Monday, September 24, 2007

2 for 1

Two in one night - pretty good for a 37 year old (I mean posts - I can still go like a 15 year old, biotch! Sorry... just trying to get sassy with you, is all). Anyway, none of you will care, but this is the link to Tina Turner singing Edith and the Kingpin on the new Herbie album.

Deep thoughts for you and rages against Star Jones and Whoopi Goldberg, the asskissio of the new millenium

I am not sure I comprehend the basis of The Bachelor. I mean, they pick a dude, then a gaggle of bitches, in the true sense of the word, and they compete to marry him? Would you let your daughter go on that show to compete to marry a stranger? I sometimes let out a small sigh for the human race.
I think I just saw a commercial for the View and it looks like Star comes back for a visit? Am I right? I hope not. I refuse to watch it now that Rosie is gone, because Whoopi went from someone cutting edge and completly mental (remember the Ted Danson blackface thing?) to just a slimy ass-kisser. Whoopi Goldberg: Asskissio for the new millenium. Seriously, I thought she had good sense to start the Hollywood Squares thing, but that was so lame and safe and forced us to know Tom the host, one of the most annoying people this side of Andrew Ridgely, and that fucking gross hobbit Bruce Villanch, who you wouldn't even be able to roll in flour because he'd probably eat it first. So she lost street cred, and now she won't rock the boat, so fuck the whole lot of those fuckers. Well, except Joy. She's trapped there. But why they'd let that fucking frog-faced ass-licker Star back, even for one show, I don't know. And yes, I am being mean. I think the bitch can take it. I mean, you can keep your secretly stapled stomach to yourself, you can take a dose of the old JT verbal attack.
Anyway, I also sigh for humanity when I see Star Jones and her creepy husband. Star, I am pretty sure his next wife will be Liza, if you know what I mean. I'm not just being a blad clat either. I love what Kathy Griffin had to say about Star on Ellen last week. Ellen said she'd been the butt of all the jokes when she came out, so she knows what Britney feels, and Kathy said she only makes fun of people who bring it on themselves, and she said something like "I mean, I worked with Star Jones, she's a fucking bitch, let's be honest" or something, and damn, I fell in love with her right there. Kathy, you had me at fucking bitch!

On a completely different note, I have some questions I wonder about, and wonder if you think of them too:

Do you ever worry that the juice that you buy is made up of fruit that is so ugly and shitty that it is only juice because it can't be sold? I worry about that sometimes.
Do you ever wonder what all those stock people are doing on the exchange floor when they are yelling and signaling? I wonder who knows what they are doing and saying and if it means anything.
Do you ever wonder if Hillary Clinton ever covers herself in oil and rides Bill like a bronco? I somehow don't think she's seen a penis since The Crying Game.
Do you ever wonder why Oprah gets so lumpy and ropey, even when she has that dude on staff to keep her skinny? Bitch needs a Mike Holmes to give Bob a kick in the arse.
Do you ever wonder why Goodhost Iced Tea isn't sold in America?
Do you ever wonder how much tongue Eddie Van Halen really has left?
Do you ever wonder if Whoopi sort of stinks down there?
Do you ever wonder why we are putting all this money into space travel when people are starving, dying without health care, killing themselves in gang fights, and robbing each other? Do you ever wonder what we could accomplish if we did things for the right reasons?
Do you ever wonder what would have happened if the Beatles didn't break up?
Do you ever wonder if Michael Jackson and Pricillia Presley go to the same surgeon?
Do you ever wonder how much earwax you actually have in your ears?
Are you as preoccupied as I am about the sudden colony collapse syndrome or whatever it's called that hits all the beehives? I'm pretty freaked by it, and I am not joking.
Do you wonder why on earth Eddie Murphy and that Spice Girl slept with each other and can you picture them doing the deed?
Do you wonder why Eddie keeps doing these strange Norbit type of movies?
Do you sometimes wonder about all the weird flaws on your body?
Do you think it's best to win over a raging bitch by killing her with kindness, or being antagonistic and not playing that game?
Do you wonder what made the bitch a bitch instead of just reacting?
Does everyone have issues with their childhood? Will our kids be the same?
Does everyone who custom builds a kitchen include an appliance garage and a pantry?
Do you believe that the freaky little symbol on the old Proctor and Gamble boxes in the 70s really were satanic?
Do you not capitalize satan just to score some points with the man upstairs?
Do you get freaked at the thought of both creamation AND burial?
Do you think that the world will run out of bananas in your lifetime, like they say might happen?
Do you wonder if Ghostbusters killed the career of Ray Parker Jr.?
Do you wonder what happened to people like Ray and wonder what they are doing now?
Do you think the lead singer of REO Speedwagon was just the grossest looking person this side of Geddy Lee?
Do you think that your aversion to REO was really because you loved Journey and considered REO as a threat to Journey's quest for superstardom?
Do you ever wish someone would release something comparable to Escape and Frontiers and Raised on Radio nowadays?
Do you ever wonder what aspartame is doing to our colons?
Do you wonder what the hell is up with Dr. Oz's shoes?
Do you think you'd actually spray your shower with daily shower spray shit, if you actually had it handy?
Do you think the shit would streak if you did spray it?
And finally, do you think that you are the only person who thinks these things?

