I find myself sitting back and ruminating (as in thinking, rather than cud chewing) about my life, and wondering how I got so lucky. Lately, things have been just going my way - at work, I received a raise, I got a great bonus, and (totally to my surprise) I now have a new schedule, and get weekends off.

In my personal life, things are also going well. Theatre Nefarious is taking of slowly, but surely. The screenplay I am writing with Craig is going beautifully, and I am learning a great deal from him. My novel is also going swimmingly, and I've so far produced just over 25,000 words.

To top things off, I may have found my perfect apartment. It was my intention on Tuesday to start driving around at random in various neighbourhoods, looking for those great, unadvertised properties that you sometimes find in a duplex or triplex. On Monday night, I was giving a friend a ride home when he told me that there were units available in the triplex he lives in.

I checked the first apartment out, and while it was a tad small and a bit odd (bathroom right of the living room, for example), it was certainly reasonably priced. We checked out the basement storage area, and Ron (my friend) told me there was an apartment in the back. I couldn't imagine wanting to live in a grotty basement, but he told me to reserve judgement until I had viewed the apartment.

He was right. The place is great - larger than the other, with a nicer layout. It's a bi-level, with the basement in the living room and the rest of the property on the first floor. Best thing is, the living room looks like the Brady's rec room - like something straight out of the 70's, including cheesy built-in bar. I fell in love.

Tonight, I will find out if the place is mine. I'm teaching a class first, and then heading straight over to talk to the landlord. If he likes me, and is willing to negotiate the price, I just might up end up with a new place to live.

Of course, there is also the adage warning agains counting chickens before they hatch, so I'm not getting my hopes up too high.

The Theatre Responds

So I got a response from the movie theatre today. I'll post it here for your amusement.

You recently asked Famous Players for a response to a comment or question you submitted in our Feedback Zone. Please click the link below, and youwill see our response. Thank you for taking time to share your views andfeedback with us.

http://tinyurl.com/ckg5k

I'm not particularly surprised. If you don't want to follow the link (or if it evaporates after a week or 2), here's what the message said.

Dear Garry,

Thank you for your email. We are sorry to hear that you did not fully enjoy the film "Doom". Please note that Cineplex Entertainment is only an exhibitor of films and has no control over the film's storyline or the work of the director. We suggest bringing your concerns about the film to the attention of the film's distribution and/or production company, Universal Pictures. In future, please note that our theatres do offer a refund of your ticket price within the first 30 minutes of the film, if the film is not to your liking.

Regards,
Guest Services

Night of the Living Rant

< ---!Begin Rant!--->

Ok, I have a few things that I would like to get off my chest. First, the movie Doom. If you have not yet seen this movie, then I urge you, for the sake of your very soul, refrain from doing so. To say that this movie was shit is to sully the good name and reputation of shit.

To begin, it was completely and utterly filled with standard bullshit stock characters, with no deviation, no variation, and no identifiable human characteristics. You could pluck any one of these characters out of the movie and plop it down into any other piece of crap without any real noticeable effect. Secondly, the movie almost mirrors the plotline of Aliens. Every beat is the same. While Aliens had some validity as a movie, Doom reads worse than the worst high-school amateur film production. The dialogue could have been generated by a fucking computer, assuming it was a particularly retarded computer.

When I got home, I wrote a letter to the theatre (which, in the interests of anonymity, will be referred to as Silver City Burlington, which is its real name). This is the letter:

I recently attended your theatre to watch a movie called Doom. While I found your attendants whimsical and charming, I'm afraid I cannot say the same for the movie. Doom not only failed to live up to my already low expectations, but also actually caused me to renegotiate my entire estimation of what could be considered a bad movie. While normally I might rate a move on a scale of 1 to 10, in the case of Doom I'm afraid the only rating that comes to mind is "suckass".

The movie was directed by Andrzej Bartkowiak, who, as far as I can see, probably never actually showed up on any of the days of filming. I prefer to believe that, rather than to accept the possibility that someone of even remotely human ancestry could regard that pile of vomitous celluloid pus as anything other than an abomination, better sealed in an iron safe, which was then welded shut and dropped off the side of a ocean liner overtop of the deepest sub-oceanic trench than to ever be shown to another human being again.

