Moving Day

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This Week in Perverted Home Buyers

Pervert Poster

Image by Nikita Kashner via Flickr

There comes a time in everyone’s life where the balusters and Nouveau decor of a showhome are just too sexy to resist. Before you judge, ask yourself “could I control my urges if I was surrounded by marble countertops?”

 Well, those urges overcame a Calgary man several weeks ago in a story I find way too funny not to pass on. The police are looking for the guy and I can’t help but picture the wanted poster.

A man who committed an indecent act at a New Brighton show home is wanted by Calgary police.

If I had any foresight I would have stopped reading there. But curiosity got the best of me. What did they mean by “indecent”? Did he flash a passing city bus from the upstairs washroom? Did he pull a Larry David and accidentally splash a Jesus picture?

Police say he entered the show home by himself and was alone for several minutes in the main foyer. He then left quickly while apparently talking on his cellphone.

When the sales worker entered the home, she discovered he had committed the indecent act while in the house and police were called.

Oh. I see. He did in the faux kitchen what anti-gay Pastors do in men’s rooms. Why do some people need an audience for doing…”that”? It’s like the people who audition for American Idol. They know it’s a bad idea – that it’s borderline offensive and possibly criminal – but can’t resist in the end.

“They seized biological material suitable for DNA analysis and it has been sent away for analysis,”

If the cop forced to collect the “sample” didn’t quit, then I will take back everything bad I say about the police. Yeah, I’m lying. I still think they’re domestic terrorists and they suck at their jobs.

Yet,  I’m impressed/saddened that someone agreed to collect another man’s discarded “DNA” from the wall.

I once worked at a gas station off 16th Avenue during my late teens. I lasted around four hours before quitting for being asked to clean the bathroom. Every man has an instinctual desire to destroy public bathrooms. Have you ever seen a gas station bathroom? Within walking distance of Bowness, no less? I don’t know where this urge comes from but I can’t remember the last washroom I’ve gone into where the paper towel dispenser hasn’t been superkicked off the wall or found a sanguine wound dressing from a back alley stabbing.

If you live in the suburbs, be on the look out for a police stakeout in a neighbourhood near you.

Have I Told You How Much I Hate Working?

An example of a sex doll: the RealDoll by Abys...

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First of all, I don’t consider myself one of “those” black people who, as Representative Sally Kern said, refuse work because I think”the government (is) going to take care of (me)”. Frankly, I don’t need it. I have my mom’s credit card for online purchases (read: porn and gently used sex dolls on Ebay) and big enough pockets to steal most groceries. If push comes to shove I can simply order Domino’s to the abandoned crack den on the end of my street, overpower the delivery driver and run home with my calzones.

But this; this is something I can’t do much longer. Yes, I do feel like an ass for complaining about a moderately well-paying job when people are struggling to find any kind of work, but I don’t care. Sorry. As much as I am an unabashed socialist, there’s a shameful libertarian streak I can’t seem to shake. If you’re not working it’s partly your fault. Nearly a fifth of black Americans are out of jobs and although you can assign a good chunk of this unemployment on racism, I can’t say it’s the only reason. Or even the most prominent.

Most companies are so greedy for profit, they would hire a registered sex offender so long as he agreed to work unpaid overtime and use his personal email to send crotch pictures  to his co-workers.

I promised I wouldn’t allow myself to peel off on an anti-capitalist rant so I’ll list a few of my occupational pet peeves before it’s too late:   