Anyway, after all that free association, I will leave you with the Hutterites. May the good Lord bless you and keep you well during the coming full moon.

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Would Blad Clats increase your risk of toxic shock syndrome? Discuss.

Ahoy you crazy blad clats out there in radioland! Well.. ok, I'm not peppy at all tonight. In fact, I am ready for bed and I have nothing to say. At all. But for some reason, here I am. I just poured myself a well-deserved glass of Jesus juice, so maybe that will make the inspiration flow, but really, I expect it to just make me sleepier.
And what is a blad clat you ask? Well, if you haven't heard of it, you don't watch "My Life on the D List". This week, Kathy went to England and before she went on tv they gave her a list of words not to say and that was on there. So, the funny thing was that nobody she asked knew what it meant either. I googled it and got one definition from some "urban dictionary" that said it was Jamaican for "blood cloth", a cloth used to wipe the vagina, and that blad clat is the biggest insult you can give a Jamaican man. So like, if you said "Hey Ziggy Marley, you ain't nothing but a ganga smoking blad clat", you would totally dishonour him. Of course, the definition could be completely wrong because it's one of those sites where people put their own definitions a la something wiki, and the "featured" definition flashing above that one was for a "hot and cheesy" which was some convoluted thing where you wear a sweat sock and get it all sweaty and then apparently you are supposed to fill it with hot nacho cheese and then put your cock in it and then slap someone on the head with it. I don't even pretend that I understand any of it. I don't know what in the hell these kids are up to today - can't they just get really drunk and moon people instead of getting cheese and socks involved in their shenanigans?
So anyway, now that I explained all of that, I have nothing else to say. It started off as one hell of a day, with a huge parental crisis, but I don't have the energy to go into it because the back story would take pages to explain. Anyway, it's all good now. I ended up going for breakfast with my dad and it made his day and that was so sweet. And the whole story has its roots in my nephew, little Lord Fuantleroy, who I was going to email and say what I really have been meaning to say to him, but not right now, not when I am mad, and also because I don't even know if I should stir the pot. Dont worry Chunks, I'll spill the whole story, but just not now because as I said, it's too long and complicated. LOL, I need to find a way to condense things, like soup... because I am always so frigging long winded.
HEY! Did I tell you I've been boycotting Tim Hortons this week? Well, it began last week I guess. I was going for coffee with some former coworkers and we usually go to Tims, but the service is just so shitty that after 10 minutes in line we said "so...... you wanna try the new coffee place?" and boom we walked out and haven't been back. And I love the new place too. Not quite as delicious as Tims, but you know, I am almost cured of that crack anyway. As my homey Michael Moore would say "Its about the caffeine, stupid!"
So Joni's new album hits the stores on Tuesday. Did I tell you I've been privy to it for the past month? Well, I have. It won't win any new fans, that's for damn sure, but it's a damn sight better than most of her output in the past decade, so it's a plus for the fans. She returns to the piano finally, which is awesome. But I am almost more excited for the new Herbie Hancock album, also out on Tuesday, called "River: The Joni Letters" or something - where he does all Joni songs with a bunch of guest vocalists. I've heard Tina Turner's version of Edith and the Kingpin and it's awesome. But none of you care about that shit anyway, so I'll shut up.
I am also reading the best frigging book right now. It was written by the wife of our former mayor, who was raised in a Hutterite colony until she was 12. It's so good and I can't put it down, and I so expected it to be just terrible, and it's incredibly well-written. It's called "I am Hutterite" by Mary-Ann Kirkby. Go read it. Well done, Mary-Ann.
And speaking of Hutterites and all their children, someone asked me the other day about when we are going to have another baby and so I said "I dunno, pretty soon maybe" and then I got the whole "OH! 4 KIDS... blah blah blah" and whatever and I just wanted to say "it is none of your fucking business and I think your only child is fucking cruel" but I didn't, but you know what? I have 3 kids. When you have 3, you can handle one more, and if we decide to have another, it's nacho fucking business, Emilio. I am so sick of people acting like we are fucking Ma and Pa Kettle. I come from 4 kids. It wasn't hideous. Shut the fuck up. And maybe all those people with one kid only have one because they have their fucking blad clat stuck up too far to take out.
Whew, I wish I could say that was the wine talking. But it was one of those things that stuck in my craw.
What else..... I have to go away this week, to Regina, for meetings, overnight. My kids are going to cry. It's always so dramatic...... sigh.
Oh God, I made sloppy Joes tonight, and I keep burping that shit up. Good times. I wish I had stock in a Pepcid factory.
LOL, I am writing this in my basement, on the real computer, as opposed to the laptop, and I havent sat at this one literally since before baby was born almost 2 yrs ago. Anyway, this computer is in the "book room" and you know what I am spying on the shelf? A VHS copy of the Mike Douglas SHow that I bought in Vancouver like 5 yrs ago at that big Virgin Megastore on Robson (which was no flaming shit really - A & B Sound is better, although the Sask. ones went belly up last year). It's from 1974 and features the Pointer Sisters. LOL, I should crack it open tomorrow. I also have 2 volumes of the Battle of the Network Stars I bought off ebay a couple years ago that I haven't watched either. My dream was always to be on there and win everything and kick Chachi's lame ass. I felt very competitive and jealous of Chachi and Leif Garrett. I must have feared they would marry Valerie. Ah well, her commercials annoy the piss out of me now, so I guess it was a blessing I never became the child star I wanted to be.
Fuck, I'd give my frigging foreskin, if I had some, for a bag of salt and vinegar chips right now. Or, as they say in England, a packet of crisps. No idea why I am craving them, but nevertheless, I want them.
Well, I am just rambling about sweet tweet, so I am going to go and try and read some Hutterite tales before I crash, so I hope everyone has a happy Sunday. Remember, when you change your attitude, you change everything.

