gagmewithapitchfork

Open Letter Vol. 3

2007-08-27T20:35:00.000-04:00

Dear Dromonaut:

How's it going? Awesome, I bet. How's that car of yours? Not the winter beater, of course. I am referring to the stealth German murder weapon with which you lovingly cut me off in traffic. I am in impressed. Really, I am. For someone who dumped some serious change to convince the world that you have a cock, I am surprised that you don't drive it around with as much care, as though your pasty ass was made out of solid fucking gold. Must you drive so perilously close? By close, I mean enough to rim the asshole of owner of the Dodge Caravan - the one you butted up behind in traffic - through the windshield.

Regards,

The one of many who wish you dead

P.S. Audis do not get you laid.

Gagging for It #4

2006-08-18T12:29:00.000-04:00

Dr. Pepper: The Drink for the Discerning Meth-head.
1 out of 5 pitchforks

Ugh. If it were possible to contain the collective farts of unicorns, fairies, pixies and rainbows, Dr. Pepper certainly figured out a way. I just had the misfortune of drinking a Diet Vanilla-Cherry Dr. Pepper. I came across a bottle of it recently and noted that I haven't had a Dr. Pepper in over twenty years. I wondered if I remember how good it was. I kind of remember liking it. I also kind of remember that I was weird kid who lacked common-sense and good set of taste buds. Somehow I thought it would be a wonderful thing to skip down memory lane. And skipping down memory lane, I did. Replete with me stumbling and chipping my tooth along the way. Is it a successful entreprise on Cadbury's part? It could have been. That is, if they were aiming for a Benalyn-flavoured pop. With so much stacked against it, you kind of feel sorry for Dr. Pepper. A sucktastic beverage coupled with shitty slogans:

"What's the worse that can happen?" (You mean, besides a sucking chest-wound?)

Or:

"There's more to it" (Yeah, and I'm still waiting...)

Interestingly enough, Dr. Pepper's slogan in Denmark/Finland/Netherlands begs: "Can You Handle the Taste?" Good fucking question. I, myself, barely managed a sip of that sugary Care Bear urine sample. I can see it being successful in the soda wars, tasting as shitty as it does. That could only happen if it were reformulated as an alternative in curing the clap.

Crosstown Snapshot an' Shit #3

2006-08-11T17:44:00.000-04:00

I noticed this on the way to a restaurant. I, for one, certainly felt special after reading it.

Pretty please...

2006-08-04T02:03:00.000-04:00

Back home, I'm used to signs DEMANDING that I knock shit off. Or else. Yet, only in Japan can I encounter signs imploring nicely that I cease whatever offending act I may be engaging. Less criminality, more concern over the trajectory my life is pursuing. A nice touch, really.

Cheers for the heads up.

2006-07-30T02:18:00.000-04:00

I suppose that the intention behind this warning is to alert the toilet occupant that the water is not potable. Well, after a cursory glance at the state of the lavatory and complementary stench, you really don't need a sign to tell you that.

It reads less like a warning and more like an evaluation after a taste test. Gag.

Why I hate clowns, dolls and dummies...

2006-07-21T02:12:00.000-04:00

Because of creepy shit like this.

And this.

Some Hinterland's Who's Who Shit #2

2006-07-17T06:21:00.000-04:00

I have been given the opportunity to roll around Japan - land of quality adverts and oddballs - doing some crap and seeing some shit. I will occasionally drop a post or two when possible. Or not.

Holy Christ. I just saw the most fucking hideous turtle! EVER! Incidentally, turtles are my favourite animals. They are, like, the outcast loners and shut-ins of the animal kingdom. Just like me. And slow. Just like me. Anyhow, they normally have beak like mouths. But this ugly sucker has a porcine snout and a mouth that - when opening -has a suction cup effect. NOT AT ALL like me. They have this unusually long and powerful neck that, I shit you not, allows them to flip around should they happen to find themselves on their backs. As you can see from the EXCESSIVELY manicured photo on the right, they have webbed feet with deceptively agile fingers, or whatever the fuck those things are. I'm sure they could probably wield a knife, if pressed. Yugh. My skin totally crawled. They also made me feel a little gaggy. Kind of makes you question the rounded effects of the Hiromshima/Nagasaki bombings. In addition, they are totally hostile and start crunking when faced with an opponent, be it an animal or a leaf. Then again, I would be pretty cranky if I had live out my entire existence looking like an uncircumcised penis attached to a slimy discman.

