I got a chocolate milk today after working out (I know! That shit's still happening! Holla!). I hadn't had it in probably 10 years and upon my first swig was dismayed to discover it did not taste as good as I remembered.

Then I noticed it was now 1% instead of 2%.

Then I remembered I was a fat little kid.

Then I added whipping cream.

Child Nazi

Recently, I've started to think that, hey, maybe having a kid or two one day wouldn't suck so much cock after all. I know I should probably stop comparing parenting to fellatio before that happens, but bygones.

The main reason why I want to have a kid is that I want to do it better than anyone else. Yep, for me parenting will be a competitive endeavour. I've said for years now that should a global council be formed with the sole purpose of deciding who may and may not have children I would like to be vice-chair. I watch way too much Rachel Maddow to allow hicks who essentially vote in favour of their own poverty to keep on procreating. It's not even my country, true, but things are seriously frightening down there, y'all.

I would love to say that I will be a modest if amazing parent, never judging others for their choices, but that would be a blatant lie.

"What? You let your kid drink actual dairy milk instead of unsweetened organic soy milk?"

"Pardon me? You don't buy 100% peanuts peanut butter and then doctor it with sea salt and honey yourself to avoid all the hydrogenated oils and preservatives?"

Yeah. I'm gonna be that guy. My kid will be allowed to bring whatever boy or girl he or she is dating home, but no fucking way is that little shit eating so much as one Chicken McNugget so long as they live under my roof.

Don't you love how I think all parenting relates to food?

I'm also gonna say no a lot. There's this whole thing now about denying your children things without saying the actual word 'no'. Like, "Sweetie, Daddy would really prefer if you didn't play so close to the freeway." Fuck that. My kid is gonna hear 'no' like an American Eagle employee hears "All I Want For Christmas Is You" by Mariah Carey around December 21st. Every ten minutes. HOWEVER, I won't be all stern or parenty about it. I will have various No Characters. The Jolly Pirate. The Demure Geisha. The Opera-Singer-Hating Baritone. An entire cast of personae that will tell him, "Hey li'l guy, you fuckin' up."

Aside from wanting to prove my superiority to other parents, the other reason I want kid(s) is so I can be in a real life Modern Family. In other words, I only want them for family get-togethers and for those rare moments that will make for hilarious moments to tell at family get-togethers. A failed figure skating career? Suck it, Claire and Mitchell: I used to make my five year old brother do choreographed routines to Starlight Express. Essentially, I just threw him in the air a lot like a figure skat-...DAMNIT!

Whatever. So long as wind up with an Alex or a Manny and not a Hailey or a Luke. I mean, they're cute and all but everybody knows you're happier in the long run being smart rather than goodlooking.


Inner Voice: Hey, aren't you smart and miserable?

ZOMG JUST SHUT UP INNER VOICE. NO KIDS FOR YOU!

Rockabye Baby

Secret message:

Shut the fuck up and go to sleep or I will drop kick your baby ass out of the elm.

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.

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.

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:

+

=

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.

Give a Jew a take-out menu and he'll eat for a month

Friday evening, I was invited to dinner at the home of a young couple, the man of which is the son of the older couple with whom we all normally have Friday night dinner. Fuuuuuuuuuuck grammar is hard! It kinda boggles my mind how yuppies can be so proficient in their professional lives and have absolutely no aesthetic clue when it comes to hosting. Priorities, people. Get them. If you're going to forgo cooking and cater, fine, do it. But don't then make one dish and stick it in with the rest because it's not gonna be as good as the crazy high fat/salt restaurant grub and your sad little dish will face more rejection than me at a Calve Muscle Lovers of America's annual general meeting. Secondly, my hostess was bummed because one guest cancelled and consequently there would be too much food. This is akin to saying that the United States of America recently suffered a huge blow to their population growth with the loss of Gary Coleman. There was more food at this dinner than in the whole of Mozambique. Also, it was Thai and lemongrass is the devil. You heard me.

For all of my observations/bitchings thus far, this was actually all okay. Food was decent, there was lots of wine and I had walked close to a marathon (20 minutes) to get to their house, so I was feeling confident in my decision to swan dive into the pad thai. Full pike, half twist. What stuck in my craw though was their house guest, a woman in the 30-55 age range depending on the lighting, who had just got back from Honduras with her 12 year old weimeraner Shadow and his spinal bifida. It literally dragged itself everywhere on its two front paws. So sad. Sadder still cause his owner was a raging biotch.

