Guy ahead of me in line: hey Adam, long time no see.
Me: oh, uh, hey.
Me: okay, this guy knows me from somewhere but where? School. But elementary? Junior high? High school? University? I want to say elementary-junior high. Oh yeah, that’s Dennis. He was cool. He was the only kid we knew who had diabetes and the teacher always kept a chocolate bar in her desk in case he had a diabetes attack or something. And one time in grade primary I was standing behind him in a line and he had something gross on the back of his shirt and I was worried I’d catch diabetes from him. But am I sure it’s him? I know he probably lives here now, but there’s always the chance it’s not him. I’m 60% sure.
Him, leaving: see you later Adam.
Me: see you later… [mumbling] Dennis? Well, now I feel like an asshole.
Clerk: okay, your old license doesn’t list you height or eye colour. How tall are you?
Me: Umm, I don’t know. Can I just guess?
Clerk: of course.
Me: four and a half feet?
Clerk [laughing out loud]: not even close. I’m going to put down six feet. Eye colour?
Then she looked into my eyes and for a really long time and that was awkward. She said green, but then maybe blue? I think it says blue on my license now.
Also there was a crazy guy outside of the building yelling at passing vehicles, saying they stole his green pipes and that he was going to hunt them down.
Last night I had a dream that two of my friends who live in a different part of the country showed up on my doorstep asking me to help them hide a body. I obliged them and we melted it down Breaking Bad style and hid the container in a storage locker for some reason, but still you have to admit it was kind of a dick move to show up in my dream asking me to help hide a body. I could go to jail for that shit.
Kindle Summer Reading List, As If You Care Part II
Original post here. Books that I listed before and read:
The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett (Loved it)
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson (Loved it)
The Girl Who Played with Fire by Stieg Larsson (Still pretty good)
The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest by Stieg Larrson (Sort of fell off a bit)
World Without End by Ken Follettt (It felt like the video game expansion pack to Pillars. Same character types 200 years later.)
A Scanner Darkly by Phillip K. Dick (Part drugs and part dystopia and part sci-fi and part autobiography? AWESOME.)
Abduction — Human Encounters with Aliens by John E. Mack [Scary as shit. Primal terror. Fear sweat inducing when read alone at night]
I Drink For A Reason by David Cross (Funny at times but a lot of the book felt like filler material. Much preferred comedian Craig Ferguson’s autobiography, which is weird cause I don’t really find him funny and I’m kind of wondering why I read it. Of course, The Bedwetter by Sarah Silverman is my all time favourite book by a comedian.)
Books on the list I did not read yet:
Jennifer Government by Max Barry (Will get to it eventually.)
Imperial Bedrooms by Brett Easton Ellis (I keep putting Ellis off and I’m not sure why. Need to read him eventually. However, I just found out this book is harder to follow/is a semi-sequel to Less Than Zero so I might read that first.)
Next up on the reading list:
Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin (Because there’s never a better time to hop on the bandwagon. Admittedly, I tried reading this before the show came out, but I kind of got confused/stopped caring about who the characters are, which is unusual for me. But maybe now I’ll give it another chance knowing that Carcetti from The Wire is still doing the whole politcal intrigue thing but in a fantasy setting).
The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, the Unbeliever by Stephen R. Donaldson (Why not make it a high fantasy summer? it sounds like a cool idea for a story: dude from our world ends up in generic fantasy world but thinks it’s a dream and decides he can do whatever he want because dreams have no consequences).
