Sunday, Part II

It's decided: each week shall now have two Sundays.

Seriously, how awesome would Double-Sun be? I'm confident it would rocket to the top of the pre-existing terrific "Double" things in life, which include fan favourites such as two scoops, double vodka sodas, doublemint gum, hot twins and of course the current lead, double penetraysh.

Every Saturday, I wake up at 7:00 am and reach for my suicide knife like I do every morning, before realizing "Holy fucking shit. I don't have to get up for five. more. hours. !!!" At about 7:01 am, a giant smile spreads across my hungover face and I fall back into delicious slumber, knowing that all I have to do today is jerk off, watch a movie, maybe get some groceries and then party even harder than I did on Friday night. FTW.

Sometimes I even fight the fall-back-asleep ferries tugging at my tired eye lids because I'm so GD comfortable and content all starfished out in my perfect bed that savouring that moment *might* be even better than sleep itself. I just peed a bit thinking about that.

You would think the same happy cycle would repeat itself on Sunday morning, Sunday being another weekend day, right? Not so.

Why? Because Sunday is a lying whore.

Every Sunday, I wake up at 7:00 am and reach for my suicide knife like I do every morning, and the only reason I let it fall out of my exhausted, puny grip after 15 seconds of hard contemplation and cost-benefit analyses is that I realize that I don't have to get up for five more hours. But the sleep-in that follows is not as sound as Saturday's blissful, sex-dream infused, all-morning power nap. No, the Sunday morning sleep-in is tainted. TAINTED I SAY! Tainted with the inevitable truth that you've been trying to deny: as soon as you get out of bed, every activity you do for the rest of the day, no matter how pleasure-filled, relaxed, exciting, or illegal it may be, will be contaminated by the fact that you have to go back to work tomorrow. And the next day. And the 3 days after that. It's the quintessential "FML" moment of every one's** week.

(**Except for all of you reality defying dream-rapists who are either still in school or who "make your own schedules." You can all curl a soggy, limp dick into your soggy, limp dick-sucking mouths. For the rest of us sad human sheep, Sunday has a completely different vibe than Saturday. The vibe feeling something along the lines of getting fisted in your beef whistle (<--shout out to JB for this new word that is disgusting enough to impress even me.)

Sunday, or Sunday I, as it SHALL soon be called, is the week-day equivalent of Just the Tip: nothing more than a pussy-teasing jerk store. Which is why, dear friends, I propose Sunday, Part II: Sunday's Revenge.

At first when I came up with the genius and clearly never-before-thought-of (yes...) idea of adding another day to the week, I thought the best day to add would be another Friday or Saturday, or something in between (Fraturday?). Clearly, Friday and Saturday are the best two days of the week. On Fridays and Saturdays, people get to be their true, disappointing selves, and nothing feels better. You want to sit around in your grandma sweat pants all day watching old episodes of Hang Time? You want to find out if tequila has an expiry date? You want to spend the day cutting out magazine and newspaper words to fashion threatening death letters to your various enemies? Hey, it's Fraturday. Giv'er.

But then, I thought, adding another "special" day to the week would do nothing to solve the weekly all-day FML that is Sunday I. Plus, we'd all die sooner due to the lost brain cells, lack of sleep, disgusting eating habits and STDs that go hand-in-hand with the Friday-Saturday dream team. The shorter my life, the fewer opportunities I will have to undertake complete world domination, etc. No deal. Sunday II it is.

Think about it. Sunday II is like the full-day equivalent of being able to hit snooze 72 times in the morning. And EVERYONE WHO IS HUMAN does this. No? Not you? Your alarm goes off at 6:30 am, and you jump out of bed with a smile on your face, ready to tackle the exciting challenges of the day? Get the fuck off this site, now, because I don't want your evil within 100 metres of this blog. Also, do the rest of us a favour and remove your supple human flesh suit, reveal the inner robot-demon within, and do something cool and destructive for us to watch on the 6 o'clock news. Go.

Where was I? Right. Snoozing = life. Sunday I is your all-day snooze button. Except that eventually, you do get up and then you have an entire day to ease back into week-day you, and an extra night of sleep to make up for the sleep you rightfully neglected on Friday and Saturday. More sleep = longer life = more opportunities to prove to everyone that you're not a failure. VICTOIRE!

In conclusion, if you like my ideas and wish to subscribe to my newsletter, please vote Yes on upcoming Bill 481: M as World Leader and Maker of All Decisions. In addition to making what we now call Sunday into "Sunday I: The Just-Kidding Sunday", I have a 5 year plan that involves bringing back dragons, an Island of Punishment for exes, calorie-free pizza and orgasms for women - the forgotten orgasms.

xo

Spider Alley

I just saw a spider in my office and lost my shit.

How.

HOW did you get in here, you vile arachnid?! Seriously though. I work in the tallest tower, so far from the ground below and all of the hideous creatures that inhabit it. The rational part of my brain tells me that it most likely rode in on some assistant's cubicle plant from IKEA (Side note - Fuck You, IKEA). The irrational part of my brain tells me that it was sent here by one of my enemies as some kind of sick, impending doomsday message. This is my version of being sent a cut-off thumb in the mail. Reveal yourself and your sources, you master of evil and mayhem!

I'm now whimpering in my desk chair like a puppy being left in its punishment crate over night, while simultaneously and frantically looking from corner to corner of the ceiling in rapid motion to check for furry accomplices. I actually look so paranoid and insane - I'm just waiting for a partner to walk in and then slowly walk out of my office backwards as he or she looks on in horror and I don't even notice their presence. Thanks, spider. Not only have you ruined my day but now you've put my career in jeopardy. I'm not even mad - I'm impressed.

Ever since I was a little girl I've been completely terrified of spiders, even more so than home invasion, my other crippling lifelong fear. Basically my biggest nightmare is bad guys (yes, I still call them that) breaking into my house armed with spiders. Can you imagine?? I would probably just stab myself in the neck with the knife I keep under my bed when I saw them to get it over with.

eeeeeeeee! spiders! !!!

OK. I believe I was born with my bone-chilling aversion to these petrifying pests, but it was made all the worse with Arachnophobia. That movie was such an asshole. Actually, scratch that. My PARENTS are the asshole for letting me watch it when I was EIGHT. Really, guys? Seriously? These are the same people who told me to watch The Exorcist when I was in grade 8. Um...good. That also didn't haunt my dreams for the next....what day is it? 14 years. Cool. I wonder if there's some kind of failure award I can nominate them for? I will look into this. The genius acting by my man Jeff Daniels and Mr. Johnny Goodman was not enough to balance out the millions of spiders everywhere. To this day I can't shower with my eyes closed....

FUCK! I just watched the shower scene clip on YouTube!! Noooooooo! Terrible, terrible decision. Oh God. Oh no. No no no. My stomach just turned into a hard rock of revulsion, all the hair on the back of my neck stood up then crumbled off like feta cheese, and I'm wiggling my foot so hard it might actually rocket off my leg. Why am I such a masochist?? Aaaaand here comes the vomit.

True story: when I was about 15 I was up at a cottage with my extended fam. Let me mention right now that I have made my (slightly irrational but fully real) fear of spiders known to anyone within ear shot since I started talking. I basically said "mama", "dada", "baba" and "If I see a spider anyfuckingwhere near me, everyone dies."

Anygross, my cousin's cousin (weird, get over it) and I were swimming in the lake. He is about 2 years younger than me and I believe had a crush on me at the time. I'm probably the first girl he ever saw in a two-piece, whatever. So we're in the lake, minding our own business, and suddenly a spider appears. In the water. This is WAY more than my weak 15 year old heart can deal with and I immediately start to choke-panic and flail around in the water like a kitten being drowned in a bucket. C, we'll call him, notices me clearly dying and, probably trying to impress me, traps the wretched thing with his bare hands. This sends me into writhing convulsions. I know I should be grateful when anyone traps a spider that is plotting my death (they ARE), but any human flesh contact with spiders (even someone else's) just destroys me. Somehow, though, I managed not to drop dead on the spot, and summon all of my many and varied powers to calm down, just a tad (just the tip).

So I'm treading water (which, on a side note, I'm ridiculously good at, and despite this was banned from becoming a lifeguard at 17 because I barely weighed a buck-even and apparently that's not strong enough for the rat bastard dream crushers at NLS!!!! Ok. Sorry.) and C, spider still trapped firmly in fist, suddenly gets a devilish glint in his eye. Before I have time to mutter "what are y---" he THROWS. THE SPIDER. AT ME.

Let's take a moment to let this sink in.

............

.......

...

Not ONLY does he throw it in my direction, he hits me square in the cheek!!!!!!!!! With a SPIDER! My reaction? The millisecond its most outstretched "arm" (aka tool of the devil) makes contact with my precious skin I projectile vomit everywhere. Actually. Yes - this can happen. This is the nightmare world I live in.

I have never fully recovered from that incident. It still haunts my dreams on a bi-monthly basis. I'm now even more bat-shit cray-town whenever I see spiders, like the ones that inhabit "Spider Alley". Yes - Spider Alley.

They're doing construction (who's they?) all along the sidewalk on the way from my house to the streetcar, and to prevent us from being dominated in the face by falling debris, they've built this little enclosed walkway. I have made the trek under this makeshift tunnel about 100 times. At night, there are light bulbs to prevent you from kissing the pavement, but I've never actually looked up, until recently. I was walking with one of my friends who suddenly was like "wow! check out ALL the spiders up there!" Clearly upon these words registering in my virgin ears I freeze like a deer in the headlights, then make the regrettable decision to glance ever so slowly above me. Fail.

I can't even describe to you what I saw in those few seconds before I bolted out of that fucker like a ho being chased by her gun-wielding pimp, because the memory might kill me. Suffice it to say I will NEVER walk in Spider Alley again, and now have to walk in the middle of the unlit street instead, subjecting myself to the very real possibility of death by motor vehicle. Still, I'd rather be crushed into a pile of slippery goo than ever have a spider touch my face or be within a 1000 mile radius of the top of my head again.

May all your weekends be spider-free and full of whorish delights.

xo

m

PS as I wrote this, the office wall spider has managed to disappear from my accusing and terrorized glance. NOOOOOOO! I will now be leaving work, possibly forever, after torching my office.