I hate - HATE - women that go over to visit their female friends and the friends' husbands/boyfriends and spend the whole night harping at the guys in a misguided pseudo-feminist attempt to rally with their friends who needs absolutely no rallying. Couples disagree all the time but stay the fuck out it, yo! This is not an attempt to mediate but rather a nosey-ass gender-contrived continuation of "boys have cooties," and when you are 30-55 years old, this is really unsightly. It's not feministy in the least, as the underlying implication is that the female in the partnership could not possibly hold her own without the help of a sistah. This chick, who is Jewish, also spent the whole night scolding the hosts' dog, debated on how to get into a Ponzi scheme and refused to sing the blessing for the Sabbath with the hostess when asked and said that she would speak it but actually she wouldn't cause that would sound stupid with one person singing and one person speaking.

Are...you fucking kidding?

You get invited to participate in a traditional (albeit Thai) Friday night meal and when asked to put in 10 seconds of effort, you decline because it would "sound stupid?" What a total F U to the hosts. Then she talked for two hours non-stop about how her stomach was sore and she needed to go for a run. Yo, Forest, just fucking run already! Don't just sit there with your close-to-30-weeks food baby and challenge my view on dietary sugars:

Jet-Lagged Hostess: This frozen yogurt is amazing. It's only 3 grams of fat.

Buddha Belly Biznatch: Yeah, but there's a ton of sugar in it.

Illustrious D: Actually, I'm pretty sure it's made with Splenda, so...

BBB: Yeah, but everything has sugar in it. Everything refined has sugar in it.

ID: Okay, but this isn-

BBB: Like, anything with refined grains is sugar.

ID: Yeah, it breaks down into sugar in your body but it's not the same as having just sugar.

BBB: No, but it's sugar. Your body makes it into sugar.

ID: *wtf expression to hostess*

BBB: Like, I'll only eat whole grains because - okay, don't you get it? - it's all sugar.

ID, using grand gestures: I understand that. But a cup of bread *thinks about how a cup of bread would look* and a cup of sugar are not the same thing.

BBB: Yeah, but they are both sugar.

ID, breaking out a power point presentation and finger puppets: A CUP OF BREAD DOES NOT CONTAIN THE SAME AMOUNT OF SUGAR AS A WHOLE CUP OF SUGAR.

BBB: Anyway, that yogurt does look really good.


What is it about me that attracts the misinformed of Toronto to spew garbage at me like their own personal whimsies are scientifically notarized fact? First the 19 year old wombat from last week and now this Dr.-Oz-proselytizing turd.


NEXT TIME: I abandon the reason why I moved in the first place; an ugly, straight guy shows me his ass and gives me a cupcake; a lot of overtanned dick

I Love the Smell of Douches in the Morning

The following is a list of Douchey McDouche-Douchersons that I saw whilst waiting for the streetcar this morning.

1. Popped-collared Douche - *sigh* HOW IS THIS STILL OKAY? No. Just no. Never. Unless it's a jacket. But a polo shirt? From motherfucking Guess?! With writing on the part that should be flipped down?! It's like douchery is in their mission statement. Die in a fire.

2. Obnoxiously Loud Music Douche - Why is it that you never hear Beethoven being blasted through ridiculously over-sized but ineffective earphones? Gimme some ABBA or something! But no. It is always, as you know, gangsta rap and hip hop. Misogyny and drive-by shootings used to be the worst things about ghetto music. No more.

3. Black-in-Brown Douche - There was a black lady in clothing the exact same colour as her skin. Okay, this is not douchey. Perhaps just misguided. Brown is a fantastic colour, but if you can't pull it off (not unlike your own skin) then just accept that this is your lot in life. I mean, do you see me wearing kinda-rosy-with-receding-hair-gimpy-times-coloured clothing? No, you do not.

4. Guy-Who-Lives-In-My-Building-But-Never-Says-Hi Douche - Okay, this one may be kinda self-explanatory. But seriously. Not even a smile? I know you're thinner and have better shoes than me and probably live with an equally austere Asian girl, but c'mon. Sidenote: Asian girls with white boyfriends are my people.

5. Girl-With-Mary-Janes-And-Socks Douche - Hey, Dorothy: no.

6. Offspring-Abandoning Douche - You know what?! I am so sick of all these women that lend their uterii to gay couples and then go off to have a illustrious show choir coaching careers only to turn around and plot to make their long-lost daughters discover them and then be all "I can't be your mom but let's break it down with some acoustic GaGa first, mmk?"