If, in fact, Mr. Bartkowiak actually did actively direct this movie, then I am pleased to announce that he has been voted in as the honourary King of the Suckweasels, and will hold the position for the rest of his life.

While it is normally not my habit to complain to the theatre simply because a movie they show is bad, in this case I simply had to make an exception. After all, if I order a meal in a restaurant, and it later causes me to vomit blood and shoe leather, I would definitely say something to the restaurant owners. While, in this case, the eye-poison that was Doom caused no directly visible physical symptoms or manifestations, it has, I suspected, polluted my very soul.

Yours sincerely,


Garry Sled

And now, ladies and gentleman, my next rant. This one is kind of a rant-by-proxy, as its about something that happened to my friend Anna. She goes to the McDonalds near where we work quite often. Now Anna is a bit of a weird duck (yes you are!), and she likes to have Big Mac special sauce (which, I suspect, is thousand islands dressing mixed with heroin) on her Big Extra burger.

Now, this is not a problem at any McDonalds, except for the one near our work. There, they seem to feel that the very idea of polluting the pure ambrosia that is the Big Extra by cross-pollinating it with Big Mac special sauce is not acceptable. In fact, they refused to do so when requested, stating that to add the special sauce to the Big Extra would somehow magically fucking transform it into a Big Mac. Despite the clear difference in (a) the size, and (b) the number of the burger patties. Oh, and the extra fucking piece of bun in the middle, you encephalic register monkeys.

So the staff there will only provide the Big Mac special sauce on the side. Clearly, if such an evil and vile act as violating the individualized Burger Sanctity of a specially designed, crafted, prepared and presented McDonalds burger is about to take place, the staff at the Burlington McDonalds clearly wishes to distance themselves from said act, and to register their vote of silent protest.

Clearly, people work at this McDonalds because they lack the organizational and professional skills to succeed as a newspaper delivery person.

< ---!End Rant!--->

Theatre Nefarious Class

Theatre Nefarious (the Theatre Company that I am Artistic Director for) offers an Open Improv class every Monday evening. We had a great class on Monday; nine people showed up, which is a new record for our class. We’ve had some small class sizes for quite some time, but that’s to be expected. It takes time for the word to get out, and for people to get used to the idea, rearrange their schedules, etc.

When I took over as Education Director at the Staircase, the average drop-in class size was 5-6 people, but after a few months of consistently good classes, the numbers started to swell. We got up to the point where we were getting 15-20 people every week, and sometimes 20+. Definitely a nice problem to have!

I wanted a fast-paced class, as well as to work on a little long-form, free form improv. We did some warm-ups, then broke into a loose long form. Things went well, there was some funny work, but I really wanted to stress speed and fast edits. We then did an exercise to build speed, and tried some more work.

Overall, I think everyone was happy – at least, that’s what people told me. I think the class went really well, and I can’t wait for next Monday!

Bullshit or Not?

Ok, I recently sent a message to an incredibly beautiful woman on a dating site (yes, I am on a dating site. Fuck you. No, fuck you!). Here is the message, verbatim. Please read carefully.

First off, let me say Don't worry, this is not a "hitting on you" kind of email. There's way too big an age difference between us for that. But I just wanted to tell you that I think that you are very beautiful. the picture of you with the baseball hat is incredible, and captures a wonderful essence that goes beyond your physical beauty.

I am honestly not saying that to hit on you. Of course, I know by saying that that I look like the kind of guy who says "Hey, I'm not hitting on you" and then hits on you. But I'm not that guy. Honestly.

For real.

Ok, no matter how much I say I'm not that guy, the more I look like that guy.

But I'm not.

Ok. *ahem* Well, time for me to hit the old dusty trail ...

So now, here's my question to you. Was I hitting on her, or not. Please vote by leaving a comment reading "True" or "Bullshit" at the top of the message. Tune in at a later date to vote on the question "Is Ash doing this just to get more comments or not?"

Search Engine Phrases

Search Engines are definitely useful. Hell, without them, the Internet would pretty much blow ass. One of the things I like to do for a larf is to check out the phrases people enter that have lead them to my website. I'd thought I'd share some of the better ones with you.

Phrase: melody grell blog breyer
Notes: As far as I know, I have never used the word "grell", prior to this, in my life.

Phrase: tim hortons fried or baked
Notes: I, for one, prefer to go baked.

