Republished from Gateway November 3rd, 2010
Dear City Centre Mall's marketing department geniuses,
I am sacking you today for your insipid ad in the University LRT station, which states, "The last thing the world needs is another girl in sweats." I've got a lot of things on my plate. Global warming, economic collapses, James Cameron's ego — the list goes on. Sure, there are many things that I, The World, don't need to deal with. We all could have done without a Justin Bieber memoir or Sex and the City II.
But let's keep our priorities straight here. Jeans, trousers, sweatpants — it makes no real difference to me as long as I don't have to deal with roughly half of the student body carousing around with frost-bitten backsides.
Considering the poor bastards are spending large quantities of time stuffed into tiny desks and surviving on a diet of Edo, Subway, and A&W, sweatpants are a small but satisfying alternative to the skintight jeans your ad showcases as the appropriate apparel. For the record, trying to start a boycott against sweatpants at a university is about as productive as a one-armed trapeze artist with an itchy ass.
So back off sweatpants, before I put on my burlap pants and sack you a good one.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Prop 19 goes up in smoke
Republished from Gateway (November 9th, 2010)
Instead of a celebratory puff, stoners across North America will have to make do with a sad, sombre toke of defeat after California's Proposition 19 failed last week. Now that everyone's mellow, stick this in your pipe and smoke it: Prop 19 deserved to fail. It was a shoddily constructed, flaccid attempt at marijuana legalization.
Proposition 19 lost in the polls on November 2, with 54 per cent voting "No," and it's hardly surprising. The legislative framework behind Prop 19 was the flawed offspring born from a case of the late-night munchies. One of the big problems lay in the tensions that passing Prop 19 would create between the federal government and California.
It's all fine and dandy that you can buy your single ounce and smoke it, but you would still be committing an illegal act, according to federal law.
Taking on Washington over poorly conceived legislation is a pipedream, and even within California, there would still be a quagmire of complicated loopholes, such as taxation, which would be left up to the discretion of individual counties. Driving more than an hour in any direction would place you under a new jurisdiction, forcing you to navigate a set of unnecessarily complicated guidelines.
Prop 19 sounded idyllic. You could buy your taxed weed and smoke it in the comfort and safety of your home, smug in the knowledge that with every toke, you were bolstering the economy. But the reality of the situation is more tepid and murky than three-week-old bong water.
The world would be a better place if people got munchies instead of Molotov cocktails, but it would make operating heavy machinery a questionable enterprise. Much of the fear-mongering surrounding Prop 19 related to weed's role in the workplace, and the law's ambiguity concerning toking at work made it easy for Prop 19's opponents to tear it down.
California might be the home of Katy Perry's exploding cupcake bra, but it's not the freedom-loving state we imagine it to be. It's hard to rationalize the assumption that the state infamous for Proposition 8 would turn around and make the very liberal decision of legalizing marijuana.
Even though Governor Arnold Schwarz-enegger played the fun-loving robot in the Terminator franchise, it's imperative to remember that he represents the Republican Party, however moderate he may seem.
From there, it's even more complicated to paint California uniformly red or blue; while the state's major cities are largely Democratic, the further east you go, the more Republican everything starts to look. As it turns out, it might not be that the hippies were too stoned to vote.
The issue isn't that California is taking steps towards legalizing weed — it's that the first attempt went up in a blaze bigger than a lit bong on 4/20. But fear not, land of cupcake bras, there's already talk that the 2012 elections will feature a more sophisticated proposition where ...
I'm sorry, what was that about cupcakes?
Instead of a celebratory puff, stoners across North America will have to make do with a sad, sombre toke of defeat after California's Proposition 19 failed last week. Now that everyone's mellow, stick this in your pipe and smoke it: Prop 19 deserved to fail. It was a shoddily constructed, flaccid attempt at marijuana legalization.
Proposition 19 lost in the polls on November 2, with 54 per cent voting "No," and it's hardly surprising. The legislative framework behind Prop 19 was the flawed offspring born from a case of the late-night munchies. One of the big problems lay in the tensions that passing Prop 19 would create between the federal government and California.
It's all fine and dandy that you can buy your single ounce and smoke it, but you would still be committing an illegal act, according to federal law.
Taking on Washington over poorly conceived legislation is a pipedream, and even within California, there would still be a quagmire of complicated loopholes, such as taxation, which would be left up to the discretion of individual counties. Driving more than an hour in any direction would place you under a new jurisdiction, forcing you to navigate a set of unnecessarily complicated guidelines.
Prop 19 sounded idyllic. You could buy your taxed weed and smoke it in the comfort and safety of your home, smug in the knowledge that with every toke, you were bolstering the economy. But the reality of the situation is more tepid and murky than three-week-old bong water.
The world would be a better place if people got munchies instead of Molotov cocktails, but it would make operating heavy machinery a questionable enterprise. Much of the fear-mongering surrounding Prop 19 related to weed's role in the workplace, and the law's ambiguity concerning toking at work made it easy for Prop 19's opponents to tear it down.
California might be the home of Katy Perry's exploding cupcake bra, but it's not the freedom-loving state we imagine it to be. It's hard to rationalize the assumption that the state infamous for Proposition 8 would turn around and make the very liberal decision of legalizing marijuana.
Even though Governor Arnold Schwarz-enegger played the fun-loving robot in the Terminator franchise, it's imperative to remember that he represents the Republican Party, however moderate he may seem.
From there, it's even more complicated to paint California uniformly red or blue; while the state's major cities are largely Democratic, the further east you go, the more Republican everything starts to look. As it turns out, it might not be that the hippies were too stoned to vote.