...

Okay, that one might just have been last night's Glee. I'm losing my credibility mad quickly.

7. Guy-From-My-Apartment Douche - Yesterday evening (not this morning, but it still makes the list) I met a chat friend. He is young and overweight and comes from a crazy, crazy Evangelical Pentecostal family that has indoctrinated him to the point that I didn't even rebut any of the messed up hick garbage he spewed at me cause it was just so ridiculous. It was like being at a one-man Log Cabin Republicans meeting. He also had that grating habit of being 19*, wherein he mistook his opinions with facts. I kinda wanted to punch him in his admittedly-unshaven balls. Then, as we're at the door, he somehow launches himself into the air and lands on my lips. At first I resist but then I am reminded of how 19 year olds kiss and I'm all mmmmmmmm and so I let him for a while but then I kinda hovered above myself and was like, "Um, what are you doing? He's 19. And kind of a dick." My kicking out of him was met with surprise and initially resistance but finally, I managed to convince him to leave. He took 5 minutes to lace up his $29.99 Shoe Warehouse travesties and then was all (fat) wounded puppy as he left. Hmmm. Maybe I'm the douche.



* 26 (my age) ÷ 2 = 13, +7 = 20. Damnit! Also, ugh.

New Cause of Global Warming: Laos

Black Magic just walked into my cubicle, talked at me for 10 minutes about the fruit of her loins (blackberries?...okay, this is verging on racist) and then tossed her laundry list in my garbage can. The only two items on it? Not a word of a lie: deodorant sticks and bounce sheets. Praise...be.


Before moving to Toronto, I was warned by Unibrow* that the winters here are murder.

"It only goes down to -8, maybe -9, but it's a damp cold so it just chills you to the bone. You can never...get...warm."

Needless to say, I was petrified. The fact that Winnipeg averages -30ºC temperatures failed to register with me as it was a dry cold and clearly no -50º windchill could compete with MOISTURE IN THE AIR. I brought all my heavy jackets, even going so far as to pack the balaclava I used to take out "a loan" from First National that one time, and waited for the arctic winter to hit.

And I continued to wait until yesterday when the high was 16º centigrade.

"This feels like spring," I thought to myself, remembering what they were like back in the day. (Winnipeg used to have them up until I was about 6 years old at which time they disappeared, much like the frozen snickers bars in my freezer. Now winter leads right into summer. I blame the Laotians*.)

"But this is impossible! I was promised bone-chilling weather that would chill my bone!"

And then a red-breasted robin landed right on my shoulder and tweeted, "Your friend Unibrow is a little bitch and Toronto is awesome."

Ugh, even the birds here are stuck up. She was right though. I'm pretty sure there was never more than three inches of snow on the ground and the coldest it ever got was, like, -16. So, Uni, way to win at life and best of luck with all future engagements at Opera Minsk.




*Hey, you don't submit a new nickname, it don't get changed, ayit? Respect.


** No, I don't.***


*** Yes, I do.

Encounters with black people

Earlier today, I overheard a conversation in the next cubicle over wherein a large-derriered admin assistant was talking about making something but then quickly corrected herself and said, "Not that I created it. The only one that can create is God."

Bitch, it's an Excel spreadsheet. Calm the eff down.

Then just now I was walking to the bathroom to get my spider solitaire on when another woman stopped me to make small talk, remarking that she hadn't seen my "sturdy gate" in a while. I informed her that I had been visiting my hometown and she started going on about how people there must hate Toronto for having warmer weather.

"Though they all hate Toronto for more than just the weather, cause we got everything here," she said.

"Werd," I said.

"And they don't gotta be hatin' on us 'bout the weather. Talk to the Controller," she said pointing towards the heavens.

I mumbled something about complaining to "Upper Management" that she laughed at before walking away. Shit son, do black people ever love Jesus!

Hey, everybody remember my coworker who openly cried about our boss on my second day in the department, referred to her food-baby as n*ggeritis and asked me about where I like to put my penis? Who doesn't. Well, she's at it again. This time her absolute disregard to workplace decorum struck not in the form of a depleted supply of Arm & Hammer For Her but rather in an e-mail forward subjected "How to Teach Kids About Sexuality." Let me present select examples from this educational illumination that uses office supplies to represent different sexual relationships.