Phrase: why dry humping feels good
Notes: I feel bad for the sad, lonely teen (or even sadder, lonelier adult) who typed this one in. Why? Because he/she is not terribly bright. It feels good because you're rubbing something up against your crotch, dumbass.

Phrase: males forced to pee
Notes: For the life of me, I cannot imagine a realistic situation in which a male would be forced to pee, apart from some comically ludicrous need to put out a fire. Even more alien to my thought processes would be the idea of going online to search for this kind of thing. If you want to watch guys pee, put a mirror on your watch and go to a public washroom, like my father did.

Phrase: my testicle pops out
Notes: Ha haa, haa haaah haaahhh eeeehhhh eeeh hhheeeh, snort, wheeze, giggle. Sucker.

Phrase: how to avoid heartattacks
Notes: Staying away from my blog would be a good first step. Oh, and stop eating handfuls of butter.

Phrase: how to clean eggs thrown at house off a window
Notes: This phrase is not terribly funny in and of itself, but I got a good giggle knowing that someone was searching it because they had eggs thrown at their window.

Phrase: lyndsey milf
Notes: Lyndsey is pretty hot.

Phrase: absorbine junior on genitals
Notes: Once again, the mind boggles as to exactly why someone is searching this phrase. Are they looking for a way to ease the pain, or some application tips?

By the way, not enough of you are using the Firefox internet browser. Its better than Microsoft's Internet Explorer (or, alternately, Microcrap's Intercrap Excrapper), its free, and using it pisses of Bill Gates. Three good reasons to give it a try.

And now, for my own amusement, a series of random words and phrases designed to piss off people who are searching for things online.

adult diaper rash
shaved testicles
poughty schoolgirls
free xxx hot action
george w. bush hot action nude hot tub party
mail order transvestite bride
pretty pussy cat in a tartan skirt

Teeny Rant

You know that commercial for Bailey's Irish Cream, where a group of neo-nazi beautiful people sit around a campfire, burning marshmellows over the fire then shoving the flaming little napalm balls into each other's drinks? I'd like to be there, set a marshmellow burning, and jam it in one of their eye sockets, pointy stick and all.

With a little caption underneath my picture, freeze-framed as the burning napalm stick pierces the ocular globe, that reads "Sense of Acrimony".

Football Follies

For the first time in my life, I have attended a CFL football game - Hamilton Ti-Cats vs. some teame from Montreal. It was a great game, and Hamilton won (which was great, as its my home town), and a fantastic way to break my football cherry (a process which, thankfully, does not involve my anus and a football).

I attended the game with some improv friends, which naturally means I'm going to have a great time (apart from myself, there were Bernie and Bear, Gary and Laura, and Cory). Going anywhere with a group of improvisers is like traveling with a pack of drunken monkeys. With cell phones. We all won free tickets from a bar we do karaoke at (Matt's Sports Cafe on Upper James in Hamilton), and went together on the big yellow bus.

The evening started off at Matt's for a few pre-game drinks, then it was on to the bus for a few pre-game drinks. We stopped off the beer store for a few pre-game drinks, and it was at this point that I christened Wally (the owner/operator of Matts) as the Beer Fairy.

We arrived at Ivor Wynne Stadium, and found our seats with little difficulty. It was glorious weather, 15 degrees Celsius (about 60 Fahrenheit for those still clinging to an outdated and illogical temperature measuring system --- oooh, burn), and I found myself feeling perfectly comfortable in my fleece hoody (in spite of my sworn resolution to never use the word "hoody", I was just too lazy to type out "fleece sweater with a hood") and gloves.

At the game, the Beer Fairy handed out - much to our surprise - free martinis, and thus was re-christened the Liquour Fairy (a name which, yes, has other connotations, but still was deserved). The Liquour Fairy even handed out olives with his martini's. You know, its the little touches that make for a special occasion.

There's a number of fun things you can do at a football game that you can't do at, say, Starbucks. One of them is yelling out 'MONTREAL SUCKS' at the top of your lungs, which is something I did several times. Not that I have anything against Montreal, mind you, but rather just because its fun to scream and yell.

At the game, we met Pigskin Pete. He's an elderly, somewhat rotund gentleman (who, now that I think of it, is shaped like a football) dressed in Ti-Cat colours (Yellow and Black) and wearing a bowler hat. Everyone cheered for him, and he lead our section in a rousing cheer: "Oskee-wee-wee" (which, I believe, is Ancient Hamiltonian for "I've drunk too much beer and have to piss".

