"You Don't Really Miss Someone Until They're Gone..."

The best stranger to poke you in the back when you're not looking is a pretty blonde college girl.

Which is what happened to me today at my local supermarket.

This girl was an old acquaintance at my college. One of those girls I saw in the classroom, never really got to know. Until now.

Turns out, she's living at a dormitory, while going to another university cross town. Because she couldn't bear to part with friends. Unlike me, who'd abandon them if it could get me five bucks and a Coke. Which might explain my somewhat dim social situation.

Anyway, she mentioned that she had dropped out, along with Nick and Mark. I did not know who the fuck Nick and Mark were, like the girl.

Which is when I said the title of this post.

I have never been so thankful to be in the express lane. Unfortunately, I bought 6 yogurts and a milk. Had I known this was going to be a social situation, I would have bought something more socieable - oregano sauce, foreign cooking sauces, and something with an unpronounceable French name.

But I left and said I'd say hi to everyone for her. Yes, here's a sample of what that never-to-be-realized conversation will go like,

Me: Hey, you guys know a pretty blonde girl, wore a scarf, dropped out of journalism?
Them: No.
Me: Okay (insert various hem-hawing, and my attempts at description searching the deepest cesspits of my memory for something she had done.)
Them: Oh, you mean (insert name here)?
Me: Yeah. That's her. She says hi. Along with Nick and Mark.

Which is why I never will mention her again.

I think I broke it.

How in the hell do you get one?

A Dutch chick that is.

I see them everywhere. There's one across the hall. There is one in my transcendantal idealism of Hegel and Kant class. Yet there's never one in my bed.

I don't think I want one. I need one. No French salope will do. Only Dutch.

This all started on Tuesday. The day I walk to the bibliothèque. All I wanted was little Heidegger. But I think I now know why Descartes loved the Netherlands--and it wasn't the reefer. It was the hot Dutch ass that has an effect on the nether regions.

I was searching the shelves for my ellusive book. Having no luck I decided to search elsewhere. That's when I saw her. The girl of my mastabatory dreams from the past eight years. There she was. In human form no less. I decided I was going to do her. On the hood of my new Citroën C2. Right after I killed her spindly Portuguese boyfriend.

Then I realized he probably knew ninjitsui or some shit. Dammit.

Man I need some or I'm going to turn into this guy.

Fini.

Sad Anime

All right, everybody in Regina, go to Tokyo 7, buy something. Help a guy out as he's dying.

That guy is Miles. Long-time Nothing Important readers will remember him as this guy. Basically, he was a cool guy, ran a cool shop, in a rather uncool town, and now this bigger comic book store shut him out because they didn't want the competition.

So buy something, anything, check it out.

Looking back on it, I'm ashamed I didn't tell you guys about it earlier.

Buy shit from Tokyo 7.

That is all.

God Damn You Rick

Rick was the name of this guy who was cock-blocking me at this crappy party tonight to get to a chick I didn't really like but I wanted to see and possibly get a man on base. Not a home run, but just a man on base.

Her name's Jessica, and she's a film student at some small school around here.

I'm never going to see her again, and that sucks.

The thing is, I can talk to girls, but I can never close the deal. I can't get it.

Anyway, I need pussy. Need it. But I won't get it. Because Rick cock-blocked me. Nerdy rick wearing all black with a bad beard and bad Buddy Holly glasses, trying to crush me with a kung-fu grip. He failed.

When they suggested that they had to call Alex, I thought they meant in the club. I told Rick that he should go and call him, and me and Jessica would talk. Didn't happen. Then he said that they had to call him on a phone. So they left.

Which is why Rick had better beware the day I buy a baseball bat. All I'm saying is, police find him dead with multiple bludgeoning wounds and a note that says "Don't cockblock me," it wasn't me in any sense of the world and I'm completely innocence.

I need pussy.

I have an e-mail address, which I hope I can parlay into some base of some sort.

That is all.