Musicos and Other Imbeciles

2006-07-07T13:00:00.000-04:00

From time to time, each and everyone of us had the occasional bug fly up our asses and die. Here are my Top Five among the swarm of human locusts who never seem to miss my asshole:

Musicos:You know who they are. You may have had an argument with one. Hell, you may have even bottled one upside the head. And for your sake, I hope to God you did. What the fuck is a musico, you ask? Oh, you didn't ask, you say? Well, fuck you, cos I'm gonna tell you anyway. In one word: assbites. In more words: pedantic assbites who can suck the joy of listening to music. Like fucking clockwork, they ALWAYS manage to ruin a civilized rap session. And its always the same trivial set up. If you love a band, one of these dickheads will be sure to make an appearance, so as to psychically urinate in your mouth about it. As always, musicos respond pretty much in the same manner as anyone who would react to someone having just said: "I sure dig touchin' children inappropriately." Thus, the conversation spirals downward, never to be resurrected into a mature dialogue. Ever. Again.
Retards who, for reasons unbeknownst to the sane, no longer refuse items with a good old fashioned "NO, THANK YOU": Now, what the hell happened here? I notice this shit occurring at a greater magnitude in connection to people who are on a severely restricted diet (not necessarily due to health issues) or are following a fitness regimen with a Nazi-like precision. Preciousness begets the insufferable. Hey fucker, I asked if you wanted a piece of cake, not a colostomy with a bendy-straw, a'ight? Please die.
Disabled people who apoplectically refuse your help. Don't want my help? Fine. But don't fucking rag me out about it, you gimptard. Bah.
Cartards. Now, this is one seriously tragic contingent of eye-rolling and shiftless 10-year-olds who are clearly trapped in the chunky bodies of 30-to-40-year-olds, if I ever saw one. Posturing over heavily modified shitboxes or "race-ready" glorified go-carts. And their poor fucking neglected girlfriends. So ready for the picking, btw. They stand around like idiots while you dorks whack off over the latest atrocity inflicted on your chariot. Oh, and by the way, great F1 wing on your Precidia there, sport.
Blackberry fuckheads. I know we live in an increasingly interconnected world. I concede that technology is not only a modus, but a currency in a global context. But! I draw a fucking line. Look at yourself. Shouting into your digital mobile wang like a harpy on crack, because the recipient of your bore-ass conversation - and I know it is boring because I CAN HEAR YOU DOWN THE FUCKING HALL - can't hear you. Do the world a favour: switch to a landline, you fucker. Sigh. I can already hear the whinging. 'But a landline isn't always available. Wah' Trust me. Judging from the content of your insipid monologue - and I say 'monologue' because you haven't given the other person a word in edgewise, which is totally making me doubt the existence of an ACTUAL whole other person on the other end and convincing me that it is all a constructed ruse to make it appear that you have friends - in the last half-hour, whatever you want to say can surely wait.

Bra-ha-ha

2006-07-07T09:02:00.000-04:00

I went shopping for undergarments today. Ooofah. Nothing like having one's body parts be subjected to a severe public indictment in the course of several hours as a part of a fun-filled weekend. After being trapped in the bra labyrinth at Sears, it became clear that my tits are mishapen. Not just a slight difference. It appears that one is boob is larger than the other. And to be quite honest, they look like a dumb pairing. Between Frankenboob, Mini-boob and Calvin Klein posters of preening vixens, I couldn't help but feel like total shit. After a couple of hours - depleted of oxygen and dehydrated - you start entertaining various thoughts, ranging from drastic body modifications to selecting narcotics that are best suited in shielding you from the glaring harsh lights of reality. By the way, I suggest Ativan. On an hourly basis, mind you.

