Quick note before I go off to serve tea to hippies:

I think I'm gonna have to watch all three Die Hard movies again, back-to-back.

"Some people are just nice."

So I’m writing a script about a killer iceberg; it’s gonna be a monster movie with an environmental theme, as the final scene will have the iceberg (‘Floe-jira’? ‘Florca’? We’re still working on a name…), having just laid waste to the U.S. Navy and withstood it’s various WMD’s (Dude: ICE TENTACLES. Hell, yes.), ends up melting away in the Gulf of Mexico amidst the skeletons of abandoned oil rigs, undone by Global Warming – “…what we once demonized as our age’s greatest affliction turned out to be our greatest weapon…” some wise Charlton Heston-esque actor will ruminate as the last of the glacial horror dissipates and our hero and his girl embrace in a leaky emergency raft. It’ll be tearful, believe you me. Like Toxic Avenger, Food Of The Gods, and Orca rolled into one movie.

The sequel will contain sharks and bees driven mad by cellular phones. It’s so obvious, it’ll write itself. I am gonna be SO rich.

This is all because Alison was reading some poem last week by some Canadian author about, well, an iceberg melting, to which I said, and I repeat, “Fuck dat shit.”

Did you know that an iceberg that’s less than a metre long is called a Growler? How cool is that? Research is fun!

Okay, I gotta say: wouldn’t the appearance of the Antichrist be viewed as a necessary evil by those of the Christian faith? Wouldn’t it actually be a validation of biblical prophecy? I’d think that most of you would tolerate his presence if only in anticipation of the massive house-cleaning that super-Jesus is supposedly bringing to the table. I’m just sayin’, is all…and before this turns into another knock against Christians, lemme just say that I find this guy’s followers to be as creepy as fuck. Like, Exorcist/Omen creepy. Also: if God and Satan got into a fight, God would TOTALLY kick Satan’s butt. He’s GOD; that’s like being John McClane times three.

Jack Valenti can no longer stop you from seeing pubic hair. Enjoy.

…oh, and apparently it’s been recently discovered that if you invite 100 teenagers into your house, they will fuck shit up. I know! Whoda thunk it? It’s like they’re tiny people with way too many hormones, and the alcohol isn’t putting them to sleep like it did when they were babies!

Today is my last day here in the Fattening Pen, and they’re bringing in pizza for lunch to celebrate (which, incidentally, is how my parents commemorated my grad...). I’ve already taken home my office voodoo set, and I gave Tyson the cow skull to remember me by, and I’m just trying to figure out how to smuggle out my SILVER SPACE-AGE Swingline stapler, as well as one of those label-makers. All I can say is getmethefuckouttahere.

This is currently "rocking" my "headphones", as you kids say:

New from Nintendo: Joe Francis Tosses Your Salad!

It’s all Tyson’s fault. He picked up one of those new Nintendo DS things, featuring such logical games as Kung-Fu Lawyer and Co-Dependent Puppy Breeding, and he mentioned that one of the games you can get for the DS is (ahem) Doki Doki Majo Saiban, (translation: Happy Burger Jumping Princess Frog) a game about witch-hunting where you discern whether or not a young lady is a witch by touching them and feeling their heartbeat.

I’ll repeat that for you: THIS IS A GAME WHERE THE OBJECTIVE IS TO TOUCH YOUNG GIRLS AND MAKE THEM FEEL SLIGHTLY NERVOUS.

Which, I guess, is okay in Japan. Because, obviously, ya gotta find dem witches. They’re like ants, y’know: once they get in, they’re in for good.

Add this to the growing fetish for life-sized Sailor Moon sex dolls, doctors playing dress-up and violating burritos, and, well, general unhappiness, and I think I’m gonna find somewhere new to live where you people aren’t allowed to come and scare me with videos of girls putting live eels into each other.

Do NOT look that up. Honest, you don’t want any part of that. Don’t ask me how I found out about it.

On a good sexploitation-related note, though: Girls Gone Wild creator Joe Francis is going to jail, and he cried like a girl when he found out. You cannot imagine how happy this makes me; not the jail-term, as it’s only thirty days or so, and then he’s back making soft-core porn with your daughters – it’s the fact that he leaked like a four-year-old when the judge passed the sentence.
Little things like that? They keep me from punting lapdogs. Well, that and the restraining order.

This is Silversun Pickups. They make me happy, which means that they should make you happy, too.

I R A Geek, babies go to hell, and so does the internet.

So, this whole fuss over the idea of Limbo: um, what?

Are we seriously spending this much time concerned about where the souls of babies go to if they haven’t been baptized? What happens if you decide that there ain’t no such thing as Limbo? Are all those babies who were originally in Limbo now going to Hell? Or do they get a free pass into Jesusland? Or do we just pretend that they never existed in the first place?

