Pimp my kid

Yesterday, my father offered to fund an eHarmony premium profile on my behalf.

Ignoring the fact that eHarmony is a secretly Christian site that doesn't offer same-sex matchmaking, this was a sweet if horrifically inappropriate offer. Dad essentially wants to be my pimp. He just can't understand why I'm single (as stated many times before here). I love (LOOOOOOOOOVE) the fact that he thinks so highly of his kid that he can't imagine why this would be. It's ricockulously adorable. He also said that he knows I've kinda pulled myself outta the game (true) and that it's time to get back in (perhaps also true).

So taking this under consideration, I decided to redouble my efforts, or because I'd been putting in no effort, simply double my efforts. I bought and paid for a three-month membership at mypartner.com, a site specifically geared to the Gs, Ls, Bs and even Ts looking for something lasting.

My rationale in actually paying for it is this: I invest in school to make me smarter, a trainer to make me healthier, high quality food to keep my body running as best as it can, plane tickets home to see my friends and family to nourish my 'soul'... why not throw a hundred bucks into the ring for the chance at finding something long term?

I read recently that over two-thirds of lgbt couples now meet online. Staggering, isn't it? Seeing as the stigma around it has pretty much come down, alongside the facts that I don't meet a lot of new people and my friends are zero help in this arena (evidently friend-to-friend matchmaking only occurs in Jennifer Lopez movies), this seems like a good shot.

But no more Manhunt, Grindr, even Plenty of Fish. F-in' wastes of time. If I'm making an investment (only $100, I know, but sha!) I damn well want someone who's going to invest in me too. So I'm sending a template message to any and all that seem remotely compatible, casting that wide net, and seeing what happens. This doesn't discredit any of my previous notions of being happy alone regardless. I'm gonna be a fuckin' treat. But might as well see if there's a chance, right?

GRRRRRR SUPERSTAR!

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!

Two Things

1. My parents went to a royal wedding theme party where everyone was supposed to wear a fancy hat, a fancy top and casual pants. My father later sent me a group photo of the party wherein everyone's lower half was still considerably fancy (full-length dresses, tux pants, etc). I sent an e-mail asking what had happened to the casual bottoms. His response:

"My underwear was very casual. Dad"


2. Today, while waiting in the rain for a streetcar, I decided to check Grindr and guess who was less than 300 metres away from me. Yep. This is my life.

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/

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.

Lazy and Unoriginal

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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!

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.

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*

Parental Views on my Singlehood: Part the Second

My mother just called me on my work phone:

Illustrious D: Wha-? Hello?

Slacker Mom: Hi, sweetie. Did you call me at the office?

ID: No...

SM: Oh, then you must have caller ID (<----that's me!) and can see our phone number.

ID: I must.

SM: I'm going to go to the spa with Gloria to get massages on our day off, but I just wanted to let you know that Dad and I are going to dinner and then the theatre tonight so we will NOT be calling you later to say Good Shabbos.

ID: Mmmmokay. I'll try to not add that to the Feelings of Abandonment file.

SM: What?

ID: You look really pretty today. Is that a BumpIt?

SM: What? We're on the phone. Please be serious. But regardless that's not a very nice thing to say about my nose.

ID: No, Mom, I-... never mind. Goodbye.

SM: WAIT!

ID: *waits*

SM: *waits to see if I'm waiting*

ID: *adjusts balls*

SM: So this may not be the best time to talk about this cause you're at work, but lately...I've sensed that...you're...lonely...for a...rom...antic relationship.

ID: Well, Mr. Shatner, that's a very astute observation. Father has posited the very same hypothesis.

SM: It just seems that you could use it right now.

ID: As opposed to the last 10 years I've been looking for it.

SM: Right.

ID: *readjust balls back to original position* It's like you're in my head.

SM: They say it takes about two years so really get integrated into a place and so you're really just at the beginning still. You have the apartment and a job and you have lots of acquaintances (Mom-speak for "I suspect you're a whore.") and a couple friends like Unibrow and the one that looks like a doll, but I just think you should have a really good relationship.

ID: Holla.

SM: Are there any, um, you know, gay Jewish groups in Toronto?

ID: Yes. It's called Kulanu. The quasi-attractive Jew from back in December told me about it before dropping off the face of the Earth.

SM: Well, you're pretty self-sufficient so I'm sure you'll check it out if you want to.