The issue isn't that California is taking steps towards legalizing weed — it's that the first attempt went up in a blaze bigger than a lit bong on 4/20. But fear not, land of cupcake bras, there's already talk that the 2012 elections will feature a more sophisticated proposition where ...
I'm sorry, what was that about cupcakes?
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Bringing Prostitution to the light
Republished from The Gateway.
The immortal George Carlin once asked, “Selling is legal. Fucking is legal. So why is selling fucking illegal?”
There was good news for Carlin last week — an Ontario Superior Court Justice, Judge Susan Himel, struck down three Criminal Code provisions relating to prostitution on September 28. The case, launched by Terri-Jean Bedford, Valerie Scott, and Amy Lebovitch, and represented by lawyer Alan Young, overturned three of Canada’s prostitution laws. In the province of Ontario, prostitutes are now allowed to operate a common bawdy house, live off the profits of prostitution, and solicit for purposes of prostitution.
Prostitutes will have the opportunity to sell their wares in a safe and controlled environment, where they can employ people to ensure their safety and even call the police for help without fear of legal prosecution. Although prostitution itself wasn’t technically illegal, pretty much every action surrounding it was, and as such, violence against those involved in the sex industry was rampant. Those participating in the industry had to function outside the law, without basic protection to ensure their safety.
Bedford, Scott, and Lebovitch, who have all worked in the sex trade, are qualified to talk about the state of the industry in the years leading up to Himel’s decision. They haven’t painted the rosiest of pictures. Young gave the courts an overview of what he called “shocking and horrifying” stories of abuse suffered by prostitutes as a result of the industry being pushed underground. Even though these dangers still exist, by decriminalizing prostitution, the Ontario courts have given prostitutes a chance to create an industry where they can ensure their own safety.
Of course, no sane thought goes unpunished. There are those taking advantage of the 30-day window in which to overturn the Court’s decision. Federal conservatives squirmed as their tight pants got even tighter when Himel released her decision, complaining that the change will make prostitution even easier.
Well, yes, and that’s really the point. It’s about improving the lives of prostitutes and giving them a chance to work in a safe environment, rather than treating them as criminals.
Foremost amongst the dissenters is Ottawa Mayor Larry O’Brien, whose problem with Judge Himel’s decision centers on his belief that the move will only facilitate pimping and increase drug dependency. It seems he has missed the point.
Preventing continued drug abuse would be best combated with increased social and educational programs, not by shaming and charging those that work in the sex-trade industry. As for pimps, if the industry is regulated but not criminalized, there is a greater possibility that prostitutes will be able to form unions in which they are able to set their own standards of safe employment. By driving the sex industry further into the margins of society, prostitutes are regularly forced to go without the basic personal safety considerations they should enjoy.
The potential improvements in the industry resulting from this ruling are further highlighted by looking at incidences like the Robert Pickton murders. An internal report released by the Vancouver police in August of this year details the RCMP’s failures, listing the variety of ways in which the disappearances of prostitutes from the East Hastings area went ignored from the 1990s onward.
While the majority of the report focuses on the in-fighting, computer problems, and inadequate training that caused the investigation to stall, it stands to reason that had lines of communication between sex workers on the East side and police been more open, there would have been greater information pointing to Pickton’s involvement, which could have potentially saved lives.
The point to be made is that simply making prostitution illegal won’t deter people from buying and selling sex. If the federal Conservatives were really willing to help those victimized by the sex trade, they could do so by funding better drug counselling, job training, and education.
Like other controversial decisions that have sprung up from the east and spread across Canada, if Judge Himel’s decision stands, there is a good chance that it may be reproduced in other provinces.
And, just as in 2003 when Ontario was the first Canadian province to legalize gay marriage, we can expect that Alberta will be dragged kicking and screaming into the new age. Judge Himel’s decision won’t eradicate violence from prostitution, but at the very least, it will give the people involved a fighting chance to fuck on their own terms.
The immortal George Carlin once asked, “Selling is legal. Fucking is legal. So why is selling fucking illegal?”
There was good news for Carlin last week — an Ontario Superior Court Justice, Judge Susan Himel, struck down three Criminal Code provisions relating to prostitution on September 28. The case, launched by Terri-Jean Bedford, Valerie Scott, and Amy Lebovitch, and represented by lawyer Alan Young, overturned three of Canada’s prostitution laws. In the province of Ontario, prostitutes are now allowed to operate a common bawdy house, live off the profits of prostitution, and solicit for purposes of prostitution.
Prostitutes will have the opportunity to sell their wares in a safe and controlled environment, where they can employ people to ensure their safety and even call the police for help without fear of legal prosecution. Although prostitution itself wasn’t technically illegal, pretty much every action surrounding it was, and as such, violence against those involved in the sex industry was rampant. Those participating in the industry had to function outside the law, without basic protection to ensure their safety.
Bedford, Scott, and Lebovitch, who have all worked in the sex trade, are qualified to talk about the state of the industry in the years leading up to Himel’s decision. They haven’t painted the rosiest of pictures. Young gave the courts an overview of what he called “shocking and horrifying” stories of abuse suffered by prostitutes as a result of the industry being pushed underground. Even though these dangers still exist, by decriminalizing prostitution, the Ontario courts have given prostitutes a chance to create an industry where they can ensure their own safety.
Of course, no sane thought goes unpunished. There are those taking advantage of the 30-day window in which to overturn the Court’s decision. Federal conservatives squirmed as their tight pants got even tighter when Himel released her decision, complaining that the change will make prostitution even easier.
Well, yes, and that’s really the point. It’s about improving the lives of prostitutes and giving them a chance to work in a safe environment, rather than treating them as criminals.
