Hitler or Osama bin Laden crouching outside your bedroom window holding a knife in his teeth staring at you.
Fish in general.
This one sounds racist so I’ll explain how it’s not: pygmies. Not the African people, but the extinct Homo florensiensis. Like, imagine waking up in the middle of the night and there’s all these little naked people carrying around their tools in your house and they’re speaking an inhuman language and they haven’t noticed you yet and they’re putting their hands on your dog. That’s spooky.
Those old Fox “documentaries” they used to play on Space where Jonathan Frakes or someone would narrate on alien abductions or Area 51 or bigfoot or child murders and stuff. Spooky.
So a couple of days ago I found out that someone I went to high school with died.
I didn’t really know him, we had a few classes together and I think once we both did a project together. Mostly I guess I feel guilty because I don’t think he had many friends and I probably could have made more of an effort?
I was going to end this with a joke about me being narcissistic about my own impending death or something but this is depressing enough as it is.
When I was about 5 years old older sister had me convinced that my hair was my memories, being that it grew out of my head where my thoughts supposedly happened. I became afraid of a haircut because I didn’t want to lose my memories.
So there's this tiny farming town in Alberta called Vulcan
And as a science fiction fan it’s kind of funny listening to news reports about the town because their demonym is also Vulcan. So all news stories about the town sound like plots for really shitty Star Trek episodes:
Vulcans worried about toxins in drinking water.
Vulcan senior missing.
Vulcan property taxes on the rise.
But I guess they have a replica of the Enterprise there to prove that they aren’t humourless/constantly on the verge of suicide (I would be if I lived in Vulcan, it sounds like a really dreary place).
Me: well, at first I thought everything was fine. I didn’t even feel the hoof. It was only afterwards when I was seeing two things at once and I realized my eyeball was hanging outside of my head. I just remember touching the optic nerve and saying “oh fuck.”
Oprah: please, we can’t use that language on this show.
Me: oh, fuck off. My head was caved in by a horse. I’ll say whatever I want.
I was kind of bored today and started thinking about if I would ever go on Oprah’s talk show and the above scenario (promoting my memoir “Head Caved in by a Horse”) is the only way I would do it.
Science? How do I explain what science used to be? It was sort of like, you know all that techno you kids listen to? It sort of inspired that, except science wasn’t a type of music, not really. Wait, no, okay I’ve got it… you know all those movies with lasers and aliens and flying cars? That’s sort of what science was, except there were never any aliens or flying cars and the lasers didn’t explode things. And they never made a genetically engineered superhuman warrior, that’s just a plot device. It was pretty boring and logical and it had a bit less fake CGI, but that was actually seen as a good thing. There were lab coats and microscopes but they weren’t ironic affectations, people did things with them. I don’t know, I kind of miss it.
One of my earliest memories is from when I was about three or four-years-old.
My Grandfather, we all called him Poppy, took me into the laundry room where he kept his safe. He opened it up and showed me the coolest thing I’d ever seen: a GUN.
I don’t remember if he took the bullets out of it, or if showed me that he kept the bullets elsewhere, but I definitely remember him showing me the bullets, too. I think it was a revolver because I remember the middle part where the bullets go opening up. I remember the barrel and I remember it was empty and I remember the bullets, but that’s about it.
Anyways, he put the gun in my hands and said, “go show this to your mother.”
Mom and Nan were in the kitchen drinking tea. I remember carrying it in two hands like how you’d carry a dead rabbit (that’s a whole other story) and even then I knew not to point it at people. Still, Mom and Nan must have freaked when I walked in carrying an actual gun that can actually make people dead. I don’t remember that part but I asked Mom about it recently and she confirmed that she did, in fact, freak out.
Years later when Poppy was dying he told my father to clear all of the guns out of the house, because he didn’t want any accidents involving his grandkids. It kind of bugged me because all the years I spent at his house before that I didn’t know there were even more awesome guns in his basement, but I guess that was kind of the point.
I never got to see what the other guns looked like, except for the one that Dad let us keep because it has a few parts missing and it’s so rusted up that it could never be used. I’m not sure what kind of gun it is, but it looks a lot like the Wikipedia pictures of a bren gun, so that’s what I call it.
Anyways guns are kind of awesome and I kind of want to own one, eventually.
Unlike the standard the cool and aloof professional criminal who doesn’t care and strives for zero emotional attachment to his colleagues, our protagonist is a bit more of the chummy sort and strives to be affable in any situation.
A burglar alarm rings as two bebalaclavaed men run from a building, arms filled with weapons and loot. They hop into the back seat of a cool sports car.
Driver: Hey guys, what’d we steal tonight? Thug 1: Uh, can we get going? Driver: Oh, oh yeah of course. Just turning the engine on now aaaand put it into the ol’ D for drive and away we go. So what’d you steal? Just cash or something interesting? Thug 2: I hate to be a backseat driver but with all these cops tailing us you really need to keep your eyes on the road. Driver: Right. Good call, dude. So how ‘bout after we ditch the boys in blue we go to this sports bar I like, grab some brewskis and regale one another with tales of professional crime? I mean, you guys seem like you’ve been in the business enough to have seen some crazy shit, amiright?
I know it’s corny as hell, but I love that old joke about how Canada had so much potential, about how we could have had English government, French culture and American know-how but instead ended up with English know-how, French government and American culture.
I don’t understand why people invest so much of their emotions and self-worth in hockey, or sports for that matter.
That being said — and I know this is blasphemy — but it seems to me that American football is way more interesting than hockey. Admittedly this is based on a very superficial knowledge of either sport, but football seems to have a lot more strategy going for it. In football, you always hear about how important coaches’ playbooks are or whatever. Whereas strategy in hockey revolves around skating in front of the goalie so he can’t see, and discussion of the sport is all about whether or not teams should be allowed to employ specialists whose job is to come up from behind and hit opposing players in the head hard enough to knock them out of the game.
Honestly, every time I hear some hack comedian make a joke about how Canadians are intellectually superior (or whatever) I cringe because I know they have the smarter sport.