ID: I'm sure I will, too.

SM: Well, this has been exciting. You work on the relationship thing. It just takes a little effort.

ID: Mother...

SM: That's all I'm saying.

ID: Mmmmmmmm-hmm.

SM: I love y-.

*click*

The Miami Strikes Back (Part II)

Scene 4:
We are sitting in the lobby of a hotel about half a block down from Auntie's condo. My brothers and I had spent the night here as our 89 year old multi-millionaire step-uncle had had Lasik surgery the day before. My brother is convinced that we should get a free continental breakfast because none of us could figure out how to make the shower work. I am convinced that he is a loser. The front desk attendant agrees with me when my brother's answer to, "Why didn't you call the desk?" is to try and stare her down, evidently mistaking ocular focus for reason. After a few minutes of watching Americans (they only come in two categories: obese and The Hills wannabes), my aunt picks us up, chides us for not ordering room service last night and drives us the 25 feet to her condominium, where we are greeted by her 16 year old dog. Point of interest: while the notion of my pre-civil war step-uncle having to read with glasses is abhorrent, they will not invest in cataract surgery for my aunt's now blind westie terrier whose eyes resemble those of Jordie LeForge. The thing limps around the house, halting only to piddle on the marble or when forcibly stopped by a wall it just walked into. Underneath it's wiry, matted fur this dog must look like Rihanna after over-salting Chris Brown's collard greens. Auntie fixes me a double cappuccino while my brother runs around on the 1,000 metre long distance track my aunt calls a balcony. I revel in the fact that I am not at work and take a moment to ponder whether Black Magic would simply bounce right back up if pushed off the 19th story balcony.

Scene 5:
Having just finished breakfast of fruit, yogurt, Grape Nuts and crushed diamonds, we descend to South Beach to meet up with my parents and grandmother for lunch at the poetically named Burger & Beer Joint. I'm gonna be divisive for a moment and state for the record that I do not like restaurants with their menu and edifice type in the name. So lazy. You gotta leave a little mystery there, put in a little effort, otherwise it's just too easy, like giving an amputee a scooter. Not on my watch. You think anyone would have given two shits had Terry Fox decided to scoot across Canada? I don't think so, buddy. Waffle House? Nuh-uh. Pizza Hut? Try again. Sugar Shack? Fuck you. Notable exception: Cheesecake Factory. Why? Cause they make motherfucking cheesecake. Truth.

We all have different kinds of burgers, except my aunt and grandmother, who share a chopped salad. My grandmother is diabetic and my aunt is a manic obsessive, so the former is monitored at every single meal like a prisoner. And like a prisoner, she tries to escape. Often. Since her stroke, my grandmother has regained most of her dialoguic capabilities, but chooses not to exercise them, preferring instead to let everyone else gab on while she bumrushes the breadbasket. This in turn causes my aunt to descend into hysterics, constructing elaborate fences and forts out of flatware, water glasses and condiment receptacles to prevent her mother from achieving Precious-esque sugar levels (Softy, that was just for you). This plan usually works unless there is some sort of dressing or spread in the barricade, which my grandmother will scoop up with spoon or finger. She's not picky. On this particular occasion, my own mother makes the rookie mistake of letting grandmother pour her own salad dressing. Half of it goes into the chopped salad while the remainder is poured directly into her mouth. Think Pooh with a honey pot. And dentures. My father, conversely, limits himself to only some of the cheddar cheese dip that accompanies his behemoth onion rings. This is largely because the majority winds up on the checkered nautical sail he calls a shirt (fun fact: it comes with air vents), but let us not quibble over details. As for myself, I enjoy the brie, prosciutto and sweet onion marmalade burger (real name: The Mustang Sally. Yeah, I butch.) and then down one of the two pitchers of beer ordered for the table. Desperate times...

Scene 6:
Upon arrival in Miami, I discovered that all the bitchin' au courant ensembles I had packed myself had actually just been a dream I'd had and that I had pretty much packed one change of clothes for the entire weekend. Granted, this change of clothes included a blue velvet dinner jacket, but still. My life is rough, y'all. As such, the middle brother, who Auntie has taken to simply calling 'Pichu', is unable to borrow any clothing from me, as previously promised when we first saw him at the airport.

Illustrious D: Holy fucking shit! You're here!

