Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Still Lazy, Still Unoriginal

I don't think this rendition is as funny as the first, but the roommate tells me she enjoyed it so I'm-a post it anyway. If it's shitty, you can letterbomb her. Put a smiley face next to the stamp. That'll be our code.

http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/8080515/

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

My father needs a proofreader like whoa

Hello parents,

I've attached my summative evaluation from the first practicum for your perusal. In reading this, you may find yourself asking if it was sent with the intention of bragging. The answer to this question is: absolutely correct! I am bragging my ass off! That said, I hope you'll enjoy reading something positive about your eldest and you may chide me later for my braggart ways. However, for the time being, WHOOPIE!!!!!!

D


Reply:
OK, Mom hasn't seen this yet but I have just read it and yes, you have every right to be proud of this exceptional evaluation. I am so proud of you for practicing that which has been suggested to you on many occasion......exceed expectations! Indeed you did and then some!! Good on you but don't let it go to your head... now that you have set the bar this high on your first practicum, achieving it again and again will be no easy task. In fact, you probably will not be able to and not for lack of trying but due to other factors not in your control. Whatever happens, always keep trying to do your best and know that you will be one fine 'teacher in an honourable profession. Carpe Diem tous les jours!! Love 'ya! Dad



Way to keep me humble, Daddy.

Sunday, December 05, 2010

Why I will never be in porn

This would be waaaaaay too much pressure:


Lazy and Unoriginal

http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/7944745/

Friday, December 03, 2010

Big City Acronyms

SCR (Streetcar Rape): What I long to do to an average of 2.8 people per day whilst aboard public transportation. I'm sitting across from one now. His mouth is saying "no," but his eyes are saying, "I can't even be bothered to look up from my iPhone to acknowledge that you exist." My kinda lovah.

AW (the Asian Weave): Needing to veer around my oriental friends who, despite their ability to do an invisible hem stitch in under 8 seconds, cannot appear to move their legs quicker than half a mile per hour. Nor their cars.

SH (Singing Hobo): Fine, I don't really have a definition for this one. I just put two words together and thought it was funny. K, let me come up with one now. Argh. Thinking. So hard. Oh got it! Most of my opera friends by the time they're 35! Ouch. That's mean. Funny though and what is our motto over here at Fleekiin Floygn? Funny Before Friends. Suck it, friends.

HSL (Homicidal Subway Lady): I wanna know what the HR department over at the Toronto Transit Committee was smoking when they hired their voice actor that does the automaton voice for all the subway stops. She sounds like Kathy Bates in Fear. When she announces "Keele" stop, I think that the voices in my head are acting up ago. When she announces "Old Mill" I get the most horrific Die Schone Mullerin daymares (holy shit, that's actually a word!). Bitch be crazy.

GWBWTFA (George W. Bush Without the Fun Alcoholism): Our new mayor. Oh wait…

My streetcar rape victim is getting off the now. It's fine though, since I already did.

Wednesday, December 01, 2010

On seasonal temptation

McStoony is an internet cum real life friend from the prairies who has a pretty face, amazing hair, disproportionately large eyebrows and an ass to match them. It's a good thing he does not live here, as that would inevitably wind up in a predictably unrequited love situation. As it exists, however, he does not and is therefore a lovely friend that I enjoy from afar, primarily on Facebook chat.

Illustrious D: There is something fundamentally unsatisfying about going into a Starbucks around Christmas and ordering a tea.

McStoony: that's because you're supposed to get a eggnog chai latte

ID:I know
But I'm also supposed to not have a fat ass.
Although, let's be real, by the end of this month that fact is just inevitable.

MS: do jews even drink eggnog?

ID: yep
eggnog and manischwewitz
never heard of it?
Divine.

MS: i'm on my second helping of chinese food... for lunch. fuck my fat life.

ID: fmfl

MS: haha. thanks. fmfl

ID: it's funny cause everybody knows that m is the fattest letter in the alphabet

MS: :'(:'(
it's so true

Saturday, November 20, 2010

She does not think I'm cool

Having not spoken to my parents in a week, I just finished a phone conversation with my mom with: "Ok, have a good one."

Now that is family intimacy.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

I'm a teachah, mufukas

Ok, not quite. I’m a teacher candidate. But close enough. Incidentally, for those not in the know, the Jew thing just started to be way too much work, so I’ve peaced out on that and have decided that, rather than date 17 year olds, I should just teach them.


Teach them ‘bout my wang.


Sorry. That was inappropriate and probably pretty illegal.

We take several courses in our teachable subjects (drama + music = whatafag), psychology, electives and our education seminar, where we actually learn how to be teachers. Our instructor in this class is like our den mother and also Greek, leading me to call her My Big Fat Greek Mamma. In my head. And in my dreams…


Sadly, her own BFGM passes away a short while ago and she had to leave us for two weeks in order to fly back to Greece for the funeral. She probably did some sun-bathing, too. But mostly the funeral thing. Probably.


Before our first post-Hellenic class, I was a wreck. I don’t do well with those that are grieving, let alone a woman that I had known less than a month yet still desired to rest my head on her bosom. I’m not really sure why but I kind of worship her. It might be that she can’t pronounce ‘sheet’ and it always comes out as ‘shit’. She is my world.


I thought for days beforehand what I would say upon entering the classroom, but nothing short of flinging myself at her feet seemed appropriate. On the day of Her return, I walked into the class and OF COURSE BITCH WAS ALL IN BLACK. Fan-fucking-tastic. As if I wasn’t nervous enough, diva was practically wearing a veil of grief.


The legs and liver were shaking as I approached her, still undecided as to how I should convey my Big Fat Jewy Sympathy. Then tumbling out of my mouth came:


“Hi. You good?”



Ok.


Conjure, if you will, the myriad of things I could have said. Make a top 5 list. I dare ya. Now, is “Hi. You good?” anywhere on that list? No, it is not because it is the single douchiest thing a person could say to his mentor/new mother in her hour of need. It is also further evidence that I am never ever cool. Upon hearing the words escape my lips, I was filled with instant shame and regret. I wanted to get a poison arrow to the heel or feed myself to a hydra or choke on a moussaka sandwich. Anything to remove the sting of being the single awkwardest boy this side of the Aegean Sea. I prayed for the Olympian gods to rein down fiery ambrosia on my balding-at-an-even-quicker-pace-if-that's-even-possible head, to inflect such Promethean measures that my callow, stupid-headed poopy-facedness would ne'er rear its ugly 7-headed face again.


Then she turned and looked at me, closed her eyes, gave her head a little nod and said, "Yes, my beautiful angel darling. Is okay."

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Tableau Un

I am waiting at Main Street subway station for a streetcar home. My yoke/load is easy/heavy, having just gone grocery shopping at the 24 Sobey's and local green-grocer. I do not like being weighed down by melons at the best of times, and this is no exception. I have opted to purchase my goods about 10 minutes from our house because the roommate is out of town and I have hobbitted myself up, with only the senile, colloquy cat for company. To trek the half hour by streetcar down to Kensington Market would have simply been too much.

Two people on the bench next to me, a man and a woman, are talking. I have my earphones in and so can't hear the content of their conversations but the occasional head nodding in my periphery is enough to alert me. After a while, the man stands up and leaves. The woman turns and mouths something to me. I take out one of my earphones and turn to her, noticing the overabundance of bags at her feet.

"Do you or anyone you know like candles?"

We gots a crazy. And I do not accept candles from crazies.

"Um, my friends and I are more incense people."

*Mental high five to self*

The streetcar mercifully pulls up and I wish the generous bag lady a good day. I get on and the car quickly pulls away. The lady has stayed on the bench. It would seem that her location is more of a social outlet than a mid-journey repose. A young man sits down on the bench next to her. They talk for a moment and then she starts fishing around in her bag with a huge smile on her face.

I wish I had taken a candle.

Tableau Deux

I am flouncing down the stairs humming to myself. I have just arrived home for the weekend, home being 1,500 km from where I live. Being in my old house, my old room, my old role brings up massive, ecstatic waves of nostalgia. I am remembering sitting by my tape deck, blank tape inside, with my finger on the record button, waiting to push it as soon as I hear a song I like. (By my 12th birthday, I would have about 20 of these tapes.)

I stroll into the kitchen, humming the bass line from Whigfield's universally-recognized record, "Saturday Night," and I hear from the other room, in a rich, husky, Hungarian baritone:

"DEEDEE-DAH-DAH-DAH!"

