Permission Form to Date my Daughter

APPLICATION FOR PERMISSION TO DATE MY DAUGHTER
NOTE: This application will be incomplete and rejected unless accompanied by a complete financial statement, job history, lineage, and current medical report from your doctor.

NAME:

DATE OF BIRTH:

HEIGHT: WEIGHT: IQ: GPA:

SIN # DRIVERS LICENSE #

BOY SCOUT RANK AND BADGES:
HOME ADDRESS:
CITY/PROVINCE:
POSTAL CODE:

Do you have parents? ___Yes ___No
Is one male and the other female? ___Yes ___No
If No, explain:
Number of years they have been married:

If less than your age, explain:

ACCESSORIES SECTION:

A. Do you own or have access to a van? __Yes __No

B. A truck with oversized tires? __Yes __No

C. A waterbed? __Yes __No

D. A pickup with a mattress in the back? __Yes __N0

E. A tattoo? __Yes __No

F. Do you have an earring, nose ring, pierced tongue, pierced cheek or a belly button ring? __Yes __No

(IF YOU ANSWERED ‘YES’ TO ANY OF THE ABOVE, DISCONTINUE APPLICATION AND LEAVE PREMISES IMMEDIATELY. I SUGGEST RUNNING.)

ESSAY SECTION:

In 50 words or less, what does ‘LATE’ mean to you?

In 50 words or less, what does ‘DON’T TOUCH MY DAUGHTER’ mean to you?

In 50 words or less, what does ‘ABSTINENCE’ mean to you?

REFERENCES SECTION:

Church you attend:

How often you attend:

When would be the best time to interview your:

father?

mother?

pastor?

SHORT-ANSWER SECTION:

Answer by filling in the blank. Please answer freely, all answers are confidential.

A: If I were shot, the last place I would want to be shot would be:

B: If I were beaten, the last bone I would want broken is my:

C: A woman’s place is in the:

D: The one thing I hope this application does not ask me about is:

E. What do you want to do IF you grow up?

F. When I meet a girl, the thing I always notice about her first is:

F. What is the current going rate of a hotel room?

I SWEAR THAT ALL INFORMATION SUPPLIED ABOVE IS TRUE AND CORRECT TO THE BEST OF MY KNOWLEDGE UNDER PENALTY OF DEATH, DISMEMBERMENT, NATIVE AMERICAN ANTI TORTURE, CRUCIFIXION, ELECTROCUTION, CHINESE WATER TORTURE, RED HOT POKERS, AND HILLARY CLINTON KISS TORTURE.

Applicant’s Signature (that means sign your name, moron!)

Mother’s Signature

Father’s Signature

Pastor/Priest/Rabbi

State Representative/Congressman

Thank you for your interest, and it had better be genuine and non-sexual. Please allow four to six years for processing.

You will be contacted in writing if you are approved. Please do not try to call or write (since you probably can’t, and it would cause you injury).
If your application is rejected, you will be notified by two gentleman wearing white ties carrying violin cases. (you might watch your back)

To prepare yourself, start studying Daddy’s Rules for Dating (below).

Parents’ Rules for Dating
Your parents’ rules for your boyfriend (or for you if you’re a guy) :

Rule One:
If you pull into my driveway and honk you’d better be delivering a package, because you’re sure not picking anything up.

Rule Two:
You do not touch my daughter in front of me. You may glance at her, so long as you do not peek at anything below her neck. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off of my daughter’s body, I will remove them..

Rule Three:
I am aware that it is considered fashionable for boys of your age to wear their trousers so loosely that they appear to be falling off their hips. Please don’t take this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are complete idiots. Still, I want to be fair and open minded about this issue, so I propose this compromise: You may come to the door with your underwear showing and your pants ten sizes too big, and I will not object. However, in order to ensure that your clothes do not, in fact come off during the course of your date with my daughter, I will take my electric nail gun and fasten your trousers securely in place to your waist.

Rule Four:
I’m sure you’ve been told that in today’s world, sex without utilizing a ‘Barrier method’ of some kind can kill you. Let me elaborate, when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I will kill you.

Rule Five:
It is usually understood that in order for us to get to know each other, we should talk about sports, politics, and other issues of the day. Please do not do this. The only information I require from you is an indication of when you expect to have my daughter safely back at my house, and the only word I need from you on this subject is: ‘early.’