I had just as much fun cheering for Pete as the rest of the crowd. After he left, I asked Gary (the resident football expert) just who Pigskin Pete was. I assumed he was a radio announcer, or a player from the old days, or some such. Turns out, he's just some guy that's been coming to like every game since 1951 or some such. Something tells me that, if he was ever married, he has long since been divorced.

After the game, it was back on the bus and heading off for home. We sang some songs, had some laughs, and gave the finger to cars behind us. We decided as a group that mooning was not a good idea at the time.

Back home, we headed over to Gary and Laura's for a post-game relaxing sing-a-long and general chat session. It was a pretty quiet gathering, very relaxed. Luckily, I didn't stay up too late, so I wasn't dead tired today.

Poppa

In my series on my grandparents, I bookended the not-so-good with the best. I started with my maternal grandmother, who was my favourite female grandparent, and I am ending with my step-grandfather, who was my favourite male. After my parents divorced, my dad remarried, and I had a good relationship with his wife. In fact, we were closer to each other than I was to him. I'll talk about her some other time though; for now I will talk about Poppa.

Poppa was one of those men who just had something special. Its a quality hard to define, but you know it when you see it. He was intelligent, if unlearned. Anyone who made the mistake of assuming he was stupid paid the price of his razor wit, or became the victim of one of his pranks. He was a very capable man, one of those people who could build a deck from scratch but also figure out how to repair the television when it broke.

Now, you have to remember, when Poppa needed a deck built, he didn't build it himself. He had a tongue that would do Tom Sawyer proud. On so many occassions I watched him talk people into doing his labour for him. I was always so proud when he did that. The best part was, most of the time afterwards, the people who did all the work would feel like they owed Poppa a favour.

Considering he was so good at practical jokes, I once went to him for some advice. There was this guy see - Neil - at school, and I hated him. I asked Poppa what I could do to get back at him. His advice was simple: "Tell everyone his dick tastes salty". Needless to say, I didn't follow his advice.

He was a very strong man, moreso emotionally and intellectually than physically, and someone that I count myself lucky to have known. He died of respiratory difficulties, most likely brought on by a life time of smoking. I was with him on his last day, standing around the bed in the hospital room, with my stepmother and her sisters all around.

He told us that he could die happy if he knew that just one of his children would quit smoking, and learn something from his example. If his dying could save one of them this agony, then he would gladly take the burden. It was a very emotionally charged moment for me, and I realized that he was telling the truth. If he could go back in time 40 years, and someone told him that he could continue to smoke and die, but if he quit, one of his children would smoke and die, he would continue to smoke.

None of his children quit smoking. I can't for the life of me understand why. In the first place, I quit smoking to honour the man, and his wishes. Any time I was ever tempted to have a cigarette, all I had to do was remember Poppa, and I was no longer tempted. Secondly, the man was sick. Very sick. I never want to have to go through what he went through.

If he knows that I learned from him, and honour his memory, I hope that this thought makes him happy.

A few months after his death, I went to see a psychic (a friend was paying). Now, I'm not normally the type of person who goes to see a psychic. In fact, I had never seen one before, and I have never seen one since. I came in off the street, had never met the psychic before, and he had no way of knowing anything about me.

He told me that I had a guardian - a spirit of a loved one that stayed with me, and watched over me, and protected me. He then proceeded to describe Poppa exactly. His height, his looks, everything about him. He told me that he was smiling, and had his arms around me.

That makes me very happy.

DIET: WEEK THREE

STARTING WEIGHT: 281.6 pounds
THIS WEEK’S CHANGE: - 2.0 pounds
TOTAL WEIGHT LOST: 13 pounds
CURRENT WEIGHT: 268.6 pounds

Traficking

Ok, so there’s this stoplight, right? It’s on Hamilton Mountain, at Upper Sherman and Mohawk road. Now this stoplight, like many others, has an advanced green signal. But unlike other, more sensible traffic lights, this freaking intersection keeps its advanced turn signal on 24 hours a day.

