Another one of those bored and lame attempts at a post which amounts to embedding YouTube clips.

Ben Stiller, when he was kinda funny.

The emu doesn’t have bright red butt blood.

Some people do the chicken dance at weddings, I prefer the funky Duckman.

Not quite putting a bun in the oven…

Well, it’s Friday morning and I’m feeling pretty zombieish. As long as I stay away from the book depository, I should be okay.

Last night I went to the one year anniversary of the Toronto Music Scene. I didn’t stay for the whole show, though. You know that old saying “If it’s too loud, you’re too old,” well, I’m old. No use in fighting it or denying it, I’m old.

I wasn’t always old. There was a time I was young. And people certainly remember me in my youth. In fact, people remind me of my youth. Just yesterday, during my lunch break I went to the salon. The head stylist there, I’ve known him my whole life, showed me a portrait Juice drew of me. (Back story: Juice, hair stylist Fab and me have known each other our whole lives and I was a very chubby baby.) Juice, for some odd reason, drew a picture of me, more of a caricature of me, of when I was a baby. It’s a pic of me (very Baby Huey-ish) in diapers just sitting on the ground being fat. Fab liked it so much, he had it framed.

So I was young at some point.

Last night, at the concert, as I eased my way up the stairs into the club, I heard the promoter guy talking to somebody. He was talking pretty loudly. I just shouted my way into the conversation without anybody being able to see me. He turned the corner and saw me. We haven’t seen each other in a long while. He was very pleased to see me as he made the point of introducing me to everybody using my full first and last name.

Later in the night, I saw this old friend from my high school days walk by then his ladyfriend came upto me to say “Hi.” I recognized the guy right away but the gal took me a minute or so to recall. Sure, I played along with the “Oh my God, I haven’t seen you in forever,” and all that jazz. Of course, I had to go upto the promoter guy and say “Was that so-and-so from high school?”

I got to play catch-up with a couple of old friends. Told “Did you hear about you-know-who” stories. Made the usual “We gotta get together more often” empty promises. All that stuff. Crap like that, you have to do it every once-in-a-while.

The bar/nightclub this event was held at, it’s one of Toronto’s newer spots. It’s called The Wreck Room. For a dingy little hole, the sound was pretty good. Most dingy little holes, you get nothing but feedback. But this place, you could actually hear the music. The layout isn’t great though. The bar is right in the middle of the room. If you’re sitting at the boothes, you have to look over the bar to see the stage. Otherwise, it’s one of Toronto’s better holes. The place does have a Ms. Pac-Man machine. Definitely cool. 50 cents a game though. Lemme throw up a big double-u tee eff on that. When the game was new, it only costed a quarter and that’s when Ms. Pac-Man was both the height of technology and the height of social commentary. Regardless, I was on a roll last night. I was smoking that machine. I don’t think I’ve ever been that dominant on a Pac-Man game before. I was grouping the ghosties together and getting them to chase me right into the big pellets so I could quickly turn ’round and gobble them up. I was scoring cherries, strawberries and some other non-descript fruits.

Oh well, I guess that’s it for this morning. The caffeine from my two cups of tea is starting to really kick in now. I think I just might make it through this day.

To all my American readers, happy 4th of July!

For the past few months, I’ve been working six days a week. For some people, work starts at 9:00AM and ends at 5:00PM. Not for me. I usually get to work around 7:00AM. It’s really busy lately on the workfront. Okay, Saturdays, I stroll in around 9, but still, I’m usually up pretty early everyday.

It’s rare, but sometimes I get invited to things on weeknights. Things I usually turn down. Trying to do things and go out and stuff and then having to be at work at 7 the next morning is very difficult for me. On the rare occasion I have a late weeknight, I’m a zombie the next day.

Tonight, I’ve been asked to go to some concert at some hole in the ground club downtown. I dislike shitty clubs. I dislike downtown Toronto. But I’m going anyway. An old high school buddy is trying to start up a promotion or something, so, I’m going to help fill up the place.

Chances are, the music will suck, the crowd will be a bunch of the promoter’s and bands’ friends and I will probably pass out and get bounced before midnight. Not from drinking, (I can’t drink if I gotta drive home*) but just from exhaustion. That would really suck.