Foremost amongst the dissenters is Ottawa Mayor Larry O’Brien, whose problem with Judge Himel’s decision centers on his belief that the move will only facilitate pimping and increase drug dependency. It seems he has missed the point.
Preventing continued drug abuse would be best combated with increased social and educational programs, not by shaming and charging those that work in the sex-trade industry. As for pimps, if the industry is regulated but not criminalized, there is a greater possibility that prostitutes will be able to form unions in which they are able to set their own standards of safe employment. By driving the sex industry further into the margins of society, prostitutes are regularly forced to go without the basic personal safety considerations they should enjoy.
The potential improvements in the industry resulting from this ruling are further highlighted by looking at incidences like the Robert Pickton murders. An internal report released by the Vancouver police in August of this year details the RCMP’s failures, listing the variety of ways in which the disappearances of prostitutes from the East Hastings area went ignored from the 1990s onward.
While the majority of the report focuses on the in-fighting, computer problems, and inadequate training that caused the investigation to stall, it stands to reason that had lines of communication between sex workers on the East side and police been more open, there would have been greater information pointing to Pickton’s involvement, which could have potentially saved lives.
The point to be made is that simply making prostitution illegal won’t deter people from buying and selling sex. If the federal Conservatives were really willing to help those victimized by the sex trade, they could do so by funding better drug counselling, job training, and education.
Like other controversial decisions that have sprung up from the east and spread across Canada, if Judge Himel’s decision stands, there is a good chance that it may be reproduced in other provinces.
And, just as in 2003 when Ontario was the first Canadian province to legalize gay marriage, we can expect that Alberta will be dragged kicking and screaming into the new age. Judge Himel’s decision won’t eradicate violence from prostitution, but at the very least, it will give the people involved a fighting chance to fuck on their own terms.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Burlap Sack - Reproduced from The Gateway
To my more fabulous fellow students, I am begging you, put the weapons down. That magnificent genuine leather product you have swinging under your arm certainly does make a statement and it’s screaming, “I am armed and dangerous.” As cherished as I’m sure your purse is, when it comes down to it, it’s just a thing — and it’s loaded with your wallet, keys, cat food, bricks, and other daily essentials that on their own might be insubstantial. But when you condense all these knick-knacks into one fashionable and accessible collection, it becomes a deadly weapon.
Sure, your purse is an “investment piece,” but might I ask you to put aside a few dollars for a purse hook, thus saving me from the necessity of wandering aimlessly through my classroom, looking for a purse-free chair? And quit giving me those dirty looks — I’m not asking you to put your child on the floor.
As for your dramatic exit, when you swing your purse onto your shoulder to flounce off into the sunset, please give yourself at least a clear two-foot radius, so there you don’t inadvertently Fendi me in the gut. Ladies, you might be carrying a purse, but watch yourselves, ‘cause I’m toting a burlap sack.
Sure, your purse is an “investment piece,” but might I ask you to put aside a few dollars for a purse hook, thus saving me from the necessity of wandering aimlessly through my classroom, looking for a purse-free chair? And quit giving me those dirty looks — I’m not asking you to put your child on the floor.
As for your dramatic exit, when you swing your purse onto your shoulder to flounce off into the sunset, please give yourself at least a clear two-foot radius, so there you don’t inadvertently Fendi me in the gut. Ladies, you might be carrying a purse, but watch yourselves, ‘cause I’m toting a burlap sack.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Gateway republished - US army still can't handle the gays
At this year’s VMAs, Lady Gaga arrived wearing a dress and chapeau made of meat, with an entourage of four gay former service members. It was an act of protest against the American military’s policy of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” (DADT), under which gay and lesbian soldiers were discharged because of their sexual orientation. The law was sort of repealed back on May 27, pending a study by the Department of Defense. As part of the study, the DoD distributed a survey in order to gauge soldiers’ responses to the repeal of DATD.
The survey, which leaked online over the summer, asks service members a variety of questions to determine their feelings about the possibility of having gay unit members.
One question asks, “Did you ever serve in combat with a service member of any rank whom you believed to be homosexual?” It is quickly followed by another question that asks, “How much did the belief that the service member was gay or lesbian affect the unit’s combat performance?”
The implications are as obvious as they are ludicrous — a person’s sexual orientation, whether actual or simply suspected, will affect not only their own performance, but the performance of those surrounding them.
The Log Cabin Republicans, an American lobby group of gay Republicans, has been an active force in bringing about the end of DADT. They estimate that 13,500 people have lost their positions within the U.S. Army based on their sexual orientation since the law’s inception in 1994. That’s an enormous loss to a nation that is currently involved in major military operations in two countries. Is Uncle Sam so set in his ways that he can afford to give that many able-bodied people the old heave-ho because of their sexual orientation?
Even though repealing the DADT was featured in Obama’s presidential campaign, he should receive no credit for this push towards finally achieving equality. As the leader and main executive power of the U.S., Obama has made the very responsible decision to pass the buck all the way over to Congress, although he could have repealed DADT very easily with an executive order. Earlier this month, Californian judge Virginia A. Philips had the proverbial cajones to rule the law violated the constitution on multiple counts, although that should have been glaringly obvious to anyone with a functioning cerebral cortex and a basic moral compass from the outset. Even so, it’s a hollow sort of victory, considering a repeal of DADT was passed in May 2010.
Handing out paperwork doesn’t make the law any less unconstitutional; instead, it underlines how offensive and discriminatory DADT is, and signals another constructed delay in the push for equal rights. If the U.S. Military’s survey had asked about service members’ feelings about black or Jewish soldiers, there would have been an immediate and justifiable outrage.