So if you’re heading west-bound on Mohawk road at 3:30 in the morning, and are unlucky enough to get caught by a red light at Upper Sherman, you will have to wait another 30 seconds for the advanced green signal for traffic going in the other direction. The advanced green signal helping out all the cars that aren’t there trying to turn. Because lord knows, if there were a car there waiting to turn, it would be utterly unable to do so thanks to the large lineup of vehicles, that consists entirely of my car and some bastard in a Volvo that’s 550 yards down the road behind me and won’t even make that light anyway.

The worst thing is, it’s been like this for seriously more than 15 years. You’d think that in 15 freaking years, some bozo in the City Works department would have noticed the light, and said “You know what? I don’t really think this intersection needs an advanced green signal between the hours of 1:00 am and 6:00 am. Let’s shut it off during that time.” I don’t know what they think; I can’t claim to be able to read the minds of civil servants. However, I am relatively certain that their thoughts are about neither civility nor service.

The universe has been fucking with me tonight. I’m doing pretty good about sticking to this diet thing. I’ve stayed within my limits, and I haven’t eaten a single chicken wing. Some people say, “Oh, just have one, that won’t hurt you”. Right. The problem is, it is actually impossible to eat only one chicken wing. Ask a quantum physicist, he’ll back me up on this.

Gary and I decided to go over to Matt’s Sports Bar, see if we could do some performance, sing a few songs, etc. Matt’s was closed, so I decided it would be fun to drive across the city to Cagney’s Pub – the pub my dad used to go to in order to drink and ignore his family. But I digress. We get there, and lo and behold, it’s freaking 25-cent wing night. Fuck me sideways.

I ignore the temptation, and Gary feels the need to point out the fact that it is 25-cent wing night, just in case I had managed to somehow miss the many signs, and what I needed at that moment was a gentle fucking reminder of yet another wonderful thing I can’t have because I’m on a diet. Then the waitress came over, took our drink orders, and she reminded me that it was 25-cent wing night.

Apparently, 25-cent wing night isn’t enough for Cagney’s. No, not by far. Thursday nights are $2.00 a pound wing night. No more tedious addition, a pound of wings for 2 lousy bucks.

I thanked the waitress, and informed her that I couldn’t have wings, as I was dieting. She suggested that I have the wings, but leave the sauce off. I kid you fucking not. I informed her that, in my opinion, it was not so much the thin tomato-based sauce that was the cause of problems, but rather the several long minutes the wings spent soaking in boiling hot fat.

Now to be fair, the annoying stoplight and the super-cheap specials on wings were the only really annoying thing that has happened to me tonight. I did a new piece of art that I really like, I added about 5,000 words to my novel, and I went out and saw a free comedy show at Slainte’s here in the city. Overall, a very productive and fun day.

But I wish somebody would fix that fucking stoplight.

New Tattoo

So, I’ve decided on a new tattoo. It’s an original piece, done by an artist I met online, who goes by the name sickntwisted. If you are a fan of movies like Corpse Bride or The Nightmare Before Christmas than you will likely enjoy her art. You can visit her website here: sickntwisted’s website.

This is the piece I will have tattooed onto my right inside forearm (yes, I have the artist’s permission). I’m going this because I need a reminder of Heather. Well, not so much Heather herself, but of the mistakes I made in my relationship with her. Yes, she is my ex. We used to live with each other, but she left me some time ago. I’m not too sure how long ago it was. A year and a half, or two and a half years, something like that. I don’t remember for sure the month, just that it was vaguely late winter/early spring.

I’m not one of these people who likes to celebrate “black” anniversaries. After all, I figure if something hurt me that badly once, why on earth would I go out of my way to relive the pain every year. The first pain you can’t avoid; it’s caused by someone else, and is beyond your control. The repeated annual wallowing in the misery is self-inflicted.

However, I feel it is important to learn from your mistakes – otherwise, what’s the point. I have learned from my relationship with Heather, and have made adjustments in my life. My first mistake was willful blindness. There were signs when she and I first started to connect. There were warnings, issues that came up that led me to believe that she was not the right match for me. But I deliberately shelved and ignored my concerns. I guess I was too afraid of being alone, and too afraid of never finding someone to permit myself the level of inspection that was required.

When Heather and I first met, she was dating someone else. He lived up north, about 2 hours drive from the city, and they saw each other only sporadically. At the time, I had no romantic inclinations towards her. Oh sure, I wanted to have sex with her, but those feelings were hardly sporadic. I also wanted to have sex with her best friend, with her mother, and with her brother’s girlfriend. I’m a guy. We want to have sex with pretty much every woman we meet.

