Thursday, March 29, 2007

my jeans cost 3 dollars and other tales of shopping excellence

My 3 dollar jeans made a triumphant debut last night. Yes, THREE dollars. They are not as hideous as you might expect for being 3 dollars. They actually look like regular pants that the regular guys wear. I asked theMonica how much my jeans cost about 50 times, as the key to being funny is repetition. theMonica disagrees. My jeans cost 3 dollars. And there are no other tales of shopping excellence.


if . . .

you're coughing today and someone comes up to you and says, "If you don't stop that coughing, I'm going to throw you off this plane." This is what they're talking about.


Tuesday, March 27, 2007

you think you're cold-hearted . . .

Dang - you're all puppy dogs and ice cream. Check this lady out. I call her el diablo which is German for whale's vagina.

As far as I can tell, it is not from the Weekly World News.

Sisters: this would not be a good way to get atop the Sister Power Rankings - oh yes, they exist.

Monday, March 26, 2007

lie of the day

This is actually kind of fun, but very difficult.


Sunday, March 25, 2007

lie of the day

My apartment smells like roses and peppermints.


Friday, March 23, 2007

lie of the day

I am going to do this every day.

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Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Netflix: The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (2005)

This was, quite literally, the best movie I've ever seen about magical, traveling pants. These pants were so magic they could even fit a Puerto Rican chick with an ass! (You don't get that joke because you didn't see the movie - dummy.)

My previous run-in with the traveling pants was more appropriate.

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Monday, March 19, 2007

i forgot to wear a belt today . . .

Fortunately, I had planned for this contingency by being fat.

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Friday, March 16, 2007

Netflix: March of the Penguins (2004)

It sucks to be a penguin.

It is cold in Antarctica - really, really freaking cold. Like water-thrown-in-the-air-freezes-before-it-hits-the-ground cold. It is the coldest place on Earth. It is colder than Pluto and Neptune combined. It is colder than Elizabeth Taylor's heart, which has to be a cold place after all those marriages, right? It's colder than a metal pole on Christmas morn (in a place that's really cold). It's colder than a Cors Light liner can. That shit is cold, yo. I had to have 3 fingers cut off from frostbite after drinking a sixer of it.

Anyway, it sucks to be a penguin. For serious. Not like a Linux penguin - those are usually rather warm because they live inside computers. Or the Pittsburgh Penguins they're getting a cozy, heated new arena in a couple of years. But real, animal penguins - that's a bad deal.

Here is the life story of every penguin: if you get big enough before freezing to death, you walk a crapload and then you freeze to death. I kid you not. Penguins have a saying, "Life's a bitch and then you get weak and everybody leaves your sorry ass to freeze to death." And somewhere in there they mention that they have to walk 70 miles to go hook-up and keep eggs warm and stuff. Why? Probably to take their minds off how fucking cold it is. If I'm walking 70 miles and I'm a penguin, I'm going north. "Thanks bro - nice knowing yah. Try not to freeze or get eaten by a seal." Oh right. If you're penguin god is merciful, you get eaten by a seal or a bird (while you're a baby penguin). Otherwise, it's death by icebox.

Morgan Freeman narrates this documentary about how bad it would suck to be a penguin. There are shots of penguins freezing at all stages of life: egg, baby, youth, adult, protozoa, twinkle in their parents' eye, after they're already frozen to death, etc.

You know how penguins have a party? They huddle around each other so they don't freeze to death. Then maybe somebody does a keg stand, but he freezes in mid-air and there goes all the fun out of that.

To summarize, there are 4 options in penguin life: walk, freeze to death, occasionally swim, get eaten by something.

It sucks to be a penguin.

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Wednesday, March 14, 2007

that explains it

When you don't laugh at my blog, you might think it's because of some deficiency in me. Well, science says you're silent not because I'm not hilarious, but instead because you're antisocial. Work on that.

Note: Sorry. I couldn't find the Weekly World News version of this article.

Monday, March 12, 2007

feelin' old?

Then B-I-N-G-O!

theMonica and I took my aunt to BINGO! last night.

A few observations:
  • Nothing can make you feel younger than going to bingo. For serious. Unless you are the absolute oldest person there/alive, you are sure to find someone 30 years your senior. I saw a 90-year-old woman telling a 120-year-old guy that he was old enough to be her grandfather (they're used to younger reproduction) and WAY TOO OLD to date.

  • I am the bionic woman of Bingo night. It's true. Because in this setting I have ultra-sensitive hearing. Old people mutter under their breath a lot louder than what you normally encountered. The bingo pimp in front of me (older gentleman, track suit, shark tooth necklace, bling all over) was guilty of this. Every once in a while I'd hear him . . . "Son of a bitch," "Awwww go to hell!" along with a couple of god damns thrown in for good measure.

  • Even on the cankle, I'm pretty sure I could outrun every person there.

