"I'm falling in love with you."
Ummm. Thanks?
Thanks. Thank God she texted this to me, or else that answer would have fallen right out of my mouth, and oral slips tend to make a helluva mess. This worries me in a very stereotypical kind of way. Why? I'm not sure. The only thing I'm sure of is that my stomach feels three sizes too small all of a sudden and it's forcing all of my stomach acid into my chest. My days consist of running between the rolaids and the bathroom, because my intestines have shrunk with the rest of my insides. This is insane. Why would she say that?
Don't get me wrong. I like my girl. In fact I would say that we've entered a whole new phase of our relationship. I've moved from liking her to really liking her. That's huge, as far as I'm concerned. OK, look. I have witnessed and observed the habits and characteristics of these strange beasts we call "relationships" for some time now. From a safe distance, like my bedroom window across the street (Hi Mrs. McCauley, that's a lovely blouse) and even first-hand, and the only thing that I know for sure is that the utterance of that little four letter word marks the pinnacle of the relationship. You really can't feel much more for a person than love. If you could, they would have made up a new word for it. And I really like my girl. I just want to enjoy the ride a little longer before things get serious and become a whole lot less fun, because the end is marked with a four letter word.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Monday, November 19, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
I've been thinking about the demise of my first car lately
I had literally driven my car into the ground by the time I was eighteen. My mom's adopted grandfather had given me a 1976 Pontiac Pariesenne for my sixteenth birthday. It had been my grandmother's but basically sat in the garage for the better part of twenty years. Sparky measured it out at a lean sixteen feet and seven and a quarter inches from bumper to bumper. We took that car everywhere. I would plow through up to eight inches of snow in the winter and the backseat was almost six feet wide which made it the ideal camper in the summer. When there were no parties in town we'd load it up with as much booze (the trunk comfortably fit two bodies) and as many people (it maxed out at ten) as we could, tie a couple of pallets onto the top and the first fallow we saw became the spot for the night. It's what we would have taken into battle. The only problem with it was that it was horrible on gas. It drank it in deep droughts. Oh, it leaked too. That was a big problem. We were on the way home from Lethbridge when I decided I needed something new. We were just putting out a left-hander when Sparky's phone rang. It was Bruce.
“Hey Dad.” Sparky never liked talking to his parents when he was high. I thought it livened the conversation.
“Hey buddy. Is that you and Christie in that big yellow beast in front of me?”
“Uh-”
“Because I'm getting splashed with gasoline.” My gauge had been falling so fast I just thought that it must have been broken. Sparky leaned over to see how much we had in the tank. It was sitting just below a quarter.
“Whaddaya figure?” he asks me, holding his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone.
“I say we can make it.” I look over at him. He gives a concessional nod, and puts the phone back to his mouth.
“Dustin figures we can make it back.” His eyes go wide as he covers the mouthpiece again.
“Maybe we should just call it a day at the Dairy Queen.”
“Why?” He hands me his cell.
“Hi Bruce,” I say.
“So Duster,” he starts, “do you know what happens when that gasoline splashes on your muffler?” Well, this didn't take a rocket scientist.
“It gets muffled?”
“It goes boom.”
“Boom?”
“Boom.”
We pulled into the Dairy Queen in Coaldale. I ran in and told the manager that I'd be leaving my car there. I didn't mention that it was leaking gasoline, but I figured they'd tune into that sooner or later. Bruce laughed at us as we got in his Blazer.
“You two are going to be scary all grown up,” he said, a big smile on his face.
“You two are pretty scary right now,” my Mom said, when we got back to the house. She didn't share Bruce's light-hearted attitude towards my incontinent car.
“You have to get rid of that boat,” she said.
“I just have to get a new gas tank.”
“If a boat leaks, you get a new boat!” And that was final.
Bruce phoned me a couple of weeks later. Sparky told him about my mom's decision and he had been looking around for a car for me. He had a little black sunfire, that brought over to the house for me to test drive. It was a 2002, only 60,000 kilometers on it, most of them highway, and he said he could let me have it for $10,000. It was a sweet deal, and I figured it would be mine until I got into the car. I sat in the driver's seat and stared at the center console with shame and trepidation. He didn't tell me it was a standard transmission. Granted, there were only five gears, but when you have a problem getting out of first there might as well be 24.
“You wanna get going?” he asks me.
“Yeah.”
“Well, let's get her started then.”
“Yeah.”
“Something the matter?” There was. It was something I'd never told anyone before. In a little town like Taber, everyone is pretty much the same. We all wear pretty much the same kind of clothes, hang out in the same arcades and parking lots (it's a small town), hell we even drink the same beer, and most of the time we had the same people buy it for us. Everyone learned how to drive a stick out in the middle of the prairies when they were twelve and their dad's were too drunk to drive back home. Everyone except me.