  • Management-speak threatens to drive me mad. The next time my boss says “I have to interface with my ex-companion on establishing a time frame parameter that suits both our personal needs” instead of saying “I’m going into my office to loudly threaten my ex-wife for keeping the kids away from me” I’m going throw myself down the fire escape.
  • I can’t go to another meeting. Is there any reason why I’m spending three hours a day meeting about work I should be doing? Want something done? Well then how about you actually let me do it?
  • I need to find a job with non-standard working hours. And before you suggest prostitution, know that I’ve already tried it and the johns were not gentle with me. Plus I owe my pimp money. I can’t go back.
  • More on the previous point: the standard 9-to-5 work days were designed because most jobs needed to maximize daylight. If I’m working indoors, on a chair that smells vaguely like the giraffe pen at the Calgary Zoo, beneath flourescent lights that chip away at my vision each day, why do I need to come in at that time? Give me a job to do. Give me a deadline. Then fuck off and let me do it on my own time. I like to work in my underwear, next to a bag of Doritos, so unless you want me to start doing this at work, let’s work out an arrangement I can stay home.
  • When I’m my way back to my desk with food, stop asking me what I’m eating. Do you reckon  the sandwich-shaped object I’m carrying is…wait for it… a fucking sandwich???
  • Don’t say “TGIF” every single Friday. Yes, I’m glad I can get wasted and pick fights with cab drivers later that night, but it still reminds me that I’m coming right back two days later. While we’re on the subject of TGIF, what ever happened to the cast of Step by Step? Did that show ruin their careers? If the daughter on that show hasn’t gone all Jodie Sweeten, give her my number.
  • Don’t insist I ask permission to take vacation. I’m a grown man who, aside from relationships and credit expenditure, is not a complete idiot. I’m not going to take off to Thailand for six weeks when there is a pile of work on my desk. Assume I’m not a child. I spent the first 18 years of my life asking for permission from my parents and teachers to do everything. Isn’t the only upside of adulthood  being free to do what you want? No? God capitalism sucks.

Notes to Self

Kevin Costner playing at the Cisco Ottawa Blue...

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  1. Stop buying Sports Select tickets. You haven’t won since 2008. And frankly, you’re starting to sound like Christian Bale in The Fighter when you rant about how close you came to winning last week to the person behind you in the Shopper’s Drug Mart line.
  2. Dinners consisting of $12 wine and cheese buns from the Co-op bakery eaten on the toilet are exactly why your mother thinks you’re unable to live alone
  3. Eating Tim Bits in the stairwell while singing the Ghostbuster‘s theme song isn’t helping either. Get back to work. Continue reading

True Blood Season Four Review

Promotional poster

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It’s unfair for someone to review a television show from a genre he neither understands nor respects. For instance, most women view football as a pointless exercise in which hyper masculine, spandex-clad men gun a pigskin sphere off each other’s heads and smack each other on the butt for a couple of hours. And they are rightly relegated to sideline reportage and pre-game weather forecasts while dressed like they are expected on stage six at Spearmint Rhino.

So, a show like True Blood, an HBO series written for gays, women, tweens and softcore pornography aficionados should, in all fairness, be reviewed by housewives, twinks and heavyset date rapists. It is not designed for 29 year-old, semi-alcoholic black misanthropes. Me reviewing True Blood is like allowing Craig Cobb to host the Hip Hop Music Awards.

With the exception of  Blade, I hate all things vampire. From Anne Rice (who set us down the path of mainstream vampires that look like sensitive SoHo food critics in Halloween costume)  to the abortive Twilight series, the entire genre is, personally, lazy and more well-tread than the parking lot Walter White marked up with Junior’s Charger. So, no surprise that a television show with yet more effeminate vampires, feeble werewolves, human panthers, a fairy in tight shirts and water bras, and stereotypically flamboyant gays was not something I’d seek out in the TV Guide. Continue reading