Note to the Vatican: the trick to a good lie is commitment. The moment you start to waffle, it’s over. That’s all I’m saying.

Speaking of a giant waste of time and energy: apparently goatse.cx is up for auction, the minimum bid being $4000. Yes, now you can blow a small fortune on having a domain name that was made famous by a picture of a man stretching his sphincter wide enough to double as an elephant’s birth canal. Yeahthanksbutno.

Hey, look! It’s time for me to go home and play video games!

Why women hate me.

Currently, there are three ladies in the office who are undergoing varying stages of pregnancy, and I think that’s beautiful. That whole 'cycle of life' thing, propagating the species, making tiny people to use up my air and piss in my water: couldn’t be more excited about, y’know, all that.

Still: y’all need to chill the fuck out.

I get it. You’ve got a living creature nestled in your gut, acting like the world’s biggest tapeworm, and your natural reaction is OHMYFUCKGETITOUT, and I’m sure there’s a whole buncha chemical mayhem going on in your head, plus a whole bucketful of other pre- and post-natal issues that I’m just completely oblivious to, because I’m, y’know, a guy, and all we respond to is porn and flicking each other in the crotch. I understand that life is not full of puppies for you right now.

Here’s what YOU need to understand: I didn’t put that thing in you. It’s not my fault, so quit snapping at me like I’m the culprit who sullied your womb. Besides, it’s not like any of you thought it was gonna be nine months of slight cramping followed by a delivery that resembles the half-hour you spend in the bathroom after Taco Bell. No one’s that delusional, except for maybe the Mormons. Seriously: unclench, just for a few seconds, okay? Thanks.

I got me new reading material (or, Here, Phoenix Comics, Please Take My Paycheque):

Doom Patrol: The Magic Bus – reading Grant Morrison is like taking LSD without having to procure it from smelly hippy types. I’ve mentioned before that everyone and their dog should read The Invisibles. Get to it.

Sandman Mystery Theatre: Dr. Death & The Night Of The Butcher – everyone’s writing about men in tights and capes punching each other, while Matt Wagner puts a bookworm in a gas mask and lets him loose on the criminal underworld of the 1930’s. Fun, noir detective fiction that sometimes gets a little scary.

100 Bullets: Decayed – yes, it’s a brilliant espionage/conspiracy series, but I really hope it wraps up soon, because I’m starting to lose track of who’s sleeping with whom and who’s double-crossed what and hey wasn’t he dead and who is this guy working for and what the hell is up with the guy in the shorts?

Loveless: Thicker Than Blackwater – Brian Azzerello writing a western? Yes, please.

Catwoman: The Replacements – honestly? I bought this for the Adam Hughes covers; tell me that’s not the sexiest Catwoman ever. No, really, I dare you.

Hellblazer: Reasons To Be Cheerful – the whole premise of this book is that John Constantine is a conniving sunavabitch who usually ends up fucking over his friends in order to save his own skin; sure, most of the time he’s SAVING THE WORLD as well, but there’s a long list of unnecessary casualties that he’s responsible for, and the challenge for every writer who takes on this series is to see just how low one can cause Constantine to plummet, while successfully redeeming him at the end. Mike Carey’s run has him going up against his own fake-but-grown-up children (it’s confusing, I know), who seem to be even bigger bastards than he’s ever been, so this is gonna be fun. Bloody, but fun.

…and may I just say that this is the best picture in the world right now, even if Rachel deserves many punches for buggin' me.

Okay, I'm done.

Things that anger me right now

1. Why American Idol should've been strangled at birth:

You are not allowed to fuck with Modest Mouse. You are not ALLOWED.

Seriously: when Simon Cowell was thinking about bringing his little parade of mediocrity across the pond, someone shoulda hit him in the back of the head with a shovel. This hurts both my eyes and my ears and I think I'm bleeding out of a couple other orifices now.

2. Nobody told me that Andrew WK was gonna be destroying Broken City with his awesome powers of rock-n-roll-osity last night until, like, an hour before the show, at which point I was already firmly entrenched behind the counter at Beano, serving coffee to people who claim to love coffee but really end up drowning it in milk and sugar and flavour shots and whip cream because they don't want to admit that they can't stand the taste of coffee in the first place...(deep breath)...so I could not go and witness this truly magnificent creature of partying-goodness.

Understand: I hate people who use the word party as a verb.




But I would party with Andrew WK.

So, to all of my so-called friends who knew about this but chose to keep it to yourselves: you suck hard.