“I don't know how to drive a standard Bruce.” There. I said it. I waited for the laughter from the passenger seat, and prepared to answer the inevitable 'you gotta be kidding me, right? Right?' But I didn't hear him say anything. I prepared to turn me head toward him, to see the embarrassed blush on his cheeks while he tried to tell me that it was alright, not everyone learns these things. I was prepared for the mortification. So I turned to him. He looked at me through his bifocals and loosened his tie.
“Well, step on the clutch and turn the key. These things only take a couple of hours to master.”
What more can I say? The man taught me how to drive a standard. We tooled around for a bit. In between directions ('you take your foot off the clutch slowly, until you feel the motor catch the gear, then you give it gas, or it'll stall out'), and stall outs ('you didn't think you were going to master this thing in thirty minutes did you?') we talked about how school was going (good), how my mom was (also good), and if I had finally figured out what I was going to take in school.
“Medicine.”
“Dr. Christie eh? Good for you. I'm glad.”
“How's Sparky liking Anadarko?”
“It's going alright as far as I can tell. I don't know why you're asking me, you probably know better.” I did, but silence makes me uncomfortable.
“Yeah. I just have a very limited amount of small talk material.”
“You don't give yourself enough credit.”
“Everyone else gives me too much. It balances out.”
“You're a smart kid, you'll figure things out. Don't ride the clutch. It's a habit that ends up costing a lot of money.” I felt a hint of envy as I pulled the car back into my driveway. I thanked Bruce, shook his hand, and told him I'd think about it. I didn't buy that car.
“Hey Dad.” Sparky never liked talking to his parents when he was high. I thought it livened the conversation.
“Hey buddy. Is that you and Christie in that big yellow beast in front of me?”
“Uh-”
“Because I'm getting splashed with gasoline.” My gauge had been falling so fast I just thought that it must have been broken. Sparky leaned over to see how much we had in the tank. It was sitting just below a quarter.
“Whaddaya figure?” he asks me, holding his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone.
“I say we can make it.” I look over at him. He gives a concessional nod, and puts the phone back to his mouth.
“Dustin figures we can make it back.” His eyes go wide as he covers the mouthpiece again.
“Maybe we should just call it a day at the Dairy Queen.”
“Why?” He hands me his cell.
“Hi Bruce,” I say.
“So Duster,” he starts, “do you know what happens when that gasoline splashes on your muffler?” Well, this didn't take a rocket scientist.
“It gets muffled?”
“It goes boom.”
“Boom?”
“Boom.”
We pulled into the Dairy Queen in Coaldale. I ran in and told the manager that I'd be leaving my car there. I didn't mention that it was leaking gasoline, but I figured they'd tune into that sooner or later. Bruce laughed at us as we got in his Blazer.
“You two are going to be scary all grown up,” he said, a big smile on his face.
“You two are pretty scary right now,” my Mom said, when we got back to the house. She didn't share Bruce's light-hearted attitude towards my incontinent car.
“You have to get rid of that boat,” she said.
“I just have to get a new gas tank.”
“If a boat leaks, you get a new boat!” And that was final.
Bruce phoned me a couple of weeks later. Sparky told him about my mom's decision and he had been looking around for a car for me. He had a little black sunfire, that brought over to the house for me to test drive. It was a 2002, only 60,000 kilometers on it, most of them highway, and he said he could let me have it for $10,000. It was a sweet deal, and I figured it would be mine until I got into the car. I sat in the driver's seat and stared at the center console with shame and trepidation. He didn't tell me it was a standard transmission. Granted, there were only five gears, but when you have a problem getting out of first there might as well be 24.
“You wanna get going?” he asks me.
“Yeah.”
“Well, let's get her started then.”
“Yeah.”
“Something the matter?” There was. It was something I'd never told anyone before. In a little town like Taber, everyone is pretty much the same. We all wear pretty much the same kind of clothes, hang out in the same arcades and parking lots (it's a small town), hell we even drink the same beer, and most of the time we had the same people buy it for us. Everyone learned how to drive a stick out in the middle of the prairies when they were twelve and their dad's were too drunk to drive back home. Everyone except me.
“I don't know how to drive a standard Bruce.” There. I said it. I waited for the laughter from the passenger seat, and prepared to answer the inevitable 'you gotta be kidding me, right? Right?' But I didn't hear him say anything. I prepared to turn me head toward him, to see the embarrassed blush on his cheeks while he tried to tell me that it was alright, not everyone learns these things. I was prepared for the mortification. So I turned to him. He looked at me through his bifocals and loosened his tie.
“Well, step on the clutch and turn the key. These things only take a couple of hours to master.”