I hope you're not eating right now

Remember that time when my rat brother accidentally introduced his skull to a bunch of jagged rocks in the Mekong River? Here's a pic of the battle scar, for those who have inquired (sorry to the rest). You should fucking see the other guy!

So much Yes.

Hello cock munchers!

I wish that I could take credit for the hilarity below, but it's not my shit. Just some awesome commentary by God Knows Who to tide you over while I desperately party for the next 3 days before I start work again on Monday (and will thusly have way, way more to bitch about).

Enjoy!

(Thanks, SugarDick*)

*I assume this is the man-version of SugarTits.

RANDOM THOUGHTS FOR THE DAY:

I wish Google Maps had an "Avoid Ghetto" routing option.

More often than not, when someone is telling me a story all I can think about is that I can't wait for them to finish so that I can tell my own story that's not only better, but also more directly involves me.

Nothing sucks more than that moment during an argument when you realize you're wrong.

I don't understand the purpose of the line, "I don't need to drink to have fun." Great, no one does. But why start a fire with flint and sticks when they've invented the lighter?

Have you ever been walking down the street and realized that you're going in the complete opposite direction of where you are supposed to be going? But instead of just turning a 180 and walking back in the direction from which you came, you have to first do something like check your watch or phone or make a grand arm gesture and mutter to yourself to ensure that no one in the surrounding area thinks you're crazy by randomly switching directions on the sidewalk.

I totally take back all those times I didn't want to nap when I was younger.

The letters T and G are very close to each other on a keyboard. This recently became all too apparent to me and consequently I will never be ending a work email with the phrase "Regards" again.

Do you remember when you were a kid, playing Nintendo and it wouldn't work? You take the cartridge out, blow in it and that would magically fix the problem. Every kid in America did that, but how did we all know how to fix the problem? There was no internet or message boards or FAQ's. We just figured it out. Today's kids are soft.

There is a great need for sarcasm font.

Sometimes, I'll watch a movie that I watched when I was younger and suddenly realize I had no idea what the fuck was going on when I first saw it.

I think everyone has a movie that they love so much, it actually becomes stressful to watch it with other people. I'll end up wasting 90 minutes shiftily glancing around to confirm that everyone's laughing at the right parts, then making sure I laugh just a little bit harder (and a millisecond earlier) to prove that I'm still the only one who really, really gets it.

The other night I hit a new low at an open bar. I had already hopped on highway blackout when, inevitably I had to find a bathroom. Eventually I decided it was probably on the other side of the bar so I tried to walk over there, but ran into a guy coming the other way. We played that, Both go left, Both go right game to no avail, so I finally put out my hand to guide myself past and that's is when I realized, yup, that's a mirror I just tried to walk through. And the guy on the other side is me. Even cats can re cognize their own image.

How the hell are you supposed to fold a fitted sheet?

I would rather try to carry 10 plastic grocery bags in each hand than take 2 trips to bring my groceries in.

I think part of a best friend's job should be to immediately clear your computer history if you die.

The only time I look forward to a red light is when I'm trying to finish a text.

A recent study has shown that playing beer pong contributes to the spread of mono and the flu. Yeah, if you suck at it.

Was learning cursive really necessary?

Lol has gone from meaning, "laugh out loud" to "I have nothing else to say".

I have a hard time deciphering the fine line between boredom and hunger.

Answering the same letter three times or more in a row on a Scantron test is absolutely petrifying.

My brother's Municipal League baseball team is named the Stepdads. Seeing as none of the guys on the team are actual stepdads, I inquired about the name. He explained, "Cuz we beat you, and you hate us." Classy, bro.

Whenever someone says "I'm not book smart, but I'm street smart", all I hear is "I'm not real smart, but I'm imaginary smart".

How many times is it appropriate to say "What?" before you just nod and smile because you still didn't hear what they said?

I love the sense of camaraderie when an entire line of cars teams up to prevent a dick from cutting in at the front. Stay strong, brothers!

Every time I have to spell a word over the phone using 'as in' examples, I will undoubtedly draw a blank and sound like a complete idiot. Today I had to spell my boss's last name to an attorney and said "Yes that's G as in...(10 second lapse)..ummm...Goonies"

What would happen if I hired two private investigators to follow each other?

While driving yesterday I saw a banana peel in the road and instinctively swerved to avoid it...thanks Mario Kart.

MapQuest really needs to start their directions on #5. Pretty sure I know how to get out of my neighborhood.

Obituaries would be a lot more interesting if they told you how the person died.

I find it hard to believe there are actually people who get in the shower first and THEN turn on the water.

Shirts get dirty. Underwear gets dirty. Pants? Pants never get dirty, and you can wear them forever.

I would like to officially coin the phrase 'catching the swine flu' to be used as a way to make fun of a friend for hooking up with an overweight woman. Example: "Dave caught the swine flu last night."

I can't remember the last time I wasn't at least kind of tired.

Bad decisions make good stories

Whenever I'm Facebook stalking someone and I find out that their profile is public I feel like a kid on Christmas morning who just got the Red Ryder BB gun that I always wanted. 546 pictures? Don't mind if I do!

Is it just me or do high school girls get sluttier & sluttier every year?

If Carmen San Diego and Waldo ever got together, their offspring would probably just be completely invisible.

Why is it that during an ice-breaker, when the whole room has to go around and say their name and where they are from, I get so incredibly nervous? Like I know my name, I know where I'm from, this shouldn't be a problem....

You never know when it will strike, but there comes a moment at work when you've made up your mind that you just aren't doing anything productive for the rest of the day.

Can we all just agree to ignore whatever comes after DVDs? I don't want to have to restart my collection.

There's no worse feeling than that millisecond you're sure you are going to die after leaning your chair back a little too far.

I'm always slightly terrified when I exit out of Word and it asks me if I want to save any changes to my ten page research paper that I swear I did not make any changes to.

"Do not machine wash or tumble dry" means I will never wash this ever.

I hate being the one with the remote in a room full of people watching TV. There's so much pressure. 'I love this show, but will they judge me if I keep it on? I bet everyone is wishing we weren't watching this. It's only a matter of time before they all get up and leave the room. Will we still be friends after this?'

While watching the Olympics, I find myself cheering equally for China and USA. No, I am not of Chinese descent, but I am fairly certain that when Chinese athletes don't win, they are executed.

I hate when I just miss a call by the last ring (Hello? Hello? Damnit!), but when I immediately call back, it rings nine times and goes to voicemail. What'd you do after I didn't answer? Drop the phone and run away?

I hate leaving my house confident and looking good and then not seeing anyone of importance the entire day. What a waste.

When I meet a new girl, I'm terrified of mentioning something she hasn't already told me but that I have learned from some light internet stalking.

I like all of the music in my iTunes, except when it's on shuffle, then I like about one in every fifteen songs in my iTunes.

Why is a school zone 20 mph? That seems like the optimal cruising speed for pedophiles...

As a driver I hate pedestrians, and as a pedestrian I hate drivers, but no matter what the mode of transportation, I always hate cyclists.

Sometimes I'll look down at my watch 3 consecutive times and still not know what time it is.

It should probably be called Unplanned Parenthood.

I keep some people's phone numbers in my phone just so I know not to answer when they call.

I think that if, years down the road when I'm trying to have a kid, I find out that I'm sterile, most of my disappointment will stem from the fact that I was not aware of my condition in college.

Even if I knew your social security number, I wouldn't know what do to with it.

Even under ideal conditions people have trouble locating their car keys in a pocket, hitting the G-spot, and Pinning the Tail on the Donkey - but I'd bet my ass everyone can find and push the Snooze button from 3 feet away, in about 1.7 seconds, eyes closed, first time every time...

My 4-year old son asked me in the car the other day "Dad what would happen if you ran over a ninja?" How the hell do I respond to that?

It really pisses me off when I want to read a story on CNN.com and the link takes me to a video instead of text.

I wonder if cops ever get pissed off at the fact that everyone they drive behind obeys the speed limit.

I think the freezer deserves a light as well.

I disagree with Kay Jewelers. I would bet on any given Friday or Saturday night more kisses begin with Miller Lites than Kay.

A Toothless Winterpeg Grin

(insert rambling apologies, etc, blah blah blah, and what have you.)

Hi kids!

It's fall, so I've been told, but I'm still waiting for the horrible, leaf changing evidence to love-slap me in the face. The reason I haven't noticed the changing of the seasons is that I've been, blessedly, out of Toronto for the past 7 weeks or so. A little 45 degree heat in Madrid and Barcelona, some sexy 38 degree + cool summer breeze action in the Greek Islands, a cottage in NYC and finally Vancouver, which apparently is the TITS. Or at least, it has been the tits for the past week. Just gorgeous, kids. Just grand. I like to think it was all for me - the sunshine, the hot hot heat - since when I left Canada's prettiest city just yesterday the sky turned a dark shade of used-asshole black in what can only be a protest of my sad departure. Fear not, Vancouverites, I shall return the next time there is a week of perfect weather! Start working on that, will you?

Anyhottimesinthecity, after 7+ weeks of fabulousness, I find myself in the bustling metropolis of Winnipeg (aka Winterpeg, aka Punishment Land of Pain). Various weather.com checks over the past week led me to believe I was going to be rained on with all the vengeance of several....vengeful...gods? Wow, I'm tired. Where am I? Oh right, Winnie the Peg! So imagine my surprise when I stepped off the plane last night, into the arms of my beautiful best friend, through the parking garage, past Go, and finally into the warm? summer?! AIR! (Kenny Powers fist pump!) Today was a darling 28 degrees and sunny, and looks like the trend is going to continue until I leave on Saturday, when this fair village will resume it's gloomy non-m-ness existence. (Editor's note: all of the above weather control is only more evidence that I am, truly, surely, a wizard. More on that later).

But lo! Not all was puppies and chocolate flavoured cigars (do these exist? I like to dream yes) en route to ole' Pegtown. (I heard that communal sigh of relief among you, most loyal readers - "is this really another GD entry about the fucking weather?! Damn this bitch is getting old!). Fear not.