Crosstown Snapshot an' Shit #2

2006-07-04T22:08:00.000-04:00

"Apparently, like, knee-slappingly serious, folks. "

I spotted this in a local free rag. What an unfortunate picture. Hilarious, but unfortunate. Hard to take the issue du jour seriously, when the naysaying doctor and his colleague are actually cracking up in their profile shot. Maybe that's just me, but...*shrug*

Gagging for It #3

2006-07-01T11:01:00.000-04:00

L'Enfant
4 out of 5 pitchforks

I received free passes for a movie (no shit) at a local small cinema house from an associate and decided to watch this summertime feel-good-movie - courtesy of that happy Dardennes pair - with a good buddy. The film employed some gritty camera work and no shitty soundtrack to put you off, thereby giving the flick a documentary feel to it. A total bonus. The film centres around the lives of a young couple who just had a baby and are trying to keep their lives together, albeit in a spectacularily shitty way. The film starts with Sonia (Deborah Francois) coming back from the hospital after giving birth and finding out that Bruno (Jeremie Renier) subleted HER flat to a complete stranger. Pretty rad, huh? So she traipses across town looking for Bruno to a) get an explanation and b) introduce Jimmy to his papa. When we finally meet Bruno, we realize what it is that he does for a living, which makes this whole thing really depressing. Yet, it is so fucking tough on the balls NOT to be hard on the guy, as one will observe.

Bruno manages to suck it up and head to city hall with Sonia in tow, to sign and acknowledge Jimmy under the eyes of law, much in the same manner of enthusiasm one would sign and acknowledge, say, a crappy Vauxhall. Some time passes. Bruno, forever the model of restraint, sells his kid. Oh, imagine the wacky adventure that ensues. Jesus Christ. Most people get jobs, I guess. Whatev. Anyways, die duchebag tells Sonia that he sold the kid, but that the silver lining is the wad of coin he got for Jimmy. Sonia goes catatonic. Bruno is dismayed by Sonia's inability to see his brilliance. After all, he reasons, they can make another one. At this point, I just want Bruno to get hit by a lorry. Soon enough, Sonia's hysterics call upon the unwanted attention of the hospital administration. Even worse, the police. Sigh. So Bruno takes off in an attempt to get his sprog back. Bring the cash and get the kid back. Easy. Much like returning a baking dish to Zellers? Not even remotely, kids, as we see the creepy roughneck assholes behind the baby market scheme reveal themselves. They lean on Bruno pretty heavy, and it all circles the shitter pretty damn fast. All this makes Bruno's carelessness pose the question: who is the child in this clusterfuck? What we see is Bruno, an aging gamin who plays in the mud, the water, munches on croque monsieurs and thrives on pinball.

By the end, I was gobsmacked. We see a turn-around (sorta) with Bruno, and his awakening (or growth) as a man. I neither gasped or cursed, nor cried like a little girl. I couldn't decisively muster a reaction. Perhaps it is that the underlying pathetic and developmentally arrested nature of the characters just paralyzed me. Or, perhaps it's due to me being just an unfeeling asshole in general. Who knows? Anyhoo! The ending was more than appropriate for a film that whizzed by pretty quick (thank fucking God), never letting you linger on a judgement.

If I Were Dear Abby...

2006-06-28T15:47:00.000-04:00

I admit that one of my favourite brainless pleasures - among the countless other brainless pleasures that I try to indulge in regularly - is reading advice columns. Dear Abby, in particular. I love the fact that I feel either fortunate or plain-ass superior over the battalion of hurtin' units that send in their daily cries for help. I'm a sick fuck that way. However, occasionally I will read one of Abigail Van Buren's missives and think: Abbs, you really drop the ball on that one, you boring douchette! Naturally, I think I can do better. Not do better in helping people, because helping people is for human shields, losers and marks. I just think I can do better at making MYSELF feel better. And that's always important, bitches.

DEAR ABBY: My son is 11 and, for the first time, he has a "girlfriend." I have always discouraged the children from saying they have girlfriends and boyfriends, so he has always referred to her as his "friend." Well, the other night, I heard him say, "I love you," and there were text messages on his phone from her saying it, too.