My stomach sinks as my father pokes his head into the kitchen.

"You didn't think I knew that song did you? Well it's one of my favourites. It's on the swirly purple and blue cover CD."

I start the bass line again, and again on cue my father comes in with "Deedee-dah-dah-dah." Twice.

"Dad, that only happens once, right at the beginni-"

"No! It happens twice! I know this!"

Later in the weekend, I will walk into the family to the busting 90's beats of Saturday Night and my father will shamefacedly admit that it does, in fact, only happen once. He's checked. Three times.

Friday, September 24, 2010

I had a beer with lunch and now can't think of a title

There have been immeasurable (1) calls for an update, so here it be. Let us classify this as a life update rather than a funny/offensive op ed piece. The reason for my non-bloggitude as of late has been, for those who do not know, that I have returned to school for a rather intense program. Consequently, I will not be blogging with the same frequency or read/comment on my followed blogs for the time being. I know that we're all special snowflakes that deserve all the love and attention in this here blogosphere, but it's just beyond my temporal means at the moment. Selfish, perhaps, but what blogging isn't?

Yep, I call my posts pieces. What…a dickbag.

Future Roommate has gone the way of countless pop stars before her and dropped the 'Future' from her name. In other words, she is now my full-blown roomie. As far as the adjustment from friend to friend-roommate, there have already been smiles and frowns, ups and downs but already I have grown accustomed to her face. While she does not (yet) make the day begin, I feel we've been doing pretty well at communicating needs and wants and she has not yet attempted to castrate me nor I deovarize her, so back pats all round.

Speaking of castration, there are a whole bunch fellow teacher candidates who I feel would benefit from this process. Okay, fine, I'd benefit from this process. Of their castration. Ugh, not blessed by the Witty Hatred Faerie today. Ooh, new tag! I will not list here the full list of homicide-inducing archetypes, but rather will give a top 3:

3. "I'm a teacher candidate who doesn't like getting up in front of a class"
Um, you fail. A lot. And hard. Also, speak the fuck up. Group project partners, this is directed at you. Do NOT get in front of a class of adult learners and say, "Hey, guys… guys?…we're gonna move on so if you'd just like to [flaps forearms in the air, presumably to represent 'quiet' but coming off more like retarded penguin]…"

2. "I'm a teacher candidate who is doing this as a second career and therefore know more about everything than you"
Hey, do you know anything about shutting the fuck up? Didn't think so. Maybe if these jackasses actually listened to the instructor instead of thinking about an answer based on not listening to instructor, they could actually participate productively instead of wasting my valuable-as-that-weird-ass-mineral-from-Avatar time. An instruction to "reflect personally first" does not mean turn to your neighbour and run your mouth off for 5 minutes before asking me in a condescending voice if I'd like to contribute anything. Here is my foot. I would like to contribute it up your ass.

1. "I'm a teacher candidate and I won't shut up about teaching in Korea"

Hey.

Um.

Shut…the fuck…up.

Know who else has taught in Korea? 83% of the world, that's who. If I hear one more asshole (and they're always males) say, "So yeah, when I taught in Korea…" or talk about adding each other on Facebook so they can exchange kimchi recipes I AM GOING TO GO OFF. Kimchi tastes like pickles shit.

In other news, I had a two month thing with a Brazilian (cause I hate the white man) that ended in yet another "You're a great guy and I'd like to keep hanging out but just as friends, no kissing or anything like that anymore " talk.

Hey, Pele: what's Portuguese for "You're not interesting enough to be friends with while clothed"?

Reader Poll:
In the past year, David has cavorted around with a Macedonian, a Portuguese, an Albanian and a Brazilian. What ethnic group should he take up with next:

A) Rwandan
B) Peruvian
C) Latvian
D) None-of-the-above-cause-I'm-gonna-die-alone-and-unloved-ian
E) French

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Generalization Observed in Transit

If a woman gets on a bus, streetcar or subway with a baby stroller, chances are good that the child in that stroller was not planned.

If the woman is wearing a sweatshirt, hoodie or otherwise, the chance is doubled.

Times a million if she is wearing hoop earrings with a diameter exceeding 3 inches.


Poor People: Accidentally Procreating Since... Um, Forever.

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Sassy New Career Change. SASSY.

I just got the urge to post something for the first time in a couple weeks, so regardless of the shit that flies out, we're just gonna ride this one through together. As a family.

Sometimes just writing down what's going on can replace the need for help from another person. There's some stuff that's been going down for the past week that I haven't told anyone about. It's not that I think my friends and family will judge me negatively or anything, but I just don't feel that any of them will understand what it means. For the most part, my loved ones are pretty squeaky clean. I mean, some of them even think that pot is wrong; they have no concept of how addiction works and that stopping is as simple as flipping a switch. Still, this thing has been taking up so much of my time and energy and I'm getting scared of what might happen when I run out so I just need to hurl this admission into the internet universe and hope that something will help me, free me from its grasp:

I am addicted to Intervention.

It started simply enough. I'd heard about it for years, often when some Hollywood celebrity would talk about their experiences as a viewer, but I never thought that the junk would have any appeal to me. Then on a whim and two glasses of red last Monday I decided to watch an episode and after just one hour I was hooked. I couldn't get enough. As I watched more and more, I got a sick satisfaction from simultaneously drinking a vodka gimlet. In the first 24 hour period alone, I watched 9 episodes. These were really recent and easy to score, but after those were all watched, I just wanted more. I combed my usual video streaming websites like the dope fiends I craved in the hopes of finding some random sexually molested fuck up and their family cry for an hour...and allowing me to do the same. I don't think I even enjoy it at this point; it's more just a craving and I get really pissed off when the addiction is too common. "Oh fuck, not another heroin addict, Jesus..."

I need an Intervention intervention.

Otherwise, it's gonna get nasty, people. I almost want to develop an addiction just so I can be intervened upon by Candy Finnigan. As previously stated, addiction to prescription meds is for dicks, but I wouldn't mind a little alcoholism or coke habit. Something classy. On Intervention, the subject never knows that there's going to be an intervention; they just think they're in a documentary about addiction. Not the brightest bulbs smashed to liquefy meth on, these ones. As a bonus, I would totally lose my shit when I walked into the room and discovered what was going on. I'd be all "Oh helllllllllllllll naw!" and then run/wheeze away while the slightly obese camera man jiggled along beside me. I might even hit him. Cause I'm sassy.

BUT THEN (ooh, sorry, that got shouty. I'll calm down.) But then, I'd go to treatment and reform myself and then - wait for it - become one of the interventionists! Yes, that's a real word! I even have Jeff VandensomethingGerman's whole speech down:

"Well, [Insert name], I've been here since yesterday and I just see a bunch o' people who love you like crazy, so how this works is they're gonna say some things and then you're gonna say what you're gonna say and then we're done, sound good?"

Granted, ok, yes, I could have copied and pasted that speech but I didn't because I WOULD BE AN AMAZING INTERVENTIONIST.*

I mean, I have no psychological training whatsoever, but I'd make a go at it. Sassy, 'member? I'd just start intervening on people I know, knocking drinks out of people's hands, smashing my father's bacon lettuce & fried chicken fat sandwiches to the ground, randomly going up to strangers who litter and yell "INTERVENTION!" before tackling them to the ground and shoving the gum/beer can back in their mouths.



*Once I begin my interventionist career, I plan on moonlighting at Starbucks...so I can be an interventionista. And then - THEN - you will want my life. Yes, you will.

Saturday, September 04, 2010

My night was awesome; thanks for asking!

Illustrious D: Hello, Expectations.

Expectations: Hey, Illustrious D.

ID: Well, thanks for popping by. That was really fun while it lasted.

E: No worries, man. I aim to please.

ID: Yeah, I mean, that little Brazilian number that seemed so sweet and cute...OH, and the fact that he seemed really, really into me...THAT was a nice touch.

E: LOL, I know, right? Man, I sure outdid myself this time.

ID: Really did. Thanks so much for another evening spent by the phone waiting for another asshole not to call.

E: Hey, no probz, dude. Totally random thought: maybe you should post this when you haven't had 3/4 of a bottle of wine to compensate for the fact that you will die alone and when you might actually make coherent sense to the two winners that still read this piece o' shize blog.