Yesterday, my dearest friends S + M (yes!) drove me to the airport, bless their hearts, a few hours early. I made it through customs in record time (4 mins?) and found myself with a good 2.75 hours before my plane was set to take off. Le sigh! I fucking hate airports, let me just put that out there. I've been in about 14 of them in the past 2 months and if I never set foot in one again...well then my life would be really boring and shitty, but part of me would secretly rejoice. Gross carpeting, old people everywhere, snot-nosed brats crying....shudder.

In an attempt to forget my hideous surroundings, I decided to try to nap. Vancouver was not a sleeping week for me (apparently I like to party?) so I was overdue. I had my travel pillow with me (a ratty, 14 year old "pillow" that basically feels like several tube socks rolled up and shoved into a burlap sack, but I love it so!) and decided to put that bitch to good use. Awesomely, the Vancouver airport has no annoying homeless-barriers between seats, so I was able to stretch out my whole 5'4 frame on three chairs. My shit was feeling pretty good all lounged out like a hobo, and I was almost sleeping when Johnny Dickface Snoremouth started trucker-breathing on the bench next door! J F'n C! Really? Can I just say that all snorers should be shot in the face? I'm...not joking.

I got up and wandered to another gate, attempted to sleep again, but there was a little ratling watching Dora the Explora (would be way cooler if it was spelled like that) on her very own 4 year old lap top and squealing with retarded delight. Fine. No rest for the wicked.

Luckily I found refuge in my sweet, loyal ipod, and my new favourite song, Unless it's Kicks (thank you, provider), which I listened to on repeat while vigorously using my starbucks stir sticks to drum along atop the latest Vogue. Eventually I noticed several people looking at me with a mix of disgust, rage and pity - apparently no one appreciates a sweet, 63 minute air drum sesh. Whatever.

Finally we boarded the little avion. By some Christmas Miracle, I had a window seat with an EMPTY seat beside me! Huzzah! I was throwin' my hands in the ay-er-ah in a gratitude dance when a 30-something dude sat in the next seat over (still an empty seat between us though). Fine, I GUESS that's ok.

I hate talking to people when I'm traveling - on the train, elevator, anywhere. Guess what? I don't know you and I have a lot of magazine reading to catch up on, so let's just both look ahead and ignore each other, mmkay? I promptly inserted my earbuds, made a killer playlist and started perusing GQ (why are you so hot, Chris Pine?).

Every so often I notice 30's-guy staring at the side of my head. Mostly I wouldn't respond, but every now and then I'd turn and provide my best cut eye that I hoped he read as "look at me once more and the last thing you'll ever see is my pen in your eye". Clearly, it didn't work.

Fast forward to those horrible final 15 mins on the plane, where you have to put your seat upright, take your hand off your dick, fasten your tray or whatever the fuck and carefully stow everything that's remotely entertaining. Including my ipod (how my ipod is going to prevent the plane from landing is beyond me, but I reluctantly agreed to put it away). The instant my protective headphones left their happy place inside my little ears, 30's-guy fucking zooms in like a vulture. "Oh, hi." No.

Being a chick, I have an annoyingly hard time being verbally mean to strangers. Sure, I can give them death stares, but once they start talking to me, I just don't have it in me to say "Oh, hi. Would you please fuck off and die?" So instead I just say "Oh. Hi." The rest of our 10 minute convo went like so:

Him: "Are you from Winnipeg?"
Me: "God no."
Him: "Oh."
(awkward silence)
Me: (eyes closed, sighing) "Are you?"
Him: "Yep. It sucks. I'm actually moving back home, which sucks. I was just in Vancouver though, which doesn't suck!" (thanks, tips).
Me: "Wow. So was I. We just came from the Vancouver airport."
Him: "Isn't it awesome?"
Me: "Yes."
Him: "Are you from Vancouver??"
Me: "Neg."
Him: "Where are you from then?" (these are the only options?)
Me: "Toronto. I'm here to visit my girlfriend."
Him: "Cool!"
Me: "Um...I guess."
Him: "Where do you live in Toronto?"
Me: "Queen and Dufferin."
Him: "Oh yeah, I've been there. It's so cool. Those streets."
Me: (staring, knowing he has never been to Toronto).
Him: "So, wanna know why I'm coming back to Winnipeg?" No.
Me: "Uh....sure."
Him: "Are you ready for it?"
Me: (looking around making sure that there are witnesses since he is clearly about to reveal some hidden, grotesque object, possibly his penis). "I guess..." (backing up in my seat)
Him: (Takes. Out. His. Front. TEETH.)
Me: "Oh, God!"
Him: (through gums): "I know!"
Me: "Jesus, God. Oh God."
Him: (finally puts teeth back in). "I sail. I was on a sailing trip. I fell off the boat and it hit me in the mouth."
(um, sure)
Me: "Wow, so....you have to move back to Winnipeg since it's the one city where you'll more easily blend in without teeth?"
Him: "Ha ha ha! No. I have surgery tomorrow."
Me: "Well, good luck!" (clearly, that's supposed to let him know that this is the end of the conversation. I turn to look out the window).
Him: "So your friend...you're staying with...are you guys around all week? Like, will you be downtown?"
Me: "Ye....nooo. No siree bob! She's crazy, this one. She likes to plan surprise mystery road trips that start the second I land. Who knows where we'll end up. Yep, sure won't be anywhere...around."
Him: "Oh, well...do you..."
Me: "Oh look, the seat belt light is on! I can finally finish my song." Insert ear plugs. Rush off plane.

I still don't understand the gum-revelation. Was that an invitation to make out? Was he trying to impress me? Let it be known: a toothless, bloody mouth is never anything you want to invite others to view, unless you're a toothless, sexy vampire, in which case, give'r.

Welcome to Winnipeg! God, I can't wait to go out tonight.

x

Mother Nature is a Fucking Bully.

Honestly.

What. The. Fuck. Is. With. This. RAIN!!?

The only explanaysh I can come up with is that Mother Nature, or “Queen of the Harpies” as I like to call her, has something against the lovely and talented Summer, and is out to destroy her. CUNT!

Though I pride myself on generally having the answer to all of life’s problems and riddles, I’m completely dumbfounded when it comes to eliminating Mo-Nay and her evil ways. I’ve attempted several “sunshine” dances. Instead of wearing feathers and turquoise (to symbolize wind and rain, respectively, in the lame PG-rated “rain” dance), I lather myself up in coco butter and barbeque sauce and girate rhytmically in an open field. So far it hasn’t worked, which is both shocking and annoying.

I’ve also attempted to control the forces of nature with my mind and/or vajennica; written several letters to God, Al Gore, David Suzuki and Blair Waldorf; and blackmailed the sun-witholding she-devil with those naked pictures I have of her in a kiddie pool full of strawberry lube with 3 unicorns. Nothing. I just want to run out into the street, Jennifer Love-Hewit styles, and scream “WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?! WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FORRRRRR!!!!” while twirling around dramatically and then bursting into dry sobs.

This rain! It’s ruining everything from BBQs to birthday parties to park days to my HAIR. This latter offence is the worst of them all. Attempting to make my mane look acceptable on the driest and sunniest of days is challenging enough – you try stylin’ two sheets of Kleenex into an acceptable work updo! Add dampness and Toronto sewer water to the air and it’s a losing battle every time. This morning I spent 10 minutes straightening my hair (didn’t know it was raining yet, FML), and all I had to do was walk outside for 30 seconds and BOOM. It looks like a herd of diseased and starving cows licked the shit out of my head and face. My bangs look like a 4 year old drew a swirly twirly wave on my forehead with a shart-brown marker. Good.

Today’s rain brought some friends with it – Fog and Cold Wind. Hey, why not! If I’m already being jizzed on by Mother Hater’s lady juices, I might as well be shivering and blind while it’s happening, right? Go big or go home.

Seriously, though. My nipples could cut through glass right now. And I only like to do that as a party trick, NOT while sitting at my desk during this last, miserable week at work (side note: I’ve thought it was Friday every day this week so far, which I suspect is another one of Harpy’s cruel mind-fuckerings. New word.)! All my wintery suits and work dresses were carefully stowed in the overhead compartment in like May, because that’s NORMAL. So waltzing into work every day in a JULY-APPROPRIATE summer work dress only to flash the entire office my rock-hard breast-eyes is really fucking grating.

The fog is the sneakiest whore of all. You don’t think it will affect you the way being pissed on and blown around does, but when you’re nursing a margarita and oyster hangover and trapped in an office in the tallest tower with no view other than a WALL OF WHITE NOTHINGNESS, you want to claw your tired, red eyes out of their sockets. That’s about where I am riiiiiight now.

I trust most of you are feeling the same way these days, so I leave you with this video of The Wolf Man teaching a baby wolf (eeeeeeeeeee!) how to howl (!!!!).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5T-ZThSE5rQ

In between contemplating the quickest and easiest ways to kill yourselves or others on this dreadful Thursday afternoon, please send me suggestions on how to either 1) rescue the glorious sun from mother nature’s kung-fu grip; or 2) manage to have some kind of fun in the rain. I’m REALLY fucking volatile right now, people, so don’t let me down.

Guest Blogging Is the New Black

Hello most loyal sluts,

[Insert standard apology about how I'm the worst at updating this cat shit blog]

Since I've been getting mounted at my day-job these days, I've invited a special guest writer to entertain you whores this week. His Nom de Plume shall be "D" to keep shit nice and simple, and because I make the rules, since I am the Ruler of All (aka this cat shit blog).

I'm getting called to the Bar tomorrow (yawn, eye roll) so I'm sure that most boring of ceremonies and the rager that follows will bring with them many stories for you, my pets. I predict I say something inappropriate in front of my grandparents about smoking weed at dinner, and fall into the pool at my friend J's party later that night. FTW!

I'm also going to Manhattan this weekend to pump some excitement (and possibly a few STDs) back into my desperately boring existence. I promise to make many poor decisions and report back to you.