It started out simply enough:







































Now pay attention, here's where things start to go south:














Hey, I know you're all jazzed cause Obama's prez. We all are. And yes, I will admit that I enjoyed the movie 'O' far more than most. But if a Blackie and a Redskin decide to go at it, that is no one's business but their own! And wait, does this mean that the blue pens were white guys? Oh, I see. Blue like smurfs. Cause we have smaller penii compared to your giant African pantsnakes. Just cause it is universally true does not make it okay to forward to me!














This would be funny if the person to whom you forwarded the word 'ejaculation' didn't have to look you in the face and smell you in the pit for 1/3 of his waking hours.















Okay, I'll admit that this one is pretty funny. It's more she-male than tranny, but bygones...















Again, I will reward you with moderate applause. The fact that you even went to the effort of commandeering a Viagra-blue sharpner really shows the detail work we were looking for. (This also reminds me of a line I once gave a fellow classmate at music school: "Hey, I boned your mom last night. At first, I thought I might have trouble staying sharp cause she was so flat, but luckily I was a natural." It's not good.)














Okay, now this shit is hilaaaaaaari-o. 'Specially seeing as God hates contraception.















Um, what?! Are you even legally allowed to say that in public?! SO MUCH NO! Though that red pen slut is totally asking for it...

I cannot even comment on this as I am slowly rocking myself in a corner. In what body odourless world is this woman living in?! Just cause we're all in a seriously messed up time period of excusing pedophiles, does not make it remotely okay to forward this shit to me!

Buuuuut, it's pretty fucking funny that you did. Rock on, Black Magic.

I just got back from lunch, having had an older couple share my bench. The elderly are right near the top of my list of Things I Just Barely Tolerate, along with ketchup, most immigrants and Beyonce (Hey, Non-Existent Gay Following, consider yourself alienated). However, this couple was something special. They waltzed right over in their leisure suits and matching velcro K-Swiss sneakers and sat their cute little old asses down, barely breathing a "Thank you" as I relocated my Tupperware container to accommodate them. And don't even try that watery-eyed weak-ass smile with me, grandpa. I know all your moves and they don't work on this guy.

Then they really did it. She reached out and put her hand on his knee and he took it in his and they sat there cuddling, holding hands and marvelling at the ubiquity of "all the Orientals." While I'm glad that my hobby is finally catching on, this activity was just too much for me today.

I turned to the man and said, "Why, sir, those velcro sartorial marvels are really quite becoming. Are you , by any force of chance, a size 11?

The man smiled and nodded and reached over to undo the left shoe.

"Oh, no, sir. Allow me," I proffered.

On bended knee, I slowly peeled back the two tabs as they reveled in the auditory emulsions emitted in the breaking away of those two heavenly bodies of attachment.

I lifted the shoe off the old man's foot and held it in my hands. Then I ralphed in and threw it at a ficus.

That'll learn them.


I don't know why I am filled with so much rage today. Perhaps it was last night's Chelsea Lately marathon, a show that while hilarious tend to make me pret-ty hatey. Perhaps it's the fact that I've pretty much been drunk since Friday night and have been sleeping poorly as a consequence, having stupid, inebriated dreams where people are just really mean to me. Like, Regina George mean. In one such dream, I was on a subway car making out with a boy who was essentially a composite of the last two guys that had slept in my bed. He was made up of all of their good qualities and yet I still wasn't all that into him. Telling. This was a reciprocated feeling as he bailed a few minutes into the necking and I was left in a state of confused apathy and uninspired blue balls.

I really am mastering the art of reciprocal ambivalence. Even the gay dating site ads on my blog are subpar, choosing to feature photos of guys resembling John Goodman. One even looks like Roseanne. I take this very personally. It's probably the dehydration and the lack of sleep talking, but can we all together utter a universal 'Ugh'? It's just not working right now, people. The most pleasure I've derived in recent memory has been from scratching my under-moisturized thighs. UPS lost my iPod (unrelated but important) and at this point even my own penis is ignoring my text messages. Sometimes, he just kinda half looks up at me, sighs and says, "Really?"

Another possibility for my funkiness may lie in the time I recently spent with a certain friend whom I always leaving feeling horrible about myself. They're not in the least bit judgey themselves; in fact, he's always lovely and we have good times together. However, I always feel so directionless and crude around this person. It's as though his lack of judgement is a mirror that reflects all the things I loathe about myself. I just feel so self-centred and insipid around him sometimes. Yeah. I'm bitching on my blog about feeling self-centred. It really is such a Marcia Brady experience. If Marcia Brady held conversations with her anthropomorphousized penis.

When is life going to get remotely interesting/happy again?