Monday, September 17, 2007

Indigo Girl thoughts
I always thought the darked headed one was crusty and the blonde was the nice one, but after watching this, I love the dark headed one and the blonde one is sort of annoying.....

If you're going to Godthab, be sure to wear, salmon in your hair

Just sitting here thinking about all of the useless crap that I know. Seriously, have you ever sat there and realized that you know strange, odd tidbits that mean nothing and are probably taking up valuable brain space? Sadly, I acquired much of it during the ages of 11-13, when I moved here, had no friends, and cable tv wasn't yet in town, and thus I spent too much time reading strange things and listening to adults. Here is a smathering of useless information:

-- Sammy Davis Jr. was married to a woman named Altovise.
-- minus 273 degrees is freezing on the Kelvin scale.
-- Liz Taylor was the first woman to make a million dollars for a movie, for Cleopatria.
-- Madelaines are little butter type of cookies that you make in a special pan.
-- Lani O'Grady from Eight is Enough suffered panic attacks.
-- Kari Michaelson, one of the daughters on tv's Gimme a Break, had personalized plates on her car that said "ZeeCar4Meee"
-- the capital of Greenland is Godthab.
-- Laura Ingalls Wilder was a chronic masturbator (just joking - checking to see if you are paying attention).
-- the group to have the most chart success without a number one song is either CCR or ELO - either one is an abreviation though, so that is interesting in itself.
-- Tammy Wynette's first husband was named Euple Byrd.
-- the Coastal Salish people wore shoes made out of salmon.
-- A pizza is a sort of Italian pie (that's quoted from a report I did on Italy in grade 3).
-- Michael Stipe from REM is just freakishly ugly.
-- Rely tampons are the ones that gave everyone toxic shock syndrome in the 70s.
-- Anne Murray and Roch Vosine are the same person.

Well, there is much more, but frankly, i am too tired to tell it, so my knowledge needs to rest tonight. But believe me, I'll post more. It's Britney, bitch!

Sunday, September 16, 2007

Could the Emmy's BE any stupider?

Haven't been watching the Emmys for long, but I will pipe in with this in the meantime: Terri Hatcher looks like she's made of rubber. Seriously, I looked at her and expect that she smells like silly putty, and if she rubbed up against a Sunday paper, she'd have the Family Circus of Cathy Guisewuite on her ass.
Second, Tony Benett keeps winning for some stupid shit and who the hell cares, but bitch has had some good work done too. Also, his wife - I bet he has hemeroids older than she is. But yes, I am sure she married for love. I am just being cynical thinking she's smiling up at him whilst thinking "die, damnit, die!" It's a little more believable than Tony Randall and his wife, that child he married before he croaked, but still.... what 30 year old wants to knock boots with an 80 year old?
Third, Helen Mirren won just because she is an Oscar winner. None of the voters saw the stupid movie she was in, some Masterpiece Theatre thing. And she always gives some really stupid speech. And why 40 minutes of fucking tv movie awards? Do they MAKE tv movies still? I miss me a good cheesy tv movie.
Forth, Ryan Seacrest is just horrid.
Fifth, this strange stage is annoying and doesn't work.
Six, well, there is no sixth, but whatever.
Anyway, cutting this short tonight. Y'all have a good Monday.

Friday, September 14, 2007

big log

Am I the only one who thinks Robert Plant's "Big Log" is one of the best songs of the past 25 years?