Enjoy D's ramblings, which I trust you will not find as funny or awesome as my own. And if you DO, sleep with one hand protecting your throat.

xo
m

Story Time With D

D here, a young scoundramuffin looking to relate a reasonably hilarious story in the realm of "Wow, I may be one sick motherfucker, but this guy is the sickest of the motherfuckers"

The setting? Koh Phi Phi, Thailand
The title? "Sandra the Swede and the Incredible Bedroom Comedy of Errors" or in the alternative "Boner Jams" or in the alternative "Arr, this be the yarrest river-goin' boat thar be" or in the alternative "Pee-pee soaked heck-hole"
Note: the last three titles have nothing to do with the story
Note 2: Actually make that the last two titles have nothing to do with the story.

It's the summer of 2007, and D is traipsing through Southeast Asia with his pal Boner Dan.

At the same time, Sandra the Swede is also traveling through Siam, accompanied by a friend. That friend, unfortunately for all concerned, is large and in charge, and not the least bit jolly. Her name D cannot remember, but he has a feeling that it's possibly Helga. Helga is a whale.

D and Boner attend a Thai Irish bar, and come across StS and her big fat friend. Neither Boner nor D are willing to jump on the grenade that was Helga for each other, so the competition begins. Sadly for Boner, Helga's rather portly eyes pan in his rather unfortunate direction, and D snares her svelte companion.

A wonderful night ensues, notwithstanding Boner's attempts to ruin D's evening by refusing to love Helga strong.

Boner succeeds at blocking D's cock. D's cock continues to be blocked the following night, but that was more the 5 buckets of booze D crushed than Boner being a dick. Allow us to fast forward to that next night.

D and StS are getting friendly at a bar. Boner has already departed, sent home for being too drunk and unruly. On Boner's way home, his namesake is grabbed by a number of she-males as he stumbles by their lair. He is forced to flee and hide in some bushes, where he proceeds to pass out in the bush and wake up the next morning, but that's a story for another time.

Meanwhile, 8 buckets deep, D leans in and says something sexy like "Venshnort... Blach!... myfacefeelslikealmonds...SEX!!
...Heeeeyoooo". StS loves this, and makes it clear that she would like to engage in sexual intercourse with him, so D runs as fast as his muscular, toned legs can carry him to a nearby corner store, where he purchases a package of condoms, because they are part of it and important, and a package of pringles, not a part of it but still very important.

Back at StS and Big Fat Helga's guesthouse, some canoodling on a cheap plastic crap chair ensues. Unfortunately for all involved, the cheap plastic crap chair breaks, sending D sprawling onto the floor and, subsequently, off the ledge into a bush. He emerges with a very bloody nose and the makings of a broken arm. But with his eyes on the prize, he climbs back onto the deck, all sexy like Chris Farley climbing onto the stage in Tommy Boy at his dad's wedding before his dad has a heart attack and dies. D smiles alluringly, grabs StS's hand all sexy, looks into her eyes, and then he tries to mount her. StS expresses her preference that D stop bleeding on her first. 45 stupid, runny, non-clotting, non-coagulating blood minutes later, the fun begins again.

Big Fat Helga's big fat snoring provides the beat, like a love metronome.

Oh, D's mistake, he would be remiss if he did not mention that the young ladies were under the impression at this point in time that D was a philanthropist from Quebec named Cecil Barrington, and he had failed to correct that assumption.

Anywhale, the loving continues, and with each use/yell/moan of the name "Cecil", a prolonged drunken giggle in a French accent escapes. At this point, the 12 buckets of liquor begin to catch up to Cecil, and he unfortunately takes a nap whilst performing an activity that shall not be named. StS isn't even mad, she's impressed.

StS waits awhile for Cecil to wake up, prodding him and swearing at him in Swedish. Unfortunately, instead of lovingly resuming his love acts, Cecil's comatose body tumbles off the bed and onto the ground. Slightly perturbed, StS decides to go to sleep.

A few hours later, Big Fat Helga wakes up from her Sasquatch-slumber to go to the bathroom and to greet the day. Instead, she is greeted by a naked, starfished, grounded Cecil, who happens to have a (considerable) erection. Big Fat Helga departs, unimpressed.

Soon thereafter, Cecil wakes up and scrambles onto the bed. Some fooling around begins, and StS reaches for the recently purchased condoms while Cecil reaches for the pringles. 2 things immediately became evident: 1) Despite Cecil's whiteness and admittedly average size, he is still colossal by Asian condom standards 2) Cecil, in his drunken stupor and haste and love for pringles, has accidentally purchased "edible" chocolate-flavoured condoms. All involved parties are shocked and awed.

A "Titanic" farewell ensues. Sandra, my love, where doth thou are, you are in my thoughts... You're welcome.
D

Savage Love

Yo.

Do any of you read the blog "Savage Love"? If not, ch-ch-check it out by clicking on the title of this entry (magic! M the Wizard = 1)


For those of you who are unfamiliar with this sex / dating / love / relationship advice-giving blog, here's a brief synopsis. Dan Savage is an openly gay author who uses the column as a forum for his strong opinions that disregard conservative models of love, sex, and family. He generally encourages advice-seekers to pursue their fetishes, so long as activities are legal, consensual, safe, and respectful. The tone of the column is humorous, and Savage does not shy away from using profanity (yay!). The cornerstone of his sexual ethics is consent; he is thus strongly opposed to bestiality, child molestation, and rape. He speaks out against incest and social inequality, too. Though Savage encourages sexual experimentation, he does not encourage carelessness. He frequently uses his position to promote safer sex and awareness of AIDS.

Dude is awesome. His advice is almost always right on the money. I am one member of his massive cult following, and soon you too will be reading this delicious sex blog and becoming one with his many bizarro terms and clever acronyms, examples of which include:

Pegging: a name for the sex act in which a woman uses a strap-on dildo to perform anal sex on her male partner (hot).

GGG: 'Good, Giving, and Game,' which is what we should all strive to be for our sex partners. Think 'good in bed,' 'giving equal time and equal pleasure,' and 'game for anything—within reason.' (so rare...)

DTMFA: For years, Savage has told his readers in bad relationships to "DTMFA", or "Dump the Motherfucker Already". (My fave)

Anywhore, in his most recent column, I came across this little sentence which really fucked with my head and made me think: "When we date, we're telling people that we're in a place where we're ready for love, romance, and sex. If we're not, we have no business dating anyone seriously. Period."

Um... yeah. Pretty much.

Thoughts????

Make it stop...

Also, in today's dose of pointless news, I've had the following songs stuck in my head for like two weeks straight:

1. Hot Blooded
2. Sleigh Ride (yes, the Christmas Carol. Ella's version.)

Why.

Je ne comprends pas.

Um, can someone please explain to me why all (straight) men are obsessed with "American Psycho?" Like, really. Tell me.

I mean I kind of get it. I love C-Bale's sweet, sculpted, buttery ass as much as the next human beign with eyes and reproductive organs (even straight dudes admit they at least admire his tight full-body package in all its muscly glory). In addition to Bale, Chloe Sevigny and Reese Witherspoon are both genius in it, so there's that. It's obviously a very dark and clever depiction of the zombies of Wall / Bay street. Fine. Points. It's a good movie.

But why do guys LOSE THEIR MINDS over this shit? So many of the guys I've dated recently literally jerk off (possibly into their own waiting mouths) to this cinematic wonder.

Does it do for men what Sex and the City does for women? Am I even on the right track?

Also people keep telling me it's "funny." I'm not gonna lie, I'm mildly terrified of any dude who finds THIS:
funny.


Help...me...understand...

P.S. New post coming soon. Sorry, I'm kind of a lawyer, sort of. It sucks up a lot of my time. If anyone has any career alternatives to offer me I will make out with you and accept at once.

Tie one on...

Dear Guy Who Can't Get Laid,

Start wearing a tie every day. Call me when your dick is a gooey puddle of its former self due to raging overuse.

Kisses,

m

* * * *

As I shuffled through the dreaded PATH this morning, clutching my recycled cardboard scone (still, I know) and elbowing my way past all the other suited zombies, I noticed an alarming number of "men" wearing full suits with no ties. We're not talking "ohmyfuck I can't believe I finally had that threesome last night!!!!! I'm so out of it I'm wearing my girlfriend's underwear and forgot my tie! FACK!" That would actually be fair and, let's be real, hot.

These are guys that can also be caught wearing sunglasses in the PATH. WHERE THERE IS NO SUNLIGHT. Read: they have season's passes to Doucheville.

Most of them have a little shit-eating grin going on as well, like "Hey. That's right. I'm not wearing a tie. I know. That's just me. I play by my own rules. Yeah."

Little do they know that pretty much every woman is thinking the same thing "I so don't want to be anywhere near your dick."

Here's the deal, GWCGL. All of you, yes - even you, look 210% hotter when you're wearing a tie. Fact. (If you're not reaching for a tie as you read this, you should be. Go!) There are only a few situations where it is acceptable to not be wearing a tie:

1. Halloween
2. Sex* (* we'll come back to this)
3. In the shower

Otherwise, unless you're actively trying to get less head on a day to day basis, I should be able to hear you working that Windsor knot as I type this. You should wear one every day. EVERY day. But ESPECIALLY if you wear a suit to work!!!! There are very, very few men who can pull off the suit + no tie look. For your convenience, I have located these rare examples and posted them below. Observe:

1.

2.

You'll notice that one of the exceptions is BATMAN. Is this becoming more clear? I mean he's fucking BATMAN, ok?? You'll also notice that Alfred (who is a PIMP) IS wearing a tie. Even though bitch is SO bad-ass, he knows how to handle his shit. His glory days have come and gone (even though I'd still totally sit on his face in a second) and girlfriend knows this. As such, he keeps it tight and sexy by the adding of tie to neck. Well played, you delicious old beast.

Here's what: women like the following three things a lot:

1. money
2. power
3. sex

Nature.

The tie, whether we realize it or not, is a symbol of all three. Let's attack them one at a time, shall we?

1. MAKE MONEYMONEY MAKE MONEYMONEY MONAAAYYY!

I know there are some scunts out there reading this going "noooo! I don't care about money! Blahblahblah!" Bitch, I'm going to slap those words out of your Dior-coated lips. End it.

True, women care LESS about money ever since those hot-ass suffragettes told us we could use rolling pins as dildos instead of pie-making instruments, throw some shoes all up on our bare feet and trade in a handful of screaming brats for a handful of dolla dolla bills by gettin' PAID ourselves!

