Moving back in with my parents is depressing and makes me hate life. So from now on I’m going to post the most misanthropic Schopenhauer quote I can find, without context. Here’s a wonderfully pessimistic quote, about women:
For just as the female ant loses its wings after mating, since they are then superfluous, indeed harmful to the business of raising a family, so the woman usually loses her beauty after one or two childbeds, and probably for the same reason.
Explaining the Canadian Senate to my 17-year-old brother
"Well, there are rules for how many seats there are in the Senate, but the Prime Minister can appoint pretty much anyone he wants to the senate. The appointees don’t have to stand for election and they can remain a senator until the age of 75."
"What a slut."
"Erm… I guess so."
Note: I swear I don’t talk this pedantically in real life, but I can’t remember what my exact words were.
So I walked in on my Dad watching NASCAR. Fucking disgusting. I guess there are worse things you can walk in on someone doing, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look him in the eye ever again. He tried to justify it, but that just makes it worse. It’s not even a sport, Dad. It’s just assholes driving around in circles, Dad. I listened to it for a second and the announcers were talking about how great manifest destiny is and how a Corona sponsorship makes it acceptable for men to drink light beer that tastes worse than goat piss.
Found this while sorting through some old e-mails,
All of your family photographs look like you’re a sitcom family. And you specifically look like the wacky next door neighbour.
That’s such an awesome role for me.
The best part is that the e-mail is so old and there’s no context whatsoever, so I’m not sure if it’s meant to be a compliment or an insult. Judging by who it’s from, I’m going to go compliment, but I could see a scenario in which it’s a really clever put-down.
Tonight's Google search terms, a descent into madness.
Jobs in Fort McMurray: So I moved to FM about a week ago and I’m looking for work, obviously. But I got a little bit sidetracked searching for other stuff.
Ecclesiastical Backstabbing. Results: Not nearly as interesting as I was hoping for.
Which Green Lantern is gay? Results: I could’ve sworn Kyle Rayner’s origin story involved, I don’t know, rent boys and Jimmy Olsen or something, but I guess not.
Nepotism in Starfleet. Results: First Contact is my favourite Trek movie, bar none. But it always kind of bugged me how they saved Worf’s ass from the Defiant and promoted him back to his old job on the Enterprise in less than five minutes. I feel like a ship as well staffed as the Enterprise-E would have someone on board more than capable of becoming the new security guy. I know it’s not nepotism because they’re not related, but you’d think Starfleet would have some rules about this sort of thing.
What really happened at Area 51? Really. Results: Got a bit sidetracked after the Starfleet search. I really want to believe that Area 51 and Roswell happened and are all about aliens.
Paul Hellyer. Results: He’s Canada’s longest serving member on the Privy Council, ahead of Prince Philip even. Former minister of defence. Oh yeah: he believes in aliens. In 2010 he told the Canadian Press, “the reality is that they (aliens) have been visiting earth for decades and probably millennia and have contributed considerably to our knowledge.”
Stoner Dog’s Concerned Friend. Results: The Grey Area 51 aliens are one of the few things that legitimately scare the shit out of me, so I needed something funny instead of dead-eyed and soulless.
[translated from French via Google translator, hence the wonkiness]
From: My e-mail To: the chaplain of a relevant church
My name is Adam and [REDACTED] I must apologize immediately for my poor French skills. I am mostly using Google to help me translate. I am truly sorry if the above was incomprehensible. Is it true that Rocamadour has a fragment of the sword Durendal? I have a great interest in La Chanson de Roland as well as other medieval chansons de geste, hence my interest in Durendal. The English Wikipedia (Link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rocamadour) page says that the fragment exists and offers a picture but I can find no other source for this claim on the Internet. I am very curious about this. Does it exist? Thank you for your time, Adam [Redacted]
From: chaplain To: Me
Dear Sir, Your interest in the sword of Roland is quite understandable, but it is not you find this Rocamadour weapon, or even a fragment. There is a sword embedded in the rock near the roof of the Lady Chapel, but it offers no guarantee of authenticity. It is relatively new and has been placed there to charm, pleasure of the tourist. Sorry to disappoint you. The chaplain.
From: me To: chaplain
I feel like when I was young and found out that Santa Claus was dead. C’est la vie. Thank you for your time.
"Well, uh, there’s this term in ancient Greece called Arete. I guess it kind of sounds like something you’d see on a traffic sign in Quebec, but really it means excellence. You can find it in the works of Homer when a hero does something absolutely amazing — like when Diomedes proves to be such a formidable warrior that he manages to wound the gods themselves.
"Today, we’ve mostly forgotten the concept. You see it now and again in action movies, I guess, but it’s not actually about fighting. It can be when a painter creates a staggeringly lifelike portrait, or the ability of a diplomat to find consensus in times of strife. It’s about fulfilling potential to the greatest degree, and supposedly everything has its own form of arete.