But I’m going anyway. I’m still twenty-something. There’s no way I can feel this damn old yet. Seriously, I’m single, ain’t got no kids. Shouldn’t I at least try to live it up a bit. I’m going out on a school-night, oooohhhh. I’ve got to sow my wild oats before my hair turns grey. I don’t want to be that guy who has the midlife crisis at 35. I’ve got to feel young and act stupid and irresponsible while I’m still young enough to get away with it.

Last Saturday, I went to sleep before the Sun went down. Saturday night, out with friends, and I called it a day right after dinner. What the heck!

And this morning, as I got into my car to go to work, I realized I left the sunroof open all night. I didn’t rain (until I actually sat in the car this morning) but there was a definite dampness and humidity in the car. As well as some bugs and leaves and things. Well, that finally put an end to the new car smell I’ve been clinging to for the past couple of weeks.

* No public transit to anywhere near my house on off-peak hours.

The title of this post really has nothing to do with the post itself. I just couldn’t think of a decent title so went for something abstract and comical.

Last night after I returned home from my attempted jog (it started as a jog but quickly reverted into a trot, then a walk), I sat down in front of the television and relaxed. There was nothing good on TV last night.

I spent an hour flipping back and forth between three programs: Celebrity Family Feud, Wipe-out and I Survived a Japanese Game-Show.

Celebrity Family Feud is the same ol’ Family Feud, but with so-called celebs instead of regular game-show folk. I quickly lost interest as I realized a question had something to do with Hugh Hefner’s nighttable and one of the celebrity teams were all people who’ve slept with Hugh Hefner. That seems a bit fixed for my likings. And they still lost. I guess Playboy bunnies are all looks and no brains. Geez, whodathunk that?

Wipe-out, from my understanding, is just a bunch of people running an obstacle course and making complete fools of themselves. But this show looks really low budget. Maybe it’s Canadian or something.

I Survived a Japanese Game-Show is a bunch of Americans who’ve been tricked into competing on a Japanese game-show. What the show really boils down to is Survivor: Tokyo. Sure, people can go on Survivor and try to last on some tropical island, but how about going to one of the world’s largest and most unique cities and be put on display for the locals to point and laugh.

By the end of the hour, I had the TV on mute and the record player on full blast. Watching morons fall down is funnier when I don’t have to hear them talk about how it’s harder than it looks. I don’t care how hard it is, these people are on TV so I can see them fall down. So shut up and fall down.

Friday

Picked up Bob and we headed down to Scarberia for dinner with the Wonder Twins. We went to one of those Chinese restaurants where you have to order in Mandarin because the nobody there speaks Cantonese or English. I had already had dinner, so I just ordered a Coca-cola. By which I mean, I had Jayna order me a coke.

After dinner, we drove up to Unionville for a coffee. But there was a problem. Jayna has this GPS navigator thing in her purse, and with that device, she was convinced there was a chocolate place in old downtown Markham. So we had to go there instead. The four of us walked the main street and saw nothing but a couple of bars. No chocolate place. Not even a coffee place. Had we gone one mile over to Unionville, there would have been plenty of coffee and ice cream places. But no, we were already there and I wasn’t going to drive around trying to find another parking spot in Unionville. We ended up at Dairy Queen. Blech.

Saturday

Bob, Jayna and I went to the baseball game. Since the inception of interleague play, this was the first time my favourite team, the Atlanta Braves, were visiting the Toronto Blue Jays. Sure, the Braves lost, but I had to see them once.

I had parked my car at Yorkdale and took the subway down to meet the other two, who came by way of Jayna driving. For some reason, Jayna had decided she needed to shop at Yorkdale after the game, so we all went back up to Yorkdale. Well, I had to, that’s where my car was. Bob was just along for the ride and for the traditional post-game meal the two of us get after we see the Jays.

Jayna went into one store to buy whatever the heck women buy at the makeup counter. Me and Bob killed time by going into the pet store and we played “Spot the lizard in the terrarium,” a game we kind of made up on the spot. It’s more challenging than it sounds. After losing every round to Bob, we left the store and found that Jayna was still buying makeup. How long does it take to buy lipstick or whatever the heck she was buying?

We decided to head to North York, met Zan there and the four of us to have dinner at Baton Rouge. So, I left to go to my car. Bob and Jayna left together in Jayna’s car, or so they claimed. I drove over to Yonge street, taking what I thought was a fast route. Turns out it was the slow route. So, when I got to Baton Rouge, I drove around the block two or three times trying to find a place to park. Eventually, I find my way into the underground parking beneath the restaurant. I spend a good five minutes trying to figure out how to decipher the hieroglyphics on the parking meter, then I head up to the restaurant. I didn’t see my friends there. So I called Bob on his cell.

