Remember those phrases I’ve always wanted to use but never had the chance?
I got to use one of them on a message board I post on. Look for the posts by Umbrageous. That’s me.
UPDATE: I got to use both of the phrases, but I also used the word ‘pwnge’ so we’ll call it a wash.
has taught me one thing: no one gets my humour but the Internet.
Me: watch out for bridges and hop ons. You’re going to get hop ons.
Me: never mind. Let’s just go.
Brother: what are those rocks doing on the side of the road?
Me: THEY’RE MINERALS, MARIE.
Brother: man, you gotta get out more.
Me: I know.
My friend once drunkenly confessed to her BF that she wanted to marry him and have 2 kids with him (she even gave them names) and said if they ended up having Down’s she’d abort them…so much for that special moment.
She sounds like a keeper, at least until the utlrasounds come back.
If I ever fathered a child (and here’s hoping I don’t any time soon) and it got born retarded or deformed or somehow off, do you think an adoption agency would let me trade it in for two otherwise regular orphans?
I know it sounds awful, but I’d probably do it if the option was there and society didn’t say I was an awful person. And you probably would too.
I can remember the worst Summer of my life. I was eleven or twelve years old, maybe thirteen. My Dad had this brilliant idea that every weekend the family was going to spend Quality Time together on some sort of outing and my mom thought this was the greatest thing ever.
One time we went canoeing and the boat sprung a leak and we tried again the next weekend but we didn’t know where we were going really and the river turned into a shallow stream and Dad and I had to get out and push the boat three kilometres back to the river. Another weekend we went to the Iona Highland Village and learned that in the old days people lived in shitty houses that didn’t have Super Nintendo. Fortress Louisbourg was actually pretty cool but someone from my class in school was there and I pretended not to notice her but then somehow Mom recognized her and dragged me over to say hello and got into a conversation with her mom about I can’t remember what but I’m sure it was the most embarassing thing ever.
You see what I’m getting at? Mom and Dad knew I hated all this Quality Time bullshit, but it just convinced them even more of its necessity. If he’s not interested in Quality Time, the thinking went, there’s just all the more need for it.
The next weekend was particularly bad. We were going to the Alexander Graham Bell Shitty Museum Of Fucking Old Telephones And The Second Plane In North America That No One Gives A Shit About. It was all the way out in Baddeck and I didn’t want to go. What made it worse was that my stupid brother Kyle had managed to weasel his way out of Quality Time. Again.
You see, Kyle had friends. Skate rat hoodlum friends, but friends all the same. Sure, I had friends, but back then (grade six, maybe?) friends were strictly a school hours only affair. I only hung around with people as a sort of pathetic charade to avoid looking like some sort of social outcast, and so that I could expand my pokemon collection. Weekends and summer holidays I spent as much of my time as possible locked up in my room, reading Animorphs and Star Wars novels and playing with my sweet Beast Wars action figures.
Meanwhile, Kyle was out doing ‘constructive’ things like loitering in parking lots and smoking cigarettes and ruining public benches with his skateboard. But in my parents eyes, I was the anti-social one. What’s worse, I was idle. Granted, I wasn’t even reading good literature, but at least I wasn’t actively driving property values down. So on weekends I was always the one who had to mow the lawn or paint the driveway or sweep the chimeny or worse, spend Quality Time in the shittiest anal recesses of Cape Breton because it was better than ‘doing nothing’ and Kyle always got out of it because he was a skaterfag.
Where was I? Oh yeah, going to Alexander’s Gay Scrotum Museum in Baddeck. I had concocted a plan that would give me a petty revenge on my parents, but before we left town we stopped at my Nan’s house and I confessed my plan to Mom.
“Mom,” I said, “uh… you know how I didn’t want to go to this stupid museum? Well, before we left home I put one of Dad’s golfballs in the bathroom sink and turned the tap on because I hate spending time with you.”
“Oh… Well, I don’t think a golf ball will clog the drain. Besides there’s that second hole at the top of the basin that catches water before it can overflow.”
“You see, Mom, the thing is… I tested the golf ball to make sure it clogged the drain. It works. And I stuffed the second hole with a bar of soap just to be sure it would overflow.”
“Yeah. I think maybe we should go back home and check it.”
“And maybe not just when we’re done here. I think maybe we should go home right now.”
The sink had overflown. In our house, the upstairs bathroom was directly above the downstairs bathrooms. For some reason, the water didn’t do any damage to the floor or cupboards of the upstairs bathroom, but it leaked down and caused a few thousand dollars worth of damage to the ceiling and floor and cupboards of the downstairs bathroom.
Dad was livid. He’s normally a really calm guy but he exploded that day.
In a weird way, I got what I wanted because we didn’t go to Alexander Dickbell’s Shitty Faggot Museum For Retards and I got to spend the rest of the weekend in my room, minus all of the stuff that made it such a cool spot in the first place.
Looking back on this story, all I can think of is what at asshole I was that day. My parents wanted to hang out with me, and while it might have been embarassing they legitimately thought we might have fun together. And I reacted like it was the worst thing in the world and made an attempt to destroy our house. This is probably where my self-loathing comes from.
I guess the lesson here is that we all get angry sometimes but it’s better to bottle up our rage and hide it away then to lash out and hurt the people who take us to shitty museums.
This post by thenewhotness reminded me of a story.
I have a friend who has a difficult to spell last name, I’m pretty sure it’s Polish. Anyways, in high school teachers would always ask him to spell his name and this would always happen:
Teacher: how do you spell Andr… your last name.
Friend: Capital A…N…D… Capital five
Teacher: A…N…D…capital fi— wait a minute. There’s no capital five.
Friend: yeah it’s just a regular five.
And we would all burst out laughing because his deadpan delivery made it one of the funniest things in the world. It was pretty hilarious.
It strikes me as funny that Friedrich Nietzsche’s sister started a Nazi colony in the middle of Buttfuck Nowhere, Paraguay, but people still refer to Friedrich as the crazy one in the family.
(8 left in season 4, 16 just announced for season 5.)
I know everyone jokes about spinoff series but if any show ever needed a spinoff it’s Breaking Bad. So many non-Walt characters left to explore.
Do you remember when I was dead set on getting a monkey?
Do it. Seriously, follow your dreams to their projectile fecal conclusions. Right now I’m looking up how to get a falconry permit. It’s mad expensve in Alberta, but it’s free in NS (except in NS you have to be an apprentice falconer for two years before you can get the permit). Holy fuck what an awesome thing it would be to have a falconry permit.
People: hey Adam… new haircut?
Adam: naw I got a falcon.
I really wish Canada would get on the ball and let private citizens import exotic animals into Canada for their own private amusement. I thought Harper was all about capitalism and stuff?
sometimes i feel like i’m just living my life between episodes of breaking bad.
Brother: how big is an acre?
Me: it’s the amount of land tillable in one day by a farmer behind his ox.
Dad: it’s about the size of an American football field. About half a hectare.
Brother: that’s actually a lot more helpful then Adam and his fucking farmers.
Me: just trying to help.
and couldn’t help but think of Bryan Cranston.