Breeding and why it's a bad idea.

"MOMMY I WANT IT I WANT IT!! I WANT IT! WAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!"

Every now and then I hear this in a public place; the crying of a horrible little child filled with horrible behaviours by its horrible parents. The poor thing. I hear it and I'm glad I didn't breed.

Why breed, anyway? So you'll have someone to put you in a home in 50 years? So you'll have someone to beg, borrow, and steal money from you? Bleh. It's my unsolicited, uninformed opinion that some people reproduce simply to justify acting like a child again. A man at a playground accompanied by a child is a good father; a man alone at the playground is probably a child molester. Or possibly a hobo.

I'm fortunate to have found a partner who shares (or at least sympathizes with) my awful views on human breeding. We also agree that there ought to be adult-sized playgrounds. Games for adults suck; they're all full of structure and rules. A way to establish a malicious pecking order, if nothing else. A human being doesn't lose the need for unstructured play time simply because it grows breasts or starts ejaculating.

Wet Pants or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Irrational Thoughts

I'll tell a tiny tale today--a tale of wet pants and silly behaviour. At least it appears to be a tale of silliness. But is it? Or is it really a cautionary tale about the dangers of rationalization, about letting the future blindly follow the past? Nah.

There is a large apartment complex behind No Frills; people used to cut across the complex parking lot to get to there quicker. The owners didn't like this, so they put up big scary signs to deter people, as well as a gate.

I'm bored with circumventing Value Village to get to No Frills, so today I cut through the forbidden parking lot. To hell with scary signage, I thought. I approach the gate that keeps me from prepackaged, processed food, thinking that the owner didn't really have a lock installed; the gate must simply be for show. I reach the gate, and yes, it is locked. A tall fence also blocks my way.

But there is hope! A stream runs underneath a small section of the fence. The ground dips low enough under the fence to encourage me to squeeze my way under there. Sure, it occurs to me to go back the way I came, but that would mean even more walking than usual; I cut through here in the first place in order to reduce my walking. I can't turn back now--the walk to the gate will be for nothing.

So I squat and wiggle my way under the fence. Through the stream. My pants are soaked to the knees. I arrive at the other side of the fence, No Frills in sight. But I hesitate; I don't want to stroll around the supermarket with my pants dripping. It occurs to me that I should stand here for a few minutes and at least wait until my pants aren't dripping.

Once again, my desire to be consistent pushes me forward. I can't stand here and drip dry, I think. If I do that, then I won't have saved any time at all! I crawled under the fence for that very reason, after all.

So I proudly march into No Frills, head up and pants dripping. My wet feet slip and slide on top of my crappy, $8 Walmart flip flops. The sound is not unlike the quacking of a duck. People stare and snicker, but I ignore them! After all, I saved time and am therefore a brilliant genius; clearly these people fail to understand the need to appear consistent to oneself.

Pointless update

Fairly satisfied with my life at the moment. It's funny; it seems as though unhappiness and idle time tend to breed more creative thoughts. Oh well.

Vests for Ducks

A growing problem…

Here at Vests for Ducks, we care about the important, real, existing environmental issues. And we’re here to help.

Our ducks are in trouble; an affliction called Insufficient Fanciness Syndrome (IFS) is threatening their very survival. Once rare, IFS has increased at an alarming rate over the last umpteen years; today, this ailment plagues approximately 35% of the Ontario male duck population.

What is IFS?

Simply put, male ducks suffering from IFS are not fancy enough; their feathers are bland and their beaks are droopy. They lack the ducky charisma of a healthy bird. These characteristics prevent male ducks from finding a suitable mate (female ducks are very superficial). This in turn limits reproduction and leads to the three ‘Duck D’s’: Duck depression, duck despair, and duck drug abuse.

The causes of IFS are not certain, but research by science-type people has found links between IFS and the following factors:

• industrial effluence
• industrial affluence
• merciless fashion trends
• Right Said Fred
• secret directives from Value Village
• Y2K

What is being done?

Since nineteen-ought something, Vests for Ducks has worked hard to combat the ill effects of IFS. Our caring, empathetic staff (solely volunteers) locates these poor creatures in the wild and adorns them with garments that increase their overall fanciness. This helps to make the male ducks more attractive to the females, alleviating the condition. We’ve made much headway, but we cannot continue without your help.

What can you do to help?