Now that we can make our own cash money instead of only being able to acquire it in exchange for exclusive ownership of our vajacquelines, it's less of a necessity for the men in our lives to be packing coin as well. Thanks, we're good.

Still.

Who doesn't like the idea of MORE benjamins? Even you hot sluts out there who own one pair of hand-me-down jeans and spend your summers building schools for poor little tykes in the Third World get wet at the thought of more dough. Hello - more schools! More food for the starving kidlets! Point being, you don't have to be a materialistic asswhore to love money. No matter what you plan to spend it on, it never really hurts to have double. Check.

A guy wearing a tie makes dollar bills appear in women's eyes just like in those awesome old-timey cartoons. KA-CHING! Cuz for real, if buddy is willing to spend $100 on a difficult and restrictive piece of clothing, he's probably willing to spend it on you, too.

2. BY THE POWER OF GRAYSKULL!

While women enjoy getting off in a sexy-time way and are pretty good at doing so themselves thanks to the Rabbit (so I've heard...I'm still too scared to use mine!!! eeeee! It's collecting dust in my closet, that $60 stealing son of a bitch!), nothing gets a woman off like power.

There are two basic ways for women to become all-powerful:

1. Work your fucking ass off
2. Steal it from some guy

While I *hope* that most women prefer the first option since it's challenging and amazing, I know that that's not the case for all the ladies out there. And as with money, even if you have your own power to begin with, who doesn't want a little bit more if presented with the opportunity?

This opportunity, according to most women's subconscious calculations, can often be found in the form of a penis wearing a suit + tie combo. Seriously, bitches don't even think about it. You see three dudes walking by in baggy jeans and ironic t-shirts, you stare right through them at the chick walking behind them with the killer heels. You see three ties walking by, your ovaries start purring. I'm telling you, it's fucked. The tie brings it hard.

3. SEXXXXXXXXXXXXXX (in your mouth)

Fuck. I always get so horny around this time in the afternoon that just writing that made me consider typing "library gangbang" into google on my work computer. Anyway.

The third (and most important for your purposes, GWCGL) power of the tie is that it makes a lot of women think about sex. Well, at least this lustful bay street hussie. What are we thinking, exactly? Generally a dizzied assortment of the following:

1. Nice tie. Nice suit. Good dresser. I bet he shaves his balls. I want them.
2. I want to tie him up / want him to tie me up with that tie.
3. I want to pull him into my body with that tie.
4. I'm going to hold onto that tie when I'm riding him.

True story.

So, GWCGL, are you convinced yet? I hope yes. Because unless you're this guy



you need to tie one on.

It's Official

1. I'm Drunkkkkkkkkk!

2. "Amazing" by Kanye is the best song to listen to while waiting for the streetcar. Or walking to work. Or getting ready to go out with your betches. Or generally in life when you need to feel high. You can disagree, but I'll find you, and cut you. Actually this whole GD album is incredible. I was such a hater at first! For so long!!! Oh, forgive me your ego-ness! I love thee as much as always!!! Memories made in the coldest winterrrr..... sorry. I'm listening to the shit right. now. Nathan is coming to kill me soon, I can feel it....but still: streelights...glowing... no. stop m.

oohhh did I mention I'm drizazzlunk?

Which brings me to my NEXT POINT: !!!

3. Drinking On Mondays = YES. It's the new everything.

4. The prodigal son returns on Saturday! Riots permitting, of course. I'm going to slap him in the skull hole for his sins. Who's with me!

Aaaaaaand scene!

Petit Frere - A Mildly Serious Post (sowwy)

Yo.

As I attempt to concentrate at work during this anxiety-ridden week, I find myself thinking about The Boy (it's what I call the little bro - he calls me The Girl) and worrying, like a lame big sister, and needing to find comfort in something, anything from him.

So I'm reading through some FB messages and emails from the past few months since he's been in The Asia (that's what everyone calls it now). We've had our own....language (you can barely call it that) since we were little. It mostly involves Simpsons and favourite movie lines, inside jokes, lots of shortening of words, random French, and a shit load of gibberish.

This is the last message I got from him before the head injury. Which is ironic, because this is totally what I would expect a POST-head injury email to look like. I apologize to your eyes and brain in advance:

**
March 18, 2009:

"Subject: Myyyyyeeerrrrrrggg!

Here's you'e TRUE discussion! I'm just gonna look at the keyboard and go....seatbelts? I love you...

I cant fuckin do it. haha no i can maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan Gilrl...Gil yea > RRRR GiRl hahahahaha zoe-age: YoU gO gIrL!

point is...I'm fucked
baheaehe

moving on...

what?

I Think i tap out right now. Laos is amazing

K intelligent thought...go!: Lost it.

Ummmm Aunt Mo says you're done something or the time has come or some shit, you know...so pull up your dress and let's cut a swath of next-gen [insert our last name] impeccable journeying.....MASTERS OF THE UNIVERSE! I'm he-man you're shee-ra, bligaddydaow! game on.

k i gotta uploard pictures...(haha uploard is a funny word) love bye yes!

Me.

pee-ess. Now I dig for oil! I consider myself and OIL-man! Now I'm a FAMily man! This is my son H. W....

I got it on me ipod. D-day is my fav actor for sure...stamped it"

**

Um...riiight. I'm pretty sure this injury involved mushrooms or Laos Beer. And by pretty sure I mean positive, judging by this hot verbal mess.

Anyway, NEXT!

**
December 26, 2008

"Subect: RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARLLLLL!

I'm clearly hammered in a bar right now that offers free Internet. It's 2:17 am. Life is good!

Nice email. I got teary-eyed, but no further than that. You don't yet have the power to make me cry...voluntarily maybe. Man I'm growing up. I hate everyone here. But they're all I have. so i have to learn to love what i hate. hahaha ramblings, it's not that dramatic but that's a quick overview. No I love it. I'm having a blasty-cakes. Missed ya'll on xmas and xmas didnt feel like a real xmas without cold weather and proper music and friends. But I organized a white elephant game with the volunteers. T'was a good time. I ended up with the bottle of cobra/scorpion wine that i bought. It is absolutely rank and horrible. I'm gonna finish it one day.

Living is so cheap here. The perfect place to ride out this economical crash and shit, though i don't understand it. Love to hear your spiritual evolution of treating others with love and understanding. That's what it's all about sister. The Power of Now, book that i jacked that uncle michael gave you once...I'm reading it...man...heavy shit. I grow wiser by the page. It's really good stuff, I'm gonna market it to you at an annoying rate, you have to read it.
But not high. It's impossible to read high ahhaha. Weed here is absolute dogshit. So dry and crappy, but 10 bucks gets you like 5 grams. Worth it.

Anyways I'm gonna pee my pants so I'd best let you know that one day the travel of me and youse must inevitably occur. Fuck, you and your lawyering, you'll have 10 year old kids by the time you're able to take time off to vacay. Here's to the dream. Oh and thank for your patented ego-pat, what with the you're so handsome, smart, amazing, genius, loving, cover of GQ, Clooney has nothing on you, you make the world turn lovingness only a sister like you can dole out. So much BS, but that was the part that teared me up cause I believe you meant it. (YOU'D BETTER HAVE FUCKING MEANT IT!) I take a much simpler approach (the beautiful differences between us): I love you M!

All I need to say. I love you.....I miss you too! There.

Le Gas"

***



Love you too, boy.

OK. Now I'm emosh.

Back to talking about ear-fuckin' and ball-garglin' next post, promise!

P.S. These kids are clearly not my bother and I. Gotta protect our secret identities! Also, they're way cuter.

xoxo
m

Men = Dicks

By which I mean, men should probably be viewed from here on in as being just giant (if you're lucky) walking penises.

This could really work out well for the ladies as long as you keep your expectations focused on the dick and what it can do for you. According to the charming bachelors from the comment section in my last post, most men view us as a walking pair of tits, so why not return the favour! Trust, this can work out well for everyone!

That being said, girls, if the peen doesn't work (cough*Sare*cough) it should be promptly discarded along with your former hopes and dreams of having actual man friends who like you for more than the possibility of drunken ass sex if their insane girlfriend wakes up one day.

Mouahahaha. Just kidding boys!! You know I love you. I'm just trying to generate some more heated comments because this shit is hilarrrriiious to read! You guys are totally serving each other (oooh, snap!) and it's glorious. More! More I say - more!

Personally I don't buy a lot of these comments. I have tons of actual guy friends! Though recently several have confessed their secret hard ons for me, but... shit. Damn it. Whatever. I'm going to make a list and report back! I'm SURE I have some real PMFs (platonic male friends) in my life! I swear!

GIRLS I want to hear from you. Type your heated little hearts off, please. The Official Post on Platonic Friendship is coming soon!

Finally, sorry this post is so unbelievably lame and not funny. Just wanted to give you something and let you know I loves the comments. I'm currently having a bit of a personal crisis involving....drum roll.....a boy! Little brother to be exact. Even the men in your own family can be bastards! Anyway the little bastard is having brain surgery (yes, BRAIN SURGERY) in Thailand on Sunday. I know...selfish! Thanks for injuring yourself doing some retarded man activity and causing me to now be crippled with fear and anxiety until I know you're out of the gray zone, bitch. It's funny because I'm trying to yell at him through the interweb but he's clearly not reading this since, well, he's bandaged up in a Thai hospital. MEN NEVER LISTEN!

In conclusion, today's lesson is that joking about shitty shit - whether it be man-dicks or skull fractures - helps you calm down and not freak out. Believe.

Know what else helps you calm down? Sex. On that note, I need to make some phone calls.

Platonically yours,

m

Spring Time is for Lovahs

Hello assorted whores and man-whores!

It's a gorgeous day in the neighbourhood! Mr. Rogers has already stopped by once for a quickie. Old guy knows how to handle his shit, I'm telling you! I made him draw the blinds though. I don't need to deal with two types of gag reflexes.