Man, this got me swear-y

In a similar vein as my occasional fixation with pop music, I am going through a reliving of my favourite childhood cartoons via YouTube. While I certainly enjoyed Dino-Riders, Just Like Mom and you've already heard my view on Captain Planet, my favourite kids show of all time may shock in its obvious lack of manliness. No, it's not Take Part cause DON'T EVEN GET MY STARTED ON THAT SHIT I WILL END YOU. No, the most character defining show of my pubescence was Jem and The Holograms.

I know, right?

I feel the obsession began right from the intro, an infectious 80's bubblegum offering encouraging me to "be a Jem girl." Clearly, as witness to my parental request for the Jem fashion templates, this suggestion was taken to heart (I was given New Kids On The Block templates instead; fuck you, Dad). The animation in this opening also had a lot more frames per second than normal, resulting in her dance moves looking like that of a real person. It was like cartoons actually existed, people. Mind. Blown. One would imagine that the minute number of young boys who actually watched the show would identify with Jem's road-manager/boyfriend of her alter ego Jerica, Rio. Not this little fucker. I realize this comes as quite a surprise given my reputation for amazing road managing skills and occasionally purple hair. But Jem was so hot! Like, Kelly Kapowski hot. And didn't (don't) I want to be hot. Plus they all had wicked coloured hair and makeup the shapes of shapes all over their faces. The latter, I feel, inspired me and a visiting cousin to draw all over each other's faces with crayola markers when we were about 6. Bath time that night was not pleasant. How many 6 year-olds has Hannah Montana inspired to draw on their cousins' faces with crayola markers? Me thinks, by the cool silence from Camp Cyrus at press time, not a lot.

While this show, which aired at 2:00pm every weekday afternoon on YTV, was the highlight of my day, seeing it now brings up some serious moral conflicts. First of all, Rio kisses Jem in, like, the second episode. Looks like it takes less than 44 minutes to go from devoted boyfriend/handyman of the Starlight House for orphans to straight up pink-pubes lovin' cheater. Uh, Rio, someone wants to speak to you. So to review, here's a chick who deceives her boyfriend, makes a move on him while under the guise of an internationally recognized song stylist and when he is all "Yeah, baby, let's do this!" thinks not about the fact that he is a trifflin' man ho (entrapment doesn't negate ho-dom. Don't even try that shit with me.) but rather chastises herself for not telling him that her dead father's masturbatory holographic robot lady projects rock star style onto her body through her earrings. Duuuuuuuude. Also, who the hell is looking after those little orphan fuckers while everyone's on tour? The Misfits?! Uh, I don't think so, buddy! Is it possible to call Child & Family Services on animated characters? Cause let me tell you: speed dial, motherfuckers.

New favourite thing: Fuck You, Penguin. Goddamnit! People need to stop being funnier than me!

I recently attended a social soirée involving a varied group of people, some of whom I know rather well and some not at all. Given that I am a relative new-comer to this city, this is not a rare occurrence; the fact that I even knew some of them was an advantage often absent from my social exploits. At home in Winnipeg, when I am completely relaxed with my kinfolk, I tend to take on the role of wisecracking social organizer, priding myself on hosting abilities, witty repartée and occasional sexual party favours. However, in a group of n00bs, I am a great deal less affable, contenting myself in the role of observer, perhaps spouting out the odd cultural reference or double-entendre, but generally laying back until I find a connection, usually female, occasionally alcohol, a medium through which I 'join' the group. Sometimes, though, there is one individual who just jumps out at me in a completely arresting manner, effectively shutting down any humour or confidence I might have emitted. Usually, there is some physical attraction to this person and, as such, they are generally male, but this pull is not necessarily induced by physical beauty so much as an aura, presence, call it what you like. Whatever term you choose, it still shuts me down quicker than a Republican at a critical thinking conference. At this recent event, however, I was very conscious of the fact that there was no physical attraction, yet I still felt that pseudo-paralysation, perhaps due to their total comfort in that environment or that they were a controling force in the events of the evening. Who knows? Not this kid. But I'd like to. I want to study this, this quality that causes me to de-David-ify, perhaps even coming up with some sort of unit of measurement for my awkwardness (the "Um" perhaps?) and eventually arriving at a formula I can use on the spot to once again become my awesome, vivacious embodiment-of-a-Cole-Porter-lead-character self. Cause I'm fucking delovely, goddamnit!

