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  • Women of the Day 03/29/06

    New Moon on Wednesday. To shamelessly paraphrase Duran Duran in order to mark an occasion. Just a little something I kinda like to do. For those of you to whom today's pending end of the world-type full solar eclipse doesn't apply, of course.

    Apparently, today is also Pitcher's Day. I've no idea when Catcher's Day is, sorry. I'm going with this one being baseball related, but I didn't, like, care enough to check. The name is more than enough for this simple country boy. Y'all can interpret it however you'd like. I'm easy. Like a Sunday morning, in fact.


    If god is my witness, then god must be blind.


    I was just joshing y'all yesterday. I ain't never been to Bangkok.


    Song of the Day: the Go Go's- Automatic. Did I mention that I saw them in concert in Las Vegas last year? Sure, the night ended poorly, but it SO wasn't the fault of Belinda Carlisle et al; and we still love them.


    A hearty much obliged to my boy Colin (nice sleight of hand with the business card, too) for providing this worthless freeloader with transport all the way to work last night. Very above and beyond the call. And, because I almost always forget, muchas gracias to the gang (sadly, Dr. T was unable to attend, she was missed; on the positive tip, I'm pretty sure it weren't my fault she didn't make it out) for ordering me my coffee yet again after volleyball last night, whilst I wandered outside for my nicotine fix. That's 2 of the food groups right there. Alls I needed was alcohol and sugar and I'd have been set.

    And I ran into an unexpected visitor from the recent past, which was a very pleasant surprise. Even if I didn't quite clue in at first as to who she was (no glasses, didn't expect to see her, not really used to folks acknowledging me back in the world; always catches me off guard, it does), something for which I felt really badly and did apologize. Just another one of the hazards of always being off in one's own little world, I suppose. So it's a good thing I ran into her again, then. She knows who she is and hopefully she'll stop by hereabouts again soon. Yes, she's been given the link to whatever it is that I perpetrate hereabouts (long story, don't ask), so she knows exactly who and what I am. The guy that walks women to their cars at night and pretty much treats them with respect as a rule. I'm kinda glad we didn't play against the team she was filling in for, as I was in an unpleasant mood. Although, conversely, I'm in my element on the volleyball court...

    And yes, I did walk her to her car. That's just how I roll.


    Congratulations to good ol' Matt and his wife on the purchase of their new house. Best of luck to both of them in their future endeavours and new life in Vancouver.


    Is it just me or does this Slither movie look like the biggest pile of monkey crap since the latest episode of The View? Oprah? Dr. Phil? Any and/or all of the above? There'd better at least be plenty of gratuitous female nudity in it if it has hopes of making any, you know, money. Other than in Europe, of course. Them folks tend to watch damn near anything American. The French and their love of Jerry Lewis. Germans and David Hasselhoff. I don't believe I need to go on.


    C for Collapse. My poor little house of cards (made from a deck I got at my beloved the Palms, for signing up for their Player's Club) kinda DID last night. I totally thought I could deal. As always, I was totally mistaken. Without going into too many gory details, let's just say things went poorly. But I learned a valuable lesson about myself and, at the same time, earned me some more psychic Scars.

    All right, I typed this part beforehand, but I think I'll keep it, as it's at least partially true. Actually, I had happy thoughts to help me while away the hours at work.

    Yes, my anger issues totally got the best of me last night. I was fucking SEETHING. Folks even noticed and commented on same. Good Times. Added to which indignity, I only got in one good hit, back row. Kablam! From Straight Outta Compton and shit. The other team didn't even know where it came from. Hell, OUR team didn't even know where it came from. For the record, it came from the dark place. And it felt really fucking GOOD. You have no idea.

    Nope, still NO idea what K(A)'s deal is. Quelle surprise, n'est pas? I reckon she's simply a nice person, since she doesn't seem to be avoiding me like the Bubonic and shit. Whatever. This way. That way. At this point, it's all pretty much falling down the stairs.

    I quite appreciated the sheer smoothness that is my boy Carl, all but inviting her to join him on his pending trip to Europe. If I'd been, you know, paying attention (I was eating, priorities, dammit); I'd have totally been taking notes. Learning is, after all, FUNdamental. Or so I hear, being all ignant and such, simple country boy what I am.


    A hearty well played, old sock (old bean? whatever), to the fella on our first opponents what managed to block one of my angry spikes with authority. The kind of spike where the other team has fucked up and sent the ball over the net into my welcoming and waiting anger issues, no less. That shit's just not supposed to happen. Very impressive. Fortuitously, very rare, also.