ID: Nah.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Shit My Dad Says: Crazy Hungarian Edition

Illustrious D: Ugh, that guy has total gay face.
Crazy Hungarian Fajhah: What's gay face?
ID: When a gay guy has facial features that are extremely feminine.
CHF: Oh, like with you and your hips?


CHF: Goddamnit! You boys need to stop being so hung up about sex! If you want to have people sleepover, just do it and don't be embarrassed! You get that from your mother's side. It's no big deal! I used to see my sister naked all the time.


ID: Dad, soup smells great! Did you put sausage in it?
CHF: Nope, best hot dogs money can buy.


CHF: You call those oysters? I've picked boogers bigger than those.


CHF: Look at Mr. Money Bags, spending $30 on a haircut. Guess how much mine costs. Twelve dollars and Ernesto does a great job. Actually, he raised it to thirteen. We're gonna have words.


CHF: Did that friend of yours put on a bit of weight? It looks great on her. Nothing wrong with a little something to grab, right honey?


CHF: Do you take half and half in your coffee? I can make it creamy for you.

Friday, August 27, 2010

Dear Future Roommate (Part IV)

Part I Part II Part III

Dear Future Roommate,

I just got back from a month-long vaca and have P-lenty of stories of my travelings, but you move in next Wednesday, which is a mere 5 days away, and this event will end the now world famous Dear Future Roommate... series, so I figure I'd better spew forth some final installation before it's too late.

So to that end...

Future Roommate, I am going to break your shit.

I do not mean that I am going to stick logs of your feces in my soon-to-be-bought dehydrator and than go off on it, Kung Fu Panda-style, nor am I invoking my much beloved/maligned Ebonics to signify that I will be beating you. The first would be completely nonsensical and disgusting and the second would be nonsensical and shameful as you could totally take me.

What I mean is that your stuff will most likely get broken at some point. I am, as my beleaguered uncle has termed me, accident prone. He and my aunt have opened their home to me many times this year, both as a favour when I moved here and at their own request when I house sat for them about a half dozen times in the past 12 months. The following is a list of ways I have repaid them:


- Broken wooden spoon, dropped on floor (Innocuous? Not when it was purchased in Holland.)

- Broken whiskey glass, smashed when hit by strainer being banged on the side of the sink (I'm pretty sure the set 0f 4 was, like, 8 bucks but whatever. It didn't win me any friends.)

- Fucked up hot tub, left lid off and all the water evaporated into ice on their deck + bonus cracked wooden plank (Replacement board was $5 and it was installed for free by their neighbour, so the only real damage was to my rep.)

- Deceased microwave, just stopped working (Okay, this one was totally not my fault; I wasn't even using it at the time. Still happened on my watch, though, so another nail in the coffin of my trustworthiness.)

- Bubbled stainless steel pan, overheated when I forgot about the chicken stock I was reducing (This was the worst one, because I forgot to tell them, resulting in my aunt leaving me a voicemail that would intimidate James Gandolfini and then had to enter into an elaborate web of lies about how I thought it had been there before and that I didn't like her tone.)

- Melted plastic bowl, result of air-popping popcorn in the microwave (Kernels at the bottom got so hot that they melted through the bottom of the bowl and (bonus!) onto the tea towel that was covering the bowl, simultaneously burning and dripping melted plastic on it. This also occurred at 11pm and they were home so I got the ire right away.)


This last one happened just last night and it was at this time that my uncle gently suggested that I might want to buy some cheaper versions of their expensive cookware to use when they're gone for the year.


I broke 1; they're getting 12! YOU'RE WELCOME.


Why do I a) have the forehead wrinkles of
an 84 year old and b) have wrist knuckles?


So FutRo, my point is that unless I spend the next 12 months duct-taped in a corner or you put some sort of thumb-print security shield on the kitchen, I'm likely to break something. It will likely not be through carelessness but rather a complete lack of common sense (eg popcorn kernels get hot, plastic melts, etc.) and when this happens, I request a certain amount of patience and understanding. I will replace anything of monetary and promise to stay away from anything of sentimental value, unless that thing is a skillet or utensil of some sort, in which case, what the fuck is wrong with you? In other words, please do not shame me like a puppy that has doodoo'ed (doodid? doodone?) on the rug, as my aunt tends to do. It only makes me feel like crap and get stress headaches which keep me in bed until 11am, at which time I run out of the house and don't come home until midnight so as to avoid see you and your rolled up newspaper.

So in advance, I am sorry and I love you and seriously, thumb-print recognition technology is, like, dirt cheap right now.

Love,

D

Friday, August 13, 2010

So I'm on vacation. Clearly.

Back near the end of the month.

Happy Scott Pilgrim Movie Day.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

You're Welcome

Deener said...
New comic idea: Adventures of David and his Pretend Vulva
4:56 PM EDT




Friday, July 23, 2010

Not my body; still my choice

One of the bloggers that I follow posted recently about needing switch birth control methods and consequently taking the Planned Parenthood "What method of birth control is right for YOU?" online test.

Birth control is not really a problem that effects me, and by "is not really a problem" I mean "will never possibly in a million bajillion years except if I get drunk and overly confident in a bi threesome be a problem."

That said, I fucking love online multiple-choice tests and so I thought, what the hell, and opened up my mind and my pretend vulva to Planned Parenthood. Also, the knowledge that plannedparenthood.org would be permenantly archived in my work's Big Brother-esque internet monitoring system coupled with the fact that I'm outta here in a week makes me kinda wet in my pretend vulva.

I waded through a myriad of tough questions: Would my partner* be willing to pull out? Would I be okay with an initial couple months of side effects, such as tender breasts? What is the most important quality about my chosen birth control? Would I be comfortable with inserting objects into my vagina? My answers in these cases were no**, yes and "That it prevents pregnancy" and "depends on the squishy level."

After 3 gruelling and soul-searching minutes, PP gave it to me straight:




Conclusion: I am not responsible enough to be in charge of my own birth control and clearly need to be monitored by a medical professional to ensure I don't fuck it up.

Wow, Planned Parents. Judgey McJudgejudge Judgersons. Thanks, Mom. Also, they nailed it right in the vag.***



*Okay, I was typing on autopilot and initially wrote "parents." Paging Dr. Freud...

**He'd be all "Ooh, baby, I'll totally pull out. I wanna cum all over your tits," but I'd know better cause he's an ass man.

*** *shudder*

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

In which I instigate a blog war about... liberal bleeding hearts? Wtf...

You know, I aim to bring the chuckles over here at FF, but sometimes there are situations that are notably unfunny that I have to comment on. Historically, these have included posts on medical conditions, career anxiety and the ongoing feud between me and my penis. Okay, that last one's a little bit funny.

A fellow blogger submitted this post the other day. It is about how he, a brown man, categorically would not want to come back as a white person in a future life, ending his post with a disclaimer that this was not a racist sentiment and we had the following comment exchange:

The Illustrious D said...
I do want to be white in my next life. But that's not racist either...
July 13, 2010 9:25 AM

Amak said...
@ I-D:I donno whether I should ask this but: Would you still want to be Jewish in your next life? (Assuming there is a next life and assuming you'd have the choice)

The Illustrious D said...
I once heard a famous lesbian state that she hopes her kids are straight. This had nothing to with self-loathing or lack of pride, but rather wanting her kids to have the easiest path possible.To that end, I would come back in my next life as a white heterosexual Christian (at least culturally) man.Though I wanna try one go-around as a woman at some point.
July 19, 2010 12:33 PM

Amak said...
@ I-D:My point in this post was exactly the opposite. I realized I came to value my struggles however hard things might have been for me. I don't want it easier in my next life. Is that masochism? Maybe. But it's also a political consciousness that I seem to embody and that feel committed to and want to keep living by.Thanks for responding, dearest I-D.
July 19, 2010 5:27 PM


Oooooooooooooooooookay. I have several points to make on this subject and I'm doing it here because I don't want to bogart his comments section.

First of all, it is racist. Flat out. You can have all the reasons in the world (and we'll get to some of those in a moment), but it's still racist. It's essentially giving more value in your experience as a non-white more than you ever possibly could as a caucasian. Not religious experiences, nor sexual, cultural or handicapped experiences. This is purely about the skin colour you were born with and valuing it above another's. Sorry, you can paint it in whatever far-left liberal nobility you like, but that's racist.