Yesterday on the streetcar, I overheard a woman berating a man for choking his dog (he wasn't) and then screaming wildly about cruelty to animals. When I looked over to berate her with a raised eyebrow, I saw that she was, in fact, wearing a fur coat. Mind you, I'd place it's time of sartorial creation at roughly 1972 and she was clearly one of those bus crazies that, while not homeless, surely was living on welfare due to a plethora of social and mental diseases. This was confirmed as she began a conversation with two unwitting 19 year olds, which began with their nose rings and why, if they were so determined to put a ring in it, they didn't at least have the good sense to get diamond rings. Rhinestones, evidently, would not do. She then claimed to live in Thornhill (Jewish, moneyed enclave; I don't think so, Social Assistance Sally), to be a lawyer (cause legal professionals are frequently reputed to brag about bringing their own teabags to Tim Horton's and asking for hot water) and to know the owner of a Kipling-area electronics store that, should they inform one Mr. David Rosenbaum that "Regina" had sent them, would surely give them a discount on a used TV.

The Little Portuguese is acting somewhat distant. The last time we saw each other (Tuesday night through Wednesday morning) he was totally affectionate, to the point of sleep detriment which I'm convinced caused this cold in the first place. I let him sleep in while I went to work and while he didn't even make the bed, he did left an adorable note saying he'd had a wonderful time. Ah, the joys of dating teenagers. Now, however, things feel decidedly cooler. My invitation to call me should he want to do something this weekend was not accepted, he has ceased to initiate msn/text conversations and is being altogether enigmatic. And I'm not sure I really like him anyway. Ah, the shitfalls of dating teenagers.

As such, I spent most of my weekend in bed watching Captain Planet episodes and I have some observations:

-You can cut the sexual tension between Wheeler and Linka with a knife. Gi and Kwami would probably be doing it too if he wasn't such a pussy, i.e. voiced by LeVar Burton.
-The main musical theme when CP is kicking echo-villain ass is a complete and total knock off of the Star Wars theme, but with midi strings. You stay classy, early 90's.
- Captain Planet is the gayest superhero that has ever graced the skies in spandex. Despite his straight-porn-alluding mullet, you know he was totally touching Ma-Ti when Gaia wasn't looking and I don't mean his 'heart'. How else do you explain why that kid is so faggy?

Next on my youtube list: Jem and the Holograms. Rumour on the street is that she's truly outrageous.

Like many of my bredrin (new term from the Young Portuguese; he's so street he could have his own streetcar line), I have maintained my fair share of body image issues, resulting in various diet and exercise regimens. As it stands right now, I'm probably the thinnest I've ever been (Thanks, Inexplicable Week-Long Illness/Being Drunk A Lot!) and I haven't had a steady work out schedule since the summer. Beginning anything right now would be so cliché I'm not even going to even reach over to my number pad and add the accent on that 'e'. Suck on that, Dictionnaire Robert-Collins. I am, however, intrigued by an article from last weekend's Globe & Mail that discussed Tabata, a 4-minute(!) work out developed for the Japanese Olympic speed skating team:

"The Tabata protocol is a high-intensity training regimen that produces remarkable results. A Tabata workout (also called a Tabata sequence) is an interval training cycle of 20 seconds of maximum intensity exercise, followed by 10 seconds of rest, repeated without pause 8 times for a total of four minutes."

Rumour on the street (according to postpartum moms, not the Young Portuguese) is that it's 'da bomb, [sic] yo'. So I think I'll that a go, cause, you know, my building's gym being ten feet from my apartment is way too much effort.

On the diet (in the sense of eating habits, not weight-loss regimen) front, I'm trying this new locavore/high fat/natural food thing shared with me by a big ol' Jew I'll affectionately term Me In Ten Year. Essentially you do away with refine sugars, refined carbs, all the typical bad boys and welcome into your home FAT. Turns out that our tongues are actually designed for three tastes: sweet, salty and fat. That's why you get that mouth feel whenever you have cheese or high fat milk. Have you tried homogenized milk?! It's like cum of the gods! But in the awesome way! I shan't bore you by listing the copious number of homosexually-composed blogs written by dimorphics with a diet exclusively comprised of steamed broccoli and browned chicken breasts. Well, this is kinda like that except that I make a whipping cream-based portabella sauce with that shiz! Honey is ubiquitous, whole milk is encouraged and cheese is king. I have to say, having tried this for about a week, that it's pretty freakin' fun. Yes, I can see buying 5 local, free-range chicken breasts and copious amounts of dairy becoming expensive, but in a mere 3 weeks I will be on a government contract and with Kensington Market a mere 10 minute walk away, it seems a shame not to take advantage of the local food about which Ontarians are always self-flagellating.