Thursday, September 13, 2007

Britney: Breakdown dead ahead

Just sitting here watching Boz Scaggs clips on youtube. Did I ever mention here that I am a huge Boz fan? Well, I am, bitch. It's Britney, bitch, and Boz is the man.
Oh, the Britney thing on the vma's..... fuck me Dorothy. As promised, I will blog on that nightmare.
First off, I actually burst out laughing at the "It's Britney, bitch" thing. I admit I didn't mind the song really - I mean, bitch ain't no Boz Scaggs and the song ain't no "Breakdown Dead Ahead", which is the clip I am watching now ( if you want to see a roomful of seniors half-assedly cheering for a 60 something star of the late 70s, but still, his music rocks. Bitch.). But yeah, I guess you could say it was indeed a breakdown dead ahead once the performance started. You know, I always have had a soft spot for Brit deep down in my heart, because I mean, we all do stupid things like, oh, you know, marry a loser when on the rebound. Like, when your ex, who suddenly brings sexy back, and starts dating a Diaz type of woman (who incidently I see nothing in - I don't get the big shit about her - she's an un-ugly Zellweiger), it's natural to start riding your back-up dancer like a lawn tractor and having his babies, all as a defence mechanism. Of course, to put it on the scale of the normal people, it would be like us breaking up with our better halves and running off with street people we met taking money out of the town water fountain. But it's the same thing.
And then there's the whole stupidity of the reality show that made you hate her, but really, if I had my own show, people would hate me too. SO I related with that. And I mean, bitch likes a good Starbucks, slurpee, and Big Mac, so I mean, it's all good.
We've all had bad haircuts too. Sometimes I just want to take it all off too. And I mean, while I think tattoos are the devil's work, it's your funeral, so do whatever.
But, motherfucker, whatever that was you were doing on stage, well, honey, I can move my fat ass faster than that. I think fucking Helen Keller could have had more speed and rhythm actually. Like, what was it, Brit? Vicodin? I wasn't sure, but it's a pill of some sort. Oxycontin? Whatever it is, you need to just get some motherfucking cocaine like every star of the 70s and 80s and move that ass. It's JT, Bitch. If you are going to be some drugged out, washed up porn star lookalike, at least drug yourself right. And, you did look like some porn star that makes guys think "you know, you just look too stoned and dirty..... no thanks, I'll dance with myself tonight." You know what i mean - all stoned hookerish, like you just would say "hey, wasn't I just fucking Richard Dawson in the bathroom before this? Wild!" And I don't think you are fat. But bitch, they think Calista Flockheart is fat. So don't give them ammo.
And where in the hell is your stupid ass hillbilly mother? Out getting high with Lindsey Lohan's retard of a mother? I bet that's it, because I'd be "You get some motherfucking clothes on and get back to rehab, or I am selling the kids to Kevin". And the kids? All you readers, think of your mothers, alive or dead, and imagine if you caught your mother on national tv saying "it's Ethel, bitch" and stumbling around in her granny panties and old lady mom bra. Therapy needed for them, alright...
And finally, did you see the people laughing at you? Rhianna is a frigging dork, so if she is thinking she's better than you, well, honey, you got problems. Same with Puff/Piff/Diddly/Dudly/asswipe Combs, who I would rather shat on than meet - if he looks puzzled by you, then that's bad, because he was freaky enough to hump that greaseball J-Lo. You know, Jenny from the block, the one who bullies and marries everyone and is greasier than a slug. And 50 cent? No, bitch wasn't high. He was wishing he was though. You ain't gonna do anything for the cause of white bitches chasing Black guys, because their mamas are all nodding their heads saying "see, I wasn't wrong - white bitches are crazy".
So, Brit, hate to say it - you moved like an agitator in a washing machine set on on gentle.... shish..... shish.... pause.... shish......
It's fucked up. It is what it is, and it aint brilliant.
But anyway, say hi to Paula Abdul the next time you see her at Dr. Feelgood's, or Whitney's, or wherever it is you all get your lizzard mixture.
Can't wait for the comeback.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

On Why my third gutnipple is keepin' the man down

Well, Chunks gave me 5 topic ideas, and I intend to write about them all. So, the one with the least things to say about is how my third nipple is keeping me from enjoying life at the pool, and since I already did a post tonight, I can get away with a short post on this one.
Well, sadly, I blame the continuation of my obesity on nipplegate 2007. I knew something was wrong on Saturday, as I could feel this sort of little lump forming on my stomach directly south of my heart, where my belly starts to jut out in that oh-so-sexy way that drives all of you chubby chasers wild with lust. It's ok, ladies, throw those soiled panties away, this gut ain't going anywhere now!
By Sunday, the thing was a visible lump, but that was it. However, on Monday, the fucking thing metastasized into this... being. So, being the classy lad I am, I would check to make sure the coast was clear in my office and then whip up my shirt and examine the thing. I can't tell if it's just weird zit that was meant for my head but morphed onto my love bucket, or if it's an ingrown hair that just got fed up and wanted to off itself. You see, it's not like some sort of zit on my nose, where I can just squeeze the fucker, blot up the bleeding with some toilet paper, and windex the mirror and nobody is the wiser. You see, when you are portly like me, and I am, as I've gained back the 13 lb weight loss (but i will rise again, bitch, and don't you forget it), squeezing a zit on your gut isn't easy. And the fucker is so close to my chest, whenever I would touch it, it sent pains all the way up to my chest and I felt like pulling a Red Foxx and saying "Elizabeth! I'm coming to you" and clasping my heart because, bitch, that pain fucking radiated my chest. THEN, you can't quite grab a zit on your chest. So it's tricky. THEN, I isolate the hair I think is causing the problems and pluck it and then try to treat the thing with zit cream, but it still pokes out of my shirt like some sort of weird large nipple.
So when I find out that there is night time swimming for adults only, of course I want to be in there like a dirty shirt. But I can't be... because my shirt is already dirty with Clearasil. So there goes my weightloss dreams, because as you all know, I am all or nothing. If I can't have you, I don't want nobody baby, as Yvonne Elliman said. And I mean, I told you about the day hideousness struck, the day that the shit-headed asswipe French vet struck up a conversation in the shower after swimming in all his liver spotted glory and, bitch, I ain't having .....fuck, I can't remember the pseudonym I used.... Mike?...... saying "You should have seen the fucking inflamed nipple the motherfucker has on his gut..... it was like the big dipper, if constellations could be inflamed and pus filled."
So there goes my dreams of abs of steel, of healthy living, of joining swim meets, of shaving my legs, of water polo matches.... all gone up in smoke.. all because of my third gut-nipple.....
Pass the fucking Cheezies.

