Canada Sucks

So I was writing this post tonight about the Olympics and I got really into it. Really into it. And it got ugly. I spent quite a few paragraphs on the Chinese manipulation of the judging, and their blatant prejudice against Canadians. But honeslty, who doesn't hate Canada?

OOOH! We have an extraordinarily low crime rate. Oh, we have such a beautiful country. Everyone here has easily accesible health care. Our air is actually clean!

Just zip it, Canucklehead. You are and will always be nothing more... than America's hat.***


Anyway, I think I may need to edit it down a little, and suffice it to say, I will not be posting it tonight. I just don't have the strength.


I'm trying to have a little self restraint. I am attempting to eat nothing after 8 PM. And this is quite the task for this guy. I love midnight snacks. Pretty much anything will do, ice cream, cookies. You know, the basics. But I like to get a little crazy sometimes. I make this sandwich that has peanut butter and jelly (strawberry jam, to be precise) and I layer over it... Are you ready for this? Potato chips. Swear to God, it's fucking religious. And it's not just for potato chips... any salty, cracker-like product will do. Cheez-its? Sure. Wheat Thins? Why not? Chicken in a bisket? Okay, but don't get too crazy on me here. Garlic and Parmesan croutons? Alright, now you've gone round the bend. Just stop it.

Or Chinese food, speaking of the Olympics. There is nothing better than finishing off your order of General Gau's Chicken silently crouched next to your refrigerator, lights off, being illuminated only by the half cracked door of the fridge. You of course need a little light to make sure that you don't accidentally eat one of those ridiculously hot peppers at the bottom, which BTW, somehow Floyd was fooled into thinking it was a soarerib. I don't knwo who could have done such thing to him. It was hilarious. But I digress. There you are, praying that no one discovers you in your gluttonous state. Well, my gluttonous state, I suppose. What, you guys act like you've never done that before.

 Liars.

By the way, what do you guys call Genreal Gau's where you live? I've heard so many variations on it, it's hard to know who the real General was. I mean, we celebrate him each time we order his delicious chicken, along with an order of the shrimp lo mein and some boneless spareribs. I'm just saying, I want to know who the man really is that made such a delectable dish. So please, weigh in.

But ultimately, eating spicy food at midnight is not really a smart move. I used to be able to do it. Now I just get heartburn the whole next day. It's really quite unpleasant. And thus, not worth it anymore.

So I'm going clean again. Without Cold Turkey, as it were. {I'm silently chuckling, and I don't really care if you are too. It pleased me.}

I must end this quickly, as I fear I may not have the strength to write much more. This lack of caloric intake is affecting me in strange ways. Must... have... Saturated Fats!



*** My apologies to any Canadians offended by these statements.

I'm not kidding...

I promise a post by the end of business today. And not a crappy one either, one where I just bitch and moan (a lot) more than I usually do. No, no, no. I promise a good one.



Maybe.

It's these fahrblunget times we live in. I'm telling ya. It's enough to make ya kvetch.

I've been talking myself out of blogging a lot. I have literally 7's of posts started but ultimately left unpublished. I keep a notebook with me all day, and I write down any brilliant ideas that pass through my mind. But honestly, those are few and far between. Mostly my mind conjures up idiotic nuggets like these:

What's the deal with this guy being such a douchebag?
Why do we need pennies?
Come to think of it, why do we need nickels either? I'm sick of both of 'em.
That girl was way too young to be wearing that.
That woman was too old to be wearing that.
How many times can I hear this one song today? I put the over/under at around 9.


So you see what I've had to work with. For some reason unbeknownst to me, I have lost the ability to convey my thoughts down into my fingers, through them into the keys, and from what I've been told, the words then travel through a series of tubes and eventually, they land on your lap...top. But I can't do that anymore. NOoooooooooo, I am unable to... Case in point, I can't even finish that sentence.

This would be mildly distressing if I wasn't certain that I will eventually figure it out and get back to normal, and Adam will ostensibly have gotten his groove back.


See what I'm saying? Pop culture references from the early 90's! Oy gevald!

Yiddish too Adam?


What a shonde.

Stop it before you hurt yourself

So this idiot at work has spent the last three months trying to prove to me that he has a broader base of knowledge when it pertains to music than I do. I have to laugh at this guy. Everyday is a an episode of Name that Tune. It's rather bothersome. I'm just trying to make it through the day, and this guy is relentless.

What band did the song "Hello Skinny"?