Lastly, and this is not for the faint of stomach, but I had the most revolting experience of being in a bathroom stall at work next to someone who clearly had a raccoon trying to crawl out of his colon. The sounds this man's bowels made combined with grunting, the length of time and effort necessary to expel whatever demon being was clawing it's way to daylight and the fact that I'd totally just rocked a flying Dutchman (first wipe comes back clean) makes me think that I'm on the right track, food-wise.

Well, this post wasn't particularly interesting, but fuck it. I'm gonna go drink 18% cream through a straw,

I feel that addiction to prescription medication does not really count. Whenever I see that a celebrity has admitted to taking drugs, I always get very excited. I always think of other people taking drugs as incredibly sexy, marijuana and alcohol aside, despite the fact that this has never been my personal experience and that most drugs shrink the peen. However, while George Michael smoking crack or Whitney smoking, well, everything is fascinating, I'm generally disappointed in the Hollywood elite when the most debaucherous substance they can come up with is Percosets. Leave the rooms at Promises open for those that actually need them. (I'm looking at you, Paula.) Or, conversely, get me some of this stuff so I can understand try many times over to understand the battle. Yes. That would work, too.


About a month ago, when I rejoined the land of employment, I began frequently riding the streetcar at 8am with a father and daughter. He is a haggard, bearded fellow nearing fifty and she, well, she's a kid. About 11, I'd say. The first day I saw them, he admonished her rather severely for losing her transfer. I could sense the other people around us getting tense and questioning his parenting, but in my head I was already defending him because kids are assholes. But also because no one on the bus knows the family dynamics or issues that are going on in strangers' lives. And guess what. That little girl? She's retarded. HA! See, I was right! I think she has autism or FAS or something; essentially she acts like a 3 year old, but in an absolutely beautiful way. She's so happy all the time. And before the PC nazis get all self-righteous about the use of the word 'retarded', I got news for you: that's what it she is. It exists. I'm not being mean or insensitive, but her brain functions slower. Granted, people misuse the word as a pejorative, yes, but that doesn't negate it's validity in the exact same way that using the word 'gay' as a substitute for every single negative adjective in the English language does not make me any less of a pole smoker. In fact, it is my opinion, the derogatory use of the word 'gay' essentially took a lot of heat off the word 'retarded', so you know what, you're welcome. RANT OFF.


In other news, my occasionally bicurious former shower/massage mate is coming into town soon for a few days. Things have remained platonic since our teens, but the facts that I've not indulged physically in four months and that he's built like a brick shit house may result in some serious nocturnal harrassment on my part. Happy endings count as host gifts, right?

You know, I don't set out to fail at blogging. It, like the tides and unplanned pregnancy among visual minorities, just happens.

Last week I wrote one of my painfully annoying semi-autobiographical fiction 'tableaux', as me and my twos of readers like to call them. Problem is, I can't finish it, posing a problem quite the opposite of my attempts in the boudoir. So now whenever I think of going back and trying to complete it, I distract myself in a variety of fashions.

The latest obsession is Bejeweled Blitz, a Facebook application that one particular eyebrowly impaired Mennonite who has asked to remain nameless has been talking about for a year. Now to be clear, I have never been a gamer or even really a games person. I will indulge, but really only as a visual supplement to an activity that does not require that sense, such as talking on the phone or performing CPR on my fish (RIP, guys. You'll live forever in God's kingdom). This habit started at the tender age of 14 with solitaire and has seen an evolution such that I can actually target major life events by what game I was playing at the time. The list reads not unlike Genesis 2 (suck on that Intro to Religion):

Solitaire begat
Hearts which begat
Freecell which begat
Minesweeper which begat
Spider Solitaire which begat
Bubbles which begat
Bejeweled Blitz

My favourite part of playing BB is that you can send 'Smack Talk', these really passive aggressive messages that you can send to your other friends that play who have lower scores than you. It's really quite mean and I like it. I like it a lot.

My other favourite distraction (other than, like, job hunting) is watching as many youtube videos of Chelsea Lately as possible, looping them to the point where I know them so well they become my Facebook statuses. I'm also oddly attracted to Guy Branum, a frequent panelist on the round table as a Comedian - slash - Staff Homosexual. He is by far the smartest and funniest person on that show (Chuy, the Mexican nugget (read: Little Person) aside). He is also 6'2", bald and roughly 300 lbs and yet...something inside me kinda wants to get wit dat. I've never been a chubby chaser (their word, not mine), but he's delightful with pouty lips, pretty eyes and a bashful look even cuter than Michael J. Park's.