So frigging boring

Ah, what a day. What a day... Still the busy stressful time at work, so still putting out fires.... Call my one sister at suppertime and she tells me the transpirings with my parents today because my dad is quite bad right now, and then for reasons just too long and boring to get into, I end up having a fight with my sister who lives across the street. It came out of nowhere and holy shit, we said things that we've been holding back and then she hung up on me, and will play the martyr, but whatever, no regrets. We never come out and say what we think and we both sure as hell did tonight, so whatever, I don't want to think about it anymore, don't want to talk about it, either the fight or my dad, so whatever, that's all I need to say about all of that for the moment.
And THEN, fucking stupid Danielle and Dick are in the final three and I want to kick them all in the head.
And I feel trivial even complaining about everything when I see the end of Oprah today and it's 9-11 families, and I mean, fuck....
And to think this afternoon I was repeating the motto "When you change your attitude, you change everything" over and over after reading it on somebody's jacket in Tim Horton's.... LOL, I gotta work on that.
And I was just reminded about my onetime favorite movie. For years, Valley Girl was my favorite movie, from about age 15-30. Call me a hopeless romantic. The movie featured Modern English's "I Melt With You" in this romantic collage, where Randy and Julie are at Du Pars in the Valley. I always thought that was the most romantic song in the world, along with "A Million Miles Away" by the Plimsouls, also featured in the movie. Seriously, I was just the most sappy romantic, in a new wave way, and I ate that movie up like flies to shit. I can totally recite lines from the movie still.
I always wanted to live in California, in the Valley, and so I romanticized that movie. And it has the best soundtrack ever. Everything from "Angst in Your Pants" by Sparks to "Johnny Are you Queer" by Josie Cotton, and the Plimsoul tracks, and the Payolas, and everything else.... it's one of my favorite cds of all-time. So yeah, I love it all, and it all is a soundtrack of my romantic daydreams. I was the sort of weirdo who loved all that romantic shit, and rainy days and autumn and walking in the yellow leaves, pining over unrequitted loves...... Yeah, I was a weirdo.
An embarassing story to tell you - I used to think "I Melt with You" was called "I Meld with You", simply because I grew up playing Hand and Foot Canasta, and you had to meld before you could start playing, and, well, it made sense to me at the time.
What other songs do I acquaint with that teen angst/romantic/oh-so-deep-autumn rainy day feelings? U2's Unforgettable Fire, my favorite song, along with their "A Sort of Homecoming" and "Bad", and, OMG, the Church's "Under the Milky Way". If it's a cool, fall night with a trillion stars where you are right now, and if you don't download this song and listen to it 4 times in a row and still tell me you aren't aching with romantic angst, well, you aren't my friends anymore. I am serious. Download it. Listen to it 3 or 4 times in a row. Nighttime is better, but whatever, just do it. You'll love it. Tell me what you think. I have so many memories with that song, and I have to admit it just makes me feel all... well... this is going to sound all pretentous, or gay or retarded or fucked up.... but it makes me all gooshy inside. I remember being horribly drunk in Edmonton, singing it wholeheartedly to something while dancing, and that memory makes me a little embarrassed, but then again, it was all good.....
So yeah, I'm rambling. It's nice to just have some free association after this complex day. I would love some Jesus Juice, but, well, daddy needs to buy a box of wine. Perhaps I should make a cocktail - would that ease the pain of the day? Chunks, I know you said Kahlua can't cure everything, but I have some gin in the pantry.Would that do?
Hey, did I tell you all that when Rochelle and Margo were here, they brought some beer, so I had some gin and then a huge glass of wine and I gotta say, by the time they left I was buzzing so bad I have no idea what in the hell I was even talking about. LOL, 3 drinks..... fuck me Dorothy, it's too bad I wasn't a drunk because I'd be cheap as borsht to get shitfaced.
Anyway, sometimes I think nothing can quell the stress you feel like a Craven M - I don't need booze and drugs, just let me smoke.... but anyway, I won't be going back to lung cancerville any time soon, and all of you should just think of your loved ones and quit. I'm just saying, is all.....
What else.... there are all these weird things happening here - tonight a 400 member union meeting about opening the pulp mill.... no idea what's going on there.... all I know is that since Winners is coming back, why the hell wouldn' t Domtar want to be back?
Sigh, I've run out of words.... thanks for listening.

Monday, September 10, 2007

How do I make you make the wheel in the sky keep on turnin?