What more can I say? The man taught me how to drive a standard. We tooled around for a bit. In between directions ('you take your foot off the clutch slowly, until you feel the motor catch the gear, then you give it gas, or it'll stall out'), and stall outs ('you didn't think you were going to master this thing in thirty minutes did you?') we talked about how school was going (good), how my mom was (also good), and if I had finally figured out what I was going to take in school.
“Medicine.”
“Dr. Christie eh? Good for you. I'm glad.”
“How's Sparky liking Anadarko?”
“It's going alright as far as I can tell. I don't know why you're asking me, you probably know better.” I did, but silence makes me uncomfortable.
“Yeah. I just have a very limited amount of small talk material.”
“You don't give yourself enough credit.”
“Everyone else gives me too much. It balances out.”
“You're a smart kid, you'll figure things out. Don't ride the clutch. It's a habit that ends up costing a lot of money.” I felt a hint of envy as I pulled the car back into my driveway. I thanked Bruce, shook his hand, and told him I'd think about it. I didn't buy that car.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Interrupting the Flow
The walls are lined with pale tiles. They aren't exactly white, more like teeth that only get brushed periodically white, a very soft yellow. I'd say mother of pearl, but every time I hear someone say that I think about that movie Little Giants with Rick Moranis and Rick Moranis depresses me. There's a crack winding its way through the grout that holds the off-white tiles in place. At eye-level the crack crosses the grout and splinters into the ceramic squares. It looks like someone has bashed their head into the wall here. I imagine something like that would have been messy. There's an advertisement for a truck just below where the crack starts. I look at it, but I don't really read it. There's no half-naked woman sitting on top of the black truck so my attention starts to wane in a matter of seconds. Yet, I stare at the shapes of the letters, big and blocky, a stark white against the black background, the colour that the tiles framing it can only aspire to now. I feel tense for a few seconds, but like always, it unexplainably disappears and the release comes. For some reason it reminds me of natural light and Chinooks in the summer time. It's just soothing. I let myself smile.
How's it going man?
I try my best to pretend that the voice is directed at someone else who might be staring at the wall, but there are only two of us in here. There's a part of me that is compelled to answer. It feels like an obsessive compulsion, like people who have to wash their hands eighty-seven times before they can leave their house. It's redundant to have a conversation here and further more extremely uncomfortable, yet there's that unreasonable little voice in my head, and its resemblance to my mother is chilling, telling me to speak when spoken too. Maybe like the nag in an OCD'd head that keeps telling it's owner that there are still germs in between their fingers.
But there's another part of me that is disturbed and even insulted. This part of my head demands a privacy that our society has conditioned us into. I'm in a private space, and the only voices I should be hearing are the ones inside my head. The one's that tell me to kill people like this. I'm joking, the voices in my head mostly just talk about the weather. It's not what most people think, that conversation is stunted here because of homophobia. It's not like that at all. There's a vulnerability in the situation that makes conversing with strangers awkward. It's a vulnerability that I would like to dismiss as soon as possible and therefore I must fully concentrate on the task at hand (no pun intended).
Having a good time man? Nice shirt.
I try to ignore him. First of all there's no really good answer to the question. I'd have a better time if I was back upstairs, drinking beer with my friends, trying to talk to girls that are too pretty to listen and not yet drunk enough to dismiss such a crucial fact. I take my beer off of the top of the urinal and take a drink. It's cold, it's tasty, and it gives me an excuse not to talk. Nice shirt? Who says that in a bathroom. I can feel his eyes on the side of my head. He's staring at me. This is worse than not talking.
I'm doing alright man. Thank You.
His head turns around mercifully and I feel the tension start to slip away again. I have a shy bladder. Finally, the flow simpers, and after a few shakes I step down from the urinal. I tuck in and go directly to the sink. Under the circumstances I feel that I can ignore the custom of buttoning and zipping at the urinal. I give my hands a rinse, (after all I didn't pee on them), and take the last sheet of paper towel. I wrap it around my hand and open the bathroom door. I hear him as I leave.
Right on, right on.
No. Not really.
How's it going man?
I try my best to pretend that the voice is directed at someone else who might be staring at the wall, but there are only two of us in here. There's a part of me that is compelled to answer. It feels like an obsessive compulsion, like people who have to wash their hands eighty-seven times before they can leave their house. It's redundant to have a conversation here and further more extremely uncomfortable, yet there's that unreasonable little voice in my head, and its resemblance to my mother is chilling, telling me to speak when spoken too. Maybe like the nag in an OCD'd head that keeps telling it's owner that there are still germs in between their fingers.
But there's another part of me that is disturbed and even insulted. This part of my head demands a privacy that our society has conditioned us into. I'm in a private space, and the only voices I should be hearing are the ones inside my head. The one's that tell me to kill people like this. I'm joking, the voices in my head mostly just talk about the weather. It's not what most people think, that conversation is stunted here because of homophobia. It's not like that at all. There's a vulnerability in the situation that makes conversing with strangers awkward. It's a vulnerability that I would like to dismiss as soon as possible and therefore I must fully concentrate on the task at hand (no pun intended).