3. HEY BUY OUR CDS BUT YOU CAN ONLY LISTEN TO IT WHEN WE SAY SO AND YOU CAN'T LET YOUR FRIENDS HEAR IT AND YOU CAN'T PLAY IT WHERE ANYONE BUT YOU CAN HEAR IT AND IF YOU DO WE'LL SEND ANGRY LAWYERS AFTER YOU BECAUSE IT'S OUR PROPERTY EVEN THOUGH YOU PAID GOOD MONEY AND WE HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH CREATING THE MUSIC IN THE FIRST PLACE.

Jesus H. Christ. Y'all are like children. With apologies to Debbie, Jeff and Robin (none of whom will be reading this anyway), in no uncertain terms: fuck you very much to Universal, Warner, Sony, EMI, and every other part of the music industry that deserves to be dismantled and sold for scrap. I'm gonna make ten copies of every cd I own and give 'em away for free.

4. Ants.

I hate 'em. I just do.

I just woke up from oneof those naps where you feel like you've been kicked in the face by a horse, and I had this really intense dream where Alison from work was selling weed to a girl I knew from high school, only she didn't trust this girl, so she asked me to come along and vouch for her, but then it turned out that we were on that show where a bunch of fashion nazis find some lonesome forty-year-old and rip them apart and then turn them into some kind of Fashionista Frankenstein, but it was just me and they were making fun of my underwear and pubic hair.

Now I got courduroy lines on my face from my throw pillow.

Mondays suck. I gotta go find me some eats.

I fought the war, but the war won.

Gave notice at Cubicle Land today; here's to two weeks of basically working two full-time jobs, as Beano's kinda short-staffed right now, and I'm plugging holes in the schedule until I actually start as a full-time Night Person. Andy asked if I was becoming the new Jamie, and I said that I was way too white to fill his shoes.

It's true: if I took off my shirt, you'd all go blind. Plus, us White Folk apparently still get the best seats in restaurants. Might as well milk it for what it's worth.

As much as I like the Kings Of Leon (new album = southernrockgoodness) every now and then I get the suspicion that I'm listening to a band that consists of four carbon copy clones of Kelso from That 70's Show. That's when I need to turn the music off and walk away.

Wildly Outrageous Rumour #1 (that I heard last night from an unofficial source who was probably making it up anyway)

Herb Dowse is leaving Megatunes to become a full-time NASCAR driver.

(Sorry: this is the only picture of Herb that I've got)

Dude, if this was true, it would rock harder than a Monsters Of Rock show headlined by Slayer, Motorhead and Iron Maiden on the stage at the same time playing a medley of 'Iron Man' and 'Run To The Hills'.


Anyway: like I said, it's probably not true, but the fact that this rumour is circulating is fan-fucking-tastic. Herb Dowse is the shit, and could probably take ALL of you in a fight.

"All this happened, more or less."

So, Kurt Vonnegut went and expired without asking me if it was okay, and I have to say, that ain't right.

But, y'know, because it's him, I'll let it slide. This time.

Also: Buffy: The Early Years, aborted babies are good for sumthin, and your public servants at work. Well, not mine, because I live in Canada, and our cops don't swear at you while they beat you senseless. They just beat you senseless, then charge you with resisting arrest.

I kid! I kid! Oh, the laughs...

May I just say here and now that I don't care how many people tell me it's good, I don't really care to watch Quentin Tarentino masturbate all over my face.

This here Champion cd? Kicking my ass from here to I don't know where. You should all come to love it the way I do.

I like it when the Christians do my job for me; the only problem is, there are people out there who'll give these theories serious consideration, instead of immediately rushing out and putting Chuck Missler and Kirk Cameron in stocks and pelting them with rotten fruit.

Speaking of rotten fruit, I am still leaking ugly things from my nose. Which is why I am at home wrapped up in blankets feeling sorry for myself, as opposed to breathing re-circulated air in a cubicle feeling sorry for myself. I heart sick days. Except for the whole 'sick' part.

Other stuff:

You, too, can make pancakes just like the junkies do!

Actually, that's all I got. Go away; I got stuff comin' outta me...

This past week we've been suffering from arctic temperatures, despite that fact that it's April. Tomorrow's supposed to be the first warm day we've had in a long time, and I HAVE A COLD.

God damn. Everyone else in this city better just stay inside and NOT enjoy themselves, if they know what's good for them...

I'm just taking this moment to say to Chris and Marley: thank you for having me over to eat garlic and pretend to throw things at your television. I'm sorry I spent most of the time making fun of your kid's weight problem. I know it's not his fault that he's a tubby bitch.

Wait, no, what I meant was...aw, shit.