God Damn Video Game Movies To Satan's Bowels

I mean, video game movies are responsible for Uwe Boll's career. If he were a soldier, he'd be a war criminal, ex-communicated, and flogged by all the people who actually paid to see his movies.
His movies stink.

Dead or Alive will suck.
Halo will suck.
Doom sucked.
Street Fighter sucked.

And on another level, how sad is this? There's a lot of good ideas out there. But they aren't being made into movies. No, they go into video games. And video games are porn. Their storylines are crap. And then the movies make them even crappier.

Video game movies are crap, and we should stop going to them.

Philosophy Club Madness

Some things you know will end in failure. That TV show you love? It'll be cancelled midway through the pilot. That movie? No one will watch it. Your life? Choke to death on sperm from your dealer's penis for your last hit.

Same with this Philosophy Club.

Nay will fail. Nay, (short for Nathaniel, I was informed) started up this club. But that's enough about the club. Let's talk about the name.

Seriously, is this guy trying to be a jackass? I mean, it's not cool to name yourself after a sound a horsey makes. I mean, I know you want to establish an identity, but please, only Joe works on that principle.

I informed him at the end of the meeting that that name sounded like he came from a hippy commune. To which he responded, "Well, that's your opinion."

Classy answer, but one thing I've learned about life is that it's like prison - unless you want to end up someone's bitch, you gotta kick ass on your first introduction. Anyway, he's stupid. And if I sound mean, just think about if this was actually prison and you said your name was the sound a barnyard animal makes. They'd shiv each other just to shiv you.

Anyway, onto the philosophy club. We bullshitted. This ugly bearded guy and this other girl were basically having a kind of mini-date, in their laps, not saying much. Nay's sidekick was this ugly pimply Asian dude, who said he propisitioned something midway through the sentence.

I know this will fail, because I have tried this throughout my school years. I tried to start up a school newspaper in the 7th grade. It failed. I ran for president of my school SRC in elementary and high school. I tried to save a couch, too\. That failed.

Basically, trying to make a difference in school is like trying to teach prisoners how to read. Yeah, it really should work, but all you'll get is failure, shiv, and rape.

Nay is me. And I want this philosophy club to succeed, but it'll fail. I tried to save it. I suggested the philosophy of sex, to try and go balls-out in a recruiting drive. Hook 'em early, that's my motto.

But no one will be hooked early, because people just want to get blowjobs, money, and a passing fleet at happiness - in that order. Anything nice you get comes from you, or it's something you can't control.

Oh, well. At least I'll crack up whenever some whinnies like a horse.

I Was Hungry For A Calzone When Irony Stabbed Me 46 Times

Okay, on Fridays, I go out for food. But I have homework to do, so I wanted to hold it off. No food for me until homework done.

However, my brain made a smell hallucination. I thought I started to smell someone cooking calzones. Now, I'm not a big calzone man. I've eaten them once or twice. But I needed them now. I thought about going to this Pizza Palace place, that's literally in the same building as mine. But I decided against it; it was a sit-down restaurant, and I didn't want to be a loser. So I thought I'd try this fast food place that I thought served calzones, two doors down.

But they didn't serve calzones, so I kept walking. Which kinda confused me, because I thought, "Why the fuck don't you stop? You're fucking hungry! Give up on the calzone! Fuck the calzone!" So then I decided to go the mall. But then my brain said, "Oh, c'mon, the mall doesn't have a place that serves calzones!" So then I thought, "Well, fuck it, I'll go there anyway. Maybe they'll have a place that does anyway that's fast food. So I won't look like a loser."

So I went there. On the elevator, I had another smell hallucination, one about pancakes. But I decided to go there, not thinking that they'd have to, and that I should go and eat Edo. Hallelujah praise Jesus they had a Ms. Vanellis! And holy shit, they served calzones! Sure, the picture made them seem pretty shitty, but what the fuck, I needed a calzone.