Rule Six:
I have no doubt you are a popular fellow, with many opportunities to date other girls. This is fine with me as long as it is okay with my daughter. Otherwise, once you have gone out with my little girl, you will continue to date no one but her until she is finished with you. If you make her cry, I will make you cry..

Rule Seven:
As you stand in my front hallway, waiting for my daughter to appear, and more than an hour goes by, do not sigh and fidget. If you want to be on time for the movie, you should not be dating. My daughter is putting on her makeup, a process than can take longer than painting the Golden Gate Bridge . Instead of just standing there, why don’t you do something useful, like changing the oil in my car?

Rule Eight:
The following places are not appropriate for a date with my daughter: Places where there are beds, sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool. Places where there is darkness. Places where there is dancing, holding hands, or happiness. Places where the ambient temperature is warm enough to induce my daughter to wear shorts, tank tops, midriff T-shirts, or anything other than overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka - zipped up to her throat. Movies with a strong romantic or sexual themes are to be avoided; movies which feature chain saws are okay. Hockey games are okay. Old folks homes are better.

Rule Nine:
Do not lie to me. I may appear to be a potbellied, balding, middle-aged, dimwitted has-been. But on issues relating to my daughter, I am the all-knowing, merciless god of your universe. If I ask you where you are going and with whom, you have one chance to tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. I have a shotgun, a shovel, and five acres behind the house. Do not trifle with me.

Rule Ten:
Be afraid. Be very afraid. It takes very little for me to mistake the sound of your car in the driveway for a chopper coming in over a sand dune near Kuwait. When the nerve agents effects starts acting up, the voices in my head frequently tell me to clean the guns as I wait for you to bring my daughter home. As soon as you pull into the driveway you should exit the car with both hands in plain sight. Speak the perimeter password, announce in a clear voice that you have brought my daughter home safely and early, then return to your car - there is no need for you to come inside.. The camouflaged face at the window is mine.

Sincerely - Mom & Dad

I found this on Charles Adler’s Blog. The originating blog can be found here.

St. Valentine’s Day

Another Hallmark holiday is quickly approaching. This time its St. Valentine’s Day. Unlike the other Hallmark holidays, this one confuses me a bit.

First, I get a bit peeved whenever I see the St. removed from signage and discussion of the day. I just do.

Second, I feel like that grumpy kid in every episode of Care Bears who eventually gets turned into a kind and caring lad. Many stores and shopping malls have, by now, been transformed into that cloud world the Care Bears inhabit. What’s it called? Care Bear Land, Careopolis, Caresylvania, meh, who cares, you get the idea. But unlike that grumpy child, I don’t get shown the ways of caring.

The general idea of what St. Valentine’s Day has evolved into makes me feel a bit like a misfit for not being loved on this upcoming day. Its pretty hard to avoid all the talk of love and hearts and feelings and schmoopy. The day is sold as some sort of love-is-a-good-thing-and-you’re-nothing-but-a-loser-if-you-don’t-have-somebody-to-love thing.

Its not often my solitude, whether it be self-imposed or just thrust upon me, gets to me in a negative way. But every St. Valentine’s Day, it does.

Maybe I just need to go to a flower shop on Thursday morning and watch all the guys line up, heads hanging low, preparing to fork over a large wad of dough for something that grows in dirt. Maybe that will cheer me up. Or maybe I just need somebody to hold.

Ask WIGSF: the Answers

Thanks to everybody who wrote in. I very much enjoyed reading your questions and I very much enjoyed responding to them.

To really get into the questions, I’ve tried reading them in what I’d think the voice of each writer is like. Most of the writers, I’ve never heard their voices. A lot of it is guess work based on the writing style. I have included a description of each voice so you can play along too.

Maxie asked in a valley girl voice: If I was visiting Canada, where should I go and what should I do? Do you think people are nicer in Canada?

If you were to visit Canada, there are many places to go. It is a pretty big country. If you like to ski and all that goes with the ski resort mentality, Banff, Alberta. Really pricey, but apparently its pretty nice. If you need a heroin fix, Vancouver. If you like watching women take their clothes off for money while being surrounded by snooty French people, Montreal. If you want green, rolling hills and nothing else, the east coast. Otherwise, Toronto. Its the biggest city in Canada and therefore has all the big city stuff. The nightclub scene is a bit to urban for my liking but to each his/her own, right? And if you like really big phallic symbols, there is none bigger than the CN Tower.