  • This ain't your mother's bingo. Well, actually it probably is. The vast majority of games required DOUBLE bingo. Which is one bingo, plus another - at the same time. There are also other, previously unknown to me, ways to make bingo - such as postage stamps (only one per double bingo), four corners, etc.

  • No corn kernels anywhere in sight to eat. (This joke exclusively for RS2 and any other Moss Creek readers I might have.)

  • You can have wild balls (huh-huh) and shit. Old people be blowin' up with the bingo games. There were games where you make an "X" or "U" or complete the inside frame. I made a smiley face, but apparently that doesn't count as bingo.

  • Even when you cheat you can't win. The wild ball game takes the ending digit of the first ball and makes it wild - meaning, you can mark any number on your cards which ends in the wild. So, 14 makes ending 4 wild = 4, 14, 24, 34, 44, 54, 64, 74. I was confused and thought it was ALL fours (so, x4 numbers and 4x numbers). Despite this considerable head start, I still didn't win. And I'm really glad I didn't. I would gotten all Night of the Living Dead on me. That's when I started considering my running speed vis-a-vis the rest of the bingo population.

  • 98% of all people there were joyless. I thought bingo was supposed to be a social activity, but it seemed more like a library. My aunt was even commenting on how generally nasty bingo people were. Case in point, we were reprimanded for sitting 3 at a table. 3 at a table that was NEXT to a table where a woman was going to be sitting. Since I don't weigh 1500 pounds, it turned out not to be a problem.

So whenever you feel the boney hand of the grim reaper tapping on your shoulder, sing those magical 5 letters . . .

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so far, off to a bad start

If you're looking for love, I'm sure this is a GREAT way to find it. You know, assuming you don't have a branding iron handy.

Update: As Alan points out in the comments, the store if F for Fake and I'm pretty dumb. What can I say? I got a case of the Mondays. The Weekly World News URL was deftly hidden within the Yahoo URL. The attribution to WWN at the end of the article wasn't hidden at all. Whatever the case, I apologize to the 7 of you. Oh, but the hilarious branding iron comment still stands.

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Thursday, March 08, 2007


Currently - a fanny pack. I dropped a pen in my lap and I need one to cover the ink arrow pointing at my crotch, you know, in case you don't know how to get there. I'd have to wear it front-style, because, that's where the crotch proper is. Indubitably this would lead to ridicule of me amongst all my fanny pack brethren. You're only supposed to rotate to the front for retrieval - like a switch.

And maybe a fanny pack extension to cover the buffalo sauce while I'm at it. Or I could scrap the fanny pack all together and go with an apron. "Kiss the Slob" or some such. I once got food on my ear unintentionally.

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C'mon now. Get in the bowl!

Lady to her insolent strawberries.

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Tuesday, March 06, 2007


woman1: See you at lunchtime.
guy1: See you everytime I close my eyes.

This was like a cashier/frequent (I would hope) customer type relationship. Creepy, yes? Well, I was creeped out . . . sicko.


i stoned Jock Callander

I'm in a beginner hockey league through Hockey North America. The idea is that instead of going to pick-up and having people fire pucks at you indiscriminately for hours at a time, I will get some actual training as I try out ice hockey for the first time.

At any rate, Jock is the instructor for the team. And as he was demonstrating a cone/shooting drill, he came down towards me and BAM! left pad save! I was all, "Where's your Stanley Cup now biaaatch?"

Yah, not so much. You know how you throw a ball to a 2-year-old? That was the hockey equivalent of what happened. I suspect if Jock shot 100 pucks at me, I might stop 5, 2? I'm not so good.

Jock is a really nice guy. And I just found out he's the pride of Regina! I'm sure Bronwyn and her majesty and a mandolyn and ky have already organized a fan club which I could join.

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Friday, March 02, 2007

I'd rather be fat than be confused

I have cankles. Well, more specifically, I have one cankle. A grotesque basketball injury has left my lankle a purpley, sausagey mass. It has joined my foot and calf together in perfect harmony. Purpley and Sausagy, live together in perfect harmony. Side by side on my body, keyboard solo - why don't we?

At any rate, I was almost completely immobile on Wednesday and missed work. But these past couple of days, I toughed it out. Toughed it out, despite the fact that I'm lacking in some essential necessities for this type of injury (cue list) . . .

A farmboy to fetch me things - printouts, drinks, lunch, etc. But no, not to ultimately bed.

A chamberpot.

A chair that rides the rails (handrails) like in Gremlins. (But then doesn't subsequently skyrocket me off said handrails to my fiery death due to Gremlin tomfoolery).

Crutches? Perhaps, but the pain of using them probably outweighs the pain of the cankle.

Blinkers - so I can turn on my flashers and people can pass me while I'm walking around slowly. It hurts to hurry.

I don't need a footstool. I found one and propped Gimpy up on it in an attempt to keep some of the fluid from draining down there. I think that's what it does, besides making me look like a total jackass. Stay tuned for possible cankle glamour shots!

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