There is no rational argument that can be made for DADT’s continuation and this survey doesn’t serve to represent the interests of the members of the United States Army.
The survey obviously isn’t about maintaining lines of communication with the troops; instead, it’s a clear example of bigotry surrounding the DADT policy. It sends a message, something idiotic that one might find pasted to the side of heavy machinery: “Keep limbs away from moving parts. Do not attempt to stop machine with genitalia. Do not operate in the presence of alternative sexualities.”
Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell and the clusterfuck surrounding it makes one thing abundantly clear: there’s only one group that scares the United States Army more than the terrorists, and that’s the gays.
http://thegatewayonline.ca/articles/opinion/2010/09/16/us-army-still-cant-handle-gays
The survey, which leaked online over the summer, asks service members a variety of questions to determine their feelings about the possibility of having gay unit members.
One question asks, “Did you ever serve in combat with a service member of any rank whom you believed to be homosexual?” It is quickly followed by another question that asks, “How much did the belief that the service member was gay or lesbian affect the unit’s combat performance?”
The implications are as obvious as they are ludicrous — a person’s sexual orientation, whether actual or simply suspected, will affect not only their own performance, but the performance of those surrounding them.
The Log Cabin Republicans, an American lobby group of gay Republicans, has been an active force in bringing about the end of DADT. They estimate that 13,500 people have lost their positions within the U.S. Army based on their sexual orientation since the law’s inception in 1994. That’s an enormous loss to a nation that is currently involved in major military operations in two countries. Is Uncle Sam so set in his ways that he can afford to give that many able-bodied people the old heave-ho because of their sexual orientation?
Even though repealing the DADT was featured in Obama’s presidential campaign, he should receive no credit for this push towards finally achieving equality. As the leader and main executive power of the U.S., Obama has made the very responsible decision to pass the buck all the way over to Congress, although he could have repealed DADT very easily with an executive order. Earlier this month, Californian judge Virginia A. Philips had the proverbial cajones to rule the law violated the constitution on multiple counts, although that should have been glaringly obvious to anyone with a functioning cerebral cortex and a basic moral compass from the outset. Even so, it’s a hollow sort of victory, considering a repeal of DADT was passed in May 2010.
Handing out paperwork doesn’t make the law any less unconstitutional; instead, it underlines how offensive and discriminatory DADT is, and signals another constructed delay in the push for equal rights. If the U.S. Military’s survey had asked about service members’ feelings about black or Jewish soldiers, there would have been an immediate and justifiable outrage.
There is no rational argument that can be made for DADT’s continuation and this survey doesn’t serve to represent the interests of the members of the United States Army.
The survey obviously isn’t about maintaining lines of communication with the troops; instead, it’s a clear example of bigotry surrounding the DADT policy. It sends a message, something idiotic that one might find pasted to the side of heavy machinery: “Keep limbs away from moving parts. Do not attempt to stop machine with genitalia. Do not operate in the presence of alternative sexualities.”
Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell and the clusterfuck surrounding it makes one thing abundantly clear: there’s only one group that scares the United States Army more than the terrorists, and that’s the gays.
http://thegatewayonline.ca/articles/opinion/2010/09/16/us-army-still-cant-handle-gays
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Down with the ship
Hold onto your hats people, here comes James Cameron on his white horse to save the day. This week, Cameron will be in Fort McMurray visiting the oil sands, or what he affectionately refers to as a “black eye” on Canada’s environmental record. In addition to the hot air he will be blowing at press conferences and the like, Cameron’s plan to fly to Fort McMurray will also have negative environmental impacts, like the approximate 0.56 tones of carbon dioxide produced by a plane flying from Los Angeles to Fort McMurray. In addition, Premier Ed Stelmach’s has announced his intention to make use of a government-chartered plane, which will take him from his previous scheduled visit in Ottawa to Fort McMurray in time to meet Cameron. So far, Cameron’s plan to save the world includes two short-term plane rides, one of which will cost Canadian taxpayers approximately 10, 000 dollars. Two green thumbs up for that one, Cameron.
While discussing Canada’s environmental track record, Cameron brought up the idea of “social responsibility” and while that is definitely something that we all need to be reminded of, it’s a lesson that hasn’t seemed to stick very well with him. Did the world really need Dances With Wolves 2: Blue Edition? That would have saved the world $280 million (and me a mind-boggling $17), a figure which comfortably exceeds the GDP of eleven countries. Instead of leading by example, Cameron’s lifestyle is only considered frugal by Imelda Marcos. His $3.475 million, 6-bed, 7-bath, 8,272 square foot residence in one of America’s smoggiest cities sits firmly in the category of opulent. He visited 107 countries while promoting Avatar, shaking babies and kissing hands while promoting a very one-sided sustainable lifestyle.
Here’s some advice for you Mr. Cameron: Next time, save us some eye-rolling and a chunk of carbon offsets by staying in Los Angeles.
While discussing Canada’s environmental track record, Cameron brought up the idea of “social responsibility” and while that is definitely something that we all need to be reminded of, it’s a lesson that hasn’t seemed to stick very well with him. Did the world really need Dances With Wolves 2: Blue Edition? That would have saved the world $280 million (and me a mind-boggling $17), a figure which comfortably exceeds the GDP of eleven countries. Instead of leading by example, Cameron’s lifestyle is only considered frugal by Imelda Marcos. His $3.475 million, 6-bed, 7-bath, 8,272 square foot residence in one of America’s smoggiest cities sits firmly in the category of opulent. He visited 107 countries while promoting Avatar, shaking babies and kissing hands while promoting a very one-sided sustainable lifestyle.