We started to hang out together, saw a lot of movies, went for walks, etc. We were seeing each other more and more often, and I found myself thinking about her a lot. I knew I was running the risk of falling in love with her, but two things were holding me back. First off, she was seeing someone, and at the time I would not allow myself to break up a relationship by being an accessory to infidelity. Secondly, I was 15 years older than her (well, 14 years, three weeks and 21 days), and I wasn’t about to be the seedy old guy who went after the young girls.

After a while, Heather and her boyfriend broke up. She told me about it afterwards, as we were going for a walk up her street. She told me that he was broken up, and extremely sad. She told me that, before they broke up, she would hate how he always wanted to hold hands, and that she found that unattractive. He was the kind that wanted to cuddle and hug, and she thought he was weak. This bothered me, because I knew that I am the kind who likes to cuddle and hug, and hold hands as I walk with someone I care about. I knew that this was a fundamental difference in our personalities, and yet still I pushed that aside, and ignored those thoughts.

The second realization did not come until after we had broken up. I made the mistake of require too much from Heather. When we were apart, and we came together, I always showed Heather that I was pleased to see her, and make sure she knew that I missed her. She was not like this with me. We would be apart, pursuing different interests, and when I came to see her, she would continue what she was doing, talk with others, etc. for five or so minutes before coming to see me.

This bothered me a lot, and I tried to explain things to her. I told her that I needed her to be as happy to see me as I was to see her. When she did not do this, I would become sullen and upset, because my needs were not being met. I did not feel like I was important to her anymore. Now, bear in mind that at this time, I did not see what affect my needs were having on her.

We broke up on a Sunday evening. She had been out all day with her friends from the SCA (Society for Creative Anachronisms). While I was interested in joining myself, I could not at the time because improv was on Sundays, and I wanted to improvise more than I wanted to be in the SCA. I had gone home after my class, and was waiting for Heather to come home after the SCA meeting.

She called, and told me she was going out for dinner with her friends. We had been having a rough patch of the past few days, and I told her that I thought it was important that she come home so that we could talk. I wanted to get things out in the open, explain myself to her, and hear what she had to say, and try to come to an understanding. I felt that she did not understand how I felt, and I felt that I did not really understand how she felt.

She told me no, she did not want to come home yet, and that she was going out with her friends. I emphasized how important I felt our conversation was, but she was adamant. I capitulated, and said fine. I would come out for dinner with her, have a night out, and then we could talk at home later. She told me that frankly, she didn’t want me there, and hung up.

I was shocked, surprised, hurt, and very angry with Heather. I felt we had a real huge argument brewing, and I was stewing in my juices, waiting for her to come home so we could have it out. Bear in mind, I loved her as strongly as ever, and thought we were going to have a huge blowout, but the thought of leaving her – or of her leaving me – had never even entered my head. I’m like that. Once my love and loyalty have been given, they’re given forever.

She came back later that evening. Before I could even start, she told me she was leaving me. She was angry, and wasn’t going to listen to me. She told me that we were over, and she was going, and that was that. I was devastated, and her words broke me. Utterly. I wish I had been a stronger person, someone who could have stood up to that kind of pain, but I folded immediately. That much pain was too much for me. Needless to say, I didn’t exactly sleep that night.

The next day, after work, she came back to see me. She apologized, and told me that she didn’t want our relationship to be over. She cried, I cried, we kissed, and we made up. She told me that living away from home was too much on her. She didn’t like the stress of having to pay bills (the childish side of me has to point out that I not only provided the lions share of our incoming income, I was also the one who actually made sure the bills got paid), and having to worry about money. She told me she was going to move back home, but wanted to continue to see me, to date me.

She said she just wanted things to go back to the way they were before we moved in together. And I believed her.

Over the next few weeks, we walked together, we talked together, and we went out to see movies together. But she was distant. I was so afraid of losing her altogether that I didn’t dare question her, probe, and force her to give me solid answers. The frequency of her visits dropped off, and she didn’t stay as long as before. One day, she told me she did not want me to hold her hand anymore.

That’s when I knew it was over. But there was still one more hope. A foolish and vain hope, I admit. Before the breakup, we had planned on going on holiday together to the Chicago Improv Festival. We were going to go with Gary and Laura and some other friends. She didn’t want to come along, but I talked her into it.