Thunder-Stealing Bro: Yep.

ID: You can totally borrow my pants this weekend!

T-SB: Alright...

ID: *Downie-esque smile*

T-SB: Only problem is that we're not 14 year old girls and you're not America Ferrera.

ID: *crestfallen face*

T-SB: *smug-ass smirk*

ID: Yet...

Auntie takes us to the Gap to buy clothing for Pichu. The youngest brother, who I used to call Pudge because his stomach was distended like that of a World Vision sponsoree, pulls me aside and says that he really wants to get to know our aunt for who she is and not what she buys us and that we should abstain from letting her get us anything. "For totes," I say and I mean it. At the time. Once at the Gap, Auntie and I turn into Stacy & Clinton and dress Pichu up in sweatshop-produced Americana for the next hour until he winds up looking kind of like a clueless technology millionaire instead of the clueless engineer twenty-onaire that he is. The google guys WISH they had a Hungarian housewife and pansexual Jewy gimp dressing them! Also helping us is the store manager who looks like Nicolette Sheridan beaten with a meat cleaver. Not pretty folks. (Wow, so much domestic violence references today. Pat on back.) As a reward for being so altruistic with my sartorial gifts, I allow Auntie to buy me the only remotely interesting looking thing in the store. What? No judgey! I even refrain from getting the straw fedora-esque hat that makes me look all Hemingwayz. Mother tries to put a newsboy cap on my head. I punch her in the neck. Never. Touch. My. Hair. It's like those fucked up floating seeds in Avatar; look at it the wrong way and it'll disappear. Pudge pouts over the failings of his non-materialist plan until he discovers the table marked "Fucking Boring Straight Guy Apparel" and concedes, buying two t-shirts and some cargo shorts. Comrade fail.

Scene 7:
Joe's Stone Crabs, a bastion of the Miami Beach scene. This is a huge muthafukin' restaurant with waiters in tuxedos and diners in lobster bibs. Classy times. They do not take reservations, but my aunt knows a gal who knows a guy so we avoid the two hour wait (for serious) and glide in after the maitre D' is slipped a twenty. And maybe a ball tickle. This is South Beach, after all. The step-uncle orders a couple of bottles of Cabernet for the table, but I abstain, citing my allergy to grapes during a new moon and order a Ketel One martini with a lemon twist. The waiter comes back with an olive-garnished offering, but it is cold so I take and chose to do the mature thing and spit the pits down his cummerbund rather than send it back. Ketel One is also my new favourite because it tastes like water and is amazing with oysters.

I recall the last time I was here and we saw Andre Agassi with family one table over. I ponder who I will see tonight and momentarily fantasize about seeing Chelsea Handler. The thought alone gives me diarrhea. Celebrity does not phase me at all with some very notable exceptions, including Tori Amos, Madonna and Dakota Fanning. That is one snotty beeotch. Chelsea Handler also falls into this category, so I quickly stop thinking about meeting her and imagine instead sending her a packet of my aunt's standard cocktail napkins. Then I think about how she probably receives about ten of these a days from like-minded 'mos and my poor self-esteem returns once again. I look around the table and see my father doctoring his wine with the flop sweat that has appeared on his massive, eye brow-free forehead and is slowly dripping into his glass. My aunt is constructing a Jericho-esque structure around the breadbasket. My grandmother is slyly applying an entire pat of butter to her dinner fork. My mother continuous looks over at me and smiles a huge, so-glad-we're-all-here-together-and-by-'we'-I-mean-me-and-this-here-wine smile. I smile back, mostly because I appreciate how special it really is that we're all together as a family, but at least in small part to the welt that is beginning to show on her neck. Such pretty colours.


NEXT TIME: Auntie micro-manages brunch; Grandmother owns me at rummy; Daddy's dinner comes in a duck decoy.

The Miami Strikes Back (Part I)

Scene 1:
I embark for the airport at 12:45, hoping to tearfully reconcile with my family in time for a multiple-lavatory-trips-requiring lunch before we have to board our plane to Miami. My grandmother is turning 90 and we are surprising her and her I'm-really-old-and-a-Holocaust-survivor-I-dare-you-to-shock-me heart for the occasion. My aunt (she of Hermès belt purchasing fame) is in cahoots with my father, as he, my mother and my youngest brother are flying to Toronto to meet up with me so that we can arrive together and send the old bag (read: serene elderly lady) into a tizzy. The middle brother is hiking through Machu Pichu and has sent his regrets. As far as excuses, I feel this is pretty weak-sauce.