I tried to talk to him about it and explain that this is not appropriate because he's too young to really understand what love is, and he should not say it until he is older and knows what love is. He didn't respond very well and was embarrassed. I don't think I was very effective. Do you have any recommendations on how to handle this? -- SHANNON IN HOUSTON

DEAR SHANNON: You didn't think you were very effective? Good call. You deserve a prize for pointing out the goddamn obvious. Name me one man/boy who welcomes emasculation. From his mom. I would say the number would round down to lowest single digit. So knock off that mommy-knows-best shit, when it is clear that you know ONLY! SHIT! I will be looking forward to your next tear-stained and drug-addled letter, when your life has hit the skids and your son is stacked up in the shithouse for possession, joyriding and assault. You are a BAD mom, Shan. AHAHAHAhaaaaa...

A League of Extraordinary Dipshits

2006-06-27T13:48:00.000-04:00

I have been thinking about passive-aggressive people today. I also have been thinking how they totally deserve a hard punch in the fucking mouth. Of course, that's just me being all, you know, aggressive-aggressive I guess. Anyhow, I had this really interesting (read: fucking retarded) conversation with someone who asked me what I did for a living. There is nothing wrong with this question per se. And just to keep everyone up to speed: I am a crack-whore. Now that I have gotten that issue out of the way, I want to address the question that was asked. As i have stated, there is nothing wrong with the question. Except that it opens a floodgate of needless cruelty. I responded by saying that I was a returning student (to keep my crack addiction under wraps). The PA agent pushes the interrogation along and asks what exactly is my field of study. Now, I won't exactly reveal what that is, except to say, that it is something that inhabits inside the academic realm and rhymes with SCHMIBERAL FARTS. This is where it gets so delightfully obscene. 'Well, what kind of job are you expecting to get with that?' the PA asked. Gah. I gotsta say that under no circumstance is that ever an appropriate question to ask. Ever. Just look at the question. Repeat it to yourself. It's a fucking terrible question! And if you ask it, it's because you're a drippy douchebag who has a neck-stabbing booked sometime in the near-future. Cos clearly, you deserve it.

I think I met a whole platoon of these fuckers who really felt they were on a roll in a single weekend. Here are my top 3:

The Eyeroller - I hafta say: I love this kind of fucker. Sorry. Let me be a little more succinct. I WOULD love this kind of fucker TO BE BURNED TO DEATH IN FRONT OF HIS/HER MOTHER. I met this individual once before, and upon meeting with him again, I had remarked that he had cut his hair and looked good. He responded by ROLLING HIS FUCKING EYES and stating that hair has a tendency to grow. Is that right, Mr. Wizard? Hair GROWS! Guess what? So does my homicidal rage, ya worthless bag o' shit.
The Chuckler - They laugh at something you think is funny. But, it isn't one of those REAL laughs, you dig? It's the over-the-top breathy ahHAhaa type of laugh. I hate those. Cos it's needless. And mortifying. You know? Just. Fucking. Bad. Worthy of a swift kick in the head.
The Smirker - Which describes the person in the introduction. Muh. They ask questions that seem genuine, but can't help giving away the fact that they are TOTALLY fucking mocking you. I would have more respect for them if they would just come out right and say it. Just tell you that you blow, and your current choice of employment is an indication of that very painful fact. But they don't. Instead, they feign hostile delight. They need to have their brakes cut. And their cars dumped off a cliff. Pronto.

People ought to knock this shit off. If you don't have the fucking balls to just say 'fuck off' or any other diplomatic statements to that effect, then fucking suffer. After all, I hardly think it is at all fair that I cannot legally stab you in response.

Crosstown Snapshot an' Shit

2006-06-17T09:40:00.000-04:00

A Hankering for a Homo in the Plural

This is a partial shot of a storefront window belonging to a Lebanese bakery located near the Catholic highschool I once attended. Happy to report that the window sign has not changed since I - as a depressed chain-smoking teen - first laid eyes on it a dozen or so ice ages ago. It made us shit ourselves laughing. But, we were also fourteen.

Actually, it still totally slays me today.