This is not to say that all races have the same experiences, which is what I ultimately think he was getting at. The implicit tone was saying that he values his experience as a brown person; this is totally, 100% valid. I value myself as a Jew. I value myself as a queer. I value myself as whatever-label-I'm-using-to-describe-my-physical-condition-this-week. It's all worthwhile. But guess what other experience is worthwhile? Being white. I don't really identify as white, but there's a lot of really good shit that comes along with that DNA. In refusing to entertain the notion of having those benefits, you essentially place more value on your oppression, real or perceived, than on being born with a certain racial advantage. It's wallowing, accepting whatever persecution you can grab and holding on for dear life rather than refusing it and moving on.

There is a tendency among young adults to react to the shattering of childhood perceptions of the world with radicalism, fight. We place more value in being different than in being good. More worth in personal struggle than saying, "Fuck you," getting over it and moving up in the world. Petition? Sure, I'll sign it. Protest? I'm there. What's it about? I don't really know, but someone's mad about something so I'm in. Anger requires no research whatsoever. The big issues of the world are not dealt with by the angry, but rather by those who have gone past that to understanding and, in many cases, sadness. It's naive to think that we can solve what the great educated minds of the world cannot, but then again, we're not really looking to find solutions. We're looking to be angry.

Why? We just love being different, even crucified. We base our burgeoning adulthood identity on all these things that separate us from our peers and collect them like they're Pokemon. The harder our journey, the prouder we are of ourselves. "Is that masochism?" No. It's way too smug to be masochism. It's self-satisfying martyrdom, it's weaving your own hairshirt, it's flogging yourself with a smile and it's repulsive. Hey, why not cripple yourself while you're at it? Why not pluck out your eyes or blow off your eardrums? At what point does difference stop being perceived as noble and just as fucked up? Probably the point where you yourself are at, I'm guessing.

As stated, I enjoy the unique perspectives that I've gained from my "otherness." I am happy to own them for the rest of my life and look forward to the things they'll teach me. But they're not fucking battle scars. They're not a button on a canvas messenger bag. Not a sign at a rally on posterboard from the Dollar Store. And they're certainly not a self-congratulatory mock up of an image of white domination on someone's blog. My oppressions, my struggles, they don't put me in a nobler place because I've lived them. It's shit I've been dealt and if someone came up and offered me a contract stating that in my next life I could be a healthy, white, straight male, you bet your ass I'd sign.

Monday, July 19, 2010

Another pre-Tree of Knowledge tale

I still can't get my junk up to do a legit post, so once again I'm bringing you a tale from my Before They Were Assholes vault. Cause seriously, I was muthafukkin cute kid.

Scene: Kitchen table. I am 4.

My parents were part of that first generation to ascribe to the helicopter technique and so were very concerned with their little snowflake's well being. That said, both of them had lived fairly supervision-free childhoods, going on all sorts of wacky Stand By Me-esque adventures involving wandering and gangrene-causing metal objects, and so they were a bit more laissez-faire than some of my contemporaries' respectable parents. C-Dawg, I'm lookin' at you.

Still, they knew that they'd have to one day have a respectable progeny to ensure their Meals on Wheels or Meals on Hydroplaning Pockets of Air (or whatever things are gonna be like in the future) got delivered to them.
On this particular occasion, my parents wanted to ascertain just how street smart I was by asking a series of questions relating to Strangers. Anyone that knows me now will tell you that I have roughly the cred of 50 Cent circa 6th bullet wound, but this was not the case during my childhood.

"So David," they began, "What do you do if a stranger comes up to you and wants you to go with him*?"

"I run away and tell an adult," I responded.

"Very good. And what do you do if a stranger comes up to you and says that Mommy and Daddy asked him to pick you up in his car?" they pressed on, turning my Brite Lite on high and shining it right in my face.

"I yell 'NO!' and get away as quick as I can," I proffered, a bit dramatically.

"Yes, that is correct," I was told, as I beamed from my sexually ambiguous mug.**

"Now, David, listen very carefully. This is very important. What do you do if a stranger comes up to you and offers you candy?"

Fuck.

I love candy.

I knew this was the clincher, that I would have to reach back into the recesses of my mind and scour all the information that these people had instilled in my during these first four years. I thought long and I thought hard and I came up with the answer I knew they wanted to hear:

"I would...eat the candy, rush home and BRUSH MY TEETH!"



GOODNIGHT, CINCINNATI!

*In the 80's, there was no gender equality in childnapping.


** No seriously, I was a cute ass motherfucker

Spaghetti sauce or childhood rosacea? You decide.


What...a fat little fuck.


Here I am sitting in my brother's wheely-chair, pretending I'm little but
really just coming off faggy. Tragic foreshadowing. Butch bathrobe, though.



20 years later and still faggy, still alone, playing with my own balls

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Fuck you, ABBA.

Today's Google header is retarded.


Okay, so I have nothing to say at all but I'm getting all paranoid about my low output recently. Low out put = me not putting out = blogging prude. It's like THE RULES made a Blogger! Edition.

What? Even I barely get my 90's pop culture references any more.

So I have nothing to say, as previously...said... so I'm just gonna tell ADORABLE childhood anecdotes and pray that no one notices how shitty this blog has become since I started my monstrous ABBA/MS Paint undertaking.

I am 6 years old, playing in the backyard with my next door neighbour, Nathan. Nathan is going into grade 2 and infinitely cooler than I for it. It is the summer time and as always The Red River Exhibition, a three-week long carnival with lots of rides and deep-fried shit, has pulled into town. It is a modern Neverland and so, like all things related to childhood, such as Full House, Lucky Charms and the notion that "my no spot is just for me," my parents have denied me knowledge of its existence.

Nathan, in his super suave 7 year old voice, asks, "Hey David, are you going to the Ex this year?"

Oh god, he is so cool. I don't even know what the fuck he is talking about.

"Good question, Nathan," I respond, "Let me just go an check with the bitch in the kitchen my mom."

Mother informs me that, no, small child, you shan't be venturing forth to have this "fun" you've heard about in rumours and the liberal media.

Distraught not at the idea of missing out but rather having to tell Nathan that I am not in his Universe of Candy Appled Awesome, I head back outside to face the music. This being 1990, likely Minni Vanilli.

"Well?" he asks.

"No," I reply, "I am not going to the Ex...

...but sometimes I go to the Y."


GOODNIGHT, CHICAGO!

Friday, July 09, 2010

A new bodily goo for me to swallow

Have you ever felt some tickling the inside of your nostril, presumably a booger in some form or another (fossilized, goo, etc.) and so you sniff really super hard but then that little flap separating your nasal passage from your throat doesn't have time to close so the booger passes through it and suddenly you're wondering what morsel of food just dislodged from your back molar and is drain-circling your throat when you realize that - omagad - it's the booger and so you hork it up really loudly and you taste it and then for a moment it reminds you of eating boogers as a kid and how much fun it was so you try to eat it but then you're all "Um, I'm eating a booger right now," but you can't really stop booger-eating so you just kind of swallow it?

*sigh*

Wow.


My promised ABBA-ductee reinterpretation is still being created. So far I've done 10 MS Paint drawings. I'm quickly coming to hate this project. But I will percevere for you people. Goes I'm a giver. Just not the Lois Lowry kind.

Tuesday, July 06, 2010

My self-esteem needs a shower


Once upon a time, the pictures that I uploaded linked themselves so that you could see the larger format, but now the blogging gods have deemed me unworthy of such privelege and thus have relegated my lowly readership to squinting just so they can marvel at the amazing detail I pour into every piece I create.

As such, I have made a top 10 list of my favourite words on my blog Wordle, the idea of which was coopted from Nigel at corndogpenis.blogspot.com:

10. Um - Way to start off with a bang, Wordle. But yeah, I use 'um' way too much.

9. Dildo - No witty comment. I just like that it was included.

8. Bechamel - See, you think I'm classy, but no.

7. Pizzas - Plural.

6. Members - Not as in joint associates of a common club or organization, but rather, penii.

5. Back Pocket - Okay, I realize it's two words, but 'pocket' is inside of the B of 'back' and I thought that was kinda cool in a very Alanis Morissette circa 1996 kinda way. Fine, admittedly not my best blog post ever.

4. Awkward - Just like #5.

3. Magic - as in, comma Black.

2. High - Which clearly I was when I thought this would be a fun post.

1. Failed Many - One on top of each other in my Word and far too telling in my life.


NEXT TIME: I reimagine ABBA lyrics from the perspective of an abductee.