As for whether or not Canadians are nicer. We’re not. The Ministry of Tourism has recently enacted a new policy where all tourists are spat at upon entering the country. If you’re driving in, when the customs official asks “Can I see your passport,” duck. That official has got a loogie with your name on it. You don’t want to know what we do to people arriving by the airplane (we’ve only got the one).

But I guess the one definitive good thing about my nation, better beer. Okay, not so much better taste-wise, its more like beer in Canada is an alcoholic beverage. Even the imports are stronger in Canada. A bottle of Heinekin in the States (~3%) is different from a botttle of Heinekin in Canada (~5%), although they’re both imported from the same place.

I can’t speak for restaurants outside Toronto, but the ones in Toronto are great. I don’t think enough is said about the dining experience in Toronto. Just stay out of the restaurants in Toronto’s Scarborough area. For some reason, all the restuarants there have crumby service.

In conclusion, if you get a chance, come up here. Give Toronto a try. Its a nice place to visit. Especially in the Spring or Autumn. That’s when the weather is really nice. The Summer might be too humid for spending any amount of time outdoors.

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Dan asked like that good drinking buddy every guy has: What’s up with that $500 bet you made a while back? Any progress?

Good question Dan. As it turns out, the agreement was not as I described it originally. From later discussions with pals Bob and Columbia, it was determined that Columbia is going to pay $500 dollars to the first of me or Bob to do the dirty deed with a woman in a manner that is consistent with a set of rules that were agreed upon.

As for any progress, on my part, no progress has been achieved. I haven’t actually tried. There is a part of me that really wants Bob to take this challenge. He needs it more than me (the sex, not the money). Of course, there is also a part of me that is forgetting what boobs look like.

I also see the situation from a financial perspective. Sure, if I win, I’ll get $500. But how much will it cost me in dinners, drinks, flowers and shit like that. Frankly, the $500 won’t cover my expenses. It may be cheaper in the long run just to get a hooker. And with a hooker, there’s none of that relationship bullshit bogging me down afterwards.

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Bob asked trying to be sly but failing miserably: I don’t know where to start, so many questions to ask, so little time: 1) Do you plan on working for your boss for the rest of your life? 2) Who is going to win the NBA championship this season? 3) Are you planning on moving anytime in the next 5 years? 4) Who is going to win the Superbowl? 5) Do you want to go to my bro’s on saturday night?

1) Only the rest of his life.

2) Kobe.

3) No. I love it in Maple.

4) The New England Patriots.

5) Not really.

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Miss Ash asked in a firm, angry feminist voice, almost acusitory in tone: Yes I would also like to know the progress on the bet. As well as: 2)Who do you live with? 3)Why do you dislike women so much?

2) My wife.

3) See answer #2.

Okay, seriously, I didn’t always dislike women, I used to like them. Then I realized they all disliked me. I’m not willing to bend over backwards to appease them and their irrational hatred of all things me. I’m better than that. If they don’t like me, that’s their problem, not mine.

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Wiwille asked in generic manly curious tone: 1) Do you have any desire to be involved in matrimony? 2) Why do you believe Miss Ash is the hotness? 3) Would you ever be an activist in Canadian politics? 4) Ginger or Mary Ann? 5) Does your obesssion with modern music mask the fact that your secret desire is to be a world champion square dancer?

1) Right now, I think my current level of matrimonial involvement is plenty. Honestly, I’m just not sold on the whole ’till death part. People can live for a long time these days. I don’t see somebody putting up with me for more than a week let alone a lifetime.

2) She ain’t half bad to look at, you know, when she’s not tomato red. And she likes Bowie.

3) Possibly. If it ever gets to the point where the socialist powers that rule this country ever make direct efforts to negatively alter my lifestyle (or that of my family), I may have to put aside the rhetoric and physically take a stand.

4) Mary Ann.

5) I have no desire to be a world champion square dancer. I’m not much for the dancing. The music I enjoy very much. As for modern music, if you’re thinking modern music is just new music, screw that shit. Its all junk. But if by modern you mean music of the 20th century and on, well, there’s just so much of it. Prior to that century, audio recording wasn’t in existance. Sure, classical music has some great pieces, but all we have of Mozart and Beethoven is the sheet music, we don’t have the performances themselves.