Open Letter Vol. 2

2006-06-09T11:19:00.000-04:00

Dear Public Transport Services:

It has come to my attention that I am at the mercy of your diabolically shitty service. Actually, this realization has been pretty goddamn apparent since I first capitulated and rode with you fuckers back in the Fall of 1990. I remember how the Cult, Nirvana and Alice and Chains were big back then. I also remember how fucking late you assmunches were every single goddamn morning. You know, I think I am a pretty patient motherfucker myself. I can put up with the endless parade of cast-offs, criminally insane and mentally incapacitated who occasionally threaten to kill me. Or simply masturbate in front of me. Or both. At the back of the bus. I can endure the rickety, shrieky battalion of elderly people who insist that the stop is really THERE and not HERE, because it was THERE twenty-odd years ago, thereby concurrently robbing me of twenty-odd years of my life. Ah, yes. My dear sweet PTS. How I long to connect with you again, like we did in the good old days. The endless nerve-shattering minutes of needless delay. The borderline hostile phone service that routinely misdirects me. Without fail, of course. The emotionally-crippling moments at the ticket booth, all because of a fucking bandana or the fact that I cannot declare that I am a full-time student. Oh, waitafuckinminnit! I still go through this high-speed byzantine rollercoaster ride into madness with you EVERY! FUCKING! DAY! Thank you for your ceaseless and tireless effort in thwarting my day, one fucking way or another.

Hugs,

The World's Motherfuckingly Happiest Commuter

Gagging for It #2

2006-01-05T13:32:00.000-05:00

Dogville
4 out of 5 pitchforks

A compelling film about some broad who tries to negotiate dignity for security among the locals of a dying mining town in the middle of Buttfuck, Nowhere. Or Colorado. Same shit. Although remaining true to any Lars von Trier film - where it starts off very badly and ends fucking horribly - the conclusion is kind of a surprise. The film is broken up into nine chapters. The setup is a minimalist stage production, relying on chalklines and ancillary props (i.e. door here, a bed there) to demarcate residences, stores and the abandoned mine and simple camera work and lighting. I quite like this alot and became accustomed quite quickly. Nicole Kidman - who does frail and delicate beauty so well - portrays Grace. Grace is a fashionable dame on the lam, who stumbles upon Dogville. Here, she meets Thomas Edison Jr. - played by Paul Bettany, who is great in this film, btw - to whom she supplicates for refuge. He likens himself a philosopher. I think he's just a douche who grates on me real quick. Anyhow, he talks to the townfolk and they all agree to help Grace out. At the beginning, we are led to believe that Grace is a runaway/missing person. She does odd jobs in order to appease and to belong. However, things change (and in true von Trier fashion, they get spectacularly worse) when Grace's status shifts from missing person to wanted person of interest, replete with the tantalizing prospect of a reward being dished out. You can probably, at this point, imagine how everything suddenly spirals nastily down the shitter. The disintegration begins and everyone's nature degrades, as does Grace's position and situation. Which - I probably don't need to emphasize but will - is totally shitty, writ fucking large. We witness to our horror, painful minute after minute, this dramatic shift: from servant to slave, citizen to denizen, stranger to friend and back to stranger and onto prisoner. Sigh. Of course, this goes on until the explosive conclusion. The result of what happens when you fuck with the wrong person and they fly off the handle. Sorta.

Stellan Skarsgård does a mean job as Chuck. So mean, in fact, we get to see his bare ass. Ugh. I heart Lauren Becall because she does "crusty crone" like it's no one's fucking business. In addition, Zeljko Ivanek does a bang-up job playing a social misfit/bad seed. In all honesty, I really do dig Ivanek. However, this role is not much of a stretch for someone who routinely plays serial killers, incestuous fathers, stalkers and wife-beaters. I'm just sayin' is all.

The ending was...disturbingly awesome. Plenty of people will disagree with me on this, but fuck 'em. I will not disclose details as to what happens; however, I will say that I certainly felt like doing the wave, the cabbage patch and the roger rabbit (all in that sequence) afterwards. I was that fucking delighted. As for the anti-American angle that many have bitched about: frankly, I didn't see it. Anyone who insist that it was the thrust of the movie are meth-heads. What I did see was a movie that crystalized humanity's foibles and perversity. Pretty universal shit.

The Pita Fundamentalists

2005-11-11T20:06:00.000-05:00

Beware of the inappropriate and excessive use of the word 'extreme'.