UPDATE: For some reason, this one picture, the one on which I based my whole "Blogger is a whore that hates me and my small penis photos," decided to link all big-like. Even my attempts at failure fail. I am so Garfield on a Monday right now.

Monday, July 05, 2010

Wherein I devote 17 straight (ha) hours to the community that ignores me

This past weekend, I volunteered 20 hours to Toronto Pride as a result of 3/4 of a bottle of wine. As with my NXNE volunteering, it was a complete shit show and a total waste of time. The following is an overly-detailed account of how my Saturday went:

5:15 - Wake up at housesitting house. Punch their cat in his cat junk for whining at me while I make his breakfast of chicken livers and gravy. Half of the third world doesn't eat as well as this asshole.

6:30 - Arrive at volunteer check-in. Lament pink shirt I'm forced to wear and the fact that the picture for my volunteer badge is the best photo I've taken since 2003. Contemplate scanning it for new Facebook profile pic. Sit around for 45 minutes waiting to be told that my team and I can leave.

7:20 - Walk with group to Vendor Registration tent 10 minutes away. I am the team captain and am completely drunk with power as a result of carrying the walkie-talkie.

8:00 - Darren, a 38 year old volunteer who I inadvertently alienate by guessing he's 40 when asked, goes to get coffee for everyone and a breakfast sandwich for me, a tragic sign of carb-loading to come.

8:45 - We actually do shit for 25 minutes, signing food vendors in and giving them their permits.

9:30 - Chatty-Cathy Darren asks us all what we do and when he learns that I'm new to the city, tells me that he's been here for 7 years and that it "doesn't get easier." I want to punch Darren in the pancreas.

10:15 - A 50 year old white woman in causasian dreads and a tye-dyed muumuu sets up a bunch of hippie-shit necklaces on a nearby picnic table, in clear defiance of those vendors who actually purchased permits. One of my fellow volunteers, a kicky 19 year old aspiring lawyer, asks me if she can be the one to go get all up in Moonchild Rainbowbeaver's grill and, naturally, I say yes. I support her youthful exuberance, but mostly I just don't want to get off my duff.

10:50 - Cindi Lauper begins her soundcheck and I decide to catch a glimpse, handing the walkie over to Darren as secret punishment for getting my breakfast sandwich on a biscuit and NOT THE CHEESE BAGEL I HAD REQUESTED. Turd. In any case, the 19 year old wannabe litigator and I stroll backstage with are super-authoritative volunteer badges and she gets all sassy with the security guard trying to shove us away as I totally gay out when C.Laup passes by within 8 feet of me.

12:00 - A skinny woman volunteer with weird thinning but curly hair arrives, saying that she is a 'runner', meaning someone that can do random errands, but as there is nothing to do, she sits down and joins our crew.

12:05 - I realize this is a man. Stephen quickly becomes a den mother to us all, randomly telling us stories of adventures with lesbians, brown acid in the 70's and jokes with Darren about the joys of leather sex. I want to joke with Stephen about the joys of leather sex. I want to punch Darren in the eyeball.

12:45 - Stephen takes order for coffee and then announces that it'll likely take him a couple hours cause he has to drop off some children. Or Pride buttons. I wasn't really listening.

1:00 - Changing of the guard. Darren et al are replaced by two teenage girls, a quiet Asian who I immediately want to befriend and a curly-haired hippo who reminds me of my retarded cousin.

2:15 - Stephen returns and as Darren is gone I drink both of our coffees, totalling 4 shots of espresso. Lacking is my foam and honey, which Stephen forgot but makes it seem like he didn't hear in the first place. Bloom is sure off the rose with this one.

3:30 - I ask girls what their favourite colour is.

3:45 - Repeated calls are made over the walkie for David. I answer them. No one answers me back. This becomes a running joke that everyone at Pride hates me. This is kinda funny. Not really, but kinda.

4:55 - All that coffee comes back to haunt me and I am escorted to the washroom by Barbara, the little Chinese girl. She goes to the University of Toronto, close to where our tent is and sneaks me into the library bathroom. She's pretty much Michelle Yeoh in Tomorrow Never Dies.

5:05 - I fully Jackson Pollock the toilet bowl.

5:45 - A new volunteer arrives. He is little and foreign and kind of cute. I mentally name him My Little Albanian. He also bears a striking resemblance to this guy who's been messaging me on Manhunt, who incidentally had just had a birthday. I decide to see if they're one and the same, building on my amazingly successful "What's your favourite colour question?" question from 3:30, and ask everyone when their birthday is. MLA's is in August. Myth = busted. But still... I'm fucking crafty.

6:15 - Stephen adds me on Facebook via his blackberry and then leaves.

6:45 - I go for another stroll and some young, kinda cute, kinda stupid guy starts talking me up. I think I've made a new friend but then I realize that he's just drunk and I remember that I don't have friends. Crafty lone wolf am I.

7:00 - Barbara and Tons-of-Fun leave.

7:01 - Twinky boy shows up in a volunteer shirt cinched at the navel and his green-and-white striped underoos more than visibly showing, saying that he's another runner. I tell him that there's nothing to do so to feel free to go run. He smiles huge, yells, "Okay!" and fucking takes off in a flailing jog. I hate him more than Darren.

7:02 - I'm bored. I regret telling Fairy Fox to go away.

7:30 - I try making small talk with MLA and it comes out that he's a huge Mozart fan. We listen to arias on my iPod. Things are looking up.

8:00 - I teach him how to play 'Hot or Not' with a Fab magazine featuring a cover model that looks like Nate from Six Feet Under but totally naked and a guitar covering his junk. MLA says he likes tanned muscle guys with hair only on their heads. I'm fucked.

8:45 - Bag checks at the gate have resulted in a line about a quarter mile long to get in to see Cindi Lauper. A lady asks MLA and I for directions to the beer tent before informing us that she really wanted to bring her kids but that it "wasn't her weekend." Evidently, alcoholism and oversharing does not lead to primary custody. Who knew?

9:15 - MLA and I are tasked with putting up Jones Soda signs all across the top of our tent. I hold the signs while he tapes. We bond.

9:21 - I poke MLA in the stomach. I'm so playful.

9:30 - Things get heavy. MLA tells me all about how introverted he was back in Europe because of his sexuality and how his father doesn't know even now and how he works at McDonald's while going to school for a bachelor of science in biology. I want to hug him.

9:45 - Fresh from the washroom, MLA breathless informs me that that we may get a whole pizza to ourselves if none of the other volunteers claim it. I still want to hug him. Maybe more.

9:50 - Another drunk guy comes up to me and says how much he appreciates the volunteering I'm doing. He then wishes me a Happy Pride and informs me that he's sucking as many cocks as he can in celebration and encourages me to do the same.

10:15 - By the grace of God, we get shut down early. Passive aggressive comments are made at the supervisors about how maybe 17 hour shifts of wasting people's time are a bit excessive.

10:20 - MLA and I listen to Cindi while leaning against a tree. This is his first Pride and had to lie to his father about working all day. He is clearly in awe of the massive amounts of people and music and lights, like a 14 year old dropping E at his first rave. Except instead of E, he's dropping - wait for it - his guard. Deep.

11:00 - We walk back to volunteer headquarters to drop off the walkie-talkie. MLA carries my bag. He's about 5'5" so this is both endearing and sort of funny, too.

11:20 - We walk to the subway, throw out our shirts out - him so his father won't find it, me because I'm an autumn - and exchange numbers, hugs.

12:00 - I get home and talk to Future Roommate incoherently. I tell her that I have a headache which I fear may be do to alcohol withdrawal. I later realize that it's more likely because I've been up for nearly twenty hours and all I've put in my body is coffee and shitty pizza.

12:35 - Receive text from MLA thanking me for a pleasurable evening and that he's never felt so open with someone in his whole life.

Okay, maybe not a total waste of time.

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Remembering nothing from my Robaxacetted week except job-related loathing

I have just arrived at work and am being flanked on three sides by coworkers having personal conversations ranging from barely audible hush to full Springer melt down.

The latter is an otherwise genteel South Asian lady who I affectionately call Indonesian Dr. Philla. The 'a' is cause she's a chick. The extra 'l' is there cause I'm AMAZINGLY KNOWLEDGEABLE ABOUT LATIN LANGUAGE STRUCTURES. Currently, I'm being unintentionally entrusted with the knowledge that her cousin is back with this cad Antwan, who is evidently "just not a cool guy, you know?" and that he better watch "hisself" cause he played this same game with her friend Monique. It's like I'm working in the projects.