In Chicago, I proved once again that I still had not learned my second lesson. The group of us were taking the El together, off down to see some shows. I told Heather that I wanted for the two of us to go together, and split off from the group, so that we could talk. She refused to go, and ran up ahead to catch up to them. The feeling of dark and black depression I felt at that moment was the worst moment of my life. I cannot express the depths of that emotion, the horrific bleakness and churning feelings of emptiness.

I guess that was pretty much it at that point. After a long, long while, the pain had faded enough for me to start to examine our lives together, and to figure out what I did wrong. That’s when I did learn my second lesson. My mistake was that I gave too much of myself to her, that I relied too much on her validation, her attention, and her love. In doing so, I was needy, and that neediness and perceived weakness is what drove her away.

In the long run, I came to see that we were not right together. I’m not getting all macho bullshitty and saying like I don’t miss her or that I’m better off without her. Not that. I am saying that our relationship could never have lasted, because I made mistakes, and she was not capable of dealing with my mistakes.

And like I said before, I don’t like to repeat my mistakes. So the tattoo goes on as a reminder, and as a memorial.

Three Men

Three Men stood on the corner, unsure as to their direction.

I call them Men, although there were but Boys, finding themselves suddenly in possession of Men’s bodies. They were tall and strong, and their voices had changed. They were much more than those a year younger than them, for they were still just Boys. Despite the October cold, they seemed comfortable in nothing but jeans and a simple t-shirt. That is how two of the Boys were dressed. The third, seeing as it was almost Hallowe’en, was dressed in a bear suit. Just the body. The hands and head had been discarded earlier in the evening, when it had become too warm at the party. He didn’t want his hands to sweat, or his hair to get too messy.

Three Men Stood on the Corner, Unsure as to their Direction.

To their right lay the all-night Indian food restaurant. The one who’s name I can never remember. I went there, once, years ago with a woman I once loved, who – like the food – had turned out not to be good for me. I don’t remember much about the food. It was average, mediocre, if slightly over-priced. The restaurant itself was rather inelegantly decorated, and reminded me of what it might be like to be invited to a Wedding Reception for an East Indian couple, who had been married in her parent’s rec room. Except there was no pool table.

To their left lay the late-night Adult video store. The place where some Men went to purchase videos and magazines that each Boy pretended to already be jaded by, but were in fact secretly fascinated with. Such plunder represented both an ascent into Manhood and a fall into perversion. Deep inside each Boy/Man, no matter how pure or chaste, is the secret feeling that even if it did grow hair on your palms, they'd still fucking do it. They’d just have to put up with the jokes. That, or buy more razors.

To turn to the left meant one might be labeled a pervert … or worse, a Pervert. To turn the right meant one might be labeled a Pussy. Was it better to be considered a Pervert or a Pussy? It was the kind of decision that might set the course for the next five years of your life. Of course, as somebody – I think it was my high school biology teacher – once said, there is a certain inevitable futility in indecision.

Three Men Stood On The Corner, Unsure As to Their Direction.

The One in the Bear Suit stood forward, taking bold steps towards the Adult Video Store. It was better to be hung as a lion than hung as a lamb. Thank you, High School Biology.

“You pussies coming?” he looked back with commingled pity and contempt.

The Two in T-Shirts looked at one another hesitantly, then stepped towards the Adult Video Store in unison. As a trio they marched, The One in the Bear Suit at the head. The store beckoned, offering an inviting warm neon flash, like an illicit kiss from the ruby red lips of your best friend’s mom, a stolen moment in the kitchen: “I’m a little drunk, honey. Don’t tell Daniel I did that”. The Adult Video Store offered frosted glass windows, that made one feel simultaneously like this was a bright and friendly place, while at the same time offering the gentle aegis of anonymity.

The soft electronic bell rang happily, announcing the arrival of three guests. The One in the Bear Suit stepped inside, sliding his glance off of the young man behind the register, only marginally aware of his feelings of tender contempt for this man; for while he was a customer interested in patronizing such an establishment, he was not in the same category as someone who must pull his wages from what was, when the chips were down, a Den of Inequity.