    And to the guy on our second foe what managed to spike the ball off my goofy mug. Knocked my spectacles off and everything. While I'd like to think I was a few inches over the net at the time, I'm sure in actuality the ball was on its way down and I just happened to get in the way. Kept it in play though. Hey, whatever works, right? By any means necessary and shit.


    I once had a woman, who later became my cyberstalker, use the phrase ''suck it up, Princess'' on me. I countered with ''um, honey, I do believe that there would be MY line.'' What else could I do? I mean, what would you do in the same situation?

    And just HOW did she know that I've always wanted to be a Princess, complete with shiny (I love me some shiny) tiara, anyway? It's not like I told her or anything. But then again, mayhap I did. It is something I like to shout from the rooftops. I believe I've mentioned that I'm just a smidge offbeat at times. If not, now you know.


    The list:


    1) Megan Ewing (I'd really like to find myself behind this hazel-eyed Guess? and Victoria's Secret model. do your own math on that one, it'll help if you're familiar with a certain song. aren't I all clever and shit? and yet, kinda not.)


    2) Vivienne Tam (Cantonese fashion designer. her clothing line is apparently favored by Julia Roberts, Goldie Hawn, Madonna and Britney Spears.)


    3) Theodora (Byzantine empress. was an actress and prostitute before her marriage to Justinian I, who upon his accession, made her joint ruler. she proved to be much more suited for the job than he, so this was a sound call on his part. Stand By Your Man, push him aside and DIY, whatever works; n'est pas?)


    4) Mira Furlan (more Croatian content. formerly portrayed Ambassador DeLenn on Babylon 5. appears topless in something entitled When Father Was Away on Business, which sounds much more intriguing than it actually is, I'm sure. it's the cynic in me.)


    5) Paris Rain (these are a few of my favorite things: Paris; Rain (the song, the club, the, you know, wet stuff); porn star; shapely young adorable. check out her work at Slut Auditions.com.)


    I'm off to touch up my resume sos I can apply for the newly open Boston Bruins' general manager gig and then catch up on Sleepytime. I shall return, like it or not. Enjoy your Humpday, y'all.

  • One more time for mom

    And, mostly, because I'm a total traffic whore. Keep it coming, y'all. Harder. Faster. Oh god. Oh yeah. Uh huh. Uh huh. Ooh. Oh. Yeah yeah yeah yeah. Right there, that's it.

    And that'll be about enough of that, amusing though it may be.


    Stale incense, old sweat and lies lies lies.


    I woke up half an hour before my alarm, from a very nice dream in which I was having all sorts of flavours of sex with the lovely and talented Natalie Portman. Which is strange (even if it is The Good Kind, but I am, after all, more than a smidge strange, so there you are), as I was watching Briana Banks do her thing (and everyone else's) immediately before Sleepytime. So one would think that'd be the girl of today's dreams, n'est pas? But nooooo.

    I'm still trying to determine if my subconscious was fer me, agin me or just plain indifferent to my needs with this one. Okay, sure, it made for pleasant interactive viewing, but when I awoke...I was even angrier than when I went to visit the serene shores of Sleepytime; if that's possible. I believe the phrase ''and look what I've got'' is more than applicable here.

    And I still contend that K bears a more than passing resemblance to the divine Ms. P. And I still haven't even dreamed about K in that way. She gets the more interesting appearances.


    Apparently, in some U.S. states use of a fake i.d. is considered a FELONY, rather than merely a misdemeanor. Likely the same states in which oral and anal sex are still on the books as being illegal. Fucking Puritans.

    Note to self: find out which states these arcane laws (all 3) apply to. Avoid like the proverbial plague. Although in its defence, and because y'all know I always try to see all 3 sides to every story (yours, mine, the truth): no fake i.d.'s greatly decreases the chances of ''accidentally'' fucking a teenager. So that's a good thing. She looked 18 to me, your honor and she had the papers to prove it just don't seem to cut it of late, staying out of jail free-wise. And y'all know of my aversion to becoming community soap.


    Wednesday will see the first total solar eclipse since 2003. Just warning y'all, so that you don't run around screaming how the world is coming to an end and give away all your worldly possessions. Because you'll likely feel mighty foolish and Naked afterwards, when you discover that it was merely a temporary diversion from the humdrum of day to day life. Like I said, full service. You're welcome.