Having a good time man? Nice shirt.
I try to ignore him. First of all there's no really good answer to the question. I'd have a better time if I was back upstairs, drinking beer with my friends, trying to talk to girls that are too pretty to listen and not yet drunk enough to dismiss such a crucial fact. I take my beer off of the top of the urinal and take a drink. It's cold, it's tasty, and it gives me an excuse not to talk. Nice shirt? Who says that in a bathroom. I can feel his eyes on the side of my head. He's staring at me. This is worse than not talking.
I'm doing alright man. Thank You.
His head turns around mercifully and I feel the tension start to slip away again. I have a shy bladder. Finally, the flow simpers, and after a few shakes I step down from the urinal. I tuck in and go directly to the sink. Under the circumstances I feel that I can ignore the custom of buttoning and zipping at the urinal. I give my hands a rinse, (after all I didn't pee on them), and take the last sheet of paper towel. I wrap it around my hand and open the bathroom door. I hear him as I leave.
Right on, right on.
No. Not really.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
I'm officially looking for a new job
Monday, October 22, 2007
Condom manufacturer seeks Canadian volunteers to test products
THE CANADIAN PRESS
TORONTO - A condom company is looking for 1,000 volunteers to test its products and report back on their findings.
It opened the job competition Monday and will continue accepting applicants until Nov. 4.
"Applicants will be asked a series of questions to make sure they are a good fit for this dream job," the company said in a statement.
"Questions include how often do you use condoms? And why do you want to be a Durex condom tester?"
To get the job, the company is looking, in particular, for creative responses to the question about why they want to be a condom tester, Mare said.
"That'll be the primary way that we differentiate applicants from each other."
From www.durexcondomtester.ca
Name -- Dustin Christie
E-mail -- dustinc@ualberta.ca
City -- Edmonton
Province -- Alberta
Postal Code -- T6H 2N7
Date of Birth -- 11 January 1985
Gender -- Male
Tell us why you want to be a Durex condom tester?
I've had a lot of dreams, and, concurrently, a ylot of dream jobs. Most of them revolved around women. I wanted to be a gynecologist. I found I wasn't exactly smart enough for that. I wanted to be a gigolo. But I'm definitely not pretty enough for that. I wanted to be a hockey player. At first, just for the hockey. When I found out how much tail those guys get though, I was sure that this was the career for me. But I'm not very good at hockey.
I can't do any of these jobs, because I'm not good enough. However, I know my dick very well. We've been through a lot together. I consider it my best friend, and know that it's the only one I have that I will never lose touch with. We share a lot of common interests. This is important, because I think we have a common cause, Durex and I: We want to do whatever is best for my dick, and by extension all Canadian dicks. We have the same goal in mind, to make the best product out there; you guys do it for the money, I do it for my best friend.
Thank you for your time and consideration. I really hope you pick me, it'll be a dream come true.
Condom manufacturer seeks Canadian volunteers to test products
THE CANADIAN PRESS
TORONTO - A condom company is looking for 1,000 volunteers to test its products and report back on their findings.
It opened the job competition Monday and will continue accepting applicants until Nov. 4.
"Applicants will be asked a series of questions to make sure they are a good fit for this dream job," the company said in a statement.
"Questions include how often do you use condoms? And why do you want to be a Durex condom tester?"
To get the job, the company is looking, in particular, for creative responses to the question about why they want to be a condom tester, Mare said.
"That'll be the primary way that we differentiate applicants from each other."
From www.durexcondomtester.ca
Name -- Dustin Christie
E-mail -- dustinc@ualberta.ca
City -- Edmonton
Province -- Alberta
Postal Code -- T6H 2N7
Date of Birth -- 11 January 1985
Gender -- Male
Tell us why you want to be a Durex condom tester?
I've had a lot of dreams, and, concurrently, a ylot of dream jobs. Most of them revolved around women. I wanted to be a gynecologist. I found I wasn't exactly smart enough for that. I wanted to be a gigolo. But I'm definitely not pretty enough for that. I wanted to be a hockey player. At first, just for the hockey. When I found out how much tail those guys get though, I was sure that this was the career for me. But I'm not very good at hockey.
I can't do any of these jobs, because I'm not good enough. However, I know my dick very well. We've been through a lot together. I consider it my best friend, and know that it's the only one I have that I will never lose touch with. We share a lot of common interests. This is important, because I think we have a common cause, Durex and I: We want to do whatever is best for my dick, and by extension all Canadian dicks. We have the same goal in mind, to make the best product out there; you guys do it for the money, I do it for my best friend.