In case you haven't noticed because you're indoors working for the man like me, spring is in the air! Which means love (or least copious amounts of estrogen and testosterone) is also in the air. Fact. We've all seen Babmi, right? If there's anything I've learned in life I've learned from Disney movies. Crabs have Jamaican accents. Candlesticks haves French accents. Siamese cats and people have slanty eyes. Black people talk in jive-speak and wear pimp hats and don't work. All women are either virginal, obedient housewives or monstrous old evil hags. It's just science!

Anyracism, as you will recall, In the SPRING, an adult Bambi is reunited with Thumper and Flower as the animals around them begin pairing up with other sluts. Though they resolve not to be "twitterpated" like the other savages in love, Thumper and Flower each leave with newly found bonefriends. Look at these two. She's like "wait till you see what's under my soft cotton tail" and he's all "I'm so pulling your ears like the forrest tramp you are when you have my third fluffy leg in your mouth." Yum.



Bambi is disgusted, until he runs into Faline (mmmhmmm) and they become a couple. Score!! As they happily dance and flirt through the woods, another buck appears who tries to force Faline to go with him. Bitch! Though he initially struggles, Bambi's rage gives him the strength to defeat the older buck and push him off a cliff and into a river below. Fuck, I'm so turned on right now...

And so we learn that pairing off and porking in the woods is only natural in the spring. Everyone becomes Twatterpatted (a spin off of Disney's PG term, meaning "wanting to pat or have one's twat patted") and there's no fucking way around it!

This leads me to my question du jour: Can straight men and straight women (sorry gays, I'll talk about your sexier and more interesting politics on this issue another time) be friends? I'm talking FRIEND friends. Real friends. Not "I tolerate you in public" or "we say hi when we're out in a big group." I mean, we talk on the phone, hang out alone sometimes, shoot the shit for hours even in a big group, etc, without the dude's peen accidentally falling into the chick's ass. Myth or reality?

I leave it to you, my opinionated young bucks, to throw some feedback all up in my comments section (or email me if you wish to remain discreet, i.e. if you're a coward) and I shall compile the results and report the ugly truth back to you. Meaning, I'll probably just give you my opinion on the whole thing, but I'd still like to hear what you have to say first. Sometimes other people have ideas too! I learned this from reading it on a bathroom stall, not from Walt and his infinite wisdom.

To be continued...

Twatterpattingly yours,

m

Story Time with M: Vol I

Yo!

So....once again I have failed you. You, my 15 loyal followers! 16 now actually - who are you, new person? Tell me at once!

I owe you all some head, ok? Deal. That reminds me, I need to go to the dentist.

As promised* (Editor's Note: clearly you've bitterly learned by now that a promise from me is like Chris Brown promising not to beat Princess Ri-Ri again), here is The First Installment of Story Time With M (Capital Letters Make Things Seem Official And Exciting!).

I'm nerv, I'm not gonna lie. I know if this one's not good you'll all leave me, just like all those imaginary friends I used to...not.....have... what? Aiight, here goes nothing:

The Scene: Third floor of an all-girls residence at one of the finest Universities in this lovely (read = cold, only fit for beavers) Country. Winter. My 21st birthday.
The Players: The Birthday Girl and her favourite ho's (aka the girls and the gays).
The Drug of Choice: Mushrooms.

A little background: My Harry-Potter-esque College was known for it's "traditions" (read: stroking men's dicks, keeping women down - fun!), one of which was the segregation of ladies and gents into separate living quarters. The boys, of course, lived in the glorious castle with the prime real estate. The wives-in-training were relegated to the hen-house around the corner. I'm convinced it used to be the servants' lair. When women were finally allowed to attend this fine College, Captain Old-Whitey in charge at the time probably figured slaves, women, what's the diff?

Bitterness aside, it was still kind of awesome having our own (lesser) space. We got to go party at The Testosterone Temple whenever we wanted (all girls were given keys to the boy res, and not vice versa, mouhahah), leave behind pools of vomit and other bodily fluids, and then return to the safe and clean haven known colloquially as "The Ranch." Good inequality-filled times.

ANYWAY, our College also had the tradition of keeping its young and nubile students on campus for as long as possible. To seduce us into staying in residence after first year, second years were allowed to choose their floor and all of the people who would reside there. This resulted in about 10 of my best girlfriends and I all living side by side on the best floor at The Ranch. Clearly, a recipe for disaster.

One final background note: our College was student-governed, meaning the students decided EVERYTHING. This meant that 90% of our money went into booze. Go team! But it also meant that we decided that we didn't need "floor dons" or whatever the eff those fun-spoiling bastards are called. The only "grown up" in the entire building (and same went for the Boy Res) was one lonely old "porter" who acted as the gate keeper into the building. Read: an old man who sat in a little glass box way down stairs at the entrance, and watched porn / fell asleep on the job.

This lack of supervision meant that basically the College was ours. We were free to smoke cigarettes and joints in our rooms and in the halls (I'm not kidding), booze whenever and wherever, bone anywhere (mmm...common room sex), etc.

And so we come to my birthday, circa...several years ago (I like to pretend I'm still 21). My b-day always landed around reading week, a.k.a. SPRING BREAK!!! That meant that a good two thirds of the building always cleared out, except of course for my faithful legion of ladies, who always stayed around to keep me company (I could never afford to go on vacay like the other trust fund babies who made up 85% of the College's population).

On this particular b-day, we opted to stay on our floor in res and just tear the place apart. Why not? No one was around, we had 10 bedrooms to choose from, and we knew we would all find our way back to our beds easily (read: by turning around). And so we did mushrooms. Lots and lots of mushrooms.

Things were going along swimmingly for the first little while. Two of my girlfriends weren't down with the magic so they stayed sober - good thing because within about 30 mins of getting high I proceeded to slice my thumb open (I was playing with a broken vase. I thought it was a toy.) and have a mini-melt down. But I was bandaged up and everything was good and trippy for the next few hours.

Fast forward to about 2 am. One of my man-friends - let's call him Tony - how can I put this... ate a bit too much? Pig. Anyway, Tony is suddenly OUT OF CONTROL. Hey, you know how when you're really high and one of your friends is going insane it's super fun to take care of them? No.

All of us spend the next two hours literally trying to lock him in one of our rooms like a caged animal. Every time we'd get him in a room, we could hear the destruction within but knew he was more safe in there than in the outside world (he kept insisting we release him into the night). Finally he would seem to tucker himself out, and we could let go of the door knob. Ten minutes of silence would pass, and we would eventually all collapse in a row in the hallway outside whatever room he was in and smoke a joint.

Just when we'd be getting high again, out of nowhere, Tony would BURST out of the room like a bat out of hell and run down the hall, limbs flailing, and we would have to tackle him again, which was no easy feat since he's about 6'2. BASTARD!!! This "routine" went on for a few hours, with him getting more and more high and us getting more and more annoyed. Finally, he seemed to REALLY be out cold, and we all piled into my room to listen to the Lion King soundtrack or something cool like that. Sweet, precious freedom.

About an hour later, one of the girls suggests we go check on our little patient to make sure he's still breathing or whatever. We're good friends like that. She goes to peek in the room, and we just here "Oh. My. God."

"What??" the rest of us shout down the hall.

"He's gone. That's what. FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Um...not cool. Happy Birthday, me! In no time, an army of about 7 girls was searching each of our rooms, wondering which one he chose to probably urinate all over. Fuck. He's not in any of them.

We decide to check the whole Ranch for our missing link. Surely, he has no idea where the front doors are in his current state, so he must be hiding somewhere close by. About 20 mins go by with of us all yelling "Tonnnyyy! Tony! Come out! This isn't funny! Where arrreee youuuu??". No Tony.

We split up into groups of 2, do another full house search. Nothing. We regroup on our floor and at this point we start freaking out. Did I mention we were all super high on mushrooms? Yeah, not the best state of mind to be in if you're going to have an extreme panic attack.

We don't know what to do. Start making calls. Has anyone at the boys' res seen him? Negative. Fuck. Finally someone has the super obvious (but not when you're on mushrooms) idea to CALL HIS CELL. Honestly. How did we not think of this 40 MINUTES AGO.

So we call his phone, and we hear it! It's ringing!!! VICTORY! Picture me holding my phone in front of me like I'm fucking panning for gold. All the girls are huddled around me so that we sort of form one shaky being. Riiiing... riiiing.... It's on this floor!!! How the fuck did we miss this?? Riiing... riiing....we're getting closer!

It leads us to this tiny bathroom just around the corner from our hallway. Yes! Not caring that we might be interrupting an epic shit or jerk off session, we burst through the door all together only to find.....


.........


.........


...no Tony.

Instead, his phone is there, ringing, ON THE LEDGE OF THE OPEN WINDOW. The curtains are blowing mockingly in the gentle wind, just like in a horror movie. We're on the third floor, by the way. We all rush to the window and cram as many of our heads through it as possible and look down for our fallen hero, bracing ourselves to see his body mangled in the bushes below.

Nothing. Maybe he's a vampire??? Mushrooms tell us this is the most likely scenario.

Still, vampire or no vampire, we're freaking out. Now not only is he lost, but he is sans phone, so there's really no way to find him. Defeated and preparing ourselves for the inevitability of jail (we could see the headlines: "College Girls Lose Friend in Seedy Night of Drug Use!"), we leave the bathroom and head back to our floor.

As we solemnly shuffle back to our rooms, a few of us mutter "Tony? Tony. Tony?" one last time, knowing it's pointless.

Suddenly: "yeah?"

Tony's voice.

All of us stop dead in our tracks and look at each other in utter shock.

All together: "TONY??"

"yeah."

"TONY????"

"yeah."

WTF. We can hear him and he's SOMEWHERE IN THIS HALLWAY!

We continue this game of cat-and-mouse until we find the source of his bored voice, which is coming from the large shared washroom right in the middle of all of our bedrooms. P.S. - yes, we had already checked that bathroom. At the very beginning of our search, we ran in, screamed his name, nothing. It was huge with several sinks, toilet stalls and showers. There was also one bathtub that was hidden behind the door that no one ever used because ew - public bathtub. Tony was laying in the bathtub with the curtain drawn.

We pull back the curtain incredulously, only to find Tony half-asleep but looking up at us as if that's the most natural place in the world for him to be. Ten minutes of us screaming at him, demanding why he didn't answer for the last hour when we were desperately calling out to him, etc, ensue. He is impassive, calm, tired, still high. We're just so fucking relieved we could care less.