Here’s some advice for you Mr. Cameron: Next time, save us some eye-rolling and a chunk of carbon offsets by staying in Los Angeles.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Poutine poutine: A lament.
You dastardly poutine fry. The gravy and cheese that you loll about in is simultaneously appealing and challenging. While the medley of flavours is the reason for my delirious hunger pains, it also provides you with a last minute opportunity to escape your eventual destiny; assuaging my hunger. My cheap plastic fork leaves me inadequately prepared, its tiny tines unable to grasp your slippery stalk. Wily French creation. Just when I have you in my sights, my dining companion swoops in and devours you before my eyes. Back to the drawing board.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Conversion by Osmosis
Just when I thought my house couldn't get any stranger, they let Jesus in. In an out-of-character foray into cleaning and organization, I opened a previously unused drawer in which to store phone books and there it was. The Bible. Sitting in a corner, the wee innocuous book that said (in my landlord's voice) "If ever there was a group of girls that would need this..." No thanks. Conversion by osmosis clearly hasn't taken hold, if the antics of last week are any indication. Trust me, you don't want me. If the running Mormons didn't get me and living with honest-to-goodness real, Italian nuns didn't convert me, then by-your-god, it isn't going to stick.
"Where did you put the take out Menu from Happy Garden?"
"Its in the drawer with the phonebooks and Jesus"
"Where did you put the take out Menu from Happy Garden?"
"Its in the drawer with the phonebooks and Jesus"
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Mobile Douch-nozzle Unit
The Humvee is generally thought to be a area-specific vehicle - associated with active war zones and Stallone. Admittedly, our winters are really harsh and as a result, the potholes in the street really do give appearance of having been recently carpet-bombed. Regardless, no one walks through the streets totting AK-47s or grenade launchers. There is no need to drive through the streets in a vehicle that could easily take out a herd of cattle or store a travelling circus (minus the bearded lady). Dismount from the vehicle, douchenozzle. If you are so huge it takes an army vehicle to transport you, you should probably considered walking anyways.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Ham and Water -PPPffffffttttt
City of Residence, you are letting me down. What happened to your stereotypical image of cowboys and riggers? Apparently, they have all discarded their Stetsons for hair gel and Ed Hardy. Who knew my final foray to the cold north would take a complete turn and land me directly in the festering lap of the Jersey Shore? So many of my nights have been highjacked by impromptu fist-pumping meatheads humping along to house music. So damnit, fair city, send back the 'roid popping techno-junkies back to the depths of whatever wood-paneled basement that spawned them.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Crack reporting? Maybe not. (Then again, this is the news site that employs the dunce Heather Mallick) Nonetheless, hugely entertaining: now added to the bucket list (right after throw a drink into someone's face)? Take down a helicopter with a jeep.
">
">
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Zombie Golfer
"Hi there, what can I get for you guys?"
"What do you have for sandwhiches?"
"We have tuna salad wraps, salami and provolone on white and smoked meat and havarti on brown"
"So do you have any ham and cheddar?"
"No"
"Any turkey?"
"No, sorry"
"Ok I'll get the ham and cheddar"
*head-to-desk*
In a last ditched attempt to salvage my sanity, I have decided to enjoy my job - to go about it with reckless enthusiam seen only in severely medicated head-trauma patients. Even if I cannot convince myself that I actually am cheerful, I will at least annoy the hell out of someone else. I will rejoice in my role as the magical beer fairy, where ordering a drink while staring at my chest will result in hops lactation for the convinience of the golfer. I will replace the urge to throat punch the customer with... a slightly more delicate slap to the solar plexus.
Till my medication kicks in, I'll have to amuse myself by creating elaborate zombie fan-fiction starring my least favourite customers as the unfortunate fodder for the apocolyptic hordes.
"What do you have for sandwhiches?"
"We have tuna salad wraps, salami and provolone on white and smoked meat and havarti on brown"
"So do you have any ham and cheddar?"
"No"
"Any turkey?"
"No, sorry"
"Ok I'll get the ham and cheddar"
*head-to-desk*
In a last ditched attempt to salvage my sanity, I have decided to enjoy my job - to go about it with reckless enthusiam seen only in severely medicated head-trauma patients. Even if I cannot convince myself that I actually am cheerful, I will at least annoy the hell out of someone else. I will rejoice in my role as the magical beer fairy, where ordering a drink while staring at my chest will result in hops lactation for the convinience of the golfer. I will replace the urge to throat punch the customer with... a slightly more delicate slap to the solar plexus.
Till my medication kicks in, I'll have to amuse myself by creating elaborate zombie fan-fiction starring my least favourite customers as the unfortunate fodder for the apocolyptic hordes.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Gratuitous Violence
Let the festivities begin! The foreseeable sound of my future? Folk.
Involuntary folking takes place every August long weekend, always too expensive for me to attend, but too loud for me to ignore. My solution to several hours of peace, love and patchouli? Renting 300 - nothing like some gratuitous violence to purge the system.
Involuntary folking takes place every August long weekend, always too expensive for me to attend, but too loud for me to ignore. My solution to several hours of peace, love and patchouli? Renting 300 - nothing like some gratuitous violence to purge the system.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Exercise in Futility
You syphilitic ass-hats. The deep recess of the fridge at work is clearly not as empty as the vacuous cavern that is your skull, since today I reach in and find the most nefarious cluster of ex-pickles ever known to mankind. If you spent ten minutes rubbing your brain cells together for some other purpose than attempting to wipe your face of a persistently vacant expression, you would have remembered the apparently taxing responsibility you have to future shifts by forcefully removing your head from whatever orifice you have it shoved into and emptying the godforsaken jar of pickles. For the love of my sanity, scrap the mold from your ill-used central cortex and show mercy by liberating the soused vegetables and thereby sparing me from the horrifying realization that I am petty enough to tear you a new asshole over a rotten jar of fetid veggies.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Sending my pearly whites to the pearly gates...