Upon arriving at customs, I observe that there are approximately 72,000 people waiting in roped-off cues to pass on through to the good ol' US of A. Fortunately, I am ushered along with about 10 people in front of me to the other side of the room where similar ropes have been set up. Unfortunately, this is only because they cannot physically shove any more travellers into the other side and thus we are now in line to get in line. Normally, this would perturb me, but my family has texted to say that they are waiting at a Tim Horton's on the other side of customs and I am trying my hardest to make sure that I do not have to join them. I also receive a text from my obese Hungarian father saying, "I don't think your [sic] ready...For this jelly."

I manage to clear customs 5 minutes before boarding is scheduled to commence and, upon realizing that my family is not holding courst at Canada's favourite coffee-urine fusion house, hurry my disproportionate ass down to the gate so that they do not panic. However, when I arrive I find that they are not there. Know who is? Two thirds of the Vancouver Whitecaps semi-pro soccer time. In any other situation the presence of professional athletes coupled with the absence of my family is ideal, but not so when faced with prospective of 3 days alone with family members averaging 81.333 years of age. Real calculation. I buy some shittastic pre-prepped sushi as the other passengers commence boarding. Why people insist on standing up to wait in a line 70 people deep only to then sit down again on a smelly cramped plane is beyond me. Also, beneath me. After taking out a mortgage to pay for the sushi, I turn and see the back of my father's side rolls just as the final boarding call is being made.

"Cutting it a bit close, aren't we?" I scream at them before hitting my little brother upside the head. "And never recite Destiny's Child lyrics to our father again. Kelly Rowlands is dead to me and you know it."

Scene 2:
We have arrived at Miami International Airport and have just deplaned. My mother insisted on buying us all a round while in the air, plus an extra for herself after my father declined, being far too consumed with watching The Blind Side and crying like a little bitch while Sandra Bullock screamed at some big black football player who I suspect was Precious in drag. Between my mothers lush-flush and my fathers tear-streaked jowls, we are quite a sight marching our way down to baggage claim. Then, about 100 feet away, we see something silvery glinting in the fluorescent glare of an industrial pot light. My supposedly traveling brother is sitting there next to his huge backpack holding a sign coloured thickly with pencil. My mother loses her shit, her voice reaching pitches audible only to small dogs as she screams his name. Great. My place as the long-lost-son-returned has officially been usurped. What a dick.

Scene 3:
We are sitting in a van outside my grandmother's Spanish-style bungalow in Miami Beach, debating on the best way to appropriately Punk her. (Sidenote: Black Magic is on the phone in the next cubicleright now, declaring to her friend in a decidedly not indoor voice how she can leave her three children, all under the age of 10, alone for up to 45 minutes at a time. Somebody needs to put this one out to pasture.) My father is the first to go in and we hear Hungarians screaming love at each other. After about thirty seconds, my jean-jacket-wearing upstanding lawyer of a mother gets out of the van like she is James Bond, crawling under parked cars and scaling walls to get to the front door, despite the drawn blinds and the fact that the Hungarians are deafening small children in Tallahassee. Once she is in, there is more assumed merriment, while my youngest brother and myself climb out of the van and he starts imitating my mother's highheeled highjinx a mere 30 seconds before, while I fall down and promptly pee myself on the freshly manicured lawn. We get to the door and throw it open to find my mom, dad, aunt, grandmother and her large-jugged Jamaican nurse all in a group hug. They turn around and grandmother makes with the tears as she laughs in disbelief that we and our mother have bothered to show up for little old her. My proposition of half a day's wages lost in travel time are largely ignored. My aunt, whose Vesuvian emotions are world renowned, is running around like a cocky Real Housewives of Miami Beach cast-off in Juicy Couture sweatpants, crowing about how amazing we all are for pulling the wool over the cataracted eyes of a nonagenarian when there is a final knock at the door. She stops dead (like the muscles in her botoxed forehead) in her tracks and stares at my father, the colour draining out of her face. I tell her it is most likely a noise complaint from the city of St. Louis, Missouri and she goes to investigate. She opens the door to see my brother standing there and her face collapses quicker than my standards after three mojitos. Loses. Her. Shit.