Across from her, another stand up employee is privying me to the knowledge that she's having some credit card debt issues and that the lovely Visa rep just "doesn't understand" that she and her husband are struggling to make ends meet, what with only making $45,000 each annually and that she was under the impression that their 50-inch plasma TV would be a tax write-off as he's an evening manager at Block Buster.


Finally, on the other side, is Black Magic, who is talking about me and the cold shoulder I'm giving her cause she's effectively passed half of her work load onto me. One of the lesser examples but consequently all the more infuriating is that rather than place a letter in the mail room on her way home, effectively requiring to take an additional 15 seconds in her laborious trek, she instead took the time to write a post-it note asking me to do it. Biznatch, how lazy can you get? Well, ladies and gentleman, the answer to that question lies in the size of her ass. I'm pretty sure it's the size of Gary Coleman's casket. One could incubate a baby moose back to health between those cheeks. Our boss seems to be okay with this situation as she knows BM (ahahaha...BM...) is lazy as fuck - trust me, fuck is lazy - and needs the work to get done so she tasks it to the one person currently not on the phone with creditors, recently paroled family members or BFFs named Shanice.

Finally, let it be known that the first two characters were both a ruse and that they're all Black Magic.

Fuck, I hate her so much.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

I'm a lumbarjack and I don't care

Saturday morning, I woke up with the sun, tossed my adorably emaciated legs over the side of the bed, stood up to greet the dawn and threw my back out.

Clearly I'm 52 years old.

As such, I have been on my back on the floor for the better part of the last four days in a hazy stupor resulting from a heady cocktail of Robaxicet, Aleve, wine and Mary J. Hwuana. The latter, it should be noted, was my father's suggestion and required me to locate the dime bag my uncle had shoved in my pocket in lieu of a Hanukkah present last December and that had been living in the back of my desk drawer ever since then. So to my therapist, who may be wondering about my habit of using alcohol and narcotics as a form of escapism, there's another piece of the puzzle for ya.

Some things I have accomplished during my sojourn on the floor:

- Upon discovering tv "on demand", watched an entire season each of The Hills, The City and The Real World: Brooklyn. Bathed twice after finishing each. Douched once.

- Discovered that The Cleveland Show can actually be funny but only when high on the gange.

- Talked to many of my friends and family members only to have zero recollection of these conversations the next day.

- Was visited by a current e-mail buddy who sorta made me wish I was on my back for completely different reasons.

- Created an original dish, a baked layered casserole consisting of (bottom to top): canned salmon, fresh spinach, grilled eggplant, roasted potatoes. bechamel sauce, sliced tomatoes, marble cheese. Tragically, I wasn't even stoned when making this, just really low on groceries.

- Ordered two XL gourmet pizzas from down the street, totalling roughly $60.

- Ordered groceries online. Yeah. It's possible. It was pretty pricey, costing about as much as a Sobey's/Publix but the delivery charge was only $10 and they dropped it off in front of my fridge, mufukas. IN FRONT OF MY FRIDGE. You can't buy that kind of service. Oh wait, you can and it costs $10.

Ok, I'm still a bit high.


Finally, to all the ladies on the subway carrying designer purses and JANSPORT backpacks, a quick lesson:



+

=

Friday, June 18, 2010

Ich bin nicht cool

Well, it's 10:12am and I've been at work for an hour and accomplished nothing. I feel this trend will likely continue until at least 4:59pm when I may muster the day's effort in clicking "Shut Down" on my Start menu. You're really only supposed to log off but I like to shut 'er down on the Friday because I somehow thinks this counteracts the 23 story building leaving all its lights on for the duration of the weekend.


Magic Powers: Now the only way left to save the Earth



Whoa. That got political. Anyway, let's move on to the real topic. I know you're thinking that someone who spends most of his employed hours modifying Google-searched images in MS Paint is extremely cool. I am here to disprove this myth.

I AM NOT COOL.

I'm not going to chock this one up to failure. That would imply that I am failing at being myself, which would be ridiculous. I kick demon ass at being myself. That self, however, is not cool.

As previously stated, I've been volunteering for the NXNE music festival and am reminded daily of how not cool I am. First of all, I've been driving a 12-seater van to transport bands to and from the airport/gigs. No one cool has ever driven a 12-seater van. The bands thus far have taken two approaches to being driven by me. The first involves all of them sitting in the back and not talking to me, as though I am their paid chauffeur rather than a volunteer who just finished MS Paint-ing working for 8 hours at their real job. On one such trip, a single person out of the seven I was driving wearily stretched out his hand as way of introduction. I in turn flailed about and eye-hand-coordination failed. I think maybe two of our fingers interlocked. I am not cool.

I felt cool for about a moment when I got to go up to back stage security and say, "Yo, I'm here for the band," and he nodded me through, but then the manager says, "You're here for the band? Awesome. They're just gonna finish up and then do an encore. Do you want to wait back here?"

Oh god, I am so cool.

"No, I mean behind the backstage area in that stairwell. Great, thanks."

Aaaaaaaaan we're back.

Another super twatty American manager, when I dropped her off, even omitted an "Uch, could you at least open the door?!"

Bitch, it's a 1983 Ford E350 and you're not Miss Daisy. Back. The. Fuck. Down.

The second approach to the Warning:-Not-Cool pheromones I must omit is that the band will just be a bunch of jackasses. In this case, one of them will at least ride up front with me but will ask inspired questions like, "Dude...dude...how much would you charge to drive us to Dildo Bay?"

"Um, where's that? I just moved here not too long a-"

"Dude, Dildo Bay, Newfoundland. How about Intercourse, Pennsylvania?"

"Uh, I dunno. I'm just a volunteer and I have to work in the morning."



God, lamest response ever. What is wrong with me? I'm not cool, that's what. Then they'll pretend to accidentally blow each other (it's this new thing among comics where they pretend to start coughing and this merges into them pretending to be choking on one of their friends' dicks. It's totally straight. And funny.*), telling mock-racist-but-kinda-just-racist jokes and talking about how amazing their set was.

Um, you're in a Queens of the Stone Age side project - things aren't going all that great for you. Art rock, this ain't.

I am not cool but at least I'm not a delusional asswipe either.



Douchey Bassist: Hey, so, what's the hardest to guys have ever sucked each other off while you were driving them?

Illustrious D: ...

DB: I bet they were from AFI. That guy's hit on me so many times, fuck. So is that gay if I let him?

ID: (trying to be cool) Depends on how much you enjoyed it.

Drummer Who May Be Getting Head From A Groupie: Nah, man, it's only gay if you kiss afterwards.







*It's only one of these things.






P.S. - I left my very first comment on a blog that I love, but failed to omit a key word so it just read, "Clearly, really does hate fags." The writer commented back, "Um, was the word God supposed to be in there somewhere?" and then my internet soul curled up into a ball and died.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

If I may posit for a moment...

You know when you're trying to be all well-behaved and staying true to what you actually want in the long term but then some young thing messages you and is all doe-eyed and a bit emo, which has always kinda been your thing, and he's like Come over and you say no cause that would probably be weird and you're not interested in getting physical with someone you don't have a connection with but then you keep talking and he's oddly confessional in that way that just gets to you and eventually you tell him that you're not going over there but he can come over if he wants even though it's past eleven by this point and you worked/slacked all day and then volunteered until nine o'clock so you're totally beat but he has you curious and so he comes by around midnight and it's pretty awkward because half the time he seems like this lost little kid even though he's 23 which is a solid 4 years older than the ones you've toyed with in recent memory so you're kinda proud of yourself for not pedo-ing it up but then at other times he's strangely insightful in ways you suspect he doesn't realize and so you both start watching a movie but it's pretty awkward cause neither of you is doing that gradually-creeping-closer-together thing and in fact he's kind of put a barricade of pillows between the two of you so finally around one thirty you say that you have to go to sleep and he reluctantly turns off the movie and flops into bed but he just grabs a pillow and closes his eyes and turns his back to you and you think What the fuck? but then you break form and actually tell him that this feels weird and that you're not feeling any connection that you'd both hoped might have been there and he apologizes and says it's been a long time since he's slept with someone (in the literal sense) and then you kiss a little but he says his lips are really sensitive and so you snuggle but he says that your stubble is scratching his back and then he reaches for your junk even though you've said you don't really want to go there (emotional connection, blah blah blah) and he stops but then you start because he's all cute and you're not that strong but then you stop it again and you know you're being an awful tease but you just can't because by now it's past two and you really need to sleep and you're getting the sense that despite the fact that you both claim to want the same thing, you're not even in the same orbit and so you toss and turn all night and you feel totally detached from this body lying next to you and in the morning he won't kiss you cause he's self-conscious of his morning breath but you think There's Listerine in the bathroom, asshole but you don't say that cause it's rude and you think about how you wanted this to work but once again it hasn't and so you both get dressed and talk about stupid, stupid shit (his tan lines, your support of local produce) and then part ways and you go to work and blog about it?



