Man, I remember when Stampede meant something.
I lie: it never meant anything - it just seemed cool way back when to eat as much deep-fried sugar as you could before strapping yourself into as many gravity-altering contraptions until you threw up into a Conklin garbage can. It was fun, y'know? All Stampede means these days is that people get drunk while wearing pink shirts. Oh, and really bad cover bands playing at a Stampede Breakfast at 10:00 am on a Sunday. Please stop ohgodwhyamiawake pleasegivemecoffeeandahammer tohurtpeoplewith.
Anyway: that's over now.
Yes, I know it's been another week since I, y'know, blogged. I am a bad antisocial interweb ranter. Sex does that to me. Now I'm home, but it's only to do laundry and clean the disaster that I call my apartment, before the parents hit town for the first time since they left, way back in 1994. Needless to say, I is a tad on the nervous side, as it will be the first time that my parents will get the opportunity to view my digs EVER. I know: it's sad. I'm over thirty. I should be able to answer the door in a wife-beater and ratty boxers, point at a collection of beer cans and porn and say, "Welcome to Casa Del Janzen!" with a shrug and a grin, but still: it's Mom & Dad, and they have superpowers. So clean I must. Plus: if I clean, then the ladyfriend can FINALLY come over to my place and not be afeared of being hit in the head by a flying ant.
Oh. Did I mention the whole Ladyfriend thing? Oops. Yes: the decade-long drought is over, and I have a Special Companion, or whatever it is you kids are calling it these days (I refuse to call her my 'ho' or 'bitch' or 'cum-dumpster', as some people have suggested, as doing so will result in the loss of teeth and sexual activities), and she is pretty and all of that stuff and I like her a lot. So there.
One thing: I'm still leaning towards cancelling my cable, as I haven't actually watched any TV in the last month and a half, aside from the few minutes I caught today which confirmed the fact that lacrosse still seems to be considered a REAL sport, and that everybody STILL loves Raymond, which in my opinion is more than ample proof that the lot of you need to be euthanised. Also: Watching a dubbed version of Kung Fu Hustle really sucks ass.
I lie: it never meant anything - it just seemed cool way back when to eat as much deep-fried sugar as you could before strapping yourself into as many gravity-altering contraptions until you threw up into a Conklin garbage can. It was fun, y'know? All Stampede means these days is that people get drunk while wearing pink shirts. Oh, and really bad cover bands playing at a Stampede Breakfast at 10:00 am on a Sunday. Please stop ohgodwhyamiawake pleasegivemecoffeeandahammer tohurtpeoplewith.
Anyway: that's over now.
Yes, I know it's been another week since I, y'know, blogged. I am a bad antisocial interweb ranter. Sex does that to me. Now I'm home, but it's only to do laundry and clean the disaster that I call my apartment, before the parents hit town for the first time since they left, way back in 1994. Needless to say, I is a tad on the nervous side, as it will be the first time that my parents will get the opportunity to view my digs EVER. I know: it's sad. I'm over thirty. I should be able to answer the door in a wife-beater and ratty boxers, point at a collection of beer cans and porn and say, "Welcome to Casa Del Janzen!" with a shrug and a grin, but still: it's Mom & Dad, and they have superpowers. So clean I must. Plus: if I clean, then the ladyfriend can FINALLY come over to my place and not be afeared of being hit in the head by a flying ant.
Oh. Did I mention the whole Ladyfriend thing? Oops. Yes: the decade-long drought is over, and I have a Special Companion, or whatever it is you kids are calling it these days (I refuse to call her my 'ho' or 'bitch' or 'cum-dumpster', as some people have suggested, as doing so will result in the loss of teeth and sexual activities), and she is pretty and all of that stuff and I like her a lot. So there.
One thing: I'm still leaning towards cancelling my cable, as I haven't actually watched any TV in the last month and a half, aside from the few minutes I caught today which confirmed the fact that lacrosse still seems to be considered a REAL sport, and that everybody STILL loves Raymond, which in my opinion is more than ample proof that the lot of you need to be euthanised. Also: Watching a dubbed version of Kung Fu Hustle really sucks ass.
Coming soon: Fishing adventures with The Boys.
This is me going to clean now. No, really. I mean it this time.
4 comments:
Cum Dumpster, eh? I thought that was the garbage bin down the block from the Cafe.
I think that beats "porking" for rude and unacceptable things to say about sex. I would high five you, but only to make you feel uncomfortable.
Happy Cleaning. I'm gonna drink all your Gin while thinking up ways to thoroughly disgust you. Maybe I'll just hae nelson put up a sign in one of your windows saying "Welcome to the Cum Dumpster" for when your parents are over.
Or Maybe I'll just drink your Gin while listening to Dungen and plotting a way to stay AWAY from Beano tomorrow (yeah right)
That wasn't me. It was my evil twin.
I'm afraid of Toad Man.
How's the folks?
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