As it becomes evermore clear that this particular get together is not going to be centred around me, I go and chill of to the side with the nurse, Velma (or Whilemina. Who can tell through my aunt's Hungarian-Floridian accent?), and we watch the rest of them dance around like First Nations people at an Olympic opening ceremony. I like Velma a lot. She calls me Handsome and has gap between her two front teeth that is so large that I suspect it is the real gateway to Narnia. Her mouth was the Gap's flagship store. Madonna WISHES she had a gap like that; the comparison is like a side-by-side penis photo of Shaquille O'Neal and William Hung.

"Weel, ya rilleh mad an awl wumahn happay."

"Yes, I guess we did. Where's the Grey Goose?"


NEXT TIME: I discover that vodka and seafood is a match made in heaven; Dad is still fat; grandmother eats a pat of butter.

Creepin', Hatin', and Playin'

o hai

I've been too busy breathing into a paper bag from reading this to do anything remotely productive. That said, I've been heavily programmed as per my Rollins Manifesto and so I have seen some things in this world over the past few days and feel the need to list them. And who doesn't love a good list? That's right - no one. Wait. You there, the one with your hand up. Get the fuck out...We're waiting...Okay, you know what we're all just gonna sit here until you and your list-hating smirk leave... No? Fine then. Catch ebola.

1. HEY LISTEN UP, BABIES - jay kay, I'm not gonna start by yelling at babies. We all know I communicate with them and their training-pants-aspiring ways far too lovingly to ever yell at babies. Unless it's not mine. Then for shiz they're getting an earful. Like, hey, why's your poop always green and your barf always white? What, brown isn't good enough for you?! That's racist...

2. I won the genetic lottery - Monday night, I had a Passover seder at my mother's cousins' in Thornhill. For those not in the know, Thornhill is to Toronto as Orange County is to LA. Well, with a lot more Jews. And no style. Or No Doubt. Actually, it's not that much like Ora-...THE POINT IS that it's a suburban moneyed enclave where nothing is built taller than three stories and they add the word "Bistro" to their Country Style Delis just to feel fancy. Not a word of a lie. Anyway, the whole night was pretty much a bad scene out of Fiddler, complete with borderline retarded cousin. The mother kept trying to get me to sing, which, no. I'm really not all that fantastic but I hate being put on the spot in a way that will not actually demonstrate skill. Singing a lame-ass prayer at a passover seder is like handing Andy Warhol some crayons and a Disney Princess trace-and-colour book. Actually, wait. Those are awesome. [simile retracted] Still, it's stupid. Then there were the young Israeli couple who were so goddamn cynical about everything that I was tempted to cut a bitch with some jagged matzah. The only things they seemed to enjoy were each other and discussing their internet download plans. I mean, talk about a conversational boner killer. Then there was the aforementioned cousin with intellectual disabilities. Actually, I feel this is unfair to people with genuine intellectual disabilities. The girl is just stupid. In addition to having her mother tell her 25 year old ass how to dress for dinner, she walked into a wall and a folding screen on separate occasions, blew her nose in her sleeve continuously and waxed poetic about her commemorative Olympics glass for five minutes straight. She is a very special girl, ironically in a very Olympic way.

3. Being creepy has paid off - A couple weeks ago, I eye fucked a very nice looking gentleman whilst aboard the subway, a gesture which was returned on his part. Evidently, in the realm of eye sex, I am versatile. A couple days later, I was wasting time online and came across a profile for my occular transit lover and wasted no time finding a place on his msn with Facebook stalking privileges. Long story short, we're having drinks tonight and I will be informing our future Mongolian grandchildren that their grandpas met when Zaida David was creepin' on the subway. See? It's not only 12 year olds with autism that interest me. Mostly, though.

