Once I had a bunch of moral fibre (but it went through my system pretty quick)

November 7, 2007

I don’t know the first thing about seconds.  The truth of the matter is I like throwing Frisbees to myself.  I love the dignity of the parabola.  The golden equation, the sum.  Some is too much.  Chocolate smiles too sweet to smudge with a touch.  Lick it, lump it, like it.  When did fudge become a mistake to make?  I rub my eyes full of glittering flies.  Blue.  Electric.  Eclectic, almost like electric if you don’t pay attention.  I’d be surprised if most people’s attention could span a puddle. 

We’re getting Googlephrenic.  The idea of disgoogleplexia is heightened by infinity plus one.  The numbers never end.  There is nothing but empty space.

I wonder if they’ll ever have McDonald’s Restaurant theme parks for all the little chubby kids.  Eat your shorts for good, nutritional Christian values.  It’s not supposed to make scents, but it stinks no matter how you slice it.  I recommend using your hands and ripping, but that doesn’t always work out for some of the saucier things in life. 

What can you do about googlephrenia?  I don’t know, Google it.  The spinning wheel, karmic in nature, stops on a dollar.  Bits of a puzzle up the barkers sleeve.  Religion is so medieval.  Shit.  Think of something else.   You know what I meme? 

Know, no, I mean, now, how brown cow?  If they made chocolate milk, I’d be sucking those teats ’til the farmers came home.  I don’t want to offend Hindus.  I rather like the art.  Beautiful intricate colours.  I don’t know anything about famine, except for the guilt I feel from cheating on the thirty-hour version.  Fuckin’ charity, what is it these days?  A corporation under a different guise. 

Shit stinks.  I think that’s why we call it shit.  We say so many things smell like shit, but they don’t really all smell exactly like shit, not even all shit smells the same.  That would be weird.  What would the world be like if we spoke with our mouths, but ate with our bums?  The food court would be a lot uglier. 

What does crude mean to you?  What does rude have to do with crude, other than the price we pay?  I’m on a plane, wake up snickers, I have a sweet suite to suit all my wants, but none of my needs.  All these weeds.  How is cleanliness close to godliness?  Priorities ward back, beckon thee to reckon thee. 

A yahoo is a beast of burden, a human slave to horses.  Is this what you want?  Horses are fleet of foot.  We’d be too, if we stayed on all fours.  That would be strange, huh?  Quadrupeds, eating out of our asses.  At least there’d be some time when we weren’t talking out of them.  Too many people talk shit.  Not a bad breath statement.  I might have something to say about that, but I locked all the workers out of my olfactory.  Commie bastards.  None of them can play the drums worth a ruble. 

America is going down with their dollar and sense.  If life without a gun in my face means death, then death it is, ’cause you can’t control anyone or anything for long.  If I’m going down because of you, I’m taking you too.  Ya dig? 

I once had a nightmare about digging holes.  Each hole was assigned an numeric value, more like an algebraic equation.  The nightmarish was that no matter how many holes I dug, I couldn’t surpass a certain sum.  I woke up sweaty and terrified.  I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.  2001 was on TV.  I should give that movie another shot.  I was in a poor frame of mind.  I shouldn’t live with regret, but that would mean I’d have to forget.  What?  Not sure.  No matter how much I forget, it never changes the regret.  Some things are carved into bone. 

Once I had a whole bunch of moral fibre, but it went through my system pretty quick.  That’s the title.  That’s how things are named in these here parts.

Funny thing is I don’t know what’s mine and what belongs to someone else.  I don’t know if plagiarism applies to a memory without footnotes, end notes, ibids or et als.  We’re all crazy.  We can’t agree on cake.  I like the icing that gives you a cocaine like sugar high.  You know the icing in which you can crunch the granules of sugar.  Still mostly empty space.  Hard to picture.  Harder to imagine.

All apologies and a thousand more, but I’m still going to slam the door.  I don’t want to see you anymore.  You’re a whole other whore.  None of this real.  Nothing I feel.  The opposite of love is indifference and I am finally indifferent.  It doesn’t matter, because matter is mostly empty space, like an excuse.  No substance other than forgetting.  I’ve lost count of the leaves in the trees, but the planes are lining up ninety seconds apart on the skyway.  Nothing is forever, not even energy as we know it. 

