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.
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.
Phrases I've always wanted to use, but so far haven't had the opportunity.
1. “It’s assholes like you who are ruining this country.” I bet you Americans get to use this one a lot. Teacher gave you a bad mark? “It’s assholes like you…” Guy in the car ahead of you cuts you off? “It’s assholes like you…” Someone litters? Someone recycles? You’re good either way. I bet you Americans use this phrase three or four times a week, right?
I’m Canadian so the only time I can see myself possibly using the phrase might be during an election campaign, when someone is getting a bit too partisan and talking about how we should spend tax money on day cares or the oil sands or whatever.
2. “Welcome to big school.” Sometimes life just isn’t fair. Jeremy says this to the monk in that one episode of Peep Show and I’ve been saving it for a special occasion. How awesome would it be to really cut someone down to size with this remark? It’d be like kicking someone when they’re down except instead of looking like a dick you’d look like a hero. I’m waiting for someone I really hate to go bankrupt or get cuckolded or find out they have cancer and then I’m going to use this phrase after they try to get me to have sympathy for them. I’m a bad person like that.
A Saul comedy. Each week Saul gets involved with different shady characters in Breaking Bad’s New Mexico (the mobile gun dealer who likes to piss on women, Spooge’s woman, the hotel gun dealer, Jimmy In-and-Out, the junkyard law expert, Clovis and Wendy the Meth Whore to name just a few) and helps to solve their problems.
A Badger & Skinny Pete sitcom. I’m thinking classic three camera set up with laugh track. It’s sounds awful but imagine how hilarious it would be to see them in rehab trying to sell drugs. It could be called Helicopter, Bitch! Watch for a cameo from their deceased friend Combo, who is now a ghost that only Badger can see!
a telemundo soap opera starring Tuco, The Cousins and their Uncle Tio. With special guest star Will Arnett looking for a mysterious man named Hermanos, down Portugal way.
A Hank and Gomez prequel procedural series or one-off buddy cop movie. 90% of it takes place during stake outs in Hank’s Jeep, with the two of them trading racist remarks to one another. The other 10% is drug bust action.
The Schraeder Family Variety Hour with Walt dead from his life of crime/cancer and Skylar locked up, the Schraeder’s adopt Walt’s kids and decide to follow Hank and Walt Jr’s dreams of becoming Broadway dance sensations. Tagline: It’s like Glee but with more moral compromises!
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?