4. Apple tells it like it is - So 'member when you were little and you'd be all on the computer and happy cause you were listening to Barbra Streisand singing a Pretty Women/Ladies That Lunch medley while playing solitaire and the world was so nice and well and good because you were a solitaire god that won, like, at least 2 outta 3 games and that meant you hadded skillz and would go places in life? Well, turns out that it was all a lie. 'Cept the medley. That shit is real and it is awesome. I've started playing Klondike, which is Apple's version of solitaire that comes with all iPods, mostly because when you win, the kings animate and start giving each other gang hand shakes and I love gangs (read: ethnic people and whiteys that want to be like them). HOWEVER, evidently my solitaire prowess, like my innocence, calf muscles and sobriety, is gone. I win maaaaaaaybe 1 outta 6 games and this has led me to possibly the most mind blowing conspiracy theory ever: Microsoft only put the easy-to-win solitaire permutations into Windows so we would be lulled into a false sense of accomplishment and love them more. Like, oh my god. This is like an absentee father who's always disappointing his kid by never takin' him places or givin' him hugs or buying him Jem and the Holograms fashion plates or whatever and then slipping the kid Flinstones-brand roofies so that the kid is all quiet and doesn't complain about all the dumb shit being done to scar me. Ahem. But now I know the truth, people. Solitaire isn't all fun and games cards bouncin' all over da place in beautiful cascades while the voice of a generation sings about hats. No. It is cold, wheel turning on the subway while mean people judge you for not trying your hand at Music Quiz and only earning an average of $14 per game. $14?! Fuck you, Apple. But thank you for finally showing me the truth.

Inappropriate Dad: So what's going on with your hair?

Illustrious D: What?

ID: Your hair. What are you doing with it?

ID-

Wait. This isn't going to work. SON OF A BITCH. MY FIRST DAY BACK TO BLOGGING AND THIS IS THE SHIT I HAVE TO PUT UP WITH?


Blue ocean, gentle rain, cries of small children...Ok, I'm back.


Aging Hungarian: So what's going on with your hair?

Illustrious D: What?

AH: Your hair. What are you doing with it?

ID: Nothing...

AH: But how did you get more of it?

ID: Dad, what the hell are you talking about?

AH: What? It looks fuller somehow. That's all I'm saying.

ID: I have an awesome stylist and I've found the product combo that works for me.

AH: So you didn't get any, uh...?

ID: No, dad. I didn't have any folicular surgeries, if that's what you're getting at.

AH: Well, good. So why don't you have someone in your life?

ID [to self]: Fuck me...

AH: Is it that you just aren't interested in dating? Or have you just not found the right person yet? I mean, why don't guys want to date you?

ID: Trust me, when I find out myself, you'll be the first to know.

AH: I mean, seriously, what's the matter with these guys? You're way better looking than most of them. You must be able to have your pick of the lot. What's wrong them?

ID: You've clearly never been to Church St.

AH: I don't need to go to Church St. I can tell you that you're better than average looking and it's time for them to wake up and take notice.

ID: I don't know what to tell you, Dad.

AH: Well, work on that. Also, we're putting Finnigan down.


My family has decided to put down my asshole of a dog, Finnigan. While undeniably moppy and cute now that we've stopped going to the effort of grooming him, this dog is the biggest dick you'll ever meet. He'll be all cuddly and fine one minute and then just go off on someone the next, snarling before rushing them and then usually going for their feet. What a motherfucking winner. Clearly, nobility in battle is a trait not found anywhere in my family's dynasty. Evidently, the brochures we read on Wheaten Terriers before getting Finnigan did not include "Giant Douche" on their list of breed characteristics. According to the behaviour specialist at the Humane Society, his aggression will only get worse if moved to a new environment so giving him away is not really an option, nor, despite my adamant suggestions, is providing a wide range of steel-toed stompers to our numerous house guests. So it's nighty night for Kujo.

I'm not really that sad about it. In addition to mental health akin to Naomi Cambell's, Finnigan's just kind of a pain in the ass. He's home all day in his kennel, no one really wants to walk him and he eats dehydrated powdered meat and rice balls. His life fucking sucks. I took him out on Saturday for what I suspect was the last time and he was just so happy frolicking in the snow for the 180 seconds before I took him back in. Living your life, a dog's life though it may be, for approximately ten minutes out of your day is a pretty shitty way of living. Our family has many accomplishments but we just outright failed at Dog. Even my aunt has stated her belief that our dog is depressed at his own lifestyle. I just think we need to cut bait on this one. Conversely, my younger brother is having a rather strong emotional reaction (read: moping around like a little bitch), which I'm secretly hoping will usher him into his Sylvia Plath phase.

In other news, my other brother narrowly avoided death in Chile and I'm a big whore when I go home for visits.

HAPPY BELATED PURIM, MAFUKAS!