- 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.
- 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
- Eating Tim Bits in the stairwell while singing the Ghostbuster‘s theme song isn’t helping either. Get back to work. Continue reading
Category Archives: Life
Are you crazy?
You’ll have to be more specific. Crazy exists on a spectrum of severity. Do you mean overtly crazy in the sense that I would bite off another man’s ear or River Dance on Oprah’s couch because I’m banging Katie Holmes? Or a more subtle crazy like paying a 19-year-old Korean $300 to stomp cockroaches in high heels while I put my dick in a toaster? If I had to pick I’d say I’m closer to the latter. I can admit my brain works on a different plane than most (I sing We Got the Beat to my dog as I get ready for work each morning) but I’m cognizant enough to not let it bleed into my public life. Mostly by never talking in the company of someone who can arrest or fire me, or set wheels in motion that end in either.
Do you seriously hire hookers?
I have never paid to sleep with anyone unless the $35 vial of Rohipnol I keep in my cutlery drawer counts. I got a lot of mileage out of that baby. I’m sure a couple of streetwalkers have snuck through over times as my vetting process at 22 years consisted of no more than “is she under 200 lbs and over 17”. And even then didn’t adhere to it too stringently.
Aren’t you worried about employers reading this?
I can’t imagine any chain of circumstance that would lead a 55-year-old executive to a blog devoted to bad movie reviews and strange man’s desire to drink Kim Kardashian‘s bath water.
Why did you start this site?
I started it after watching several episodes back-to-back of Paris Hilton’s My New BFF during a period I was having difficulty selling my television show pitch. On came the most odorous pile of trash in the history of television and I watched it , seething, wondering how this got greenlit while I made photocopies of well logs for 37.5 hours a week. The self-loathing hit a boiling point and I wrote the most offensive, abusive review I’ve ever put to page. My rage quenched, I took a hiatus before starting back up to, in a roundabout, confusing way to convince my then-girlfriend that I was a changed man.
Why is everything you write so…angry?
Depression. Frustration. Misery. Take your pick. Ok, that’s not entirely true. I’m a much happier person than comes off from my posts. I’ve always said the adage “I’m only keeping it real” is the sociopath’s credo, but, in a sense, it applies to me while I’m writing. I believe there is value in incivility and politically incorrect statements. There’s a line, of course, that I try not to cross but if I think Barack Obama is snake that used a vague, catchy slogan to rope ignorant blacks and guilty whites into voting for him, I’ll say it like it comes to me, instead of dressing it up in a non-offensive way.
If you could fight one man, dead or alive, who would it be?
The first night of my last year as a man able to watch Jersey Shore and That’s So Raven (I’m going to miss you Chelsea) without crumbling beneath the weight crushing self-loathing and societal scorn was wrought with drama. I was in a semi-stupor of expressionless television watching and disinterested light reading (read: porn found under the stairs) – an habitual stasis my body undergoes as it reaches the exhausted conclusion of a 24-hour battle of alcohol elimination – to find someone stealing my car for the second time since moving into the neighbourhood. The sinister laugh of a young man with an open schedule and a history of Vicodin abuse, followed by the cough of a car with better things to do than start when asked broke me from my trance. I ran outside in my underwear like Edward Norton in American History X only to see the car was, in fact, not mine, as I had moved it when getting food earlier and completely forgotten. Was it my neighbour’s car that was lifted? Possibly. My spot on the couch was sure to grow cold and not wanting to chance such an atrocity, I went back inside without investigating. Continue reading
Each year around my birthday I suffer a mini mid-life crisis. A day comes, that ostensibly makes me an older man but I’m only older in the sense that my attraction to Selena Gomez goes from “this dude’s creepy” to “let’s have the FBI seize his computer”. The arrival of the birthdate itself doesn’t automatically turn my maturity up a notch, like assigning attribute points to your created player on NHL ’11. But maybe it’s not a bad idea to force it consciously.
The first thing I think when some poor soul tells me “you’re only as old as you feel” is “I bet Rob Lowe wished he’d have used that as his statutory rape defence 20 years ago”. YOAYAYF is a patently ridiculous maxim but has nevertheless gained traction with my generation – a majority of whom would follow any adage so long as it pardons flights from responsibility as well as this one. I can only imagine how much more irresonsible and hedonistic the generation that follows ours will be but that’s a horror story for a different day. I wonder though, will the Gen Y version of our grandparents’ complaint of working in a coal mine at nine years old and chain-smoking Pall Malls in utero be “I was forced to cut my clubbing down from four to two days a week when I turned 36 and couldn’t recover from hangovers as easily”?
My first mistake was allowing convenience, cost and proximity to convince me to shop at Marlborough Mall. I needed a keyboard and leather case for my iPad 2, which is to say I needed it as much as one needs a surround sound system in their living room – not at all. I could have gone to an Apple Store, yes. But what purpose do ghetto malls serve other than selling its wares cheaper than the modern and trendy; the Chinooks and Market malls of the world? So, I endured the calamitous crash of a hundred colliding strollers, uncountable foreign accents (delivered with the aggressive gusto of a Bond villain), the piercing shrieks of wild children and the first and only Calgary Flames wife beater ever worn in polite society. And I did it all for nothing. No discount. Nothing. I paid the same as I would have had I avoided that place entirely.
When Umer, my dour, contrite ocular surgeon (is that a real word?), reached that part of the application, he did not find it funny. At all. As hard as I tried not to squirm while he described this ungodly surgery, I would have had better luck sitting through a live birth. I suppose not fainting into Umer’s flabby arms like Scarlett O’Hara is a victory in itself – however small. Call me weak but the thought of Umer making a delicate filet out of my cornea is the 3rd most terrifying situation I can imagine. Number two is birds gaining humanlike intelligence; number one being my dreams of sentient, upright elephants chasing me around my childhood home to tickle me becoming a reality. I wish I was making that up.