Finally we get him out of the tub, into one of our rooms, into bed. Why don't any of us have tranquilizers?? Whoever's room he's in sleeps in another one of the girls' rooms, and we call it a fucking night.

7:00 am. Panicked voice in the hall.

"GUYS! GET UP! WHERE'S MY FUCKING SHOE?!"

One of the girls had a 9:00 am flight out of town for a wedding! Oops. She had everything perfectly packed and ready to go before the drugs so she could just roll out of bed and roll out to the airport. But she couldn't find one of her shoes. Her brand new shoes she bought just for the wedding.

She makes all of us do a wild search of the floor, checking each of our rooms, thinking maybe we threw it somewhere in the shroom haze (clearly). At this point we also notice Tony is gone, again, but we don't give a shit. It's daylight. He can eff himself.

We don't find the shoe, and she gives up, tearfully grabbing an old pair of black pumps and rushing out the door.

The rest of us sleep till about 2 pm, and when we all wake up we head to the dining hall for lunch (forgot to mention: another tradition at said College was that we all ate in the main dining hall together, just like in H.P. Possibly the source of my obsession with wizardry, but that's a story for another day).

We're all scarfing down the nasty res food, and finally in waltzes Tony. Oh, how lovely to see you! we all say via death stare. He approaches, tail between his legs and sits down. We can't help it - everyone bursts into laughter. At least it will make for a good story.

Half way through lunch as we're filling him in on the details of his savage behaviour, he let's us know about his adventure back home early this morning. By which I mean, what he managed to piece together based on the random object he found on the floor in his room in the morning. Apparently, he thinks, he woke up in one of our rooms, super disoriented and still high, and wanting his own bed. He realized he had no shoes on and had no idea where they were. In his drug addled mind, he figured that picking up any shoe and carrying it home would be the equivalent of actually wearing shoes on his feet. Obv. And so, he grabbed Laura's new pink satin platform sling back (we still don't know how it ended up in another room...maybe we were having a shoe fight?), held it out proudly in front of him as evidence that he knew he needed shoes to go outside, marched back to the guys res and passed out. The shoe was right there on his shoe rack, sticking out like a sore thumb, with the rest of his own shoes in the morning.

In conclusion, drugs are fun.

It's a triple Jurassic Park kinda morning

Meaning, I've already listened to J.P. three times at the loudest possible volume today in an effort not to snap and punch a hole through a wall. Not that I could punch a hole through anything if I tried. I don't even think I could punch through a spread out piece of saran wrap since a) I have ratty little carny hands that I'm convinced are purely decorative; b) I have the upper body strength of a 4-year-old; and c) I have no aim. If you were standing RIGHT in front of me and I tried to punch you, I would for sure miss and most likely end up punching myself in the face somehow. Don't ask. Well if you must, ask my brother. He had many a stomach cramp in our youth from laughing hysterically at my bitter attempts to punch him anywhere on his person. Did I mention he's three years younger and I was bigger than him for like 15 years? Cool.

Ooh except this ONE time I totally punched him in the face. It was awesome!!! We were on a family trip that involved a lot of driving (I don't understand why any family thinks this is a good idea) and the boy and I were sitting in the back seat. He kept holding his hand right in front of my face, or stretching his fingers out so they were almost touching the side of my head, and saying over and over "Not touching! Can't get mad! Not touching! Can't get mad!" I would reply, "if you don't STOP THAT SHIT RIGHT NOW I'm going to punch you in the face!" This went on for a solid 10 minutes, wherein I threatened to punch him at least 10 times. Finally I lost it and just nailed him right between the eyes. Clearly, he starts scream-crying and demanding justice from my parents. Their response: "She TOLD you if you didn't stop she would punch you!" Amazing.

Anynosepunch, where was I. Ah yes. It's a trip-Jurass day.

Observe my morning:

Around 8 am, I found myself miraculously on time in terms of being awake and showered and generally alive. I was casually getting ready and thought: "I'll make myself a lovely cup of coffee here at home and enjoy it while I'm getting ready!" Great idea, no? Apparently the universe begged to differ.

I get up to my room with the full steaming mug and attempt to place it on top of my dresser. OK, I should explain the layout of my room. It's about the size of a king size bed. That's it. It's supposed to be either a walk-in closet or a tiny joke-office, but my roommates and I, being the geniuses (genii?) that we are, thought it would make a fine little room for little me (think of the rent-splitting possibilities!). There's pretty much nothing but bed (and a giant mirror hanging down from the top of the wall facing the bed - yes) so it's pretty conducive to sleeping / boning. And really, that's all you need in a room, no? Unless you want room to actually stand / get ready / move around. Details.

So you have my double bed, and two horizontal shelves at thigh-level on the wall right at the foot of the bed. Between the two shelves I have a stereo, under the shelves I have several pairs of shoes, and on top of the shelf there is my lap top and other assorted technology and what have you. Making use of space! To the left of the shelves, kitty corner (ha!) from the bed, is my dresser. So between the bed, dresser and shelves, there's about a foot of space to....well, nothing. There's nothing you can do in a foot of space but stand perfectly erect and still and check your email on the aforementioned lap top, or trip and fall back onto the bed.

So I'm standing perfectly erect and still in said space attempting to check my email with my right arm and reaching up to place the coffee on the dresser with my left arm. I miss. Big surprise. Only half of the mug makes it to the shelf.

It proceeds to fall directly onto the floor in front of my bed / under my shelf. Needless to say it falls from so high and it's so full that when it makes contact with the floor, it obviously SOAKS my white carpet and a huge chunk of my white duvet. It's great really, because I was looking to add a certain failed abortion / diarrhea spill look to my room, so that's done.

It doesn't stop there. The impact of the crash allows the burning liquid to slap me right in the shins (mmm, scaldy), and also splatters (I'm not joking) over the 6 pairs of shoes (!) I have on the ground under my shelf, all over the shelf and wall, on my stereo (!!), phone (!!!) and LAPTOP (!!#(*$(!*), and my white curtains!!

I just stood there in horror for a minute, and then the tears came. It took me 25 GD minutes to clean it all up! Awesome. But wait! It gets better.

You all know how I love the streetcar on the best of days....shudder. I'm totally feeling like this kid by the time I get to my stop:



Actually he doesn't quite have the same blood lust and savage vengeance in his eyes as I did, but you get the point. On a side note I totally wish I had dino-jammies like those!

When I finally got on the streetcar (late), I shit you not, fifteen SCREAMING 8-year-olds got on with their teachers at the next stop. Fifteen. Think about how unbearably annoying ONE kid is. You know, when some poor haggard mother gets on the streetcar with her wench child and the kid's all "mom!? MOM! What's that? Is this our stop? Why is that man talking to himself? What are we eating for dinner?? Mom! I like shells. mom! what's...um...mom? Is Mrs. Johnson nice? Mommmmm! Watch me kick this stone!" Shudder.

As we approached the stop, it literally sounded like there was picketing /protesting going on outside! I turned to look out the window thinking "ooh, what are we pissed about today, community?" and to my horror, the brat-pack piles on. People literally gasped with disgust. They were ON FIRE. Their group chorus went a little something like this: "street-CAR! street-CAR! aaaah!!!!! WE'RE ON A STREETCAR!!!! YAAAAHHH! Streetcaaaaar! Hey! Look! People walking outside! I wanna sit! Why won't anyone let us sit? yaaaah! We're on a streeeeetcaaar!" as they ran up and down the aisles. I sort of feared for my life since I was sitting pretty close to the front and could see the driver sweating and swallowing hard, white knuckles clenching the wheel. I was just waiting for him to jerk if off the track and jump out the doors.

This is where J-Park came in. I tried blasting it, much to the future horror of my delicate ear drums, to drown out these little broken condom rats. My efforts were in vain. Even John Williams couldn't mask their shrill voices. I should have videotaped the scene with my phone camera and sent it in to some ad agency to be a commercial for birth control. I could have made millions!

And p.s. since I was late, I didn't have time to go to Starbs, so I'm drinking the chalky semen office coffee. If anyone wants to come here and slit my throat, I will welcome you with open arms.

Story Time with M

Hiiiieeee,

So, here's what. My life is fucking boring. It's winter in Canada, which means the only things to do are sleep, gain 5-10 pounds, work, cry a lot, and sometimes get drunk enough to wear heels in the snow.

As such, I have been lacking in material on this lamest of b-logs. Along with this fair country, my brain has frozen over and is incapable of doing much besides alerting my mouth to suck the drool back in right before it escapes over my bottom lip as I gaze endlessly out my office window. I blame mother nature, that lying twat. YOU TOLD ME MARCH WAS A SPRING MONTH, MA' NAYCH! YOU TOLD MEEEE! [uncontrollable sobbing]

Until something exciting (and by exciting I mean anything besides me staring out my office window every day before running home to eat, drink, cry and sleep) happens in my life, I've decided to introduce a new segment called Story Time With M. It sounds just pervy enough, in a Mr. Rogers sort of way, don't you think? Just picture me wearing a bright red pepaw zip-up cardigan with a creepy puppet in my lap, grey bushy eyebrows dancing with excitement. Here:



Stories will be mostly about the failures and embarrassments of my friends and enemies. I think it's tough but fair.

Also it's like 15 degrees out and I keep peeing a little bit with excitement. Luckily I'm wearing underwear today! It's something I like to do on Fridays. You know the exite-pee I'm talking about. Like puppies do when you finally come home from work and they're like "FUCK! I thought you fucking abandonned me!!!" and just the tip gets a little puppy soak on.

Stay tuned for Story Time Vol. I later today!

P.S. Won't you be my neighbour?

Pep Pep and Nana!

THURSDAY!!!!!

Great day. So close to Friday. Well done, Thursday. You's my ho.

So who doesn't love grandparents? I know, right? Best. I only have two left but they know how to bring down the hizzzouse!!...in theory. They just recently arrived in Florida for some quality old-person time with their old-people friends. When they told me they were going I was like "um, LAME! Way to be so CLICHE, meme and pepe (that's what we call them)!!!" Then I spat on the ground and sucked my teeth at them. I think they both learned something.