There's this pita joint in my neighbourhood called Extreme Pita, which got me thinking about the recent trend in making the most innocuous thing 'extreme'. How the fuck can you take a sandwich wrap to the max? I mean, it's just a goddamn sandwich. Unless, of course, you wrap a loaded Beretta in one, take a bite and shoot your friend in the face. Or, maybe wrapping some pure smack in a multi-grain fiesta tortilla, concealing it your rectal cavity and muling it across the border. Now, that would be more than an Extreme Pita. That would be the Illicit Pita (or a Senseless Violence Burrito, maybe?). Extreme indeed. Somehow, I don't think snacking on a chicken feta pita sandwich would qualify as an Extreme Pita moment as much as, say, having a falafel wrap while cowering in the midst of heavy artillery fire in the Gaza Strip.

"Death to the West! Our shwarmas are the BEST!"

Open Letter Vol. 1

2005-11-09T22:09:00.000-05:00

Dear Craft Services,

Just wanted to drop you a wee note regarding your selection of sandwiches made available at darkened lonely outposts located throughout the campus. I must say that I am dismayed, nay, appalled at witnessing the battalion of cheese sandwiches huddled together like abandoned Bosnian orphans on the Refridge-O-Shelf. Now, I don't expect catering quality that could rival any high-end eatery. Fuck no. However, I expect it to be a notch or two above "Prison Approved". And fucking cheese sandwiches? No one will touch that. Any dipshit on angel dust can slap together a cheese sarnie. Albeit, one that was covered with blood and torn hair, but I digress. My point is that it is do-able. By ANYONE. So dispense with shit that any pre-schooler with a metal plate embedded in his/her underdeveloped skull can accomplish and bring on some fucking decent sandwiches. While you're at it, knock off that pretentious bullshit. You know what I'm talking about. Enough with the pesto, the basil and the liberal smattering of feta. If I want to feel continental, I'll pay for a Latvian hooker. 'Nuff said.

Much love,

A Snackroom Dictator

"I'm on the hunt, I'm after you"

2005-10-26T18:04:00.000-04:00

It is apparent that the music industry is filled with dipshits who believe a pastiche of borderline psychotic ruminations smacking of violent stalking compulsions is somehow romantic. It is also apparent that the music industry is a golden bastion of gluesniffers who ritually kill - and subsequently urinating upon - music listeners on the weekends. I don't know. I don't have access to their dayplanner. Take, for instance, that maudlin Clay Aiken and his ever-painstakingly creepy ode, Invisible. A mighty fierce piece of shit, indeed. A little ditty that starts of with this honeyed tongue lashing:

“Whatcha’ doin’ tonight
I wish I could be a fly on your wall
Are you really alone?”

...Cos if you aren't, I swear to God, bitch, you are fucking dead. OOPS! Sorry about that. I thought I would finish up Clay's thoughts on the matter. Anyhow! Like, what the fuck? Were these people on glue when they thought they mined industry gold with this prelude to mental illness? Jesus. He bloviates further with:

”If I was invisible
Then I could just watch you in your room
If I was invincible
I'd make you mine tonight…”

Really, you don't say? And at knife-point, I assume?

Romantic? No fucking way. Basis for a restraining order? You bet your ass, boychick. However, I gotta say that I don't think anything can top the granpappy of scary stalker diddies. Here, I am obviously referring to the Police's Every Breath You Take. Sure, it sounds fairly innocuous, what with Sting's dust-light vocals and the fluffy layered keyboard arrangements. Who wouldn't? It's the fucking Police. Here's a small excerpt:

"Every breath you take
Every move you make
Every bond you break
Every step you take
I'll be watching you

Every single day
very word you say
Every game you play
Every night you stay
I'll be watching you

O can't you see
You belong to me"

Riveting. Now imagine that being played back on your voicemail. Except that the music is stripped away and the singing is substituted by angry and uncontrolled shouting, interspersed with bursts of sobbing. This was number one for eight solid weeks on Billboard Top 100 in 1983. Girls wanted to slowdance to this shit. Kind of fucking scary when you think about the number of people who can relate to it.

Skipping to Braindeath

2005-10-05T21:20:00.000-04:00

Ugh. I just ate an apple that I had forgotten in my bag for quite some time and it sure tasted like ass.

I hate doing front-desk work because it is soul-crushingly boring. I just sit there and play a solid hour or so of Murderer or Molester whenever someone walks through the door. Simple game, really. Some yob comes in from the street and I try to figure if this person is either a murderer or molester. Or, worse yet. Both. It is a fucked up game, I know. But it sure beats the shit out listening to easy-listening radio. And we all know that easy-listening radio is never an easy listen. Fuck no.