Thank you for your time and consideration. I really hope you pick me, it'll be a dream come true.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Ozzy? More like Snoozzy!...that doesn't even rhyme.
My roommates have been bagging on me all week to help out with their surplus of Ozzy Osbourne/Rob Zombie tickets. They bought eight tickets to tonight's show and four people have backed out on them. They've been phoning people they haven't talked to in years to get rid of these tickets. No takers.
They were depending on me to take at least one of them off of their hands. I have in the past. I was a last resort for System of a Down the last time they were in the city. That was alright though--System makes relevant music and perform it at a high level. I have no desire to go to a concert and watch a geriatric seize on stage until he breaks a hip. The way the man hunches over a microphone, you'd think he just came down with osteoperosis. It's sad. I don't go to concerts to be sad. I want to go to a show, have a beer and forget about essays, work and reading Clarissa. I don't go to be reminded of the consequences of chemical excess. I don't want to have to think about that until I'm a sixty year old drunk sitting on a bench in the throes of an acid flashback. If all I have to look forward to is unintelligible mumbles and mid-tempo eighties rock I'd rather experience it on my couch, listening to K-Rock with a couple oxycontins.
They were depending on me to take at least one of them off of their hands. I have in the past. I was a last resort for System of a Down the last time they were in the city. That was alright though--System makes relevant music and perform it at a high level. I have no desire to go to a concert and watch a geriatric seize on stage until he breaks a hip. The way the man hunches over a microphone, you'd think he just came down with osteoperosis. It's sad. I don't go to concerts to be sad. I want to go to a show, have a beer and forget about essays, work and reading Clarissa. I don't go to be reminded of the consequences of chemical excess. I don't want to have to think about that until I'm a sixty year old drunk sitting on a bench in the throes of an acid flashback. If all I have to look forward to is unintelligible mumbles and mid-tempo eighties rock I'd rather experience it on my couch, listening to K-Rock with a couple oxycontins.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Go Go Jesus Winefinger
I wonder what Jesus' wine tasted like. Was it sweet (this question is totally dependent on whether he turned water into red or white wine)? Probably not. It was probably dry. Extra dry, like a double zero. He didn't seem like someone who joked around a lot. Which is weird (to me at least), because you figure if there was one person on Earth that could laugh at himself, it would've been Jesus. Maybe he told fart jokes. Or made fun of jews. Then again he was a jew, and seemed like a guy who took himself very seriously. So, yeah, no joking around. Still, he was probably a more amiable guy than Moses. Moses was a hard sonuvabitch.
It was probably red wine. What else goes with fish and bread? A nice shiraz maybe, or perhaps a merlot. The kind of stuff you'd bring to a dinner party.
Imagine how easy that would be to market: "From Jesus' finger to your finest crystal." What kind of status symbol would that be, just to bust out a bottle of Christ's finest, aged to perfection over 2,000 years. You'd be the envy of all your neighbours.
I wonder what Jesus would call his wine, "The Water of Nazareth?" How about "Jerusalem Vineyards?" I'd call it "Christ, that's good wine?" The kids would love that. He'd probably think of something better than that though. God's son and all.
What would he charge? The only expense he would have would be the bottles. He'd probably charge through the fucking roof. That's what I would do, and I was created in God's image after all.
Do you think the apostles were alcoholics? Could Christ turn normal grass into pot? I bet he could. That's probably why the Romans caught him. He and the apostles had just roached a fat ass spliff and were too high to run away. Maybe the Roman's lured them into a trap with Cheetoh's.
It was probably red wine. What else goes with fish and bread? A nice shiraz maybe, or perhaps a merlot. The kind of stuff you'd bring to a dinner party.
Imagine how easy that would be to market: "From Jesus' finger to your finest crystal." What kind of status symbol would that be, just to bust out a bottle of Christ's finest, aged to perfection over 2,000 years. You'd be the envy of all your neighbours.
I wonder what Jesus would call his wine, "The Water of Nazareth?" How about "Jerusalem Vineyards?" I'd call it "Christ, that's good wine?" The kids would love that. He'd probably think of something better than that though. God's son and all.
What would he charge? The only expense he would have would be the bottles. He'd probably charge through the fucking roof. That's what I would do, and I was created in God's image after all.
Do you think the apostles were alcoholics? Could Christ turn normal grass into pot? I bet he could. That's probably why the Romans caught him. He and the apostles had just roached a fat ass spliff and were too high to run away. Maybe the Roman's lured them into a trap with Cheetoh's.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
The Best Joke I Know (or; the best that will give least offense)
This is the only joke I've ever told that has left someone in tears.