Alpha Flight was a Marvel Comics super hero team from the 80s, the team was composed entirely of Canadians and was set primarily in Canada. However, it was written by Americans who only knew about Canada from travel brochures and encyclopedia entries. I’m pretty sure there’s one issue where Terry Fox showed up as a superpowered villain who gives people cancer. I’m just kidding, but this character does exist:
Deadly Earnest (real name Ernest Desjardins) was born and raised in Ajax, Ontario, in an affluent and well-to-do family. He was sent off to Lakeview prep. school to curb his paint-sniffing habits which he acquired via his constant trips to the McMichael Gallery. Unbeknownst to his parents, this dangerous habit continued as Lakeview has a sizable art collection. The paintings he encountered were unique in that they were painted with paints which had been contaminated by the Pickering Nuclear facility. Ernest, experiencing radiation poisoning, reeling from his paint withdrawal (after being banned from all art collections Ontario-wide), decided to create his own forgeries of Canadian masterpieces to exact revenge on those that had inhibited his personal growth in the past. He was killed in a confrontation with Alpha Flight outside the Royal Ontario Museum in Toronto when the Alpha Flight member Puck decapitated him. It was revealed in the panels surrounding his death that he was in fact colorblind, therefore his poor attempts at Group of Seven recreations.
Holmes and Watson are walking along Pleasant Hill Blvd, in Pleasant Hill, California. It’s only May, but it’s already hot and smoggy, and they’re both sweating, Holmes too embarassed to take off that scratchy, hot deerstalking hat, and Watson puffing along, his celluloid collar choking his fat red throat and huge circles of sweat seeping through his hot stiff clothes. They’re puffing up the hill to the Hillcrest Mini-mall when they pass a dead cat by the side of the road.
Watson, doggedly trying to do his sidekick job, asks Holmes what he can tell about the cat and how it died. Holmes is in a rotten mood already, agonizing over the possibility that some suburban video freak has gotten their undignified trudge on tape already. His forehead itches horribly where the cap chafes, but he can’t take it off because his hair is thinning, and he can’t be seen to sweat, because he’s Holmes, and besides, if he keeps it on, maybe they won’t be able to prove it’s him on the videotape on which, he knows in his secret miserable heart, some polo-short republican is even now recording his march up the hill, with the grasshopper whine buzzing in the dead yellow grass, looking down at the little spraypainted codes left by the water and gas people on the curb. No sidewalk. No public sector in those rightwing suburbs. That’s why the dead cat is in their path; no sidewalk.
Watson’s question about the dead cat infuriates Holmes so much he feels sick, nauseous. The moral cowardice implied in settling for such a complete, unredeemed idiot for a sidekick echoes is evey syllable of Watson’s question, the waste of his best years showing off to a fat fool and arm-wrestling with fatuous police officials, fixing his ethos in formaldehyde while the only life he will ever be granted dribbled away in stupid schoolyard displays of smarts and unconcern. A runnel of sweat goes into his eye, as if his body will cry for him, even if he won’t. And why won’t he? Because all that matters is keeping the stunted fetus which is his could-have-been soul, long since foreclosed by the past subjunctive, safely preserved, dozing in a crouch, in its bottle of formaldehyde, in the back cabinet where the maid never cleans, back on Baker Street.
And now Watson chirping this request for a theory, another, yet another theory on this dead orange-and-white cat — it can’t even have been a nice or attractive cat when it was alive —Watson, whose vaudeville role is so simple even a dog, a nice Newfoundland, could do it better — Watson woofs now, in this head, for that run-over cat? Is this stupidity — or malice? That’s the question.
It’s a dead cat; it’s been run over by a car; there are flies on it; it’s hot, and this patch of asphalt has no name, no history, will never matter to anyone, never be chockablock, hansom cab, fog, colourful, history — none of that, ever. No clever answers, no way to show off, just a dead cat in the heat, in the smog, in the suburbs.
The worst thug in London is a baby beside this place. The worst thug in London would faint in this place. It’s just a cat, it’s dead. But he won’t give Watson the satifaction. He keeps walking, hearing the laughter of every well-pleased insect humming in the dead hot yellow grass. It’s just a dead cat. It’s just a hot day. It’s just this given street in the suburbs. It has no name. It has no case history. But he won’t be able to give Watson the satisfaction of saying so. How nice it would be to smash Watson’s fat moustache with a cobblestone — but there are no cobblestones. To split his skull with a Sumatran canoe paddle. Memorabilia. More showing off. And for whom? That’s what most makes his stomach clench in a violent retch: for whom, Holmes — eh? For whom?
