I think that we can all agree that the most annoying thing about watching the payoffs, next to having members of your pool eliminated, are the commercials. (Okay, truth be told, I keep hoping against hope that one of those girls’ breasts will pop out in the beer commercial with the freaky dancing guy, but it never happens.) But, honestly, how embarrassing is it that our “national” broadcaster is having a “greatest Canadian” contest. Honest, that’s fucking pathetic. The only other place I’ve heard pulling shit like that is North Korea where, apparently, folks are willing to die to save portraits of Kim Jong-Il.
Oh, btw, it’d be great if the CBC promoted “greatest” Canadians who still live in the country. Just a thought. Dumbasses.
Ah fuck I woke up this morning more like fell out of bed this morning the stale taste of malt and tobacco still on my tongue. the cats raising hell again doesnt she know that ill feed her like i always do like ive always done for these past 14 years that ive been cleaning her shit that ive been taking care of her? the little bastard next door screaming like it always does cant it JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP! lady can you give him your tit once in a while just to make him SHUT THE FUCK UP?
the old lady is giving me shit to find a job because fuck she needs her supply of choco bonbons not like she could give a damn about getting a job herself. all i really need is a hit just one hit to get thru this day to shut out the noise to feel normal to feel human again to ignore the news that
Hubert Selby Jr. passed away Monday.
Don’t know how I’m going to break this to the milliner, but I think it’s over for her and I. What can I say, now that Halle is officially single, all those cards and emails I’ve sent to her, detailing our future together, along with our mutual suicide pact, will finally come to fruition.
Oh, sure, she claims to have to no knowledge of me, but I think this was simply a ploy to detract the paparazzi. Why do you think my raspBerry came to town last year? It definitely wasn’t to make a movie.
Come, Halle, join me, and we shall indulge in our favourite pastime of drunk-driving.
Ya know, I look at pictures like this, and I think of everything that could go wrong, and seriously contemplate settling down to a lifetime of tv and RPGs.
But then, fuck it, terror and beer is a great weight-loss regimen.
I’ve given up caring. Shark. Pool. The Fonz.
I would just like to mention that, if ever I’m driving down a really dark road, I would nothing better than for Ms Williams to light my way.
Ah, there’s nothing better than puerile humour, now is there?
Many years ago my roommate Jean-Guy took me up the street to a bar, Le Minuit, for a night of alcoholic consumption. I was 22, too poor and too young for the place, which attracted an older and wealthier portion of the francophone branché(e)s. Some way through the evening, a woman came up to me, trying to strike up a conversation. Can’t remember much of what she said, but I do recall at one point she remarked, “You know, you have great lips.” Taken somewhat aback and at a loss for words, I replied, “Well, I got them from my father.” At which point she takes a closer look, realises that I was way too young, even for her, brushes my hair and asks, “Really? Is your father single?”
I found out tonight that my father passed away some time in the past week, date unknown. He died alone, but then, I’ve learned, we all do. He and I hadn’t spoken in over 10 years, for reasons either lost in the mists of time or simply too banal to even mention.
Born on February 29, he was the ripe of age of 17 (68).
He wasn’t the greatest of fathers, by any stretch of the imagination, but I like to think that he did the best he could with what he had.
This picture (click for bigger image) was taken in 1983, the last time we ever really did anything together, a hiking trip to the White Mountains in New Hampshire.
Nothing like walking in on a Monday morning to find out there was a screw-up in your work, of which you were unaware when you left for the weekend, resulting in a delay in the product release. Oh, and yay, I have my evaluation this week!
Oh. My. Gawd! This is fabulous! We finally have our place in the world. Tech-writers unite! We have our own T-shirts. Of course, I think, with the rainbow across the corner, the subliminal message is that technical writers are gay. (Which, we all know, is the new black.)
Our slogan would therefore definitely be in bullet form:
- We’re here!
- We’re queer!
- We can do page layout!
Walking out of a shopping centre on Saturday, I see what I initially think are Hassidim, which I thought a bit weird because you don’t see them out on the Sabbath. Look a bit closer and, in fact, the three fellows turn out to be Amish. Okay, cool, whatever, maybe there’s a barn-raising happening somewhere. (Unfortunately, a young Kelly McGillis was not doling out lemonade.)
However, in a true case of life imitating Hollywood, imagine where these men were shopping?: yup, Baskin Robbins. Hee. And, no, I did not go up to them and try to shove an ice-cream cone in one of their faces.
PS. Who knew that Viggo Mortenson was in that movie?