The truth of the matter is that I like white chocolate cake with my name scrawled in sweet icing sugar.  I have a big belly.  So there we are…word count 856.  666+190.  I wonder what the six-hundredth and sixty-sixth word was?  I should’ve paid attention.  My attention span is a short toothpick bridge.  Everything is a joke, especially this, that and the other thing, like an algebraic equation for holes, the variables are yours to tell.

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New For Me (phobia)

September 12, 2007

I discovered a new irrational fear today – the dental hygenist.  Sorry, not the dental hygenist, but the equipment they use.  I can actually be pretty specific.  It’s the water pick!  It has a high pitched squeal and shoots a wire of water!  If the hygenist hits a sensitive spot…look out!  I was afraid I was going to hit her as a result of a knee-jerk reaction from pain.

I was friggin’ terrified.  There I was, 30 some odd years old, sitting in the chair, white knuckled from gripping the arm rests too tight, my legs completely taut.  I was like a little boy.  I can still hear that high-pitched sound echoing in my ears.  I had a headache.  My back muscles started to spasm.  I was sweating, but freezing cold.  I wanted to cry!

The whole time, the hygenist was saying things like, “This wouldn’t hurt so much if you flossed every day.”  Or, “If you don’t floss, you’ll have bone loss.  If that happens, your teeth will fall out.”  She said other things, but I was concentrating so hard on not freaking out that I wasn’t really listening.

She is a very nice lady, is very gentle and professional, but she scares the shit out of me!

Thank goodness the fear of having no teeth at all is stronger!


Visionless Sight

September 7, 2007

‘Think outside of the box’.  I friggin’ hate that phrase, it’s very much ‘inside the box’.  In this age of technology, the individual has to be well-rounded, so why aren’t we thinking outside the ‘sphere’?  The ‘box’ is so unimaginative in terms of words, even the ‘cube’ is better.

Someone who can’t think outside the ‘sphere’ demanded that someone else think outside the ‘box’.  It’s a simple case of the ‘pot calling the bong sticky’.

Vision is a mental condition where sight is one of the five senses.  The blind CAN lead the blind.  Those who can see don’t always know where they are.


Good Friends (a wierd wedding tale)

June 25, 2007

Saturday was a beautiful day.  The weather was perfect – cool & cloudless.  Great day for driving.  We had to venture 200 some odd klicks to get to a friends wedding.  The wedding was at Viamede Spa and Resort in Lakefield, Ontario (north east of Peterborough).  The wedding was nice.  Ceremony was on the shore of Stoney Lake.  One thing worthy of mention for the ceremony.  While the Bride & Groom were signing the wedding license, the fathers retrieved fishing rods, stepped to the shoreline and cast their lines.  Within seconds, the bride’s father caught a fish.  Within moments of the fish, at 4 in the afternoon, the moon came out, but only for a minute or two.  I am not a semiologist, by any means, but I think those were two auspicious signs bestowed upon this couple by nature.

We didn’t know anyone else there, except for another couple.  Very nice.  I like them.  Otherwise, we were alone in a sea of strangers, some young, some old and all not in the mood to talk to strangers!  Picture time for the bride and groom.  We tuck away and have a couple of drinks.  When the Bride & Groom venture back toward the main resort building to take a few more photos, I notice a couple of idiots sitting on the balcony.  They’ve got their pants down and are hanging their asses over the railing, hoping to get into the background of the pictures.  Nice friends.

An hour or so later, it’s time for the receiving line and dinner.  The Bride and Groom have two really nice families.  Weddings are overwhelming for the families, so many people, so many things to do, so many so manies that the day vanishes without many memories other than the blur.  Thank goodness for the professional photos (with the asses in the b/g).

We were seated in the very back corner of the reception room, which was perfect – we didn’t know anyone, plus we had the best view of the lake!  Here’s where things start to get interesting.  There were the four of us (two couples) sitting in the back corner, the rest of the table was populated with six other young people, probably in their early to mid-twenties.  There was one guy from Perth Australia, who lives in Oakville now.  There were two guys who girlfriends were bridesmaids.  And the bride had a girlfriend from college, and two girlfriends from high school.  So there we are…a group of six and a group of four, neither group familiar with anyone from the other – table of ten.