We understand that not everyone can commit to ongoing support, so we offer two donation options:

Ongoing Support:

Your pledge of just $16 a month will allow Vests for Ducks to establish and maintain the fanciness of a single duck affected by IFS. This money will ensure that he is kept in the highest quality vest, hat and tie, at absolutely no cost to him. If you so choose, you can write to your duck, and exchange photographs and bits of reed.

One-time Donation:

If your economic situation keeps you from an ongoing commitment, but you still have the heart and soul to help, we offer the option of a one-time donation. A minimum of $10 helps support the entire duck community, aiding in services such as:

• fitting and relining
• expert tie tying
• button replacement
• hatpin repair
• lice removal

We need your help fighting IFS.

Please, try to find it in your heart to help us alleviate this grievous, actual condition. For more information, or to pledge your support, please contact us at 1-888-STOP-IFS today. Both Vests for Ducks and countless bland water fowl thank you in advance.

Under the impression

(Written years ago, cleaned up slightly)

When people make a guess or an assumption, they sometimes say that they are 'under the impression' that it is or was true.

"Well, I was under the impression that Terrence had genital herpes when I told twelve people."

It sounds so passive, like the person is a victim of their own opinions; I imagine a naked, obese, mentally retarded man with IMPRESSION written in finger paint across his chest, sitting squarely on the thinker. The thinker is not responsible for what goes on, because the impression has all the power. It sounds far too honest and vulnerable to say 'I assumed that' or 'I guessed that.' People are generally under the impression of something when they're later being given shit for thinking it. But when their thoughts are confirmed, they'll often say 'I thought so' or even 'I knew it.'

meeting new people

I recently gave some thought (if you want to call it that) to the phrase meeting new people.

Why does Shelly frequent the bar? Why does Jagdeep put his best electronic foot forward on dating websites? Why does that creep who hangs out at the Laundromat spend money to produce professional-looking business cards, offering free foot massages to women? The answer is this: they all want to meet new people--or so they think. But they will not meet new people. They will meet new people if they visit a maternity ward, but probably not while trolling for sex or rubbing feet (which is often an indirect method of sex trolling).

They will, however, meet people whom they have not previously met. But that phrasing long and boring. They will also meet unfamiliar people--again, not as sparkly as new; the 'un' in 'unfamiliar' lends the phrase a negative tone. Besides that, who enjoys being classified based on what they are not? We'll just skip past meeting strange people.

So we'll stick with meeting new people for now. While not entirely accurate, the phrase is a reflection of our culture. We like to buy new things and have new experiences, so to me it seems only fitting that we also think of the people we meet as new. For a while, anyway.

You invite several friends over for a circle jerk. Unfortunately, due to unavoidable events, only one friend makes it. So it's just you and your friend.

If you proceed as planned with the festivities, is it technically a line jerk?

(Originally published July, 2006)

I don't believe in the existence of a personified force of creation--a god, in other words. Nor do I believe in any absolute concept of right and wrong. But on collection day, when the crows are ripping up my neighbour's garbage and not my own, I have to think that if such a force does exist, it is watching out for me at that moment. Peace.

Don't read this.

Once upon a five minutes ago, the English language needed yet another portmanteau; a verb, denoting the sights, smells, and tastes (yes, tastes) associated with performing oral sex on a homeless person. And so, from this dire need, hoblowing came into existence.

THE END

Your lot in life.

When you bitch and moan about your life, some people will tell you to stop that, because things could be worse.

And they're right; your lot in life could be worse. You could be the lookout for some guy who makes his living exclusively by robbing mentally retarded people.

I hope that makes you feel better.

Clown Haiku

Open mouth, gaze fixed.
Wants to take you behind tents.
The clown will touch you.

A little story

(Originally published June, 2006)

An intelligent species of life once found a strange planet. Upon analysis, they found something that they needed--the ingredients to make carbon dioxide. Unfortunately, most of the ingredients were trapped under the planet, in liquid form, and the rest was floating around in the atmosphere. This intelligent species wanted the ingredients, badly, but realized the tremendous amount of labour required in extracting them.

This planet had two other things that interested the intelligent species--materials to build crude processing machines, and sentient life. This life, however, was not quite ready to take on the task of helping. Though their brains were well developed and their digits were opposable, they lacked the brain structures to conceptualize machines. But the intelligent species had mastered genetic engineering, and soon, a new species was born and ready to turn the planet into a carbon dioxide processing. And so, this created species fulfilled its destiny.