Me and my unworthy dentition are going to need a minute to process these new regulations.
"If you want, you can come in and we can file your teeth, you know, round them out so they'll have a more feminine shape."
You know what, lovely lady dentist? Now would be the time to take your fingers out of my mouth so I'm less tempted to use my square, manly teeth me gnaw on your latex fingers. When did beauty become so damn regulated that my freaking mandibles were used as a judge of my femininity? Get out of my mouth, my magazines and my t.v. This is taking skin deep beauty a little to far so lets leave my bicuspids alone. I went through several years and a lot of money to get straight teeth through the damn social inhibitors you call braces and now I don't have feminine teeth? God knows what you think of the shape of my ass, or the state of my eyebrows.
Screw it, they still gave me my free toothbrush. I'll be back for my fluoride next year.
"If you want, you can come in and we can file your teeth, you know, round them out so they'll have a more feminine shape."
You know what, lovely lady dentist? Now would be the time to take your fingers out of my mouth so I'm less tempted to use my square, manly teeth me gnaw on your latex fingers. When did beauty become so damn regulated that my freaking mandibles were used as a judge of my femininity? Get out of my mouth, my magazines and my t.v. This is taking skin deep beauty a little to far so lets leave my bicuspids alone. I went through several years and a lot of money to get straight teeth through the damn social inhibitors you call braces and now I don't have feminine teeth? God knows what you think of the shape of my ass, or the state of my eyebrows.
Screw it, they still gave me my free toothbrush. I'll be back for my fluoride next year.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
The Universe Speaks and Says...
Sweating away in the gym on my stationary bike, pleased to have the gym nearly to myself. Settling into the last ten minutes, flipping through a GQ. Thought bubble appears...
"This is why I enjoy men's magazines more than women's. No article's on how to lose ten pounds or the five new ways I can please my man. Nope, just articles on music, or sports, lots of male models for ogling and..."
BAM
The seat of my bike drops. Not one notch. All the way down. Jarring - in so many ways.
Crouched over the bike in fear. Tentative though bubble reappears...
"Duly Noted Universe, I'll be picking up that Cosmo."
"This is why I enjoy men's magazines more than women's. No article's on how to lose ten pounds or the five new ways I can please my man. Nope, just articles on music, or sports, lots of male models for ogling and..."
BAM
The seat of my bike drops. Not one notch. All the way down. Jarring - in so many ways.
Crouched over the bike in fear. Tentative though bubble reappears...
"Duly Noted Universe, I'll be picking up that Cosmo."
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Team No Pants
Just when my life seems a little dull or mundane, the Universe sends me clowns. And then it sends me pant-less frisbee players. And then I say "Enough is enough! I have had it with these mother fucking clowns and pant-less people on this motherfucking plane!"
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Morning Fail
Cell phone alarm buzzing, what a hateful noise. Sleep for fifteen more minutes? Sure. Snooooooze. Emerging from my nest of pillows and PANIC! 8:51. Stupid, evil, hateful phone. Doing my best imitation of a chicken with its head cut off as I put on yesterdays clothing, pause to turn t-shirt around. No time for tea or breakfast just grab it all and run. Sandals are not conducive to hauling across campus, but an excellent way to acquire blisters. 9:10. Only ten minutes late? Sweaty, breathless imaginary high five. 10:30. Coffee break, coffee and milk with my cup of sugar. No time for food, hurry back. 11:00. Empty stomach and coffee? Cue the shakes. Fuck I'm starving, it sounds like I have a bear hidden in my t-shirt (crap, must have stained it with soya sauce last night). No, space cadet indie girl to my left, its hunger, not rampant flatulence, that is making that noise, eyes forward unless you have a sandwich hidden in your décolletage. Unlikely. 11:50. Freedom! Eight dollars for a sandwich? I'd sell those future children if I had to. Can you inject a BLT into your veins? Hunger is abating, coherence can't be far behind.
Monday, May 10, 2010
World's Stalest Muffin
Over-caffeinated and under-slept, I encountered the seemingly innocent muffin nestled in its natural habitat. As I plucked it from it's basket, how was I to know that this particular muffin was in fact unique in its claim as... THE WORLD'S STALEST MUFFIN! Of course this interesting tidbit only revealed itself post-payment, when I deposited the baked good onto my desk. It was the abrupt 'thunk' that alerted my attention and brought about the investigation that revealed its impenetrable shell. Like Napoleon to Russia, my attempts to crack the muffin's inner sanctum were thwarted by lack of supplies. Had I delayed in my coffee drinking, I could have used my hot beverage to melt its crystalized shell. Alas, lack of foresight is a common affliction. Conceding defeat at last, I surrendered to the muffin's superior defenses. Infuriatingly, the muffin let out a resounding bang when I lobbed it to the nether regions of the nearby garbage, alerting my new classmates as to new status "crazy person who throws bricks into garbage cans"
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Spoonful of sugar...
Oh exams.. you thought you could break me? DENIED. My sanity is bruised and whimpering but whole! My escape from Alcatraz came none too late, keeping me from attempting to recreate the final scenes of Armageddon in my living room. Oh, this unusual sense of joy. Where have you been? Quaking under my bed while I sweated and slaved and swore my way through 16 days of anxiety probably. Even the snow outside (freaking April) cannot dampen my spirits. I am the epitome of calm. Sigh... Peace... A generous helping of Ativan.