“Hey, where are you guys?”

“Just getting onto the 401.”

“Why the 401? Isn’t Sheppard Ave. faster? There’s all that construction on the 4-O… Why did it take you so long to leave the mall?”

“Jayna had to hit three more stores before we left.”

Eventually, everybody got there. The meal was good. Then I went home. I was friggin’ beat. I went to bed early, it was still light out.

Sunday

Slept in to a whopping 9:00AM. Yeah, I know, that’s not sleeping in, but for me it is. It really is! I spent much of the day feeling tired and lethargic. I was still just so very tired. I did go out a bit with my mother. She needed to get some patio furniture, and well, I drive an SUV, she don’t. Back at her place, I took a nap until my brother came by.

Monday

With Tuesday being a holiday, my company took the Monday off instead. I spent much of the day relaxing again. Maybe there’s something wrong with me or maybe it’s just the heat, but I’ve got no energy lately. All I want to do is sleep.

I finally got around to cutting that lining out of my shorts. I couldn’t find proper sheers, so I just used those utility scissors I keep in the kitchen. I performed a horrible hack job on the shorts. But when I was done, I tried them on. Aaaahhh (that’s a sigh of relief aaaahhh as opposed to a shriek of terror aaaahhh), that’s how shorts are supposed to feel. Sure, the shorts look really silly if I was to wear them inside out, but when am I ever going to do that, sobre.

“Okay WIGSF, go up to that chick and ask her to sodomize you.”

“Whoh, excuse me. What did you just say?”

“Dude, ask her, HER, to sodomize you.”

“Do you know what you’re saying?”

“Haven’t you ever had a woman stick something up your ass?”

“NO!”

“Oh dude, you hafta get a chick to sodomize you.”

That’s the first and last time I ever listen to that guy for advice on picking up chicks. I’m pretty sure I never asked for advice. He just started offering it up.

Thankfully, I never attempted any such use of his advice. I think I actually repressed the memory of receiving the advice for nearly a week now. I’m only remembering it now, as I write this post.

That sure was one disturbing young man.

Yesterday, I picked up a new pair of shorts. Something simple to wear when I go for a jog through the park.

I went to the Nike Store, took a look at the selection and decided on this simple little red number. I didn’t bother to try it on. I figured “It’s a 20 dollar pair of shorts with a stretchy waist, the large size should fit me fine.”

Later, at home, I try the shorts on. “Whooh, underwear riding up.” So I adjust myself. But it made no difference. I take the shorts off and put them back on. Still, it feels like my underwear is riding up, even though it’s not.

Again, I take the shorts off and inspect the inside. The shorts have this built-in, underwear-like device. It’s not that it’s uncomfortable. But I’m a boxer guy, not a brief guy. And these shorts, defeat the purpose of wearing boxers.

Now, I’m a lazy guy. Too lazy to return a pair of 20 dollar shorts. I’ll probably just take a pair of scissors to these shorts and perform some minor alterations.

Nobody and nothing can squeeze my jibblies without at least buying me dinner first. Got that? Good.

Okay, so here’s my review of the new Futurama feature length adventure.

My first point is this: for something with that much freaky alien sex, really not all that much nudity. Not at all what I would have expected from the people that brought us the Splorgers and the race of penis people from Bender’s Big Score.

Okay, this story is a bit of a romance, you know, for an animated science fiction comedy. There were some definitely funny moments and there were some horribly disturbing and shocking moments.

Without spoiling it for you, this tale centres around Fry coming to grips with his love life. Meanwhile, in a completely unrelated b-story, Bender befriends a group of robots outside of his usual sphere of influence. The relationship between Zapp and Kif is highlighted much more in this adventure, when compared to the previous adventure. But much like Bender’s Big Score, the fate of the universe rests in the hands of the Planet Express crew.

Special appearances this time are Stephen Hawking, David Cross and Dan Castellaneta. Sorry folks, no Al Gore this time around.

For those of you who enjoy Futurama already, I don’t think I need to tell you to go watch this. For those of you who don’t watch Futurama, there really isn’t anything I can say to make you watch this. So, therefore, by reading this, everybody, you’ve just wasted your time. To that I say “Come on, don’tcha wanna see how a rastafarian accountant hangs up a video phone?”