I asked for a calzone. They said they were out. So I, slurring my words a bit out of hunger. "Wait, are you telling me that I might have to wait to get a calzone, or that you're all out of the calzones?"
"We're all out of calzones."

So now I'm boycotting Ms. Vanellis. I got some Edo. Right behind me was this really cute blonde girl - not regular blonde, but nearly-white blondes. I like that look. I thought I saw some person behind her, which may or may not have been her friend. I didn't really get a good look. I wanted some food.

She was sitting alone, and my predatory instincts kicked in. Need pussy, need pussy has become a kind of mental refrain for me of late. But then I remembered what could've been her friend. So I stayed there, shooting quick glances like I was a postal worker with an AK-47 and a grudge.

But then her boyfriend sat down. The rest of the night, I noticed the rest of the happy couples. There was another couple, with her legs on top of his lap under the table. Happy couples were shopping in the mall as I left. Another punk couple snuck in a kiss in a back alley on the way out.

All these signs of sex I wasn't getting made me homicidally miserable, muttering myself in the cold, cold night, wearing no gloves, toque, or scarf. I wanted a baseball bat right then and there. Fear the day once I go into Foot Locker.

Porn as methadone for me just doesn't cut it.

That is all.

In Regards To Bad Bands/One-Hit Wonders

Broken clocks are right twice a day, too.

Triple D and The Essay of Doom

Dr. Dennis Denisoff is my English professor. If hutzpah were borscht, he'd be able to feed the Russian army three times over.

How do you account for a teacher who recommends student buy his own book of Victorian reading, 99% of which are free floating on the internet?

Now, I take my essays seriously. I don't ask teachers help. They're my shit.

However, I was having a bit of free trouble with my essay, so I e-mailed him for help. First time ever.

And he basically shits all over my thesis, changing itompletely while saying he's keeping it pretty much the same. But I figure it's best not to fight it, and just tell him what he wants to hear.

So I look up on some of the notes leading up to the points he talked about in his e-mail, and there were very few websites talking about it. So I'm trying everything, just clicking on websites.

When I hit his website. Which for the sake of getting good grades, I'm going to reference. Because I figure, hell, if I'm going to let him fuck me up my ass, might as well give him a reacharound, too.

Eh, probably making it up for all the people who made fun of his name. Dennis Denisoff, ha. Plus, for the first two months of his class, I thought he was gay. Until he mentioned a wife. But that could be a beard.

And I took his because I didn't want to read about feminist literature...Of course, then I'd have to say that I'm oppressing everyone with two X chromosomes.

But at least I may not have gotten fucked up the ass. Only porno lesbians wear strap-ons. Plus, I'm a fan of lesbians, which the professor for that class might be.

Boy, lesbian porn has fucked up my views of women.

Speaking of non-heterosexuality, are there bicrossdressors? Like, some days they dress up like a boy, other days they dress up like a girl?

Shopping for clothes would be pretty easy, though. Of course, I'd imagine they'd probably fall into one category. For the lazy trans people, it'd probably be hard to either tape up your breasts or put in your fake ones, so they'd probably stick with their own gender. The men might wear panties, but that's it.

That is all.

Easy Way To Fake Being A Music Nerd

Find a foreign band outside of England or your own home country.

Seriously, you can't lose. No one outside of the U.S./Canada/North America. Find a French band, Russian band, eastern European band, or an African band.

Like take Bleu Singe. A 60s-pop band from France. Beat that!

Hell, if you don't feel like using it, make up a band, and say they're from a foreign country. What's the guy going to say - I know every band ever, and that's not one of them?

The answer is no, they will not, and you will prove to be the smarter person. God bless our lack of information outside any country but our own.

Don't use Iceland metal, though, or else you get lumped up with the metal/Trent Reznor/Goth scene obviously. Unless that's your scene, in which case ha ha, nerd. Seriously, I saw a big lineup of every Goth fag in Toronto at a H.I.M. signing. Funny as hell. Buncha losers. Seriously, as a man who wears a trenchcoat, it's those guys and the pedophiles who give the regular trenchcoat wearers a bad name.