A similar idea occurred to me when I was 21, around the time that I started smoking a lot of pot. The idea seemed plausible at the time and it scared me. But pot does that to you--gives you the notion that every idea you have under its influence is so profound and meaningful. Anyway, the idea is that life on Earth was either planted here in rudimentary form, or somehow modified, to suit some extra terrestrial species' needs or wants. Like this planet is a kind of free growing garden, or something. So if that actually happened, those responsible will come back eventually. Maybe they're from a similar planet that fostered carbon based life. They're probably going to want to eat us.

But holy shit, will they be surprised! Look at the mess; our species has poisoned every form of Earth-bound life, including itself. They'll fly in low and get a good whiff of all that smog and soot and industrial effluence. They'll wonder why we collectively do not behave like animals--nomadic, with a cyclical population pattern--but more like some sort of yeast colony. And then, knowing that something is brewing, they'll get the fuck out of here before they too become poisoned.

So relax! If those aliens do come to harvest us, they'll know better once they look around. If we continue trying to control the planet and worshiping our toxic machines, we'll be fine!

P.S. I am aware that you can find strains of similar ideas in science fiction. But at the time I had the 'alien garden' idea, I was not a consumer of science fiction, nor did I consciously draw from others ideas.

The following is a list of shameful things that I have done in an effort to get laid:

1. Pretended to like Nickelback
2. Um....
3. Err....
4. Uh...

Really, that's the most shameful thing I can think of. Take it from me, kids--no amount of carnal pleasure is worth debasing yourself. Unless it works.

Here is a haiku that I wrote. On the surface, it is about the life of a night-shift factory worker who tries to support his family. If you delve a little deeper, however, you will find the central character a man frought with internal strife and regret:

Torn from daylight sleep;
My new infant cries aloud.
I should have pulled out.

While "new infant" is somewhat redundant, I liked the flow of the phrase and the soft consonant and vowel sounds. And what should the central character have "pulled out" of? That's up to the reader, really, to determine the exact meaning. Classy, classy poetry.

Dexterity Disruption

(Originally published July 6, 2006)

Have you ever tried to wipe your ass with a bandaid on your index finger? Using toilet paper to wipe, not the bandaid. But have you tried? That little piece of plastic is very disruptive.

I never realized how much I rely on sensory data from the end of that finger until I tried to wipe my ass and couldn't feel it. My poor finger felt like a rafter lost at sea. Rather than risk a feculent finger, I just got him out of the way while the other three did the dirty work.

The well begins to dry up

I have some old entries, from another blog, spanning from 2006 to 2008. One at a time, I'll post most of them here, to satisfy my ridiculously large fan base. Think of it as a way for me to distract you from the fact that I'm not terribly productive when it comes to writing, or even when it comes to thinking, for that matter.

So as not to overload you with awesomeness, I'll try to stagger their release a bit. This means that you'll see an old entry, then a new one, then perhaps two old entries, then a new one. And so on. Yes, I'm diluting my fresh ideas with stale crap.

Over and out.

Cat food, cat food, cat food...AGAIN!

Maybe two or three times a month, I buy my cat a can of soft cat food. Today was one of those times.

In the supermarket or variety store, I am given essentially two choices of soft cat food: the "pate" kind, and the runnier stuff. The pate has some semblance of meat, whereas the runny stuff looks like it might come out of the back end of your dog an hour after begging for scraps at Thanksgiving dinner. I usually choose the pate.

So today, I'm perusing the pate foods. I come across a green can, bland and innocuous- looking, and I pick it up for a closer look. As a consumer and cat owner, I'm familiar with cat food names, which are usually too fancy for something an animal is just going to thoughtlessly inhale and then shit out a short time later. But the name on this green can simply confused me. This particular flavour of Friskies cat food was called:

"Chef's Dinner"

Now, what do you infer from that name? Does it seem to imply that the chef will eat the cat food? This name is probably the product of a marketing department's attempt to make the food gourmet-sounding without actually using that word. Perhaps some marketing research told the good people at Friskies that consumers were no longer falling for the 'gourmet' line of bullshit.

Regardless of motives, the word choice is wrong. "Chef" in the possessive form tells the reader that this cat food dinner, in fact, belongs to the chef. Picture yourself at a restaurant, having just ordered, and waiting for your food. Your food. Do you ever once, in your thinking about the upcoming food, consider that food to belong to the chef? No. The chef might cook the food, the chef might prepare the food, but it does not belong to the chef. From the moment you ordered the food, you entered into a contract to buy the food and have it prepared by the chef. It is yours--your dinner.