Well fuck me Dorothy, I was just sitting here, watching the news and was going to make a joke about how old I am and then was going to reference lyrics to 2 Live Crew's "Me So Horny" in a joke that isn't going to work now, because I was missing a line or two, so when I went to check the lyrics, I didn't realize that I've only known a "Clean" version of the song, not the real lyrics. So, nevermind, my sitting at home watching the news joke ain't gonna work.
Well, I have nothing to say. Nothing to say at all. But you'll notice Margo that that ain't stopping me at all. No siree, some of us like to give it up for the people.
Remember back when Chunks couldn't get "Wheel in the Sky" out of her everloving head, and then I had it in my head forever too - by the way, thanks for sharing the joy, Chunks. Anyway, the song I haven't been able to get out of my head since Saturday is Linda Ronstadt's "How Do I Make You". Yes, you think you don't know the song, but you do. Go download it right now, I'll wait. Recognize it? Well, for some inexplicible reason, it came into my head on Saturday, and then I woke up Sunday singing it too, so then I made a mixed Linda cd, and listened to it on repeat. I forgot how the bitch can sing. Her version of "Tracks of my Tears" rocks the motherfucking casbah. But anyway, back to "How Do I Make You?" I shouldn't be the only one who is repeatedly singing "I like the way you dance and the way you spin, how do I make you spin for me" so, motherfuckers, download the song and join me.
Fuck me Dorothy - watching the news still, and this football player named somebody Everitt in the States broke something or other in this otherwise normal play during the game yesterday, but anyway, he's paralyzed now. Shite almightly.
The good news is that people who take vitamin D are extending their lives and warding off sicknesses. It's big news. I take vitamin D. Whoo hoo, FAME! I'm gonna live forever!
And what the hell is the Prime Minister's big shit fit about Muslim women wearing that shit that covers their faces, when they vote? Like, what, does he think that a sheet over the faces of Muslim women will lead to people pretending they are Ama Samamulama or whatever and voting in the fucking Taliban? Come on, you uptight fuckhead. Throw a Muslim sister a break. We can't all be Albertan studs like you..... hahahahahahahaha! Oh I vomited in my mouth a bit even typing that.
Hey, if they are always wearing the face thing outside, how do they get dates? Or is it a turn on for dudes into these women to do it in Handmaid's Tale fashion, with a blanket over the face? I just don't know...
Oh, Jane Wyman died. Shit, the news is a fucking downer. True, I only remember her from tv's Falcon Crest, and only watched it on Friday nights when I wasn't out and about bordering on alcohol poisoning, but still, it's depressing. She was 93.
And some woman who founded the Body Shop died. Who the fuck can afford to shop there anymore anyway? I'm sorry, but 7 dollars for a fucking tea tree oil bar of soap is robbery.
However, I could use some right now. I've got this zit/ingrown hair on my stomach that is the size of a tit, I kid you not. I was saying to the Mrs. that "Alex" is on a diet and bought a 10 swim pass at the pool for adult swim from 9-10, and I said it was unfortunate that I couldn't go because the kids are never all settled by 9:00, and she replied "and it's also too bad you have that third nipple on your belly so you can't go". Ah, sweet Rachel, God love your nasty tongue.
So, I am now watching the local news, and get this: there is a story from Saskatoon about a teenage girl who said her and her friend were picked up by a group of guys, sexually assaulted, and dumped in the river. So they are looking for the other girl in the river and can't find her and don't say if the story is fake, but even so, this story was after the Canadian COuntry Music Awards ceremony in Regina story, and a couple others. WTF?
OH! On a happier note - my dear Rachel thinks Chunks is the new Phyllis Diller. Ever since she watched the first vlog, she's made comments, like whenever she says fuck she says "tell Chunks I'm swearing like her" and stuff like that. So then tonight we went to watch the new vlog, but that got interupted, so I still haven't seen the whole thing, and then she clicked on the Vagina Monologue and we almost pissed outselves. Bitch is fucking funny. LOL, and we almost showed the inlaws the first vlog because of my and the dog's freaky haircuts. I was going to do a penis monologue in response, but not sure i really have anything to say about old one-eyed Dick that would do Chunks justice. Hmmm, I'll have to think on that one.... maybe I can come up with something.....
Oh, I hate it when I have nothing to say. You guys, I want a list of 5 potential blog topics from each of you, and I just might pick one and go with it. Beats writing about this shit.
And dont' tell me if you cheated and went to watch Dingo, because I can't wait for the possibilities of Big Brother. I love Zack now - dude, you are my hero. But still, too stupid to have used the veto last week..... but let's get Danielle out of there, because her and daddy are the sore-est losers and if I have to hear her say "it sucks" one more time, I'm gonna shit in my pants and wear them for a week, because it will have driven me crazy. But that won't happen, because i had a vision she was leaving. God bless you, God.
I used to work for a Jamaican woman who would say "vidgeon" instead of "vision" and she'd also call breakfast "break-fast" and then would point her finger at you all the time and say something that you couldn't follow and then say "so you see? YOU SEE?" and then laugh and we'd all nod our heads and then debrief after because we would have no clue what she was talking about.
Well. I have nothing to really say as you can see, so I will put you out of your misery and let you go. And you know, the wheel in the sky does indeed keep on turnin', and we really don't know where we'll be tomorrow, but as long as I can figure out how I can make you spin for me, well, it's all good.