I’m sitting beside Preston (real name).  I don’t remember anyone else’s name, but his is etched into my memory.  Preston was a little drunk.  First sign of trouble came in the form of wholly inappropriate comments.  “That’s the bride’s step-father.  He’s a homo.  He doesn’t like me.  Homo.”  This while the step-father was introducing the wedding party.  Then the bride’s mother stands up to say grace.  “Oh listen to this bitch, she yabbers on and on and on.  I can’t wait to hear this.”  He then proceeds to laugh hysterically throughout the entire prayer.  Awkward for the four of us.  The rest of the other group have smirks on their faces, like we did out of discomfort, but they knew this guy.

Dinner service begins.  “The soup tastes like dog’s ass.”  So enjoy your soup!  I loved mine, some cream of something, but damn it was good.  Then comes the salad, “I don’t eat this green shit.  Where’s the meat?”  When he wasn’t complaining about the food or the people, he was talking about fighting, or calling me ‘Jimmy’, “I call everyone Jimmy.”  (My name isn’t Jimmy!) 

Then, out of nowhere, he grabs my thigh and holds it.  I was surprised.  “Hey Jimmy, you’re not a homo.”  His hand was closer to my nuts than my knee, if you know what I mean.  I tried to make light of the situation, I cracked a joke or two, but they were feeble and tinged with anger.  My girlfriend was upset and our friends (across the table) were both upset.  (I hate doing these without names, so I am going to refer to our two friends as Ray & Linda!)  Ray was pissed, he looked as though he were about to leap the table.

Not satisfied, Preston starts rubbing the back of my head.  I can’t stand when people touch the back of my head.  I asked him to stop.  He did it again.  I kind of snapped, slapped his hand away and said something like, “Don’t do it again.”  He puts his hand back on my thigh.  Okay, so this is happening over say the first thirty minutes of the dinner.  None of the people who know Preston are doing or saying anything.  They are basically ignoring everything.  Oh sure, we were making small talk here and there, but goof ball essentially dominated the focus.  I got up to leave a couple of times, I needed to get away.  When he announced that “I piss alot.”  I finally lost it. 

My girlfriend and I went outside to have a cigarette.  I was fuming.  I wanted to smash wine bottles across this guy’s face.  There were either one of two things happening here:

1.  Preston was intentionally trying to antagonize me into some kind of conflict.

2. Preston is homosexual, but has not yet realized or come to terms with it.  No straight guy, no matter how intoxicated, grabs and holds another guy’s upper thigh for a prolonged period of time.  It does not happen.

Either way, this guy is a poor excuse for donkey’s rectum, let alone a human being.  On the way back to our table, we stopped at the head table.  My girlfriend mentioned something to the bride (her friend), I don’t know what she said.  There were some looks of consternation.  Then one of the bridesmaids laid claim, “Preston is my boyfriend.”  I told her that her boyfriend was being antagonist in a really drunken kind of way.

We get back to the table.  Preston is gone.  Passed out.  But his buddy, noticing our little stop at the head table asks me if everything is all right.  Then, he has the nerve to tell me that everyone at the table is just trying to make the best of it.  I could’ve screamed.  I reply sarcastically, “I appreciate you pointing that out to me.”  And he goes on, as though I am the one causing a disruptance.  I wanted to rip this prick’s tongue out.  “We’re all just trying to make the best of a bad situation.”  In my mind, if this guy is a friend of Preston’s he would’ve taken him out of the room much earlier.  He would’ve been trying to calm him down, or at least to leave the strangers alone.  Nope.  Dumb prick just sat there the whole time and let his buddy irritate four complete strangers, then told me that they were all trying to make the best of it.

Poetic justice – the meat plate was served moments after Preston retired to his room for the night!  Then I find out, the fool was taking pain killers (some incident with his hand) and drinking.  No wonder he was out of control, still no excuse for his dumbass friend to let him behave the way he did, especially since these were the two morons whose girlfriends were bridesmaids.

It gets better.  During the speeches, the bride’s step-father, who acted as master of ceremonies (and loved it!), was recalling anecdotes about everyone in the wedding party.  When he turned to Preston’s girlfriend, I think the comment was, “Whoa, now you’ve got some catch there!”  Then someone called out, “He’s gone for the night.”  Apparently no surprise to anyone in the room who knew him.  Then the bride’s step-father proceeds to tell a story in which numb nuts some how ended up using the ladies room at a McDonald’s one morning earlier in the week.  Hang over was his excuse.  I’d have to be pretty far out of it to end up in the ladies room!