Bright, Black, Phenomenal

Mos Def is hip-hop’s Johnny Appleseed. He carries a small bag around with him that’s filled with hip-hop, dark, rich handfuls of it that smell like fresh soil and cut grass and tobacco, and when he starts pulling it out and spreading it around, kids begin popping and locking in double-dutch time, all cornrows and fades and Converse all-stars and fire hydrant fountains, and even the old folk start nodding their heads. Mos Def is that lazy beat that accompanies the ankle-breaking slow motion crossover, and the horns come in just as it leads to a dunk that Jordan would kill for; he’s the slow bass that follows steam escaping from sewer grates at night, the city a collection of reflections and shoulder-checks, always someone eying you up, dressing you down, for better or worse, a dollar in your pocket and fifty in your sock, a broken turn-light on a tricked-out Lincoln in a dark cul-de-sac, a hole in the chain-link fence and weeds between the rails as another car is tagged, another name thrown up, another hero for a day. He’s the guitar hook that introduces the new day, catching the sunrise peeking through skyscrapers from an apartment building’s rooftop, when the world is quiet enough to be yours alone for a few brief moments, and the guitar lick that lets you stop traffic with a look simply because you were walking there, fuck you, cabbie, I got places to be, too.

True magic is affecting change by imposing one’s will upon the universe. Mos Def is true magic.

I was Frank Burns from M.A.S.H., dressed as Sherlock Holmes, on a street corner in New York, and someone was giving me hell for tracking human remains all over their sidewalk, and I realized that I'd just accidentally walked through a chalk outline that was on the pavement, and then the construction site erupted in steam whistles and sirens that were all my alarm clock waking me up, and it was snowing again.

I would take being Frank Burns over another day of snow any time.

That was my morning. I just now made the mistake of asking Tyson what he was thinking about, as he seemed to be staring off into space,which is a sure sign that something abominable is about to come out of his mouth:

"I was just picturing what it'd be like if Celine Dion performed with Insane Clown Posse."

Goddamn. God damn him. I can't get this awful scene out of my head now. Hopefully you can't either, now.

Sharp as a tack like I just left church...

So, I meant to be a tad more prolific now that I gots me an actual blog, but things of late have been exhausting, to say the least. However, the First Rule of Blog Club is You Don't Talk About...wait, no, that's not right...ah! The First Rule of Blog Ettiquette: Do Not Apologize For Lack Of Posts. My silence only helps build your anticipation, because I just KNOW you guys are hanging on my every word...

Hello...?

Anyway: Free Coffee Day came and went, and I now feel fully justified in holding a giant swig of coffee in my mouth and spewing it forth at the next customer who pisses me off at work. Holy fuck, could you guys be any more like children?

"Are the cookies free?"
"No, just the drinks."
"How about the sandwiches?"
"No, just the drinks."
"How about the bagels?"
"No, just the drinks."
"How many can I order at one time?"

Repeat ad nauseum.

"Why is my coffee free?"
"Because the previous owner wants to thank all the customers who've supported her business over the last fifteen years."
"And she's just giving me a coffee? That's it?"
"Well, she's giving EVERYONE free coffee, or tea, whatever drink it is that they order..."
"But this is all I get?"

I should be allowed to punch people.

Then came Sunday:

"Hey, Chris, you wanna work for me tonight?"
"Why how come?"
"I think I'm quitting."
"Oh. Alright."

See, I could've said no, but then there'd be a good chance that Kim would've been stuck by herself, and she's already going through some serious traumatic stuff as it is, i.e., FRIENDS DYING IN THEIR SLEEP, so I thought she could use an evening of sucking helium out of balloons while serving customers coffee. Long story.

Rest assured, my guts hurt at the end of the night. Kimmy's good shit, yo.

Today: I tell ya, it's hard to be in a bad mood when you're listening to Outkast's "Morris Brown", that friggin marching band makes you wanna start your own drumline; it almost makes being in the Fattening Pen bearable. Almost.

Speaking of which: I was of the opinion that the best thing to do was just suck it up and stick it out, but I don't think I can take another month of this garbage. The job is meaningless, and I can no longer muster any enthusiasm towards double-checking the math of some rigpig who pulls numbers out of the air arbitrarily. Everyone compares this place to the movie 'Office Space', but I'll go you one better: watch 'Brazil'. It's useless bureacracy paired with entrenched paranoia, and it's insidious in the way it destroys people. I spend my day watching people ten years younger than me get used to the idea of growing old before their time, and listening to the constant pseudo-political bickering from the established cubicle heirarchy of ladies who've forgotten how to actually communicate and don't care that they're causing my brain to blister. It's heartbreaking, and I don't want to do it anymore.

So, um, this is me looking for a new job. For reals, this time; and to be fair, it's also the last time I'll bitch incessantly about the horrors of Officeland (unless, of course, something truly diaboloical happens...).

Speaking of 'Drumline': y'know, that movie would've been watchable if they'd just gotten rid of the story and had an hour and a half of the marching bands by themselves. That'd be slick.

Hey, look! My laundry's done! Bedtime!

I am SO old...