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

Don't Cry for me Argentina - the truth is my hair will grow back... someday

I just about went out and bought a webcam tonight. Seriously, I almost did. If I would have had enough hours in the day, I so would have been there getting one. Why, you ask? Well, mon petit amis, I'll tell you. Do you readers remember back to one July 19th day, when a certain Chunkerific blogger did a vlog entry about her fucked up hair? Well, today I can identify. In a big way. Even the missus sort of thought this was webcam worthy. But to detail the day, I need to go in chronological order, with some backfiling of stuff on the way. So bear with me, lovely 5 readers, because this is the fucked up shit you all like.
The whole hair fiasco 2007 had its genesis back on Saturday. You see, ever since we got Brutus, the new puppy, it has become glaringly apparent that Lady, the Cocker-Bichon that I affectionately call "Cocka-Chon" in my head, has some neglected, fucked up hair. I mean, her back was such a mess of matted bullshit that I don't know if water even penetrated that shit. So, for some reason, on Saturday, after bathing her to get the feces off her hair-knotted arse, I had to make her a grooming appointment post-haste. SO, I call Petland, who are cheap and do a bang up job. I can't get in until the 12th. So then I tried this other place. No answer. I didn't even bother trying my vet, because they are always a month to get in. But then I decide to try "Dr. Shit-fee", who you can always get into, but who is always trouble.
Dr. Shitfee has been around since Jesus was a child, and even though he has been in Canada since confederation, you still can't understand sweet fuck all of what he is saying because he comes from France. But whatever. I initially took my animals to him years ago and thought it was all good until I realized he was expensive and found a vet that I love. Even though she comes across as sort of an ice queen, Dr. True is the one for me. But anyway, years and years ago, like 10, Margo was in town for a visit, and she calls Dr. Shitfee for a grooming. Now, I am fuzzy on the particulars, but she drops Meathead at his office and is quoted, I dunno, 60 bucks or something for the grooming, and told she can pick him up later in the afternoon. Now, for some reason, we go to Saskatoon together for the day. As I said, I dunno why. But, off we go, and I remember this like yesterday. We are strolling along on Broadway, this trendy hippy pretentious type of artsy Street, probably examining tea towels made of hemp or some stupid fucking thing, or looking at those fucking pansy ass stupid Amos and Andes wool sweater things that went hand in hand with Birkenstalks (I had both, the oversized Central American made wool sweater, and the Birks, God help me, gotta love the university crowd of the 90s - but i lived on Broadway, so I couldn't help it), when suddenly Margo gets a call on her cell phone (which was probably the size of a Kleenex box then). It's her dad, picking up the dog, and being told it will cost like 100 d0llars because Dr. Frogface said his ears were infected and that he treated him, without asking. Well, there is Margo, standing on the sidewalk, with du Maurier Special Mild 100 in her one hand, kleexbox phone in the other, screaming fuck this and fuck that and stupid prick and blah blah blah, and if you know Margo and money, this ain't something that will be let go easily. So I am sure all the way home she fumed and chain smoked. So that told me to never go there again. We had taken Daisy there once or twice for grooming, but her ears were never the problem - but he kept wanting to fix her.
So we never go to the frog speakin' pisshead again. But I make the appointment for today, just to tempt fate, because that's how I roll - things go too good, so I need to fuck them up a little to show I am not worthy.
So whatever. Keep in mind that this is my busy season at work. The busiest. And I have so many loose ends and unfinished stuff and fires to put out and craziness, so it's high stress, and I have to host a student orientation yesterday that took two ativan to quell the tide. So, it's been crazy. But I find a way to drop the dog off this morning, and head on into work. The day isn't too horrid, really, because seriously, God gave me a few miracles and most things worked out that I was stressing about, and so I decided to walk to the building next door to check out the book store. Now, let me just say that my employer is based outside of my city, but I am a staff of one, housed in a technical school. So I walk to the other building and do my chores there and see the cosmotology studio. Now, I remember distinctly my secretary saying, when I asked, to NEVER, EVER, get my hair cut there. Another staff member reiterated.
But, tempting fate loser that I am, because I can never leave well enough alone and have to sabbatoge everything, in true codependent manner, I saunter on in there and upon seeing nobody in there, I ask if I can get my hair cut. You see, my hair hasn't been cut since the end of July and I have really, really thick hair that grows like crazy, so I looked like some sort of clean hippy. And, while in my crazy youth and 20s, where I used to spend like 50 bucks getting my hair cut on Broadway, I am now 37 and am willing to go to the barber, because let's face it, if I tried to look like Duran Duran at my age, it would just be sick. So, if I have been trusting my thick, flowing locks to a 70 year old barber for the past 5 years, how bad can this shit be?
Well, I sit down, and the girl is really nice, but doesn't know how to use the clippers, so her teacher comes and tells her what to do. I, being the nice dude I am, just let them use me as a dummy, because I mean, I like it short - just leave me some bangs to gel and scrunch, and I am happy.
But the teacher is doing weird shit, like telling her to just follow the contour of my head - wtf? The barber uses a comb to guide his clippers, but not these folks. I seem to notice that my head looks funny, but assume they'll "fix it in the mix", as they say in the record Biz.