And don't use the country's name in the band title, or else someone'll call you on it. Because obviously I wouldn't say I'm from Канада, Kanada, or 加拿大, right?

So try it. If you've left the North American continent, at any time in your life, you can go one step up. Try it.

"Oh yeah, so where do I get the Blue Monkey?"
"Oh, you won't be able to find it here. You'll have to travel to France to get it."

If they try the internet, simply say they're a small France band, and that they'll have to look them up on some smaller French websites. Chances are they won't know conversational German if they haven't already sniffed out your bullshit. If you can bluff you're way through all this, you're set, and they'll look stupid. You win. Checkmate.

Three Kinds of People

Those who take X hours to do X amount of work. Stupid people.
Those who take less than x hours to do X amount of work, and then stick around and do nothing. Smart people, living in fear.
Those who work for themselves. Smart people.

Remember, walk everywhere fast. Woody Allen said 80% of everything is getting there. I'm trying to cut down on travel times.

Remember, don't do drugs. From all the crime movies I've seen, that always ends up badly. Seriously, sometimes that's the only message - Don't get involved in drugs. You know, beating up people, breaking their legs for gambling debts, that's ok. But don't do drugs.

This will be a bad sitcom. Actually, a similar situation was like this, in comic books. I think he died, though in the comic books.

I read entirely too much quotes. Seriously, it's such light brain reading. Me no thinkee well.

I think, given the chance, I'd read the entire goddamn Bartlett's. I read Wikiquote, Imdb movie quotes

That is all.

I have no problem with your monkey staying here.
не имею никакой проблемы с вашей обезьяной, остающейся здесь.

Goddamn The Spammers

They cannot be stopped. Not five minutes after I posted it, the spammers got to it. After I spent a whole post denouncing them. This one will have spam on it, too.

For Benoit, give me your e-mail address. Only members can post after this, and I need your e-mail address to make you a member. Anybody else want to comment, I don't know, tough titties.

That's It, No More Anonymous Comments

Fuck those horsefuckers.

Specifically, this horsefucker. Second comment.

Who recommends suicide? Honestly? I know I write a blog, and am therefore a horrible nerd, but please!

You've ruined it for the rest of us, suicide guy.

Congratulations.

I mean, what kind of a life am I leading where strangers are recommending suicide to me? Or even implying that I'm interested in suicide? I mean, even in an abstract sense, there's not much to it. You put a gun to your head, and fire.

I mean, you can be interested in philosophy, literature, and the arts, because these are complex. Suicide's for depressed people. It's really simple. And a waste of a bullet.

That bullet could be used for many great things.

This is a whole new level of spam. There's a line, and Suicide Boy, you didn't just cross the line, you blew the line's brains out, Swiffered it up, and put it in the garbage. I'm fine with stuff that offers me bigger penises, impossible financial transactions, links to there blog, or other crap. Hey, you gotta work for a living. Spam is crap, but if we didn't crap, our intestines would compress and explode. (Boy, that's a weird metaphor.)

Yeah.

But suicide? Seriously, try doing that to a stranger on the street, like that guy did. "Excuse me, sir, are you interested in suicide?" They'll put you in the loony bin or punch you in the jaw. For me, both, and then I'd sleep with your mother, to comfort her for having a crazy ass son who asks strangers about suicide.

Fuck him up his fucking ass. Hey, I'll kill myself if you go first, you fucker.

For the record, I am not interested in suicide. Your suicide would bring me a jig to my step, though, Suicide Boy.

I hope you try and commit suicide, buddy, only you fuck up, and you have to spend the rest of your life in pain. Until finally some nurse hooks up your airtube with the tube that sucks out your crap. You awaken miraculously, only to drown in your own warm shit, which, coincidentally, is the last thing you'll feel. And only then you'll think, just as the stench of the warm gooey shit overwhelms you, you'll think, "Why did I recommend suicide to strangers?"