All is well. And self-medicated.
All is well. And self-medicated.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
The Seven Year Itch.
If a four year undergraduate degree were a marriage I would be screwing my blonde 24 year old secretary. Using this scenario, I have reached sixth-year-and-three-hundred-and-sixty-fourth-day and have plans to take out a payment program on a 2004 Porsche Carrera GT. Unlike the first year itch which came with a medicated cream, the is no relief for the discomfort of the third year itch. For some, this phenomena is characterized by a desire to leave hearth, home and textbooks behind to find freedom in the form of a treehouse in a British Columbian redwood forest and refuge in the arms of a strapping yet sensitive lumberjack named Pete. Symptoms include a limited attention span and the swearing vocabulary of syphilis ravaged sailor on leave.
Save me Pete.
Save me Pete.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
I am Joe's Grinding Teeth
Clicking laundry machine, dishes in the counter, mold in the bathroom.
I am Joe's pulsing vein.
New professor, assigned three weeks from the end of term.
I am Joe's twitching eyebrow.
Cable bill, water bill, gouged by the rent check but the front step is crumbling.
I am Joe's pulsating ulcer.
The back door jams, probably because the foundation of the house is splitting.
I am Joe's rising blood pressure.
I am Joe's pulsing vein.
New professor, assigned three weeks from the end of term.
I am Joe's twitching eyebrow.
Cable bill, water bill, gouged by the rent check but the front step is crumbling.
I am Joe's pulsating ulcer.
The back door jams, probably because the foundation of the house is splitting.
I am Joe's rising blood pressure.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
circle of life
Hey gigantic bunnies... Any chance you could stop fornicating on my lawn? I know, I know... Continuation of the species, I get it already. Go knock your furry boots on the neighbours lawn.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Pulling the old Switcheroo
The mark and measure of a society can be found in it's adherence to common nicety. For instance, the toilet paper roll. No, Roommate X, Y and Z, I do not consider the roll to be full when there is two squares left. Just because you cannot see the cardboard roll does not absolve you of toilet paper courtesy. In fact, I would say that the anorexic little skeleton of a roll should remind you of your angry down the hall roommate who is not above getting her own t.p. from the closet and hiding it behind the wastepaper basket, thus forcing you to confront the abject inevitability of the emaciated roll.
No wonder I bombed in Psych. Clearly not my brightest plan.
No wonder I bombed in Psych. Clearly not my brightest plan.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Tositito's-grab-two-and-use-them-to-lever-dip-into-crevice-Scoops
Holy false advertising Batman! My Tositito's Scoop Chips have done very little scooping and a whole lot of smearing my guacamole around the plate. Let's be honest, they should instead be called Tositito's-grab-two-and-use-them-to-lever-dip-into-crevice-Scoops.
On the other hand, I have guacamole and chips!
On the other hand, I have guacamole and chips!
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Plagues of Locusts...
Dear Institute of Higher Learning,
Are you trying to cause my head to explode? This must be some sort of sponsored experiment by which my suffering sanity is to be tested. You wait until there are three weeks left in the year, until I am two papers into my hell week, to remove my professor from office, to whom I just recently handed in my aneurysm-inducing term paper? Understandably, that kind of decision isn't made lightly and of course, one should wait until the content of the course has veered firmly into left field before considering a change in staff. Fantastic, excuse me while I scrape my now-exploded brains off the ground. But wait! The study continues, as the universe continues to bitch-slap me by crashing the University website. All in all, its not that rare an occurrence but considering that next year's class enrollment begins tomorrow, the stress is wearing me thing. And yes, you insipid monstrosity of theoretical learning, I am holding you responsible for the state of my kitchen.
Congratulations, I am now insane.
Are you trying to cause my head to explode? This must be some sort of sponsored experiment by which my suffering sanity is to be tested. You wait until there are three weeks left in the year, until I am two papers into my hell week, to remove my professor from office, to whom I just recently handed in my aneurysm-inducing term paper? Understandably, that kind of decision isn't made lightly and of course, one should wait until the content of the course has veered firmly into left field before considering a change in staff. Fantastic, excuse me while I scrape my now-exploded brains off the ground. But wait! The study continues, as the universe continues to bitch-slap me by crashing the University website. All in all, its not that rare an occurrence but considering that next year's class enrollment begins tomorrow, the stress is wearing me thing. And yes, you insipid monstrosity of theoretical learning, I am holding you responsible for the state of my kitchen.
Congratulations, I am now insane.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
No one whispers as quietly as they think they do...
High on the list of strange things overhead in class: the logistics of buying a bunny. Apparently more time consuming than I thought, because this odd conversation to my left went on for the entire 50 minutes of class. The cage, the food, the name, the lets-take-a-break-and-watch-youtube and it never ends!
My sympathies to their future rabbit pet. It will die as a result of an over-saturation of stupidity.
My sympathies to their future rabbit pet. It will die as a result of an over-saturation of stupidity.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Saturday, March 6, 2010
In which we introduce the "ick" factor...
The "ick" factor of a person, place or thing shall be determined as follows...
1) The amount of bleach it takes to leave oneself feeling clean again
2) The size and manner of the vein popping out in my forehead
3) The minimal period of time in which I may discuss said "ick" factor without retching or lapsing into a rage fueled black out.
The categories shall be judged out of a possible ten each.