Here's a more sinister possibility: perhaps this possessive phrasing is intentional. Maybe Friskies is finally marketing to the countless poor, elderly people across this continent who find themselves in their twilight and scarfing down cat food. From this perspective, "Chef's Dinner" almost gives this horrifying economic state an air of class and dignity:

"If this stuff is good enough for a chef, perhaps things aren't so bad after all. What would you like for dinner tonight, Orville--cat food meatloaf?"

Here's a creative way to kill yourself.

Step outside. Then, put in some ear plugs and put on a blindfold. Spin around a few times, then start walking. Just walk; pay no attention to whether you're going in a straight line. If you feel like changing direction, do so. If you bump into any objects or buildings, simply turn your body 90 degrees and keep walking. One of the following will eventually happen:

• You'll be hit by a car.
• You'll be mauled by a dog/bear/wild boar/platypus.
• You'll fall into a hole and starve.

And, if you change your mind before you die or are severely injured, at least you got some exercise.

Family Planning

I like to peruse a certain section in the drug store. Surely you've been there; it's the section with all the condoms, flavoured sexual lubricants, sexually stimulating devices, dental dams and massage oils. In other words, the area of the store that sells contraceptives and sex aids. Personally, I'd give this section a catchy name like "FUN TIMES" or "FLUID EXCHANGE", but alas, we have to bullshit ourselves and not call things what they are, so we're stuck with:

"FAMILY PLANNING"

Family planning. What is the meaning of this nonsense? I suspect it's meant to subtly remind every horny, acne-cursed teenager furtively buying condoms that they're doing something risky and potentially irreversible. The poor kids know this---that's why they're buying condoms! Reminding them when they're already doing the smart thing is the act of an insecure, fearful parent figure.

The language is not only an unnecessary reminder, it's also misleading. Lubricants and sex toys have nothing to do with making a family; they have everything to do with having sex, which is incidentally the way two people begin a family. Lubrication enhances the pleasure of sex, but does not aid in conception. In fact, some lubricants deter conception--those that contain spermicide. The same idea applies to those vibrating 'pleasure rings' or whatever the hell they're called; they're intended to help you get your rocks off, not populate the Earth.

Condoms are the antithesis of "Family Planning"; they're family prevention! Then again, it might scare and shock some people to see "FAMILY PREVENTION" looming over their heads on a big sign at Shopper's Drug Mart. Seems a little, oh I don't know, overtly antisocial.

Getting back to the point here; when you're planning to have a family, that's when you DON'T use condoms. The "Family Planning" section exists to protect prudes from their own minds, which might conjure up images of penises thrusting into vaginas if they're exposed to words like "CONTRACEPTION" and "SEXUAL AIDS".

Rent-a-friend

I recently had a frank conversation with a friend about going to strip clubs.

I don't enjoy the experience very much. My summary of it is this: you're going into a loud, dark building full of other horny guys, only to pay women to pretend they like you. It's strictly a business transaction.

But my friend (let's call him 'Clarence') gave me another perspective, one that intuitively seems accurate. I'm paraphrasing somewhat, but Clarence's view is this:

A man goes to a strip club to purchase fantasy. He crosses the threshold of the club knowing that he will receive female attention; all that is required is money. Because the uncertainty is removed, his inhibitions disappear and he feels more confident. It is an opportunity to temporarily escape the disappointment and rejection that often accompany male/female interaction.

There's no underlying message to this entry; this is just a point of view that I had not considered.

Ahead of the Bus Crowd

My overall public transit experience has been uneventful; nothing of either a life-enriching or life-threatening nature has happened to me on a bus. But sometimes, just sometimes, I wish harm on my fellow passengers.

There is one type of bus rider that pisses me off; he's the guy that, regardless of whether or not the bus is crowded, stands right at the front and talks until the driver's ears bleed. He's the guy that is so socially malnourished that he thinks the driver actually wants to hear about his long-dead schnauzer or his colon operation. But I digress just a little. He really pisses me off for two reasons:

1. He's distracting the driver. You know, the driver--that person in charge of our lives while we're on the bus. The one guiding the 20-tonne hunk of steel.
   
2. He's blocking my view! I may not be familiar enough with a route to know my stop with my eyes closed, and if it's dark, then I definitely need to see where I'm going.

I can't do what I really want, which is openly ridicule these people. So, I wish harm on them--but just a little. I don't want them to die, for Christ's sake. What I wish is for the driver to have to make a stop just quickly enough so that the nuisance rider flies forward and bonks his head on the windshield. That way, he can be reminded of this folly by the giant goose egg on his forehead for the next four or five weeks. After all, common sense eludes these people, and experience is often the best teacher.