Living A Completely Sinful Life...

Is impossible.

I mean, think about it. You can't possibly live up to every bad thought you have in your head. I mean, sure you can murder everyone who pisses you off, do everything bad, live the life of a hedonist.

But the spirit is willing, though the flesh is weak. What if you get sad, not out of a sense of moral, but out of a sense that you're not getting to murder someone, you don't get the adrenaline rush? Perhaps you think it's not enough, that the cops are coming after, that you're bored.

Suppose you get a bad thought to kill yourself?

I mean, even serial killers need a cool-down period. You just can't be completely evil, just like you can't be completely good.

Hell, being completely evil is hard. You have to work at it. Hitler couldn't sleep, Hitler worked 16 hours a day.

But being neutral? Now, that's easy.

And with laws, it's much easier to survive by not being evil. So, most people opt for the easy route, in that they don't murder or live out their fantasies, but they're jerks and they buy a lot of stuff.

Which is why people are stupid. You gotta try, man. You gotta live.

Of course, I'd recommend being good. Murdering prostitutes probably gets old real fast.

Dumb, Tragic, or Badass? You Make The Call...

Here.

Dr. William Minor, A.K.A. Mr. Crazy Man

Okay, this guy's...interesting.

You can find out more about him here.

Killed a guy who he thought was Irish. Wasn't.

Okay, first off, feared the Irish would rappel down, ninja style, from the ceiling into his bed and take revenge upon him for branding them with a "D" for Deserter during the Civil War.

By having sex with him. And threatening to kill him. Every night.

Other than that, he was a pretty nice guy. People liked him, made a lot of friends, even though he was batshit loco.

Helped a lot in creating the dictionary.

Had sex. A lot. Hung out and dives, alternatively trying to cure his venereal diseases he picked up from prostitutes.

Parents shipped him out from Ceylon because they feared he would spend too much time having sex and not enough time on the book-learning.

Had a wicked beard.

And this, I shit you not.

If you don't react to this, you have severe problems. Or you're Clint Eastwood. And I think even Clint Eastwood would mutter a "Whoa, that's fucked up."

My eyebrows fucking skyrocketed after I heard that whopper. I stayed on that sentence, while my brain processed it. I zoned out in sheer "what the fuckness?"


He cut off his penis.

HE CUT OFF HIS FIREMAN!

HE CUT OFF HIS JOHNSON WITH A PENKNIFE! A FUCKING PENKNIFE!

A Random Thought

It's not that we think unreality is real, but that reality is unreal.

More explanation once I think of some bullshit for that.

Things You Should Do

I am calling upon you from this blog pulpit to tell you something that I'm not sure you want to hear of if you don't want to hear. I do think you should hear it.

I am going to try something. I am going to try and do something I don't want to do, every day from now on, until it's habit.

For example, today I wrote an e-mail to someone to whom I'm estranged.

Now, I'm not really sure that person will respond. I didn't want to do it, because I knew it was stupid.

But I did it anyway.

Tomorrow, I'm going to call that girl I've been talking about and that I barely know and ask her out, even though she's going to either say yes and give me the run-around, or say no and leave me to my right hand once again.

And then I'm going to do that see if I can do that the day after tomorrow.

Fuck it.

The safest, boring, and ultimately, most imprisoned people do whatever they want day after day.

Don't do what you really want to do. Because what you want to do is boring and sad. I sit on my computer and I watch downloaded programs. That's what I really want to do.

But I'll be brave and do what I don't want to do. I'll do scary things, bad things, make mistakes, fall.

And my life won't be as boring, hopefully.

Canadian Hip-Hop Is A Term For Drugs

At least, there's this one guy who asks random on the street, "Do you listen to Canadian hip-hop?" He's asked me, stands around the downtown streets of Toronto.