I am happy to report that my house is a spectacular crack-den. Also, I have to do grocery shopping. Grocery shopping. A sign of civility when the task is actually done. Really. When all the good stuff is gone, you’re essentially reduced to foraging for food around the house like an animal. Sniffing and munching (and quite possibly yakking cos you don’t know how long that thing’s been sitting there) whatever you happen upon. It’s a slippery slope and soon enough, you’re pretty much snacking on stale cracker and mustard sandwiches for the next couple of days. Shit’s gross, but who are you to argue?

Meh.

2005-10-04T19:57:00.000-04:00

Pretty uneventful work day. Just like the other 563 days I have spent internalizing my rage and giving my paranoia a great workout. I look forward to the gin-and-tonic-fuelled lunch on Friday.

I had a thought about my brother the other day. This thought, or series of thoughts more precisely, stems from a discussion or two I had with him. He's every bit the character I wish I were. Notably, my brother possesses a character that just boggles my mind. He's good-natured, calm, affable and an all-around sweet guy. Whereas I am an erratic, mouthy and vulgar nutbar. As that short bastard Popeye would say: I yam what I yam.

His motto: There's always tomorrow.
My motto: There's always suicide.

Going Abroad

2005-09-24T23:01:00.000-04:00

I did a day trip to Montreal today, and I must say that I am clearly living in the wrong city. Talk about a closed-fist salute to the teeth. Anyway, it was a beautiful day spent in a beautiful city, occasionally peppered by a shitstorm of crappy pop tunes. I went to the Musée D'Art Contemporain De Montréal which featured some pretty fascinating shit. Here's my synopsis of the day's events:

At the Gallery:

I checked my bag at the coat-check stall, only to be cheerfully greeted by some brassy dame who had all the joie de vivre of a Soviet border guard. Due to my lack of foresight, I had forgotten to change from shades to my regular script and had to have the poor woman retrieve my bag from the far-most depths of coat-check depository. Yes, a massive intergalactic gap of 30 cm away from her person, believe it or not. Of course, all with the expressed purpose of being able to, you know, fucking see a foot ahead of me and somehow make my visit not seem all for goddamn NOUGHT. Good God, did she fucking suddenly hate me. However, I should be sympathetic to her. It must be tough to get laid-off as an internment camp administrator.

At any rate, the set-up for the fall exhibit was indeed the shit. There was this cool installation -whose name escapes me because I couldn't be arsed to keep the pamphlet - where a series of projectors with their corresponding cameras were installed facing all four walls. I think there was a total of 8 projectors. I don't remember cos I couldn't be bothered to count. Damn, I wish I cared more. Each projecting a distorted image of the viewer, which was totally wild.

YET!

(cue the other shoe to drop)

I realize that I am too much of a Philistine to be an art critic, so I'll be a total dick instead. There were a few pieces that made me think: Paint and a Protractor. Are they fucking kidding me? Believe me, I'm all for modern art and the re-interpretation of its scope. More power to it. However, when I see art manifest itself in a way that makes me to slap the Director and challenge the bitch to a pistol duel at dawn, then I've got to question public ambivalence towards art purchases in general. Bear in mind, not ALL pieces done in either the traditional Arbitrarily Slopped Paint or the lauded Armed With Glue-gun While High On Coke method, respectively, are bad; it's just that not a whole hell of alot of 'em are good. Swear on a stack of dead grandmothers. Some of it makes the crap Ikea flog come off like an off-shoot from the goddamn MOMA.

Run-down on the rest:

Good multi-media: Blackboard montage, wherein a projector suspended from the ceiling flashes on said blackboard an animation made to look like chalk drawings coming to life.

Bad multi-media: What appears to be a dance studio (this was intentional) leading to a hidden alcove with a projection of some yob blowing on a wind-keyboard blow toy (similar to the one I had when I was in JK). Yeah. Fun stuff.

Also: Saw a video montage by Paul McCarthy called Girls Wild Gone, involving underwear clad chicks hacking some fat dude's leg off. Decided to break for a meal at that point.

Overall, a brief but healthy shot of culture. Now I don't feel so much of a plebian.

