Frequently Asked Questions

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?

Ronald Reagan. I’d exhume him myself for the honour. Though, being a vaguely racist windbag isn’t really hurting anyone, you could probably also talk me into fighting Bill O’Reilly

2011 NFL Season Preview

The upcoming National Football League  season has seized all my waking thoughts. Frankly, I become slightly concerned when it strikes me just how long I spent last season (1) preparing to watch a football game, (2) watching the game, (3) talking about the game I just watched before (4) pouring over stats from the game I just watched for fantasy football purposes. I do this instead of productive endavours such as writing Kim Kardashian love letters in cursive loops of my blood, getting into better shape so that my dirty laundry no longer smells like Becel and bacon, mentally abusing my dog for not being able to play Sudoku, etc.

Call me crazy but I don’t give a damn.

The Three Wise Men

I’ve stayed silent when each girlfriend past and present said, in no uncertain terms, being a sports fan is stupid. To cheer for one group of ignorant millionaires on a team owned by ego-maniacal billionaires (yes, I’m looking at you Al Davis) over another of the same, when none of the principals have not the faintest idea of your existence, is the height of folly. Yet, each year, when Calgary’s six days of summer give way to cold winds and morning frost, I’m as excited  as Rex Ryan in a Manolo Blahnik Boutique. Here are five quick, unrelated thoughts on the upcoming season: Continue reading

Oneirology Says My Fantasy Football Team Will Suck

Drew Brees, Jan. 7th, 2010

Image by IAN RANSLEY DESIGN + ILLUSTRATION via Flickr

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

Rise of the Planet of the Apes

Caesar is My Road Dog

I am, to borrow at term from Social Science scholarship, a complete and utter loser. I’m a loser not because I lose at every endeavour I attempt (I’ve held my own in Rock, Paper, Scissors for years) but rather, I identify more intensely with the downtrodden, the less fortunate*, the perpetual fuck-ups. In 29 years, my favourite sports teams have combined for six championships across four different leagues (all six coming from the Chicago Bulls in the early to mid 90s). Not only that, my most reviled teams have won 29 championships. That alone should show how allergic I am to success.

* I suppose this is why I keep sending money to that Haitian child whose vacant, evil eyes have me convinced he’s using the funds to buy after-market Russian assault rifles for him and his friends.

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Happy Birthday

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”?

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RIP Jack Layton

Jack Layton on the 5th anniversary of his lead...

Image via Wikipedia

As disappointed – and terrified for our future – I was after watching the Conservatives roll to a majority government in May, a part of me went to sleep happy knowing that the NDP become the Official Opposition. Though it was truthfully a hollow victory – being the opposition to a majority government bought and paid for by the financial institutions is like having a Nascar driver in the passenger seat while Nick Hogan‘s driving. Although he’s not going to save you, you feel a bit better having him there – the man who was largely responsible for this achievement, is dead

Jack Layton has lost his battle with cancer, dying Monday morning at his home, surrounded by those closest to him.

The charismatic, 61-year-old politician had recently stepped down as federal NDP leader, but had expressed hope that he would return when Parliament resumed next month.

But on Monday, Canadians learned that was not to be.

Read more: http://www.canada.com/news/Layton+loses+battle+with+cancer/5288302/story.html#ixzz1VmGiYDNT

Out of all the party leaders I’ve watched since becoming interested in politics – for whatever reason – he is without a doubt the only one who appeared to care about issues affecting the average Canadianinstead of the financial sector and the super-rich  like most politicians. He was, in other words, the politician Barack Obama promised us he would be. And we all know how well that’s going.

It’s too bad, that after years of running the campaign best suited to the average Canadian‘s interest, and having them vote Conservative year after year anyway because…well who knows why Canadians have such loyalty to Stephen Harper, that he’s gone just as soon as he had arrived at a place he could make substantial difference.

RIP

The Hobo Code

Bargain Hunting

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.

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