Me neither.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Dear Future Roommate (Part III)

Part I Part II

Dear Future Roommate,

I may switch to vagina.

I'm sorry. That's a bit much to wake up to. But I feel you should really know that your days as best friend to a (debatably) beautiful queer boy may be numbered as I'm thinking of giving up on the unfairer sex and joining Boobie Nation. That's right: I might pull a Cynthia Nixon.

The way I see it, there are only so many times that I want you to find me in delicto flagrante in the hot tub with some barely legal Hispanic or clearly-only-cause-I'm-drunk hairy flight attendant. The fact that I seemingly want you to find me in delicto flagrante in the hot tub at all is disturbing enough. NO ONE SHOULD EVER HAVE TO SEE THAT. I could never in a million years tape myself having sex. I barely enjoy looking at myself clothed. One time when I was 17, my sexual partner at the time and myself made a short video of us making out fully clothed and I had to leave the room when he watched it. So you see, Future Roommate, I really don't think you should have to deal with that shiz. No girl that I plan on dating would EVER give up her flower in a hot tub, so rest assured you will be spared the sight of not only my naked ass but also whatever she's got going down below as well. I'm not totally clear on the specifics as I skipped that day of health class. Regardless, I certainly don't want you and I finding out together.

You folks are just so much more enticing sometimes. You're all soft and smell like meadows and have those great chest pillows on which I may rest my weary, newly-heterosexual head. You brush and floss regularly, rarely have dirt under your nails and we could share exfoliants! Plus, girls are generally more forgiving of physical foibles and I could really see myself getting used to a beer vodka gut. I know you have as much vested interest in wenis size as the homos, but at least all y'all will keep any disappointment to yourself and then bitch about it to your friends. That's called being a motherfucking lady. Plus, I wouldn't have to shave my bits anymore.

I know this is pretty big news, FutRo (cute term, btw), but you really need to get over it. I mean, take a look at the kind of shit I have to deal with:

Reason I'm Switchin': [on Luminato, an arts festival] what have you seen so far?

Illustrious D: I went to Dark Star, a new oratorio about perceptions/history of HIV/AIDS. Amazing. And then the National Ballet's West Side Story Suite + a couple new works yesterday. I might check out the visual stuff on the way home (Atom Egoyan curated something?) and then Rufus Wainwright on Thursday.

RIS: cool you're all up on the culture!

RIS: i'm looking forward to pride

RIS: it's one of my favorite festivals!

ID: what are you doing for it?

RIS: being gay!

RIS: dressing slutty

RIS: it's the biggest gay party there is!

RIS: u?

ID: I'm volunteering for it. Otherwise, not sure yet.

RIS: really?

RIS: why did you decide to do that?

ID: Believe in the cause, good way to meet people, etc.

RIS: for sure

RIS: i haven't missed toronto pride since i first started coming in 2002

ID: What are your favourite events?

RIS: well this year i am really excited for cyndi lauper

RIS: and that i have a boyfriend that loves pride as much as i do. beer and cyndi's songs all around!


In summation: art blah, pride yay, volunteering why? and beer + cyndi lauper = heaven.

Fuck this shit, Future Roommate. I'm skipping over heterosexuality and going straight for lesbianism. Prepare yourself to spend a lot of time around macrame and women named Deb.


Love,

D

Monday, June 14, 2010

Actual Father's Day Card I'm Mailing to the Obese Hungarian

My Dearest Father,

I know what's going through your head: you are pretty impressed with me right now. Sure, my brothers may have gone and bought you "real" presents to show their love, but I invested whole seconds minutes in picking out the perfect (expensive) card*, buying a stamp and diligently walking it to my corner mail box. That is called mother$&%*#ing devotion. Also, you are impossible to shop for so I got you the gift of knowing I didn't spend my hard-earned wages on unappreciated crap. You're welcome.

I'm not going to thank you for "everything" or write an extensive list about all the nifty stuff you do for this family; I'll leave that to the other two clowns that emerged from your loins. Rather I'm going to EXCEED EXPECTATIONS and start my own tradition of perennially telling you one thing I am grateful for. Here is this year's:

Thank you for genetically stepping aside and allowing me to have eyebrows. They've been a big hit so far. All the grandmothers that I know absolutely love them, even if their grandchildren have been completely apathetic thus far. I will strive to carry on this proud tradition and breed children who do not look as though they have juvenile alapecia.

You are more than adequate the best and I love you a lot.

David


*Seriously. Check out the price on the back.







Friday, June 11, 2010

Metric is playing Lilith Fair? What a bunch of vaginas.

Well, I fucked around with the template and now it's ass. Whatever. I think the devil-may-care skewedness of this "design" bespeaks a casual air that is by-and-large refreshing. Mostly though, I'm tired of pretending like I know anything shit all about HTML. It gives me man menses.

In my attempt to becoming a social creature whose sole friend is not the bottle, I decided to start volunteering. For the record, I ran a volunteer task force of about 800 for a large theatre festival once upon a time and can say with confident if not absolute certainty that volunteering is lame. Nothing requiring matching XL t-shirts is EVER going to be a good time. Still, social creature. No friends with the bottle. So I signed up for NXNE, which is Canada's oh-so-clever-and-not-at-all-trying-too-hard answer to the SXSW music festival, as well as Toronto Pride. Unfortunately for me and potentially humorous for you, they called me at 8:30pm a couple nights ago when I was 3 glasses into a bottle of malbec.


Scene: My bed. Computer on my lap. In the midst of watching the entire back half of this season's Heroes. It is no less stupid when drunk.

[phone rings]

Illustrious D: Helloooooo.

Homosexual Volunteer: Hi, this is Tim from Toronto Pride. Is this David?

ID: Who wansht to know?

HV: Um, Tim. Tor-...Toronto Pride?

ID: Suuuuure you are.

HV: I see that you've signed up to volunteer with us. Do you have some time to ta-

ID: TIMMEHHHHHH!

HV: -lk about the roles you're interested in?

ID: Don get frejsh.

HV: Do you have any experience in leadership positions?

ID: Asjh you can see on mah applikashuns, I was volunteer coorjinater fer the winnipeg flinge frestival. So yes...biiiiiiiiiotch.

HV: Ah. Very good. So would you be interested in working in the Pride street fair as a team leader, signing vendors in, directing pedestrian traffic, tasks like that?

ID: I can't sign. Not deaf. We're on the phone, bahahahaaa *burp*

HV: The shift is rather long.

ID: Sizshe does not mattjher to me.

HV: It's about 15 hours long.

ID: Whoa, Pharoah, back the dtruck up. Aiin no way in hall that I'-

HV: You'll be fed.

ID: Deal.

HV: The training has already happened but if you show up half an hour before the start of your sh-

ID: Yerr zexy.

HV: What?

ID: Yerr Mexi...

HV: ...

ID: *attempts to lick own elbow*

HV: Um, I-

ID: ...can.

HV: Yes, well-

ID: NAILED IT.

HV: Okay, well I think that just about does it for us. Thanks so much again. I'll e-mail your schedule and if you have any more questions feel free to call the Pride Info Line.

ID: Is that thish number?

HV: No.

ID: Then what's thish number?

HV: It's actually my cell phone.

ID: Can I jusht call you?

HV: Call the Info Line.

ID: How 'bout just a text?

HV: No.

ID: YOU NEVER REALLY LOVEJD MEAHHH!

*click*



FIN

Thursday, June 10, 2010

I need a new creative outlet

I know I just posted a month ago about getting a ballin' ticket to a concert and to do so again would make me a braggart. And a turd. But suck it, The World. Turd, I be.

So guess who just scored a front row ticket to MARGARET CHO.


Answer: Veteran character actor Charles Durning.*




Yellow Star: Me, fuckers.