Saw on the news this morning, a neighbourhood in Toronto got pelted with large amounts of hail. Just like my neighbourhood last week. The news was showing this guy shoveling his driveway. He had a ton of hail. It made my cleanup look easy. I don’t care about no damn climate change or global warming. I just don’t want things getting damaged from the hail. My neighbour has to have his brand new air conditioner replaced because it was irrecoverably damaged in last week’s hailstorm. I took a look at mine, I hope it’s okay. I’ll find out the next time I crank the AC on a muggy summer morn.

The new Futurama DVD is being released today. The Beast with a Billion Backs, sounds interesting. As long as there’s some grotesque nudity, I’ll be fine with it.

You know those online banking security questions? I hate those things. The preset questions are always things that I have no answer for. What is my father’s middle name? Who the eff knows that? My father doesn’t know mine, and he named me. The only questions I can think of answers for are ones that everybody who knows me, knows the answers to those questions. By now, I’m assumming that ID thiefs can get around stuff like that. That makes me feel like those questions don’t provide any real security. All they do is keep me away from my money.

Yesterday, for the most part, I stayed home from work. I’m sick. I new it was coming. On Sunday I felt that lump in my throat that won’t go away. That always means I’m going to get sick. Monday morning, I woke up and my nose and sinuses were clogged. I was sneezing and wheezing. My head ached, my jaws were sore (the jaw thing is a new one). Today, I woke up, feeling slightly better but dizzy. That’s par for the course with this cold/flu bug I seem to get once a year. But getting it in June, that’s odd. Isn’t the cold and flu season over?

Last Friday, my brother and I went out with the other groomsmen for the wedding. This was the first official groomsmen meeting. Although my brother and I each have our suits. The other two groomsmen needed their suits. After a hilarious moment with a flamboyantly gay latino salesman at Harry Rosen yielded nothing but some good ideas, we ventured into other stores at the mall. The suits at Harry Rosen are just too expensive for suits that will only be worn once. We eventually found pretty much what we were looking for at Stonehouse. All we need now are the ties and shoes. My brother wants us all to wear shiny shoes. Really shiny shoes. I really don’t care what I look like for this wedding. It’s not up to me. I told my brother I’m his walking talking Ken doll. He can dress me up however he’d like. But shiny shoes, I’m never going to wear those again. I don’t like people looking at my feet. And as well all know, people’s eyes are drawn to shiny things.

Feet truly are the ugliest part of the human body. All you foot fetishists out there. You are just sick disgusting people and I want you to know that I hate you all. I can get how some men prefer breasts and others prefer booty. Some guys go for a nice smile and others like long blonde hair. But those morons (yes, foot fetishists are morons) who watch foot porn, you people make me sick. What kind of sick freak gets his jollies from watching a chick rub her bare feet in a bowl of marmalade? Feet are not just ugly and unsexy, they are anti-sexy. Nothing kills the mood more than feet.

Home from work, sick, watching television. There’s this channel that plays that old Wonder Woman program. The one with Linda Carter. Saw a classic scene of gimme-a-breakness. Wonder Woman is fighting this white guy with one of those curly white guy afros. He’s got a gun. A six-shooter. He takes two shots. She blocks both with her golden wristbands. He takes two more. She blocks them both the same way. He takes two more, but nothing happens. He only had four bullets in his gun. So what does he do next? He throws his gun at Wonder Woman. But what is her defense? She ducks!

Wonder Woman has lightning quick reflexes and wristbands that can stop bullets and she ducks to avoid a thrown pistol. What the eff is that? You would think she could catch the pistol and throw it right back. Give this curly-fro punk a good ol’ Jack Burton-style ass-kicking. What’s that you say? Who’s Jack Burton? How dare you ask such a ridiculous question? Stop what you’re doing. Turn off the computer and head to the nearest Blockbuster and rent Big Trouble in Little China. Or wait a week, I’m sure it’ll be on TBS (or Peachfuzz or whatever its called these days).

So, here’s the question I pose. What would happen if Wonder Woman had to fight Jack Burton? Who would win? Or would it result in Wonder Woman’s lipstick getting smudged all over Jack Burton’s lips?

Just remember what ol’ Jack Burton does when the earth quakes, and the poison arrows fall from the sky, and the pillars of Heaven shake. Yeah, Jack Burton just looks that big ol’ storm right square in the eye and he says, “Give me your best shot, pal. I can take it.”