How the fuck should I know? Oh, The Residents. Silly me. I should have known it was an obscure surrealist band from the 70's. A band so obscure, nobody even knows the names of the people in it. It's true. Look it up. 

But he lost all credibility last week, His claim that Kansas was the best band of the last 30 years almost made my head explode.

Kansas. Really?

I wasn't even sure how to respond. I mean it was just...


Kansas? Dust in the Wind, Carry on my Wayward Son, synthesizers and keytars? That Kansas?


For a second, I thought I was getting Punk'd. Then I remembered that that show has been neither relevant or in production for some time now. So I dismissed it. Then I considered the possibility that I had indeed crossed over into... The Twilight Zone.

Because failing that, I have no other explanation for his utterly ridiculous claim.



I did get to blow that guy's mind though. And it was kinda fun. Alanis Morisette's "Ironic" came on the radio (For a supposedly manly place, the music is pretty lame. Safe to say a popular tune there involves a girl who is not really interested in writing a song in which she professes her love to another person, and most especially not if she is writing it because she is being forced to do so. No way, sister. Not this girl) 

Anyway, the song came on, and this guy went where any person who is unable to let go of stupid jokes goes.

"You know, none of this stuff is really ironic. They're all just coincidences."

So I, of course, had to set this moron straight.

"Actually, they're not really coincidences at all. Just unfortunate turns of events. And furthermore, if you knew what ironic meant, you would agree that the title is most certainly appropriate. Irony is an incongruence between what is expected and what actually happens. In my opinion, what could be more "ironic" than a song called "Ironic" that contains no actual irony?"

He just sat there. I wasn't sure if it was because he was still trying to figure out what incongruence meant, or if I just completely threw him for a mental loop. But it was kind of funny and sad at the time.

By the way, I have it on good authority that she called the song "Ironic" mainly because "Well, Wasn't That Unfortunate" just didn't have the same Pop! to it.

Bitch Session

I've been confined to a bed for most of the past thirty hours. I don't have the flu. I didn't break an ankle. There wasn't an ALF marathon on TV Land, though I wish there were. I just loved ALF. I had an Alf sleeping bag for years and years and years. Until it finally wore out from too much use. Now I suppose I'll have to find a new sleeping bag.

No, this thirty hour binge of chain smoking and sleep that borders on comatose was brought on by my arch enemy: Life.

I just fucking hate that guy.

I'm not really going to get into the specifics of my situation, other than to say this is not the first time I've done something like this.

I don't deal with stress very well. It's not wired into my brain to react correctly to fucked up situations. I adhere to a strict policy of hiding from my problems and eventually, they'll just go away.

And that approach has delivered time after time, with consistent results.






I've grown resentful of Floyd. And that's not right. It's not fair to him anymore. It's not his fault his owner is a dirtbag who has no intentions of ever coming back for him.

And I have no real problem with the little guy... other than the fact that I don't want him here. But I can't just give him away to some strange person. Or even someone I know. It's just not fair. He's the sweetest dog in the world, if you can look past his irrepressible hyperactivity. And he deserves a better deal than the one he's been given.

He's not the reason for my current state of angst, mind you. He's merely a player in the wildly unimaginitive stage show that is my life. (It's not a Busby Berkely musical or anything like that. Maybe an Arthur Miller. Or Goethe might be more accurate. There's something almost Faustian about this whole thing. But Faust, if it were written by Joe Eszterhas apparently.)

This post really had no point.





A friend recently pointed out that I seem to have all the answers for everybody else, but I can't answer the same questions when I ask them of myself.

And to that person, I say... you're right. I know it's easy to find the fault in others. And it's just as easy to quickly examine other's situations and offer pointed cogent criticism. But when the time comes to examine my own life, the answers are curiously absent.

It's obvious I need to rethink a few things. This is beginning to get a tad bothersome. Not that I don't like to sleep for a whole day every now and again. But I like it to be of my own volition. Not because I just can't force myself to face an issue that desperately needs my attention.

You better be talking about corned beef, buddy.

So, yesterday at work, I had an interesting conversation with my boss. This is the man who would only consider hiring me if and when I passed a drug screening. And I did, because I have been (officially) clean for six months now.

Well, my boss (who shall remain nameless) offerred me an intriguing proposition. He asked me, straight up, if I wanted to buy some hash.

That's... not really helping in my recovery.


The life of a reformed addict is filled with many twists and turns, I suppose.