0-10: Mosquito level irritation
9-20: Driving by a pig farm with a stiff breeze
21-30: Rush Limbaugh and the American Right
Let us begin. An innocent walk to the river valley in celebration of the city finally emerging from the bowels of winter suddenly taken over by lecherous fiends. No sir, slowing down to a crawl will not give you more time to look at me, as I will take this as a signal to flee. Also, you are on a busy road, and by slowing you rust-riddled heap of scrap metal to a crawl you will only offer yourself up to the mercy of the other drivers. No, the concern is not for your safety, merely that scraping your repulsive face off the pavement with a spatula will ruin someone else's commute.
On a scale of 30, you score a 12. That's right swine, it is where you belong.
Huzzah for Highlevel ice tea.
1) The amount of bleach it takes to leave oneself feeling clean again
2) The size and manner of the vein popping out in my forehead
3) The minimal period of time in which I may discuss said "ick" factor without retching or lapsing into a rage fueled black out.
The categories shall be judged out of a possible ten each.
0-10: Mosquito level irritation
9-20: Driving by a pig farm with a stiff breeze
21-30: Rush Limbaugh and the American Right
Let us begin. An innocent walk to the river valley in celebration of the city finally emerging from the bowels of winter suddenly taken over by lecherous fiends. No sir, slowing down to a crawl will not give you more time to look at me, as I will take this as a signal to flee. Also, you are on a busy road, and by slowing you rust-riddled heap of scrap metal to a crawl you will only offer yourself up to the mercy of the other drivers. No, the concern is not for your safety, merely that scraping your repulsive face off the pavement with a spatula will ruin someone else's commute.
On a scale of 30, you score a 12. That's right swine, it is where you belong.
Huzzah for Highlevel ice tea.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Attack of the Dread Puddle
My route to class has become the Ho Chi Min Trail. Post-napalm of course. What once was a straightforward A to B expedition has now become a A to end of walk, then around puddle, down the street (avoiding the now exposed dog poo) across the semi-frozen lake that is the end of the street, then crossing the street, over the frozen sludge mountain, avoid even more now revealed dog poo then cross the street to B. Then promptly walk into a puddle.
Curses.
But melting snow and exposed dog poo signals spring, so huzzah!
Curses.
But melting snow and exposed dog poo signals spring, so huzzah!
Thursday, March 4, 2010
In which we encounter a quipper...
There is nothing worse than a quipper- that is to say, someone that quips constantly. The little side additions to every comment are enough to send Mother Teresa screaming in the other direction. It is the grating irritation of a shoe on a blister. The sighs and oohs and the incessant giggling. This is not a conversation conducive to giggles - it is King Lear, a fantastic but decidedly unfunny play. Be warned, to quip is not to actively listen or contribute to a conversation. It shows only that the quipee is able to string sounds together and project at inopportune moments. This is unneeded, unwanted and undesirable additions to a class reading. These quips are not stated in conjuncture to some other point. They are thrown in at random and whispered in an underhanded way. A sample,
"So you can see that this sentence holds significance, due to its repetition and -"
"Oh yeah, absolutely HEE HEE"
"-emphasis."
Sigh. At least the puddle at the end of the walk is beginning to evaporate.
"So you can see that this sentence holds significance, due to its repetition and -"
"Oh yeah, absolutely HEE HEE"
"-emphasis."
Sigh. At least the puddle at the end of the walk is beginning to evaporate.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Against Dainty Feet
Oh my wee feet. How you cause me to suffer. You are cantankerous and difficult to please. Slippers offer no support, and boots of any kind cause you to react in horror and inflame. Flats or sandals, it makes no difference to you. Admittedly, you are what keeps me from toppling onto my face. In my selfishness, I would ask that you do not cause me overwhelming pain at the sight of new shoes. I petition you thus; allow me to wear Converses without repercussion and I will not submit you to Alexander McQueen's torturous heels, whose prodigious heights would cause even Imelda Marcos to wince.
In the interim, I will partake in a shoe-less activity.... Banana bread.
In the interim, I will partake in a shoe-less activity.... Banana bread.
Monday, March 1, 2010
An Ode to Those Unable (or Unwilling) to Tell Time...
Almost 25 minutes till the end of class and it begins. The periodic opening of the door by the students of the next class, peeking in to see if, in the thirty seconds between peeks, 50 odd students had managed to somehow sneak by them. Never mind that students are given ten minutes to settle in between classes. Apparently these students live in fear that a moment of time lost in their precious class will result in plagues of mad dogs. Ours is not a quiet class, so my assumption is that one standing in the hallway would be able to hear the microphoned professor or the fantastically loud mouth-breather two seats to my left. The next idiotic keener that attempts to subtly crack open the door (an impossible feat apparently) will be greeted with a face-full of hot tea.
Today, I am grateful for my hot tea. Tomorrow, I have to potential to be even more appreciative of my daily need for scalding hot beverages.
Today, I am grateful for my hot tea. Tomorrow, I have to potential to be even more appreciative of my daily need for scalding hot beverages.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Testing the Water
"The road to truth is long, and lined the entire way with annoying bastards" - Alexander Jablokov.
This is my defense against said annoying bastards. Hopefully this blog will provide cathartic release that would otherwise be gained by illicit means. Sadly, it is not a court mandate therapy. The blame for the formation of this blog rests solely on those that have encouraged my ire by improper punctuation, slow walking and anatomical misunderstanding of penguins. Of course, a rant a day relies on the risk that my short temper will find an opportunity to be awakened at least once a day. So basically there is no risk at all.
At the risk of sounding overtly pessimistic, I'd like to take a moment at the end of each post to reflect on something that, if all else fails, prevents me from performing hara-kiri on myself (or any unfortunate individual in my immediate vicinity...).
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