Anyways, this only fuels my belief that option number two (as stated above) is closer to the truth.  I think that subconsciously, he thought he belonged in the women’s washroom.  I think the combination of pain killers and alcohol opened up that same part of his mind at the dinner table.  I think he wanted to touch my thigh and rub the back of my head.  He was clearly in a state beyond self-control.  I would wager large dollars that this is not an infrequent occurence.  I bet every one of his male friends have had to fight off some kind of aggressive, but strangely sexual advance from him.

As a footnote:  It turns out that Preston and his buddy who was ‘making the best of it’ were the two idiots hanging their asses over the railing.  Good friends!


Divorce Tax

May 5, 2007

I don’t really believe in the necessity of having the church or the state endorse my relationship.  If I want to be with you, I will be with you.  If I create something with you, than I will see it through, for better or for worse.  This is me.  This is how I feel.  I am always here, even when I am not.

The church is gracious enough to mind its own business, but the state interferes with the concept of common law.  A legal commitment is thrust upon us after a certain amount of time – twelve months of co-habitation, I think.

This is forced on my relationship because more than a third of you cannot control yourselves.

146 618 couples were married in Canada in 2001.  3841.39 of them ended in divorce within 3 years.  Every year, an average of 146 916 couples get married versus 70 803 couples who are divorced (Stats Canada 2001-03).  Whoa!  37.6% of marriages end within 30 years.  If you know ten couples, there’s a strong possibility four of them will end in divorce.

How can so many people be misguided?

I would think if the government wanted to interfere, they ought to where it is most appropriate – right at the end of a relationship.  Introduce a Divorce Tax Law and suck as much money (assets) out of the failing couple as possible.  There are hard costs associated with divorce – court time, social services for the disrupted children, law enforcement in some cases, etc.  The government should devise tactics to recuperate funds directly from the people who tap them the most.  The beauty of the Divorce Tax is not only will it act as a deterrent to most, it will unify couples who are most in need of unification (they have the government tax as a common foe!).

I’m going to a wedding today & this is what I am thinking about.  Nice, eh?


The Shelf on the Wall (Comes Tumbling Down)

May 4, 2007

A couple of days ago I made a funny mention about the shelf on my wall looking as though it were about to fall down.  I also mentioned that I would not fix it (or my sin!!) until it broke.

Well, I received a frantic call from my girlfriend around noon today.  She was freaked out!  The shelf had fallen.

Everything broke – picture frames & glass, my electro-ball, alien head, and who knows what else?  The shelf and its contents crashed onto my desk, smashing things which were resting there.  The amount of broken glass was mind boggling.  If I had a sense of smell, I would probably be sickened by the stench of formaldehyde that soaked into the floor from my busted Galileo thermometer.

Lucky no one was in the room at the time.  No one was hurt, except for me due to the loss of some cool things.  Oh well, possessions – nothing last forever.

Needless to say, my girlfriend was amused when she learned I had prior knowledge of the potential for the shelf’s demise.

Serves me right for not fixing it when I had the chance.  In the least I could’ve moved the Galileo thermometer.  I actually did!  Then moved it back because it didn’t look good anywhere but on the shelf.  Looks great now!


On the inappropriate nature of nomenclature.

April 17, 2007

A mother and father teach their two-and-a-half year old daughter that the word for a male chicken is ‘rooster’.  At school, the little girl is taught that the word for a male chicken is ‘cock’.  The little girl has more exposure to the male chicken whilst at school and so, by virtue of repetition, she learns the school version.

Easter was a short while ago.  Amongst many of the decorations and accessories sold for the holiday are chickens.  They are everywhere, some more ornate than others, but they come in all forms.

Imagine the following.  The little girl and her mother are shopping.  The little girl spots a rooster (I think it was bronze or something) which she really likes.  She says, in her two-and-a-half year old style, “Mommy, I want cock.”

Mom reminds her daughter that it is called a ‘rooster’.  And, she couldn’t have it.

Louder, “Mommy, I want cock.”  Then she started repeating the word over and over again, as children are wont to do.  People started paying attention.  So, mom picks up the bronze rooster and puts it in the cart.  Not good enough, “I want to hold my cock!”

“It’s a rooster dear.”

Well, without beating the cock to death, suffice it to say that the little girl refused to refer to her new toy as a rooster and that she was very proud of it.  She talked about it all day.  Showed it to as many people as she could, including strangers.

This is a true story.