"So to answer your question, I would like to just once have my own moment of excellence, my own arete."
"Okay, and moving on from the long term, what do you view as your short term goals?"
"I just really, really need a job. I’m getting desperate at this point."
I love eating bad foods and playing video games on my fat ass all day and never exercising. But when your PS3 username is chickenNribscombo, you might have a problem. Just saying.
Unless this is some sort of meme that I missed. I’m playing Call of Duty and every third or fourth player has a name relating to food. It’s really weird. Why would you want to be known online as HamburgerLover? I don’t get it. I love hamurgers too, but not enough to associate myself with them like that.
So I’m not feeling great this week. Allergies mixed with a cold to create the perfect storm of sickness. I’m sneezing so hard it hurts my face. Anyways last night I was feverish and took too many cold pills to try and keep it under control. I guess I got kind of delirious.
My brother was telling me I kept mumbling about how sad it would be if Leonard Cohen was an earthworm.
"I mean, his songs are tragic enough as it is. What if he was an earthworm who couldn’t see or hear. That would be sad, man. He has all this knowledge of humanity, but he’s going to die when someone uses him as bait to catch trout or something. That’s some sad shit, man.
"Just crying on the sidewalk after the rain, too afraid to burrow in the mud."
What the fuck? I’m not even a fan of Leonard Cohen.
It actually made me less cool, if anything. The kid seduces the girl by reciting The Song of Roland, which is actually my favourite epic poem ever. I thought that was cool. No one even knows about Roland anymore, which sucks. It’s actually better than all that Arthurian shit they teach in schools.
The Penguin gets out of jail and starts to run for mayor with the intent of pretty much legalizing crime, gaining support through theatrics and charisma, while Batman runs against him, taking a beating in the polls because he’s such a goody-goody square. Like, he won’t kiss a baby because it’s really unhealthy for everyone involved, so the Penguin casts him as a dude who hates kids by kissing babies while smoking a cigarette.
and had this dream that leprechauns found all my old favourite action figures and stole them. They chucked them in the deep end of a pool and I’d dive down to try and get them but the leprechaun children would hold me under the water until I ran out of breath.
I got really frustrated and decided to just beat the shit out of the leprechauns before I dived down again, and this time it worked. I woke up and my shirt and a blanket were all twisted around my neck. Goddamn leprechauns.
Zoodles is a bloody, savage jungle safari in your mouth. Alpha-getti is just another day in kindergarten.
Zoodles is finding a leopard frozen on mount Kilimanjaro and shooting an elephant with Hemmingway. Alpha-getti is diarrhea in a can.
Zoodles is floating down the Congo, looking for Kurtz and realizing that man’s true nature is not a pleasant one. Alpha-getti is some shit you give a toddler to shut him up for an hour, but he still makes a fucking mess of his face.
So I was visiting my 80-year-old grandmother last week. She’s the greatest. I wandered over to her bookshelf and found perhaps the funniest book ever, in the form of the oft overlooked genre of unintentional hilarity.
It was called A History of Cape Breton Barbers (volume two, second edition) and it looked like it was printed by one of those publishing houses so small that they can’t afford a dictionary to look up “copy editing”. You know, the kind of book where paragraphs and pages will inexplicably switch over to italics for no discernible reason. It’s basically a collection of short biographies of barbers in the community.
The book tries to glamorize a rather un-glamourous profession, and it leads to some great humour. I’ve tried to remember some passages as best I can, because they are amazing. “So-and-so from Membertou was attracted to the lifestyle of the barber, who didn’t spend his days toiling out side in the cold, so he…” Someone else “took hairstyling lessons in Toronto and later, in Paris. But it was the life of a carpenter that really inspired him, and he quit the family business in 1956.” Another choice passage reads, “everyone did their part during the war, though not always on the front lines. Mick the Barber, for instance, once shaved forty men’s heads in a morning, just before they shipped off for training in England.”
The book was a gem. The best parts were the unnecessarily descriptive paragraphs on how the barbers died. “People suspected he crashed because he’d been driving drunk, but MacPherson had actually taken a heart attack coming around the turn on Kelly’s Mountain. Firefighters tried to use the jaws of life to get his mangled body out of the wreck, but he died asking about his wife only two hours later.”
Still, the person I feel most sorry for was the guy who, “was urged to become a doctor by his father, but became a barber at age 14. He cut hair on Prince Street in Sydney until he was thirty, when he was hit by a bus while crossing the street and killed instantly.”
Me: Okay, don’t look now but is that woman’s tit literally just hanging out while she’s out in public? Holy Jesus it is and it’s hairy and it’s screaming what the fuck I have to call the police and have mutant tits put down before… oh wait, it’s just an infant she’s carrying around on her chest. False alarm.