NFL Kickoff 2011: Quick Thoughts

Green Bay Packers starting quarterback Aaron R...
  • I was disappointed to see that Aaron Rodgers shaved the mustache that had every Green Bay child spending his or her allowance on a rape whistle. I spent ten minutes outlining an essay – in the eventuality Rodgers played terribly – on how his pedo-stache was equivalent to Samson’s hair. But, Rodgers dashed my plans by playing his ass off. He remains the best quarterback in the league – with apologies to Tom Brady and the ailing Peyton Manning. I’m terrified of him should my Eagles meet the Packers in the playoffs again. 
  • Mr. “Guantanamo Bay is really just the Iberostar Varadero with door locks on the outside” Drew Brees played phenomenal as well, leading his team down to the Packers goal line in what could have been a tied game without some savvy defensive interference from Clay Matthews. Brees’ performance highlights exactly why attributing wins to a quarterback is ridiculous. Was it his fault Roman Harper was routinely beat or that the shortened training camp resulted in lethargy and confusion in the Saints defense. If the Saints hadn’t already won a Super Bowl, sports announcers would have inundated the weekend’s airwaves with stories on how Drew Brees is not a “winner”.
  • Michael Vick didn’t take nearly as many hits as I predicted he would – although I was scared during the first half where Rams defenders poured through the offensive line with no impediment. I upgrade Vick’s games played prediction from seven to nine before he suffers a gruesome injury.
  • Despite releasing the most underrated receiver of all-time (and my personal favourite) Derrick Mason, I’m happy the defense gave Ben Roethlisberger a taste of what those two co-eds felt once he locked the hotel room door behind them.
  • The Atlanta Falcons will not make the playoffs. Each year the Football Gods pick a team to smite – seemingly at random. Atlanta, you have been smote.
  • The Chicago Bears will win the NFC North as their only threat, the Minnesota Vikings, look awful with washed up Donovan McNabb at quarterback. I hate to say it but it might be time for him to wrap it up and let Christian Ponder get a few starts.
  • The Houston Texans defense will be one of the top five units this year. I hope then-GM Charley Casserly laughs at all those who ridiculed him for taking Mario Williams over Reggie Bush.
  • If my Fox television affiliate airs another Seattle Seahawks game I will start drinking. Heavily. I’ll give the Seattle coach a piece of advice for free; Tavaris Jackson is not the answer. You play in the weakest division in NFL history. A decent quarterback will get you into the playoffs. Switch before it’s too late.
  • The divet my ass made in the couch yesterday will take hours of remediation to get right again.
  • Tony Romo is the most unlucky quarterback. After the Jessica Simpson sideshow followed him around – as well as a pre-existing hatred of the Dallas Cowboys – I enjoyed watching him fail at the worst possible time. But after seeing it so often I’m beginning to feel bad for him. He’s one of the best quarterbacks in the league but I have a feeling the media will remember him unkindly because he lacks the bullshit “clutch gene”. Don’t worry, Tony. No such thing exists.
  • I can hear the Mark Sanchez media bandwagon starting up. As much as I hate the Cowboys, I had hoped they’d win just so I could avoid the 1,024th fluff piece about his Mexican heritage and good looks.
  • Cheerleaders may be the most superfluous profession now. If they aren’t getting naked on the sidelines, of what use are they?
  • RUSHING: Ray Rice will win the rushing title. Chris Johnson will barely crack 1,200 yards. Matt Forte will finish as  a top 5 back. Arian Foster will come back in week two and get injured again by week 11. He and Ben Tate will split carries by the end of the year. As a result, my fantasy team will finish in last place.
  • I will gain 15 pounds of pure fat. The human body was not made to be sedentary for eight hours straight. My hip is in agony from laying on it for so long.

Ice Cream Villany on the Highways

I live in a neighbourhood where an anguished woman’s wail (and the subsequent clattering of a freshly used knife dropping to the pavement) interrupt my tortured, acrobatic sleep once a month. Within five days of moving in, bored teens stole my semi-functional car before ditching it, flat tires and bumperless, outside of a Native Reserve by Okotoks. I’m approached regularly for drugs and have been offered the sexual services of tubby woman in a belly shirt in exchange. The moment a semi-attractive woman offers me such a deal, I’ll find a pound biker crank quicker than Nicky Barnes. Every time my girlfriend leaves my house after sunset, I have to cover her from a sniper nest on my roof as she gets in her car. And I’m ok with all of this. I have no problems living around drugs, inflation-resistant prostitutes and the lingering threat of drunken cowboys braining me with a beer bottle on my way home from Safeway. What I do have a problem with is that on the inevitable day I’m held up at knifepoint by a biker strung out on meth, the police won’t waste their time trying to catch him unless he does an illegal U-turn post-robbery or brags about his haul on his fucking cell phone while merging onto 17th. Continue reading