Suck it Up

Sometimes you hear one person say to another, "suck it up". This is a curt way of telling someone that their verbal/emotional response is not appropriate for the situation. If a person wants to appear socially superior and clever, they might say, "suck it up, Buttercup!" Rhyming is always clever, right? This expression must be from a movie or something; I've heard it too many times from unrelated people for it to be mere coincidence.

I used to hear similar bullshit in elementary and secondary school:

"Smile, Tom!"

This is something that teachers would utter when I was sad in a situation where I was expected to be happy...usually some group activity or sing-a-long. What the teachers didn't understand--or selectively forgot--was that smiling is a reaction to something; when something pleases me, I smile. Smiling is a reaction, much like reaching out to catch an object when someone unexpectedly tosses one your way while saying, "hey, catch!" A teacher would not expect me to stand there, arms extended, in the absence of something to catch--why would he or she expect me to smile when I'm not pleased?

Anyway, back to suck it up. Suck what up? What are we, vacuum cleaners? I chuckle at the thought of a housewife (or househusband) shouting "suck it up!" at a clogged and dying Hoover; it's absurd and irrational. Don't you think it's hilarious, and also irrational, that we treat one another in a way that we wouldn't treat our household appliances?

Helping Hands

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Pig prattle

Think for a moment about the word 'hogwash'. Typically, the word is used to brand something as nonsense or completely false. Carefully examine your mental picture of hogwash--in this picture, who is doing what? I envision hogs being washed in a substance by a second party, not the hogs washing themselves. When you go to the car wash (unless you're Michael Knight), you're probably the one doing the washing, not the car.

The fact that this substance called 'hogwash' has its own name leads me to think that it's somehow different from other washes, which usually involve soap and water. Just what are these hogs being washed in? I hope it's a tasty seasoning. Mmmm, bacon...

Porcelain patronization

I have a grievance with sensor-activated toilets. Sure, I could complain about how they waste water, but I'm not going to. My complaint is of a more personal nature. Here's a scenario to describe my feelings.

I'm sitting on a public toilet, defecating. I think I'm finished, so I wipe my nether regions before standing up. I stand up, realizing that I don't feel quite as fresh as I would like to feel. I begin to think:

"Hmm, still not right. Maybe I'd better wipe--"

FROOSH! The sensor has tripped and the toilet has flushed, delivering the stinky nuggets from my sight. Part of me is glad they're gone, but part of me wonders: Wasn't that really my decision to make--to flush the toilet? In one supposedly helpful gesture, the toilet invalidates me, tells me that it knows best. It's as if the toilet is saying, "Oh, no--we're done here. Pull up your pants and get out." But still, I must finish my wiping, all the while fixated on the thought that I've worn out my welcome.

Sensor-activated toilets would work well in an ideal world, a world of one-wipe anuses. While that is a noble (and, frankly, the highest) goal that humanity can strive for, we're not quite there yet, so maybe we should forsake germaphobia for a little while and flush for ourselves.

The lonliest of cancers

Do you think that, statistically, more single people die from skin cancers than attached people? Singles typically don't have another person to gawk at their backsides and nether regions on a regular basis, and it's clearly more difficult to detect visible cancers when nobody is actually looking at them. Just a morbid thought.

Hand and Foot

I think we need a word that conveys the opposite of 'handsome', but that is not as harsh as 'ugly'. So I propose that we start calling these unattractive men 'footsome'. Feet are kind of like the opposite of hands. Okay, they're not, but they're at opposite ends of your body, if you stretch your arms over your head. And feet themselves are generally considered to be unattractive appendages--strictly utilitarian.

Surely you've heard the expression live every day as though it were your last, or some variation. The meaning is something to the effect of spend your time on Earth in the best ways you can, which I think is a nice thought. But, like most warm and fuzzy expressions, it should not be taken literally.

Suppose you could know with certainty that a day would be your last. Do you really think that you should behave the way you would on that day, everyday? Some people would panic and rush around in an attempt to get their affairs in order. Others would repent all their percieved wrongdoings to their diety of choice. Still others would engage in hedonistic, risky behaviour without fear of negative consequences. Now imagine this on a global scale--a planet full of religious fanatics and drug-fueled sex addicts. Day after day. All because we took some silly expression at face value.

Hey, that's not half-bad.