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Helloblog asked in thick accent, not sure exactly which one, something British: 1. How do you like your tea? Strong or rather milky? And do you perfer it in a cup or a mug? (Yeah, that’s right, i’m combining questions). 2. Do you know my mum’s boss, Mario? He is also from Canada. 3. Who won the FA cup in 1988?

1. I like my tea strong but I often use a bit soy milk instead of any other whitener. I also change the amount of sugar I use from time to time. Right now, a spoon and a half of sugar. And I drink it in a mug. I’ve actually got a couple of those large mugs that fits nearly a litre of tea.

2. I’m an Italian Canadian. Do you have any idea how many people I’ve met named Mario?

3. Wimbledon.

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Shae asked, how to describe that tone, high of pitch with a generous dosage of happiness and curiosity: 1) What makes your world go round? 2) What’s your ideal woman? 3) Ginger or Mary Ann? (I’m copying wiwille!)

JOY!

I’m going to answer #2 first. My ideal woman, I’ve covered this before but I’ll sum it up for ya. She’s funny, passionate, musical, and enjoys a good meal; therefore she doesn’t exist.

My world, well, my world is Earth and based on generally accepted scientic theories, it goes around because of the Sun’s gravitational pull. For more details, ask somebody who has studied astrophysics. I’ve got a diploma in computer programming, that’s it. I was never that interested in physics.

But if you were asking that question in a more metaphysical tone, well, its got nothing to do with the Sun. My world revolves around finding pleasure in the simple things. I don’t have oodles of money, I don’t sleep with supermodels and I keep my nose clean. Pleasure, happiness, its all around. An evening walk through a lightly snowed on park, fried chicken, turning on the radio and hearing a great song I’ve haven’t heard in a long time, stuff like that. That’s what makes my world go round.

And again, Mary Ann.

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Jessica asked in a simple, bland manner: Do people in your real like know about this here blog? Was there ever a WIGSF 1.0?

Them is some good questions. A couple of people I know in life read this blog. Bob and Juice stop by from time to time.

When I started blogging, I used Blogger but after some screwy technical difficulties I was having with the site during the whole Blogger Beta fiasco, I switched over to WordPress. When I made that switch, I chose to change up the name, just a bit. This is my second significant attempt at blogging. I think the version 2.0 is both appropriate and nerdy. And Jessica, I’m a nerd, a big one.

The Contest!

Saturday night, at the Madison with Boston, Columbia and Bob; Boston proposed a little contest, a little wager.

The Prize

Five hundred dollars in legitimate Canadian legal tender to be paid by the loser.

The Rules

• Aggregate ages of participants (one contestant and one partner) must be less than one hundred.
• All partners must have given consent.
• Partners must participate without compensation (financial, etc.)
• Partners must be female.

Competitors

• WIGSF
• Bob

The Contest

First guy to get laid.

Boston’s predicitions

“I think WIGSF is gonna win this one. Bob’s puts the pussy on a pedestal.”

Columbia’s predictions

“I think WIGSF win will. Look at him, better clothes, better hair.

WIGSF’s predictions

Bob’s gonna win this one. He’ll find some woman who’ll treat him like shit, use him, abuse him and throw him away; but she’ll at least screw him once for good measure. WIGSF can’t be bothered to give a woman the time of day (corrected from “time of die”, wiwille pointed out my Freudian slip there) let alone a good roll in the hay.

Red Light District of the Apes

For those of you who disapprove of evolution… monkeys practice a small degree of economics.

Researchers have determined that male macaques in Indonesia have to trade their services as bug pickers in order to receive sexual favours from the females. For a male macaque to get some, he must first pick the bugs off of his potential mate. In colonies where there are a higher percentage of females, the males have more mating options and thusly don’t have to pick that many bugs off the female. When the females are in smaller numbers, the males must spend more time picking off the bugs in order to engage in some hot monkey lovin’.

Last night, I tested this macaque behaviour with humans. I ventured out into the usual human mating ground, a bar, and looked for a potential mate. Using only my thumbs and index fingers, I began to groom a lovely, young lady. After only three seconds of grooming, I received some physical contact. She slapped me.