Oh, and here's another way to find drugs. A guy was walking down the street, then he said "Anyone smoke herbs?" Not quite as smooth as the Canadian hip-hop, but it's all right. He wasn't looking at anyone in particular, and he said it just as he entered a crowd.

That was it.

Oh, and my hair's much shorter now.

That is all.

I Ate Entirely Too Much Bacon Today

Seriously, I had like half a package of bacon today. That is entirely too much bacon.

And now my poop's all screwed up.

Damn bacon.

Anyway, what do people think about Kurosawa movies remade?

Personally, I find that The Seven Samurai is a better movie with a capital M, but for entertainment, The Magnificent Seven is a better movie. And for that kind of movie, doesn't entertainment matter?

I have seen Yojimbo, but I found myself distracted. I want to see "A Fistful of Dollars." Sergio Leone's great.

History's second greatest war: The Bitch War.
Once again, porn grabs new technology to deliver its porniness. Here.

Oh, and it's kind of funny how you can find out a family's history of mental illness through chance.

Okay, now, for a school journalism assignment, we were supposed to figure out random trivia about the day we were born. For me, it was 1986.

So it was a lull, and we were trying to find out which was the top song of the year we were born. It was "That's What Friends Are For," by Dionne something. Crappy song. Anyway, I was talking about 80s music. With the girl I mentioned I considered calling in this post. Never did. Shit started coming up, porn filled the void.

Now, before I go further, let me mention that she's black. There's a reason for this.

When we were talking about 80s music, she asked me what kind of music I liked. I mentioned Public Enemy and the Dead Kennedys (I just like rap. I'm not a wigger. I am not tough.)

Then she said, "Oh yeah, my brother listened to them (Public Enemy) a lot before he went...crazy." That was a what the fuck moment.

I tried to ask about this, but she clammed up.

Oh, and before this, she mentioned that her other brother is a cop.

Wow.

Later on, we were alone at a photocopier. So purely unintentional, I ask her what her day's gonna be like after this. She says nothing.

Then I snapped. Now, I knew this wasn't going to end well. We'd barely talked, she was out of my league, she'd been talking to this guy Nick who looked like a pimply-faced bouncer/thug with a voice that made gravel seem smooth, (thankfully, he was ugly). But my horniness kicked in.

No, I didn't ask her for a blowjob. I asked her if she wanted to make her night more interesting...with me...together. The delays were in.

Now, here's where I got mixed messages. She said she had work the next day. Which, of course, is where I heard The Price is Right failure sound. But she said she was interested in...and here's where I didn't hear her properly. "I'm interested in going out another time? I'm interested in doing that?" Something.

But fuck it, I need to fuck something, so I'm fucking calling her. Fuck it.

This will end badly.

(For the record, I think Public Enemy's best song is "How To Kill A Radio Consultant.")

P.S. I gave her a pen too.

So I Just Pissed Off Award-Winning Journalist Seymour Hersh Today

If leaving early counts as pissing him off.

In a room of about 20.

While the guy asking the question paused to let me leave.

After my heavy backpack went near his head.

Okay, so Seymour Hersh is a big shot, exposed Abu Ghraib and My Lai, he’s in The New Yorker. He’s big enough to start 40 minutes late in a supposed half and hour meeting with journalismo students, ask for a donut from a member of the audience, then say for people to get on with questions while he adjusts his tie so it’s off-center.

He’s big.

And I like him, think he’s cool, saw him on The Daily Show, wanted to see him. So of course I went. He was supposed to talk from 3 to 4:30, but I had a midterm then, so I figured I could slip away, then write the midterm.

Slipping away proved slippier than I expected.

Now, while I was leaving, getting out of there fast as I could, I thought I saw something on the teacher who had desparately organized this. It was a look of “Dude, what the fuck?” horror.

That was my whole feeling on the midterm, which I think I did pretty well on.

Remember, kids, people notice you.

Did I mention I want to become a journalist?

All of a sudden, “Never work in this town again” comes to mind…