In other news, I am still unemployed, live in a tiny apartment, can't hang shelves and am being Jew-ier than I ever imagined I could ever be. I'm gonna apply for recircumcision next week just for kicks.

So Auntie just sent me a digital photo frame and I know they're suppose to be all cool and expensive and shit but here's my problem:

The actual frame is slightly more panoramic than standard photo sizes, but rather than just crop the photos to the correct dimensions, it actually just stretches them out, making my face look even rounder than normal and my ass like Kim Kardashian's. Trite pop culture reference aside, I'm sure you can sympathize with my dilemma. Consequently, I've now how to resort to both bulemia and diuretics to stem the extra kick to my body dysmophia.

With this in mind, I've decided to open up the first interactive Fleekin Floygn comments forum to help me with my potential assular tenderness. I anticipate getting fives of responses, people.

Topic:

Toilet Paper Techniques

Potential Talking Points:

- How many squares?
- To fold or not to fold?
- Flying Dutchman: fact or fiction?
- How do the Charmin bears even buy TP? They have no income!
- Courtesy flush: basic politeness or wasteful Earth-ending environmental shenanigan?
















This is disgusting. I'm so bored.

Sarah is threatening assault with a semi-automatic weapon so I suppose I should update, lest she gets her Columbine on.

Um, what to say though?

I haven't really been in a blogging mood for the past couple months, most likely because I'm so tired all the time from having to wake up at 5:30 while the big dummies upstairs don't STFU until midnight or later. I write angry mental letters to them nightly. Of course, by the time morning comes, I puss out and continue on until the anger reemerges later that night.

I have a new boyfriend. Well, in my head I do. His name is Jay Brannan and he is that rare combination of beautiful, talented and just as fucked up as I am. Despite having played a model in the movie Shortbus (he's primarily a singer-songwriter) , the man named his last tour the "Fat is a State of Mind, Not a Shape Tour". Be still, my neurotic heart. It's actually to the point where I can't watch him on Youtube because he's too beautiful not to be in my pants.

Who says I'm not a romantic?

Apart from that (and aiming to watch every episode of So You Think You Can Dance?), all I'm doing is preparing to go to Toronto. And by "preparing" I mean watching Chelsea Lately videos and going to the gym every second day. I have this theory that if I just show up in Toronto, then my new life there will just fall into place. Could happen. Afterall, that's kind of how my life in Winnipeg has gone.

Meh.

We'll see.

10 Things I Love Right Now

1. Sardonic bitch and host of Chelsea Lately, Chelsea Handler. I'm sorry to everyone that's spent time with me in the last week and thought, "What the hell happened to Vamos? He's an asshole." Now you know why.

2. The new bikes at the gym with steerable handle-bars and a dragon-chasing game. Pssst, that's code for staring at nakedness in the locker room.

3. Raw scallops

4. Raw sex.

Anybody? Anybody?

5. The new Metric CD and the Wicked soundtrack. My iPod is seriously bipolar right now.

6. Being in the 25-34 age demographic. Yes, it was traumatic for a moment, but then I realized that it's like being the young hottie of the group all over again. 25 is the new 18.

7. Trying to be a more graceful person and failing nightly when I lie awake every night cursing the boys upstairs and their tap-shoe-wearin' ways.

8. Chai. Just kidding - it's eating my brain and I fucking want to kill everyone. But all y'all should still come on down May 19th to see why I've been such a douche of a friend for the last couple months.

9. Ebola

10. The following letter, which came across my desk the other day and which I have lovingly typed out for all of you to read. Enjoy!




Dear David,

Um, so, what the shit? I know you're all rah-rah-rah about joining the Y (dream big, friend), but we've seriously got to talk about a little something United Nations Secretary General Ban Ki-moon likes to call moderation. I know me and my pal, who incidentally is busy being humped by Finnigan right now, have been kind of douchey to you for the past, oh, 17 years but if payback's a bitch, you bought out the whole goddamned pound. I know you felt like a big man doing your 10-9-8... countdown reps on the leg press, but damnit man, you nearly killed us. We're practically eligible for disability benefits at the moment. So go, do your thing, but seriously du-...aw, shit, Finnigan just peed on Lefty. Sonovabitch!...

Love,

Your Right Quad Muscle