His gaze travels to the right, over magazines and oils guaranteed to heat up to a hundred-and-sex degrees upon vigorous stimulation (do not use if pregnant or suffering from an established heart condition). His eyes come to rest on a Behemoth, an oiled and gnarled Monstrosity that was the 14-inch rubber dildo, with real raised veins. Suddenly, six inches didn’t seem like such a big deal anymore. He stepped back involuntarily, stepping on the toe of One of the Two.

“Hey, guys, let’s go,” said the One in the Bear Suit. He turned, and stepped outside, the Two in T-Shirts much closer on his trail than when they had entered.

They walked away, back towards the All-Night Indian Food Restaurant.

“That place was weird,” said One of the Two.

“I saw you looking at that big purple Cock,” the One in the Bear Suit punched the One of the Two in the arm, playfully. “I saw you lick your lips!”

“Fuck you, you fag,” said the One of the Two as he shoved the One in the Bear Suit back.

Three Boys walked around Corner, Assured of their Direction.

Crystal Update

Novel: 11,865 words

Ok, I know its been awhile, but here are some more pictures of Crystal. Of course, I have to throw some of Ayla in there too, as she is just so darned cute!

Yes, I know, cats and dogs, living togther in sin. It's unholy.

God, that dog is cute.

Crystal loves to sleep on my computer monitor.

Crystal also loves to bite.

Paternal Grandparents

Continuing on with the grandparent theme, I am going to talk about my paternal grandparents. Robert and Ellen were, I believe, evil. I know that many people don't actually believe in evil, and instead point to upbringing or genetics. Whatever the reasons, I believe that some people are just plain evil.

The evil that was my grandfather was named Robert. I'm not going to go into pages and pages of examples of his evil, but I will summarize one here. When my father and his brothers were children, Robert would beat them. I have heard some horror stories in my life, but this man stands alone. He would come into their rooms while they slept, pick one of them up, and punch them in the face while he held them by the hair. He did not pull these punches. He did this to my father on more than one occasion, starting when he was seven.

Imagine, at the age of seven being sound asleep, then waking in pain, suspended by your own hair, as your father - the man who is supposed to cherish and protect you - punched you in the face as hard as he could. How could this be anything other than evil?

Ellen, my grandmother, was much more subtle. She practiced her evil ways by creating family wars. It wasn't until I was about 15 that I realized that she was deliberately causing fights in her family, whispering lies in her children's and grandchildren's ears, telling just enough of the truth to gain credulity.

In every generation, she would choose a favourite. She would treat her favourite like gold and all others like garbage. In my generation, the favourite was my cousin Rodney. When it came time for gifts, such as Christmas, she would by very different presents. I recall my 7th Christmas: the big thing at the time was Lone Ranger Action figures. She bought Rodney the entire set - everything. Lone Ranger, Silver, Tonto, his horse, all the extra weapons. Literally, everything. At the time, the value was over $200.00. Not bad for 1972.

I watched Rodney unwrap his presents with a mixture of envy and delight. Then Ellen handed me my present. It was small - about the size of a hardcover book (but thin). I unwrapped it, and it was the gun set for the Lone Ranger. Retail value: about 5 bucks. It might not sound like much, but that moment tore my heart out. While money should not be used to express love, in this case it obviously had been, and I was being told in no uncertain terms that I was not loved.

When my dad left us (I was 8), that was it for my contact with Ellen and Robert. They never - and I mean literally never - attempted to contact me or my sister again. Years later, after I had found my father again and was trying to build a relationship with him, I ran into her again. Apparently my stepmother was upset because Ellen (my cousin) had received a brand new ten speed bicycle for her birthday, while Lisa (my half-sister) had been given a card and $5.00.

When my father informed me that Robert had died, I just shrugged. My father got very angry at me, and told me that I was a cold-hearted person. I asked him how he expected me to feel. The man ignored my entire existence, and every story my father ever told about him contained horrific beatings. I told my sister Niki in private later that, as far as I was concerned, Robert had been an evil man, and the world was a better place with him out of it. Niki was young, and did not understand at the time.

Years later, when Ellen died, Niki took me aside at her funeral, and told me that as far as she was concerned, Ellen had been evil, and that the world was a better place with her out of it. She was old enough now to understand what I had meant earlier.

Robert and Ellen gave me one gift, for which I am incredibly thankful. They did not like me, and therefore they did not pay attention to me, and therefore they did not infect me with their particular brand of evil.