Well, I assumed wrong. Suddenly, like the arrival of an unexpected menstrual period on your Sunday afternoon quickie, the jig was up, and the gown came off and she was saying thank you for your patience. I looked in the mirror, saw all this short hair, along with this weird strip of bangs clumped down the middle of my forehead, and thought "I cannot leave this room looking like this". So, I go and pay my 6 dollars and then, as a well-planned afterthought say "Hmmm, I think I'll just pick up some gel while I am here." So, I leave the room thinking "please, sweet Jesus, don't let me see anyone I know" and make a run for the nearest bathroom. Being a technical institution, and using the bathrooms located next to the carpentry and electician departments, I decide it best to go into the toilet stall and disperse my gel before going to the mirror and throwing it on my head. I make a scrunch the best i can and then head back. I see some people waiting at my secretary's desk for me, so I make a quick beeline, behind some shelves, yell "I'm back from the bookstore" to them, and wait. Nobody comes in, so I go out, and my secretary is all "JT! Your hair!" and I was all "Holy fuck, I went nextdoor and this is what happened" and then she can't stop laughing and is all "I told you never to go there" and I am all "I know!" and she is all "I saw you and made those people come see you tomorrow instead" and so I went back to the can to fix it again. When I come out, everyone is all "nice haircut!" because she tipped them off in the meantime, and soon I am at reception, with a crowd, laughing, and their words of condolence are all consisting of "It doesn't look that bad!", which makes me want to cry, since when you tell some "it doesn't look that bad", we all know that is something you save for friends who have huge zits, or camel toes or extreme deformities and such. I know, I've said it to many a hideous friend. When I dyed Margo's hair ash blond and it turned green, I said the same thing. I can read between the lines. So then, this dude who works there who I don't even know says the same thing: "It doesn't look bad!" and then I felt like the bottom of the barrel - for a man to tell another man that his fucking HAIR looks ok, well, that signifies that the bad hair dude really looks fucked up. I know women can tell each other over and over again how beautiful each other are, but for one man to tell another man that his fucking HAIR looks ok, well that just means that you are fucking hideous and he is thanking sweet Jesus that it isn't his hair, and that if he was stuck in the woods with the evil hillbilly from Deliverance who was saying "You sure do have a purty mouth" and made Jon Voight squeal like pig and you, well, the hillbilly is the better option. And I mean, he obviously was thinking "dude, you ain't gonna be getting any until that fucking whatever it is on your head grows out" because I was thinking the same thing. I mean, unless Mrs. JT has some secret fantasy about seducing an egg-headed retarded boy from Jupiter who looks like he needs to live in a bubble and have his arse wiped, well, I can't see this doing it for her. I mean, fuck, I couldn't even imagine dancing with myself looking like this, if you know what I mean....
So anyway, I become the laughing stock of the building. So I go and pick up daughter #1 from school, and Mrs. JT is to pick her up at my office so they can go shopping. Well, I am on the phone when she comes and she peeks into my office, looks at me, bursts out laughing.... so I know it's gotta be bad. Well, I go out and join her and daughter and secretary after and they are laughing and daughter, bless her heart, feels bad and starts rubbing my back, which makes me feel even worse. THEN, "Jimmy", one of my employees, who is totally baked all the time, comes and sees and he's all "whoa, that's like short" so I mean, if he notices, even through the THC haze, well, that's sad.
So he is trying to tell me that the filthy ears might be mites and whatever. But the fucking dog never scratches at all, so I am so pissed off in Margo style that I take my bald, bad eared dog and drive to my vet and make appointments for all the animals for Monday. We'll just see who is all full of mites. FUCKING stupid asshole cunt of an old vet, that's all I have to say. And so I am asking questions and getting all pissy and he pretends he is deaf and keeps saying "Bonne!" and I want to die because the door is open and he is making it sound like we are filth pigs and everyone in the waiting room can hear. I wanted to say "maybe you should get those fucking liver spots looked at, dickhead, and forget your obsession with dirty ears" because Dr. Frogface used to go swimming the same time I used to do the parent/child swimming lessons with the kids, and this old fucker is covered head to toe in liver spots and of course would want to strike up conversations whenever he was changing, and I mean, seeing a 100 year old French vet who is covered in liver spots naked is enough to make one want to Javex his eyes. So yeah, my dog might have dirt in her ears, but you, Monsiour Doctor, are a living connect the dots model. So kiss my ever-loving arse.
But back to me, because it's all about me, as you know. I look like an egg. An egg with these odd bangs. I look like I came out of the birth canal, after a dozen attempts of the suction cups. Throw some slime on me and voila, I can be on TLC's The Baby Story, the 230 lb child of Neil and Shauna Horowitz, with the misshapen egg head because Shauna was too much of a pussy to push me out with any gusto. But I'll be the perfect addition to the family, with my older brother Efram, and my sister Hanna.
And I also look dweebish. Like those people we went to junior high with, whose parents made them wear running shoes with velcro instead of laces, rather than Nikes like everyone else, and who still tucked them in at 16. That's me, in a nutshell. I look like my name should be Roger.
And that is the day that was. I don't know how I will cope with this fucked up head. But, as Gloria Gaynor says, I will survive. And I mean, life could be worse. I am thankful for the petty bullshit, really, I am because the alternative, with all the horrible things people go through, is worse. But man, I look hideous, and that's a fact.
Anyway, I showed dear Rachel Chunk's hair vlog tonight and she laughed like hell, and really, this goes so in line with it, but alas, not enough time to buy a webcam. But the thought was there. And really, it's too ugly to show.
And fuck, I have bags under my eyes the size of my scrotum - I dunno what in the hell is going on there, but I am not used to looking my age. I am the type of person who got ID'd at 25 buying lotto tickets - at 30, seriously, at casinos in the States. So when at at birthday celebration at work yesterday for a coworker's 40th, and the question of "who is under 40 still" arouse, my secretary said "I don't think JT is", and people didn't immediatle gaffaw with "of course not!", well, I got paraoid. So I need to get sleep or do something with my scrotal eyes, or something. Something's gotta give. Maybe I'll become a vegan. Or just get some Kathy Griffin surgery and have a bundle of veins under my temples. Or something. But this bitch ain't gonna look old. Fuck that shit.
And that is the rest of the story.