Tag Archives: Calgary

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.

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

Oneirology Says My Fantasy Football Team Will Suck

Drew Brees, Jan. 7th, 2010


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

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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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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This Week in Bored Law Enforcement

Maybe it’s a good sign cops have nothing better to do than to crouch behind thickets – like O.J. waiting for Nicole and Ron to come home from the restaurant – aiming a dopler radar gun at incoming vehicles hoping to dole out a $150 ticket to a Hampton’s housewife going 4 km over the speed limit. After all, if we actually had anything to truly worry about in this city, such as sudden rioting, Canada’s Finest would be forced to do real police work instead of spending an entire year cracking down on the scourge that plagues us all: jaywalking. 

I think, personally, that if you’re dumb enough to moonwalk across Glenmore Trail during rush hour, the ensuing ambulance ride and reconstructive facial surgery is your own fault. I’ll go even further and say there is no fine big enough to prevent stupid people from doing stupid things.

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The Alcoholic, Racist Chauvinist Dating Coach Mailbag

Dear ARCDC Mailbag,

Why are men after quantity and not quality?

– Candy, Calgary, Alberta

Dear Candy,

Let me put it like this; when you were in high school and faced with having sex with just one man or being plowed by the entire receiving corps (including the red-shirted freshman) in an Appleby’s parking lot, which did you pick? Exactly. The football squad. More is always better than one – whether we’re talking about crystal meth connections or assault rifles when holding an ex-girlfriend hostage in her apartment.

Moreover, a man who dates a half-dozen girls will be less likely to administer a well deserved beating to his harem in the long run. Let us remember that a woman is not unlike a carton of milk – their usefulness expires after a couple of weeks. There is a limit to the nattering a man can stand before he explodes into a rage that will likely harm yourself and any nearby small animals. It’s been proven by science.

So be happy that instead of spending 40 years with a kind, faithful man, you are instead being nailed and left for dead by drug dealers and retired Stampeders without commitment. Think how much worse your life would be if, after mentioning Oprah and the bloat accompanying your period for the 48th time, you woke up in the ER along with drunks and the cadre of Mexican women who spoke once too often during the ball game.

Now instead of worrying your silly little head about such matters, why don’t you sashay that ass back into the kitchen and rustle me up a steak. Medium rare, bitch.

Dear ARCDC Mailbag,

I haven’t got my period yet and my boyfriend doesn’t want kids. What do I do?

– Deanna, Calgary, Alberta

Dear Deanna,

This isn’t much of question. If your man doesn’t want kids, there is nothing to discuss. He is the head of the household and it would be wise to obey. Now, if you’re inexperienced in these matters, I will walk you through the same procedure my mother tried (and ultimately failed) when she found out she was pregnant with me. Buy a bottle of bleach, a high-powered Dyson and a bucket (or garbage bag). Once you have amassed all the necessary materials, turn on your webcam and call my cell.