I headed out on St. Catherine street in search of food. Nothing like zipping through art that's hard to understand make you want to cram food down your gullet at warp speed and fucking pronto. I was hunting down an eatery, trying to find an outlet that would appeal to my taste buds/common sense, so I walked down the whole length of the street, passing a procession of stores that sorta followed this permutation:

cafe
peep show
pub
high-end boutique
peep show
dodgy convenience store
cafe
sleezy boutique
church
sex shop
peep show
metal bar

By the time I had reached the end of the street, utterly bereft of hope, I thought: "Fuck it. I'll go look at some titties instead." However, my defeat had subsided when an outdoor menu caught my attention. It was a chain joint that served Italian food and I was seated by this gorgeous dame. I sat down, ordered the Penne di Tutti Cholesterol and a Strawberry Daiquiri. The penne was a'ight. Why the fucking daiquiri? I don't know. Because I am an idiot? I never got into daiquiris because they were cloyingly sweet and frankly, extremely pussifying. However, I decided to have one for shits and giggles. Sadly, there were no giggles to be had. Can't say the same thing for the shits part, but I digress. I hate daiquiris. Like I despise milkshakes, and just about any drink that test my lung capacity. Naturally, they serve the goddamn thing with a straw so narrow that it rivals a horsefly's urethra. After dinner, I hit a pub for a couple of double espressos and staggered off to the bus depot a couple of hours later to be accosted by an attention-craving panhandler and a surly ticket jockey.

My arrival into O-town: Wrist-slashingly joyful.

Item! Commonwealth Break-ups Are All the Rage

2005-09-23T19:50:00.000-04:00

I bought a pair of canvas shoes today. Black low-cut Converse. Fortunately, I found a place that sold them for what I believe is to be the reasonable (not really) price. I bought them from this joint, as opposed to the place that would gladly sodomize me [See Ass-rape Writ Fucking Large and University Book Store Purchases] for an additional 2 fins. Assbites.

Price is not an object. It should never be when one seeks the healing powers of RETAIL THERAPY. Bask in the warm glow of liberal market economy.

Why this silly therapeutic prescription? To assuage my embarrassment from my misguided attempt at a tactile platonic friendship that went bust without me ACTUALLY witnessing it. Seriously. I don't how it went from "What a fucking smashing Friday night" to "Why am I a fucking leper all of a sudden?" I cannot for the life of me, pinpoint the exact moment it went to hell. Nothing like being completely filled with regret and crippling self-doubt to launch a weekend without a fucking drop in the house.

But then, fuck it and fuck them. I got a new pair of shoes.

Some Hinterland Who's Who Shit

2004-10-03T14:30:00.000-04:00

Squirrels are fucked up little animals. No other animal on this fucking planet that I am aware of has an ethical crisis when it crosses a street. Most animals (and perhaps some small children) just cross the damn street. But squirrels don't. They just cross, then stop, think about what it is they are doing, switch directions, go, then stop, ponder some more, maybe even fart, then switch to another direction, then go. Then the idiots get flattened by a Buick. Big fucking surprise. There is one in my neighborhood who is missing his tail. The little guy was in front of me, as I was walking home. He freaked out and fled in the direction ahead, entreating me to a sight I never quite anticipated. I must say, that is way more squirrel anus than I needed to see. Shudder!

Dance Evolution

2004-10-03T13:55:00.000-04:00

My parents are awesome dancers. They are just that goddamn good. In fact, if my dad has a glass of wine, he just gets better. My brother isn't that bad either. I, on the other hand, seemed to have inherited the Immobile Drunk Loud Laugher gene and certainly not the dancing one. When I hit the dance floor, the Fat White Club-footed Scotsman With Acute Astigmatism in me just comes out and makes an appearance. Then people start to wonder if something is wrong with me:

"Will you let go of me! I don't have epilepsy! And quit shoving that fucking wallet in my mouth!"

See, with dancing, there is no middle ground. You are either fucking brilliant and people just stare at you with awe and excitement. Or, you're shit and people stare at you with grave concern, eye-rolling pity or good old fashioned disdain. Sometimes, I can feel the laser marker that snipers use, track across my face. That's usually my cue to knock that shit off.

Why do you think I listen to death metal?