This is my new million dollar idea. It will appeal to mainly to devoted Catholics, lapsed Catholics with health problems and Americans who believe in creationism or whatever. Basically it is an app that will give health advice and diagnose the religious over the web, but obviously from a Catholic perspective. Here are some examples of how our advanced Jesus algorithms work:
I have a rash on my chest and armpit that won’t go away, what should I do? This was most likely caused by your filthy, filthy thoughts. Say four Hail Marys and apply Holy Water.
Will cutting out processed foods from my son’s diet reduce his chances of developing diabetes? Clinical studies prove that the sacrament of confession to an ordained Catholic priest greatly reduces the chances of developing diabetes, especially in males between the ages of nine and thirteen. So drop your son off at the confession booth this weekend. Make sure he brings lip balm because moist lips aid in the efficient extrication of sins.
Can anyone help me think of a clever way to say I spend too much time looking at .gifs of cats to include in the interests section of my resume? I’m thinking of something like “pop culture enthusiast” but if I actually write that down I might have to kill myself.
Oh God, you know those faux-documentaries the Space channel makes about Bigfoot or the Lochness Monster or whatever?
I’m watching one now and it’s scaring the shit out of me on a sunny Saturday morning even though I know it’s probably fake. It’s about alien abductions and the Greys scare the living Hell out of me. The worst part is that there’s one couple on the show who claim to be abducted about an hour outside of the town I live in. It’s really bad. The shitty drawings and bad reenactments are actually scarier than something you’d see in a big budget Holly— OH DEAR GOD THEY’RE GOING TO PROBE HIM.
Okay, this is getting bad. I’m in the basement and it’s really dark so I’m going to get up and turn on a light — if you never hear from me again the aliens probably got me.
I saw a van for sale and I have to buy it so I can realize my life’s dream of driving across North America doing drugs and solving mysteries. I know it sounds kind of Scooby Doo but it doesn’t have to be. tbqh, I’m aiming for more “Raymond Chandler if he was a wandering vagrant who solved mysteries” rather than Scooby Snacks and gh-gh-gh-ghosts.
'No Mystery Too Big or Too Small', that's what the ad will say. Some days it will be all 'who killed the mayor of Regina?' and some days it will be 'who stole my bloody cigarettes? I just had them here a second ago!'
If you’re interested you should leave something in my ask box, tell me about a mystery you’ve solved.
I think this is a genius idea. I’m going to do it. I will paint question marks on the van so that people will know it is a mystery van and not a rape van.
No, this band is so shameful that I can never mention their name aloud, ever again. What makes it really bad is that the songs I liked and have bad memories associated with are their earlier stuff, whereas when you mention this band to someone else, they generally think of their later albums, which are atrociously awful. If they’re even aware of this band.
Every time I hear their music I experience deja vu and return to some of the most embarrassing and painful parts of my adolescence. It’s bad.
But that’s all I can say. They’ve been banished from my poltergeist iPod forever.
It shuts on and off by itself whenever it wants to, until it runs out of juice. I got it in, like, 2004 so clearly it made a bargain with the Devil himself just so it could live for another year or so. It’s what all desperate old people do to cling on to life.
"What? Why does this website want me to create a username and password just so I can submit a resume to their shitty company? It’s stupid. God, now I have to think of a username that isn’t too Internet, but is still Internet enough to show that I know what I’m doing. It should make me sound professional but not so professional as to make me look douchesque."
My little brother was sitting on the other side of the room and had an idea.
"I have one. YoungMoney. It shows that you’re ambitious and all about getting some flow."
He went back to his gangster rap while I went back to square one.
Probably? I don’t know what this is in regards to. But you should look at Halifax Locals sometimes because it’s funny/retarded. Yesterday someone tried to say that smoking cigarettes is sexual slavery. I mean really. If they had of just said regular slavery, I could almost see what they were getting at. But no one wakes up butthurt and chained to the inside of a locked shipping container in Thailand after lighting up a cigarette. Come on.
My parents are having a dinner party with their friends tonight and I dont want to be a part of it but I also don’t have anything to do so i’m hiding in the basement with my laptop like a 21st century Gollum.