Anyold, I was wondering the other day what the depends they're getting up to down there, and then I got this awesome email today (from meme):

"It is good down here. I still have a sweat shirt on but it supposed to go up to 79 degrees this afternoon. It has been too cold to go to the pool yet. Went to a cocktail party yesterday afternoon. Met a lot of Canadians that are in this park. The guy next door is from Guelph, a retired teacher. George and Kerrison Nussey are arriving at Belanger's this afternoon and we are going out for dinner with them and Carl and maureen Atkinson from Windsor.

Tomorrow we are invited to Marg and Jerry Palowski's for a fish dinner. They are at Fort Myers Beach. She is Bernice Rivard's sister so they will be there as well as Ron and Belinda Gagner.

Dad has finished one puzzle and is working on the second."
*

Popular!!!!

OK. I know it was probably wrong to publish real names, but fuck. Tell me "Tomorrow we are invited to Marg and Jerry Palowski's for a fish dinner" isn't the greatest thing you've read in like 12 years!! Bahahahaha I honestly started weeping tears made of sprinkles and kitten paws when I read that. Oh, meme!

Sometimes I just want to fast forward to my memaw years. I don't know about you guys but I can assemble a fucking puzzle like nobody's business. And I love me some fish dinner, dayum! But that's only the beginning. Think of the possibilities!

- Badmouthing "young people today" while shaking your head and clucking your tongue

- Scratching your gunt in public and not giving a fuuuuuck

- Wearing elasto-waist jeans up to your saggy chesticles and OWNING it

- Silver hair! SILVER!!

- Getting away with saying anything, because people are just relieved you're not losing your mind. My pepe has recently taken to racism for kicks, and meme has thrown out the "hussy" bomb more than once. God love'em.

- Hiding things in your wrinkle flaps

- Backgammon! Checkers! Scrabble!

- Playing bridge with your friends while drinking Mint Juleps starting at 2 pm,
because you can do whatever the saggy bum skin you want!

- Watching the discovery channel 24/7 and falling asleep in your cozy Nana chair

- Going to bed at 8:30 because you fucking FEEL LIKE IT

- Driving like a crazy person and being all "DO something!" if some young bitch
gives you the stink eye

- Writing hilarious emails from Florida that are like "all I'm doing is straight
chillin'. Suck it." when your rat children / grandchildren mock you

I figure if I just start chain smoking and drinking 18 grasshoppers a day, I can age faster and join the land of the cotton tops in no time.

Homophone-ic Assholes

Ok.

First of all, sorry for not writing for two weeks. I'm a giant horse cock. I know I have disappointed you, 4 people reading this (zay!). I'll make it up to you with a little Tuesday afternoon flagellation while listening to Bryan Adams' "I'm ready" on repeat. Believe me - I'll learn my lesson.

After getting the 42nd "your welcome" email from my assistant this morning as a reply to me thanking her for something (she's a good ho), I pretty much snapped.

What.
The.
Shit.

When people molest the English language like this it makes me want to swim in a pool of Slumdog outhouse-style shit in protest. I'm not really sure if that's an effective way to protest but that's not the point! I'm thisclose to carving an apostrophe into my own forehead with a rusty spoon so I can point at it and say "you made me do this" while bitter tears of pain stream down my face the next time someone offends my eyes with this grammatical fuckery.

The only excuse you have for making this exceptionally dimwitted error is not passing the fourth grade. Shit, they probably taught us this in the SECOND grade, but I'm trying to be generous, because seriously.

I get that proofreading something like an email, text, bbm or facebook message is probably not high on your list of priorities. I mean, you're probably really busy and important, right? Plus you might be thinking "anything goes!" with these lesser forms of communication. Well fuckwad, you're wrong.

By all means, if you're comfortable being known as a walking blow-up doll, keep writing messages like "c u 2nite!!" That's fine. People will just assume you stopped trying on purpose and will at least feel a bit sorry for you. But if you write "See you tonight! Can't wait to get their and show you my new vibrator - your gonna think its awesome!!!" then it's (It's = Contraction of IT IS [or IT HAS] for the love of clit rings!) a whole new ball game.

Hey, I get that everyone has their (their = of or relating to them or themselves especially as possessors, agents, or objects of an action; his or her) occasional slip up. So you queef out the occasional "affect" when you mean "effect." But how, HOW I ask you, can you not just automatically remember that "you're" is the proper way to shorten YOU ARE?! 6-year-old ESL students know this shit. WHY DON'T YOU??

If you can't remember this stuff off by heart, then please do us all a favour and at least make an effort to read over your otherwise poetic words before you hit "send." If you can't even do this, just stop writing anything. Just...stop.

From now on you're going to have to rely on non-verbal communicaysh. Like Ursula said: "You've got your looks...your pretty face...and don't underestimate the importance of some body language!" You still have tons of options: An Arrested Development style chicken dance or bending over and pointing at your no-no hole are two perfect examples! YOU'RE WELCOME.

"25 Reasons Why I'm a Loser"

What the scrote is up with this latest trend on facebook?? For those fortunate souls still unfamiliar with this new virtual equivalent of a getting a face full of hot fart in the shower, let me explain: even the most inactive FB users across the world are are suddenly crawling out of left field and vomiting out a list of "25 Random Things" about themselves. You can try dick-slapping yourself in the mouth now, but it won't make you wake up from this writemare.

I don't even know where to begin. First of all, everyone who gives a tit about you clearly already knows these "random" things you're writing about yourself. Your grade 6 teacher really inspired you and you still think about her?? You used to dream you would be a fire fighter when you were a child?? You play the trumpet?!?!WOW! STOP THE FUCKING PRESS! Jesus.

Have you read the blog "Stuff White People Like"? If not, you're probably one of their primary sources of inspiration. Some of the most recent entries include "Ugly Sweater Parties", "Pea Coats", "Frisbee Sports" and "Hummus." It's like looking in the mirror and crying, right? One of the entries on that list will soon be "Filling out Ridiculous Surveys on Facebook." Truth.

Maybe there are one or two things people don't know about you, but there's probably a reason for that. No one is supposed to know that you had a crush on your uncle growing up, or that you used to drown kittens. People shouldn't know about your dick cheese fetish or the fact that you've kissed your sister. Some things should stay in the vault. Still, it's only your secret shame that, while disgusting, is remotely interesting to anyone. You're left with the choice of either a) revealing your inner demons and possibly (probably) going to jail; or b) writing about how you like kite-surfing and miss your dead dog. News flash: no one cares.

And so, since I totally fall into about 95 of the 121 "Stuff White People Like" categories, one of which I think has something to do with rampant hypocrisy, I shall now add my list to the steaming heap of pointless cat shit on the Internet.

25 THINGS YOU WILL PROBABLY REGRET KNOWING ABOUT ME:

1. I practice peeing standing up in the shower (so that one day I can aim it perfectly into your waiting mouth).

2. I'm scared of The Rabbit. Peni should not be purple. Nor should they have the power of a lawn-mower.

3. I cried after watching "Two Guys, One Horse." Then I masturbated.

4. I like biting lipstick, but I never do it because Chanel Rouge Allure costs 36 fucking dollars. But it would be so, so satisfying. So would squeezing poo through your fingers, I think. The good, meaty-but-soft kind.

5. I love peeling off other people's too-much-sun skin. My goal is to one day peel off an entire, unbroken sheet of discarded burnt flesh from someone's back so I can hold it out and watch it flap in the wind. Skin flap.

6. I love staring at my own sweater cows in the mirror. I give them the thumbs up every morning while slathering them in the finest lotions. When I'm rich I'm going to hire someone to do that for me.

7. I'm still waiting for my Hogwarts Letter in the Mail. Soon....soon (rubbing hands together with eyes closed). WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU WAITING FOR DUMBLEDORE?!

8. I often wish I was a lesbian. Girls are hotter and far more interesting (at least to other girls. Ok, to everyone).

9. I have zero desire to even make out with a chick, despite my best efforts at re-conditioning my brain via hours and hours of watching porn. We're talking, no desire. None. Like, I'm-worried-something's-wrong-with me none. Annoying.

10. At any given point in time, I'm plotting sweet and filthy revenge on someone, but I never carry it out because they're never worth it. Also, I still haven't figured out where to buy some pre-packaged ebola in Canada. Anyone?

11. If I wanted to, I could destroy you.

12. I want to punch my parents in the reproductive whore-gans for bestowing upon me the life long "gift" of kleenex-thin hair. Selfish! Couldn't they have brought in some hirsute stud and a turkey baster for the love of updos??! God.

13. When I was little I would only wear boy's underwear. For years. I loved how worried it made everyone!

14. Taking-the-pill-makes-me-feel-like-a-robot. I'm-talking-like-a-robot.

15. I can fit my whole fist in my mouth, but it makes me drool everywhere. But my drool can heal lepers so...yeah.

16. I would love to paint your teeth with nail polish. And your eyeballs. No, YOU'RE a fucking psychopath!

17. If I was a dude I'd be a huge slut. More so. I'd play just the tip all the time, and probably just the fist too. I'd also jerk off constantly. At work, in public washrooms, in the library, just fucking everywhere.

18. Giving birth terrifies me more than anything in the world. When I was 5 and my parents told me how the shit went down, I was like "is this some kind of fucking joke?!" And they were like "trust" and then I started punching myself in the stomach in advance, just to be safe.

19. I really, really want to push someone down the stairs. Or out of a plane. Or just over on the street. I used to push the other kids in pre-school. A lot. I also used to have an army of girls in grade 4 who would do my bidding, which mostly involved tackling and holding down the boys so I could step on their necks with my muddy shoes and let my spit hang over their face for minutes until I finally released it and watched it slide down their cheeks. God I miss being young.

20. OK, fuck. I'm quitting at 20 because THIS IS SO FUCKING BORING!!!!!!!!!!! See? Don't you feel like you've been molested by a relative after wasting 5 minutes of your precious time reading this? Do you not want to ram a coat hanger up my nose and out the back of my skull? Remember this when you're considering doing your own list on Facebook.

Ugh, I feel so dirty.