There's an elephant walking through the jungle. She's happy, trumpeting to no one in particular, when she steps on a twig and it lodges in her foot. She falls to the ground in pain and cries out for help. She is almost at her wits end, as no one seems to be able to hear her, when she is surprised to see an ant sitting on the end of her trunk.
"What's up?" the ant asks.
"I was walking through the jungle when I stepped on a twig. It's stuck in my foot and I'm in too much pain to go on."
"Oh, that's too bad. How can I help."
"I would be ever so grateful if you would remove it for me." the elephant says.
"I can probably do that." the ant says, "But what will you do for me if I remove your twig?"
"Anything you want! Just please, please, get this thing out of my foot!"
The ant gives a sly smile and looks at the elephant with a mischevious twinkle in his eye. "So if I remove the twig, you'll give me anything?"
"Yes, yes, I've already told you that!"
"Can we have sex?"
The elephant was in too much agony to be taken aback by the little creature's bold request and thus answered: "sure, whatever you want, just take out the twig."
At this the ant betrayed a huge smile and disappeared under the ailing elephant's foot. Within the minute the elephant felt the painful barb pulled from her foot, grateful to be relieved of the pain she was in.
She basked on the ground in her relief for a minute or two as the ant scurried up her hind leg. Before too long she stood up, but with so much enthusiasm that she threw herself into a coconut tree near where she had fallen. As a result the tree relieved itself of a large coconut, which promptly fell on her head.
"Ouch!" she said, rubbing the top of her head with her trunk.
"That's right," the ant said to her in reply, "take it all bitch!"
There's an elephant walking through the jungle. She's happy, trumpeting to no one in particular, when she steps on a twig and it lodges in her foot. She falls to the ground in pain and cries out for help. She is almost at her wits end, as no one seems to be able to hear her, when she is surprised to see an ant sitting on the end of her trunk.
"What's up?" the ant asks.
"I was walking through the jungle when I stepped on a twig. It's stuck in my foot and I'm in too much pain to go on."
"Oh, that's too bad. How can I help."
"I would be ever so grateful if you would remove it for me." the elephant says.
"I can probably do that." the ant says, "But what will you do for me if I remove your twig?"
"Anything you want! Just please, please, get this thing out of my foot!"
The ant gives a sly smile and looks at the elephant with a mischevious twinkle in his eye. "So if I remove the twig, you'll give me anything?"
"Yes, yes, I've already told you that!"
"Can we have sex?"
The elephant was in too much agony to be taken aback by the little creature's bold request and thus answered: "sure, whatever you want, just take out the twig."
At this the ant betrayed a huge smile and disappeared under the ailing elephant's foot. Within the minute the elephant felt the painful barb pulled from her foot, grateful to be relieved of the pain she was in.
She basked on the ground in her relief for a minute or two as the ant scurried up her hind leg. Before too long she stood up, but with so much enthusiasm that she threw herself into a coconut tree near where she had fallen. As a result the tree relieved itself of a large coconut, which promptly fell on her head.
"Ouch!" she said, rubbing the top of her head with her trunk.
"That's right," the ant said to her in reply, "take it all bitch!"
Monday, October 1, 2007
Another Painful Winter
People constantly bitch about the weather here. I suppose though, that if there ever was a place to bitch about it, this would be it. I have a buddy that started bitching about winter at the end of July. "It's going to get cold right soon," "Need a winter coat" "Already have to warm up my truck," and the like. He wanted to turn the furnace back on in the middle of August. But, like all disagreements, it was nothing a best of three Need for Speed Carbon canyon duel couldn't fix. The furnace stayed off by the narrowest of margins. Put on a sweater.
I don't mind Edmonton winters. I'd take them over Lethbridge, with their thirty degree wind chills any day. Even Monday. But for the most part, I'd rather spend the winter in Edmonton because of the hockey. I like having the option to go see a game any time I want. I don't mind standing room tickets. I even like the nosebleed section. There's nothing like trying to make your way down from section 337 with three periods worth of Rexall beer under your belt. I'm never quite sure if I'm going to make it to the bottom, and in how many pieces. It's really the only time that I think about my will. I always have a tough time deciding if I'm going to pay tuition or buy season's tickets. Well, at least until this year.
This is going to be a bad year for Oilers hockey. That was decided, of course, before the end of last year. The only thing that could be worse than seeing Smitty on TV in a New York Islanders jersey will be seeing him eight times in an Avs jersey. Fucking Colorado. Jason Smith was made captain of the Flyers yesterday. Great stuff. I think Kevin Lowe's on crack. Or whatever they put in the Rexall beer. One in the same you say? Touche.
Who did we get to fill these gaping holes? That Penner guy from Anaheim who doesn't like to skate and Sheldon Souray, who, though he probably will score at least 15 this year, cannot play a lick of D. Not a fucking lick. Replays of Jason Spezza dancing around him in Ottawa last year have been playing on a loop in my head for the past several months.