Broken Yellow Lines: Sight Lines of Connection.

Green: People that are insanely jealous of me.

Blue: People that are pretending not to be jealous yet are secretly thinking, "Wow, these tickets are so not as good as they looked on the seating chart."

Purple: Mah new best frienjhz

Red: People that are so jealous that it's like they're burning in their own personal Hells. That's why it's red. Don't even talk to me about those assholes in the loges. They will be jealousy-suiciding themselves like whoa.




*Actually, it's me. Idiot.

Wednesday, June 09, 2010

I need a time code for MS Paint Owning

Sorry, not feeling this. I'm not sure if it's the rainy weather or that Glee is over or the aimlessness of my life or what, but it's a shittastic time.

Work has been ridiculous. Our biggest project of the year is happening today and the last week has been a shit show. This was Black Magic's responsibility and she crashed and burned harder than I've ever seen professionally. As the unions are nuts I'm sure there won't be any really reprecussions but the rest of us had to put in a lot of extra time to clean up after her ass (ew) and while there's been a lot of, "Oh Illustrious D, you've such a huge help. We couldn't have done it without you. Stick it in me," it hasn't really made me feel better. Plus that last part didn't happen.

Other than that, my apartment is in shambles, my legs may as well be props, I've unwittingly entered into a fight with a friend who is acting like the third graders she teaches (proprs to Boo), I started crying while watching the little autistic girl this morning and Lily & Marshall are having a baby.

I want orange skiis


The one bright light is the way my family said goodbye to me over speakerphone yesterday:

Mom: Bye!

Dad: Bye!

Younger Brother: I'm getting a lion tattoo!

*click*

Tuesday, June 01, 2010

Of Cocaine-Dusted Cupcakes and Naked Men

So last night at karaoke, some douche kept being given glasses of red by his friends and then got up in front of the whole pub and sang Sweet Transvestite to amazed onlookers. I did not quite catch his name but I feel it sounded something like Shmillustrious Blee.

On to my teasers from last time. I'm breaking it down into three parts so feel free to grant yourself intermissions. I realize that I could just do three different entries, but after a certain amount of griping about lengthy posts, I feel this would just be reinforcing negative behaviour. I don't need your guff.

+++++++++++++++++++

I was singing in synagogue last Saturday (cause God forbid I go there when I'm not getting paid) and I was yakking it up with a somewhat rotund 37 year old 'mo who I feel wants to git on dis. Our school boy shenanigans have been getting progressively sillier in the past couple months, as we attempt to guess if a certain tenor's underwear matches his prayer shawl or in what decade a certain soprano's ovaries ceased to function. Still, I generally try to stay attentive, following congregational readings in Hebrew rather than English phonetics, reading along with the week's bible portion and not nodding off with my head leaning against a support beam like some people I could mention (Esther Goldfarb). However, mid-way through last Saturday's service it suddenly occurred to me:

Um, who the fuck am I kidding?

I haven't given two shits about this in months, I haven't learned a lick of Hebrew in the past year, kosher has got to be the most illogical thing I've ever heard of and I'm sorry, but the goddamned Jews have been wandering in the desert since February and they are taking for-fucking-ever to decide who sleeps on what side of the Tabernacle!

The fancy to be a singing Jew as a profession may come back at some point, but for now, I'm just gonna be happy that I'm going back to school next year to do real person music Additionally, I plan on SIGNIFICANTLY decreasing my falafel intake.

+++++++++++++++++++

Saturday night, Slightly Insane Jewess and I got all dolled up and went to the Drake Hotel. What I thought to be the den of urbane hipsterdom turned out to be nothing more than a sanctuary for inane, cultureless Hollister and Aritzia aficionadi. Once inside, we had to stand in line in the middle of the bar to wait for a place on the rooftop patio. During our hour-long sojourn in line, SIJ had to defend our spot against cutters (and not the fun emo kind) no less than three times, including one Dutch girl in a Minnie Mouse-inspired debacle who wanted to piggy-back with us along with her 3 friends, though we did debate momentarily whether we owed a certain debt to this girl cause of the whole Anne Frank thing.

Once on the roof, we managed to score a prime spot perching at the edge of a bench. Keep your jealousies in your pants. This remainder of this bench and accompanying table/booth belonged, in fact, to a homo habilis-faced hetero hick (not heterophobia; it's what he was) celebrating his 32nd birthday. After grilling us for a good five minutes as to the exact nature of our relationship and we were not fornicating, he asked about mah seshualité, albeit in a very good natured way, and upon learning my precise spot on the Kinsey scale, proceed to stand up and ask me to confirm that his ass was "juicy" before hitting on SIJ. She is a mistress of the rebuff and refused him even the slightest bit of kindness even when he gave us two ballin' birthday cupcakes. Throughout the course of the night, we learned that:

1. He'd known one other gay guy, a former roommate who ha come out to him upon being confronted with the fact that the roomie'sculinary skillz extended to more than microwaving a Don Miguel burrito from 7-11.

2. His cop friends seated on the other side of the table, out of ear shot and out of moisturizer by the looks of their meth-addicty faces, were huge cocaine fiends. This is just the sort of information to not share with perfect strangers, though I probably would have tried a line if offered. It's called entrapment laws, motherfuckers.

3. No, seriously, he really wanted me to like his ass. "What, I'm not your type?" he asked, "Then what is?"

"Oh, I don't know, someone more...European."

What I meant: sophisticated.

What he thought I meant: uncircumcised.

I'm gonna award myself a Misunderstanding Win on this one. What is the opposite of shooting yourself in the foot? Healing yourself in the hand? No. That's just stupid.

+++++++++++++++++++

Sunday morning, I ventured off to Toronto Island with ESLothario and a few of his friends/my acquaintances to gallivant along the clothing-optional/hetero-optional beach, where became pseudo-Nubian after a vodka-aided 2-hour power nap in 32°C weather. The rest of the afternoon was spent reading Sarah Silverman's book Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption and Pee, illustrating once again why I should never throw a ball in public (though I do have occasional luck with Frisbees) and trying not to stare inappropriately at all the boobies and penii strolling down the beach. Oh, I stared. Just appropriately.

Of our immediate group, the two women went topless or au naturel while all three of us gents opted to keep our shorts on. This was no small mercy as I was in no mood to witness what matter of boreal forest is growing between ESLothario's legs nor did I wish to be thrown into a jealous rage at the sight of His Asian Friend's flowy, silky pubes. Also, this alleviated any pressure I might have otherwise felt to go nekkid myself. As previously mentioned, Hungarian Jews do alright in this department (the Department of Peen), but we tend not to demonstrate our full potential unless called to action and thus make poor nude beach fodder. Anonymous sex in the sand dunes fodder = yes. Winners of multiple international shrinkage competitions fodder = no.

Our streak of Modest Men in 20-10 finished with the arrival of HAF's neighbour, a not unattractive if slightly zaftig gentleman in his late 30's who was very, erm, European. He also was not one to let a pesky little thing such as a live-in partner get in the way of taking HAF between his bare thighs and giving him a reverse seated bear hug/grope for two hours.


Okay, I realize he's not technically bear
hugging but that shit woulda been hard so stfu.

This, I just do not get. The point has been that men are less monogamously inclined than women and so two men together could foreseeably have certain personal rules in place, but what's in it for the non-coupled guy? Why the fuck would you ever want to be someone's second choice? I fake-slept for an extra half hour just to avoid witnessing the accompanying visual to the loud, wet tongue smacking sounds of them making out.

The afternoon was drawing to a close, but not before this nude, swishy, late 20's, future skin cancer patient queen decided to squat down right by us Indian-style with his definitely-on-full-display brick brown bratwurst, completely shorn, a mere 2 feet from my face. He/it was disgusting. After hearing all about his "famouth Pride partieth," complete with sling, fuck bench and asphyxiation ropes (!), he then scooched over, took HAF's hands and placed them around his own penis and said, "Here, do you mind keeping this warm for me?"

EWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hey asshole, this is the reason why the majority of the world sees us as sexual deviants who should never be allowed to have families. This guy was to fags as Sarah Palin is to women, and both disgust me in equal measure.

After the ferry ride back to the city, I returned to my shoebox apartment to soak in a tub of aloe vera and contemplate my weekend. I had partied with straights and I had partied with gays and it turns out that I just hate everyone.

At least I'm an equal opportunity misanthrope.