Undettered by the obvious rejection of the first woman, I tried again with another woman. She too slapped me.

I can take a hint. I left the bar. I wanted to make sure these researchers were not blowing smoke up my ass so I visited the macaque habitat at the local zoo.

Ladies and gentlemen, I’m in love. Her name is Mindy, she’s a macaque from a tiny island in Indonesia. I don’t care what you think, our love is pure and true, and we’re going to get married.

Source: Yahoo! News

O Brother, What Art Thou?

Monday was a hectic day. Other than the obvious work bullshit that I have to go through, this past Monday added some pretty big stuff to my tiny secluded life.

My mother returned from her vacation on Monday so it was appropriate for me to spend some time with her. My brother thought the same, especially since I told him to visit mom on Monday night.

My brother had the idea to go out for dinner but the roads were bad. It had been snowing or raining (depending on geographic location). We just ordered pizza instead. Let the pizza delivery guy deal with the bad roads.

Eventually my brother pulled into the driveway. A little while later his girlfriend arrived. When she arrived I ran to the door hoping she was the pizza guy. She wasn’t. I was upset. The pizza was late and I was getting hungry and antsy.

When the pizza finally did arrive, the four of us sat down for a nice pizza dinner. My father stayed in the basement watching television. That’s just dad being dad I guess.

Midway through dinner my mother grabs my brother’s girlfriend’s hand. “What’s that?” My mother asks. She noticed something on the girlfriend’s hand.

My brother’s face drops into his hands. “Well, that’s an engagement ring.” She answered my mother.

So my brother is getting married.

You see, my brother isn’t the kind of guy who tells people things. He has been with his now fiancee for nearly two years. I have never heard him refer to her as his girlfriend. When he brought her home to meet the family, he didn’t tell anybody he was coming or that he was bringing a guest. He just showed up at the front door with a woman. He then spent the afternoon denying knowing the woman.

The announcement of the engagement was pretty much what I expected him to do. He did nothing. He just didn’t deny being engaged. The engagement itself was not really unexpected either. Pretty much everybody who has seen these two together knew that they were going to get married eventually. Heck, even Bob saw this coming. And Bob is an idiot.

Well, congrats to my brother and soon-to-be sister-in-law. Why she wants into my disfunctional family is a mystery to me, but my brother seems happy. Not like anybody can ever tell what that guy is thinking.

Insomnia Blogging IV

I think that a sleep-deprived mind is something akin to a drug high. I heard somewhere that Dali painted the melting clocks (can’t be bothered to get the name of the painting) after being awake for several days. I’ve also heard that Salvador Dali was a drug using sexual deviant. So how can you really be sure if the painting was a result of sleep-deprivation or just a drug-induced hallucination; or just something to get weird chicks to go to bed with him.

The point I’m trying to make is I’ve had some pretty weird thoughts lately. I haven’t painted anything. I haven’t got any paint. Paint is not my medium. Its far too tasty to waste on canvas. My thoughts haven’t really been expressed through any medium. They just float around my mind when there isn’t enough going on for me to focus on.

Yesterday at work, I was quite busy. In that time, I felt very alive. I had energy to burn. My mind was focused on the task at hand. Sure, it was some pointless work task, but still, I had energy and I didn’t feel tired at all. But once I finished work, my mind slumped into the weird thoughts again.

Okay, let me back track a bit. These weird thoughts are not anything dangerous or crazy. I’m not contemplating climbing a clock tower with a rifle or anything. Do you know how far the nearest clock tower is from me?

I’m starting to feel lonely. For me to feel lonely, that’s a weird thing. I’ve been alone for a long time. But there is a difference between being alone and feeling lonely.

Maybe I’m getting a wee bit too personal on this thing today.

In other news, today is going to be pretty hectic again. I’ve got to go pick up my new suit. When I picked out the suit, it wasn’t really what I was looking for. I was thinking a black suit with bright grey pinstripes. What I eventually decided on was a dark blue suit with a vertical blue detail. I really wanted bright colours, but the duller colours seemed to look better. This year’s bright colours don’t work on me as well as I’d like. Its always different when you see a suit on yourself. You never really know how it will look until you try it on and walk in front of a mirror. Its hard not to look good in a nice suit. But you can often be surprised by how great you look in something you wouldn’t have even tried on if not so a good salesman.