Does Shawn Horcoff remind anyone else of Corky from Life Goes On? Or is that just me?
Sam Gagner will be good...for nine games before they send him back to juniors. Then what? 73 games of watching Hemsky dance around with the puck until someone takes it away and a full year of having Gene fucking Principe explain away another loss. Ray Ferraro gave me a whole new respect for my mute button.
Watching the games live is not without it's painful moments either. I'd rather watch commercials than listen to that guy from Breakfast TV ask stupid questions to random drunk fans. I hate that guy.
It's hockey season again, but there probably won't be anything good to talk about for the next seven months except how shitty the weather is.
I don't mind Edmonton winters. I'd take them over Lethbridge, with their thirty degree wind chills any day. Even Monday. But for the most part, I'd rather spend the winter in Edmonton because of the hockey. I like having the option to go see a game any time I want. I don't mind standing room tickets. I even like the nosebleed section. There's nothing like trying to make your way down from section 337 with three periods worth of Rexall beer under your belt. I'm never quite sure if I'm going to make it to the bottom, and in how many pieces. It's really the only time that I think about my will. I always have a tough time deciding if I'm going to pay tuition or buy season's tickets. Well, at least until this year.
This is going to be a bad year for Oilers hockey. That was decided, of course, before the end of last year. The only thing that could be worse than seeing Smitty on TV in a New York Islanders jersey will be seeing him eight times in an Avs jersey. Fucking Colorado. Jason Smith was made captain of the Flyers yesterday. Great stuff. I think Kevin Lowe's on crack. Or whatever they put in the Rexall beer. One in the same you say? Touche.
Who did we get to fill these gaping holes? That Penner guy from Anaheim who doesn't like to skate and Sheldon Souray, who, though he probably will score at least 15 this year, cannot play a lick of D. Not a fucking lick. Replays of Jason Spezza dancing around him in Ottawa last year have been playing on a loop in my head for the past several months.
Does Shawn Horcoff remind anyone else of Corky from Life Goes On? Or is that just me?
Sam Gagner will be good...for nine games before they send him back to juniors. Then what? 73 games of watching Hemsky dance around with the puck until someone takes it away and a full year of having Gene fucking Principe explain away another loss. Ray Ferraro gave me a whole new respect for my mute button.
Watching the games live is not without it's painful moments either. I'd rather watch commercials than listen to that guy from Breakfast TV ask stupid questions to random drunk fans. I hate that guy.
It's hockey season again, but there probably won't be anything good to talk about for the next seven months except how shitty the weather is.
Monday, September 24, 2007
You want a passport? Fuck you, pay me
I don't understand why the federal government doesn't just give us a passport when we're born. It's beyond me. My roommate has been trying to get his passport for the last two weeks. He's stood in line, he's sat in the little octagon room with all the chairs. They've closed on him, they've made him get new forms from the website because he coloured outside the little fuck box that you have to put your signature in, and then closed on him. They've sent him away because he doesn't have a guarantor, and then when he got one, well it was the weekend and they were closed.
He pays upwards of two grand a month in income taxes and then the federal government jerks him around and bends him over before they let him leave the country--and he hasn't even been through airport security yet. This is a great country, probably in the top fifty in the world, I'd say. You get the right to vote, you can speak freely (to an extent), you can theoretically do and work wherever you want, but you aren't born with the right to leave. You have to pay for that one. It just gets me. Especially since I watched sicko. Europeans get everything for next to fucking nothing (if you choose to believe everything you see in a Michael Moore documentary), or at least next to. They have four day work weeks in Italy. You know why? Because they've all had revolutions. French officials have long memories and there's guillotines at the end of them. The Brits are always looking for an excuse to kick some parliamentary ass. Makes me wonder...
How many people do you think it would take to storm Parliament? What would they do? Call in the military? Don Wheaton's Chevrolet has more armoured vehicles in it's showroom than the Canadian forces do. Or what if everyone just decided not to pay taxes? I think they'd listen then. Can't throw us all in jail. Just something we should consider.
He pays upwards of two grand a month in income taxes and then the federal government jerks him around and bends him over before they let him leave the country--and he hasn't even been through airport security yet. This is a great country, probably in the top fifty in the world, I'd say. You get the right to vote, you can speak freely (to an extent), you can theoretically do and work wherever you want, but you aren't born with the right to leave. You have to pay for that one. It just gets me. Especially since I watched sicko. Europeans get everything for next to fucking nothing (if you choose to believe everything you see in a Michael Moore documentary), or at least next to. They have four day work weeks in Italy. You know why? Because they've all had revolutions. French officials have long memories and there's guillotines at the end of them. The Brits are always looking for an excuse to kick some parliamentary ass. Makes me wonder...
