You know how sometimes you sleep in during a workday?
And you know how, being rushed, you just grab whatever clothes are on the ground?
And you know how, still rushed, you believe that said clothes are relatively clean and odorless?
And that you forgot that that tee you’re wearing was last worn climbing, meaning that it also has the smell of fear in the fabric?
And you know how coworkers start commenting on a strange smell about 5 metres away from your desk?
And you’re wondering whether you’re the cause?
Or, hopefully, that you might have put on too much patchouli?
No? Okay, then it’s just me.
Sure am glad there’s an Equipeur next door that sells cheap T-shirts.
For some reason, I thought the Filthy Critic got run over by a bus or something, and had therefore stopped posting his movie reviews. Because, you see, he was supposed to be dead. So couldn’t type. Or see. Or think.
Anyhow, glad, and chagrined, to find out that I was misled. Someone’s going to pay. Oh yes; I see a belay accident coming soon.
Just wondering. And no, it ain’t me in the pic.
It never fails, whenever driving back from wherever, I’m at my top speed of 120 kmh, pedal to the metal, 108 horses sucking wind like out-to-pasture swaybacks, I’ve got a little willy going because I’m finally able to pass someone (usually a mid-80s Colt or Geo) and I look in the rear-view mirror, only to be confronted with the image of a huge grill barebacking my bumper. Holy crap, where the fuck did that come from? I scoot back into the, cough cough, slow lane, and see out of the corner of my eye some American-made mini-van racing by.
So, what I’m wondering, is there some sort of hormone that’s absorbed by folks once they buy a six-seater, a hormone that tricks them into believing that they get better gas mileage the faster they go? Because, it’s either that or, what I figure: it’s 20-something suburbanites living in Laval or the Brossard (Hi-NRG vs heavy metal on the stereo), a few years on the job market with their Administration degree, locked into a 25-year mortgage on a pre-fab bungalow, a kid in daycare and another one on the way, they’re refusing to admit that they no longer hang out with their dudes at the campus bar, the male-pattern baldness is settling in, and the only avenue to “rebellion” that they have left is pushing their Windstar to 150.
Ow. You haven’t had a barbecue until it’s been prepared by a couple of Armenians. They sure do love their meat-on-a-stick.
There are donuts in the kitchen to help kick off the BBQ day festivities.
Forget your diets today. You can start again tomorrow.”
Sigh, it’s a long, slippery road. But so very tasty.
|Michel may actually be a spider-human hybrid|
When asking me how my new job is, the first question shouldn’t be, “are there hot chicks there?” Nor should it even be the tenth question. Oh, and if you’ve already asked it before and I refuse to answer, please don’t ask the same thing again a few days later.
If need be, I could print out these simple instructions onto a card and laminate it, so you could carry it around and refer to it when need be.
I gotta admit, I love the summer television season for its gawd-awful reality shows. Well, besides the Amazing Race. Don’t be dissing the Amazing Race. But, um, wow, caught The Casino the other night. I’m sure someone had to pull some favours and polish some knobs to get that on the air, because it was the epitome of suckage.
Strangely enough, I think I was in that particular casino (the Golden Nugget) a few years ago, “enjoying” their $5 buffet.
Regardless, come July 6, the milliner and I will be glued to TAR, comparing ourselves to the hapless couples onscreen.
Yesterday, after two weeks of worrying and eating meals served with a side dish of trepidation that I might have another allergic reaction, I finally had my appointment at the allergy clinic. As it turns out, and much as I suspected, I was found to not have any allergies. So, I can either continue on as before the anaphylactic shock thingy, or I can one day expect to be jabbing the ole epi-pen into my thigh. My choice.
Spent the afternoon signing a contract for a job, and then went climbing. I was pretty tired, but also relieved. Woke up this morning after a restless night, and prepared my daily bowl of coffee. However, when I went to sip it, my lips behaved as though they had been injected with Novocaine, resulting in the java dribbling down my chin. Aw fuck, thinks I, don’t tell me I’m having another ischemic attack. The milliner’s a bit worried, trying to point out that my face looks different, but I’m having none of that. I had planned a day outdoors before heading back to work on Monday, and no way was I going to cancel. However, by the time I got to the rendez-vous, reality got the better of me and I called off the day, thinking that I was simply slow by nature and finally reacting to the stuff given to me the day previous.
Head back to the hospital (again), go up to the clinic and give them the low down. The doc checks me out and takes me down (again) to emergency. When I finally get to see the med student–is it just me or do they make them really young these days?–I’m made to wait a bit longer until the attending comes in, (again) checks me out and says, “well, you’ve got Bell’s Palsy.” Cool, I can’t smile, can’t eat properly, and can’t close my right eye, which I’ll have to tape shut at night. Thankfully, things should right themselves in a couple weeks, but I’m sure I won’t be making a great impression at the new job, what with all the drooling and everything.
I swear to gawd, I’m starting to feel like Paul Pfeiffer from the Wonder Years.