How many people do you think it would take to storm Parliament? What would they do? Call in the military? Don Wheaton's Chevrolet has more armoured vehicles in it's showroom than the Canadian forces do. Or what if everyone just decided not to pay taxes? I think they'd listen then. Can't throw us all in jail. Just something we should consider.
Monday, September 17, 2007
I like to go fast
Well, it's Monday. This is what I say to myself as I drive down the street. It's Monday. It feels like a Monday. I like Mondays that feel like Tuesdays. The problem with Mondays that feel like Tuesdays is that someone will inevitably ask you what day it is, you say "Tuesday," but there's always a stranger walking by, waiting for the opportunity to say "No, it's Monday." This is what I'm thinking as I drive a 2007 G6 North on the QE2.
"Maybe you should slow down." That's Derek Lascelle, the salesman that's given me the keys to something that goes faster than is safe. If I wanted to go slower I would have asked for a salesgirl.
"What?" The sunroof is open. I don't see why he opened it when we were on the highway. The tinny rattling of the wind blowing into the backseat doesn't highlight the classiness or luxury that comes with having a sunroof.
"Please slow down." I look at the speedo. It's a solid 160. I like to go fast. This is why I drive a sunfire; more than four cylinders and I'd probably be dead by now. This thing has six. Wheeeeee.
"OK." I slow down to 120. I like this car. The interior is black, a very shiny black. I like shiny. The model looks like a generic Grand Am, nothing very fancy, and as Derek is going on his spiel about how GM has overhauled it's designs, I note that they haven't tried very hard. But it's red. I like red. Red is fast. I like fast. I'm glad I had the foresight to leave my Mastercard at home. This was well before Derek let me test drive the car. Back when he was smiling.
I pull back onto 34th ave. Derek's grip on the door handle loosens as we get nearer to Southgate Pontiac, Buick, GM.
"Should I pull it around?" I ask.
"You can leave it here." I half expect him to cross himself as he gets out of the car.
If things didn't seem to go as smoothly as he hoped they would (I thought everything went fine), it's his fault. He gave me the keys. Ask. They'll tell you. I am not to drive. I've been asked how much I had to pay the guy administering my road test for a pass. I have people sign a waiver before they get in my car.
No. That's a lie. Non-fiction, right, I remember now.
"So...Should I give you a call in a couple a days?" I feel bad that I'm not buying this car. He's a pretty nice guy. Seems to complain a lot, but nice all the same. He must be really hurtin' for a sale. I consider stringing him along, humouring him, but that seems cruel.
"No, I'll call you." Maybe I could have asked more questions, gotten into it a little more. Perhaps I could have taken an active interest in the car past how fast it would go, but I don't care about any of that. It's just so hard to think of anything other than the fact that it's Monday.
"Maybe you should slow down." That's Derek Lascelle, the salesman that's given me the keys to something that goes faster than is safe. If I wanted to go slower I would have asked for a salesgirl.
"What?" The sunroof is open. I don't see why he opened it when we were on the highway. The tinny rattling of the wind blowing into the backseat doesn't highlight the classiness or luxury that comes with having a sunroof.
"Please slow down." I look at the speedo. It's a solid 160. I like to go fast. This is why I drive a sunfire; more than four cylinders and I'd probably be dead by now. This thing has six. Wheeeeee.
"OK." I slow down to 120. I like this car. The interior is black, a very shiny black. I like shiny. The model looks like a generic Grand Am, nothing very fancy, and as Derek is going on his spiel about how GM has overhauled it's designs, I note that they haven't tried very hard. But it's red. I like red. Red is fast. I like fast. I'm glad I had the foresight to leave my Mastercard at home. This was well before Derek let me test drive the car. Back when he was smiling.
I pull back onto 34th ave. Derek's grip on the door handle loosens as we get nearer to Southgate Pontiac, Buick, GM.
"Should I pull it around?" I ask.
"You can leave it here." I half expect him to cross himself as he gets out of the car.
If things didn't seem to go as smoothly as he hoped they would (I thought everything went fine), it's his fault. He gave me the keys. Ask. They'll tell you. I am not to drive. I've been asked how much I had to pay the guy administering my road test for a pass. I have people sign a waiver before they get in my car.
No. That's a lie. Non-fiction, right, I remember now.
"So...Should I give you a call in a couple a days?" I feel bad that I'm not buying this car. He's a pretty nice guy. Seems to complain a lot, but nice all the same. He must be really hurtin' for a sale. I consider stringing him along, humouring him, but that seems cruel.
"No, I'll call you." Maybe I could have asked more questions, gotten into it a little more. Perhaps I could have taken an active interest in the car past how fast it would go, but I don't care about any of that. It's just so hard to think of anything other than the fact that it's Monday.
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