    Although, on 2nd thought...never mind. The world is ending tomorrow. The sky shall grow dark as sack cloth and all the rest of it. Give ME all your possessions. You won't be needing them anymore. The rich man can't get into Heaven, anyway. Me, I'll take my chances, especially if it means that you'll have a better shot at eternal love, peace and happiness. That's just how I roll. Anything to help out my fellow man. And don't even get me started on how I might help out my fellow WOMAN. I simply don't have the time to go in depth and at length (the way y'all know I do) about that one right at the moment, much as I might like to.

    And more power to anyone who can convince some gullible young womenfolks that since the world is coming to an end anyway, she may as well give you a little somethin' somethin'. Good luck with that one. Me, I'ma be performing a little ritual that I like to refer to as sleeping all the livelong day.


    In honor of my boy Carl's impending trip to Europe, simply because I couldn't Wait; some friendly advice:

    Not wearing a condom simply because you'll likely never be in Europe again, so what the fuck do you care is a really really REALLY bad idea. Trust me on this one. I remember the time I went to Bangkok and operated under this ill-conceived and somewhat misguided notion. Let's just say that pissing razorblades and Broken glass for the remainder of one's days is somewhat less than pleasant. Like I said, may the bridges I burn light the way so that others might see.


    On that note...I'm off (oh, at the very fucking least) to shower and meditate before volleyball. Hone my anger to a fine point and such. Peace.

  • Mistletoe is a parasite

    Yeah, I think that fairly succinctly summarizes wherefore my pretty little head is at today. With a pretty little bow and everything.


    There once was a day when I was in high school where I was so very angry at everyone and everything that I couldn't even speak. Or think, for that matter. That may have just been the best day of my life. Today, I'm close. Alls I need is one little trigger effect and shit's gonna get all out of control like for this weary sociopath.


    I do believe that I've nailed down why my friends are, in fact, my friends. I was reading an ad for the Canadian Mental Health Association on the train this a.m. which proclaimed that 1 in 5 folks will suffer a mental illness. Them little opportunists are merely trying to better their odds, knowing full well that because I'm slightly fucking loopy; they'll likely be just fine. Fair enough. Totally respectable.

    Also on said train ride, as I found myself crammed in amongst all the worker drones and such, I could feel my temperature beginning to rise. Slowly, slowly, steadily, surely. Then I happened to notice an F.I.N.E. fine young blonde woman standing maybe 10 feet away. A perfect metaphor for my sorry existence: so near and yet so far. Knowing I'll never even MEET the likes of that pretty much put me Over the Edge, anger issues-wise. And I've been seething with animosity pretty much ever since. Good Times. I'm quite looking forward to getting to fucking hit something tonight at volleyball. Especially if 2 conditions are met. 1 I'm fairly certain of; and, if that one's met, the 2nd is pretty much a fait accompli. Then it's lock up the wife and kiddies in the basement time. The storm's a comin'.

    She really was fine, though. And, because I finished my book before switching trains, I was able to notice all the other hot young snatch on the hoof that Calgary has to offer. Which is why I usually have my nose buried in a book and why I almost never wear my glasses. I don't usually have the time and effort necessary to wish damn near everyone I encounter into the worst situations. But today...I SO do. On both counts. On the positive tip, at least I didn't run into my lovely neighbor on my way home. That would've been the perfect ending to a perfectly fucked-up day.

    I'm feeling more than a little empty today, with only my sheer blinding anger to keep me company and I'd hate to have to feign friendly or other feelings of that ilk, lest I do or say something I'd only end up regretting later.


    I kinda wish my building was built on the site of an ancient Indian burial ground. I ain't really been the same since my dog died, lo these many years ago, and I'd really like to bring her back, Pet Sematary-style.


    I genuinely feel badly about telling everyone that I fucked her. Upon firing up the Retrospectometer, I discovered that this may have been an enormous tactical error. Not overly gentlemanly-like, either.

    Come on now, does that really strike any of y'all as something that I, who did nothing but wax on and wax off rhapsodical-like over a woman for months, might do?

    And therein lies my primary problem, I reckon.


    Congratulations to the lovely Scarlett Johansson on winning FHM Magazine's Sexiest Women Poll. Insert your own joke here, my anger's making me see red. And not the good, Scarlett, kind, either.

    The other day, I found myself watching her film The Perfect Score...because of the presence of troubled NBAer Darius Miles, of course. He's no Ray Allen, acting ability-wise, that's for damn sure. The film itself is worth watching just for her character saying she might do porn as a career move. And the cleavage and panty shots, of course. Oh yeah, and Erika Christensen.


    All right, I'm off to add some fresh scars to my collection. By the time y'all read this I'll be tucked away in my queen size bed, dreaming my usual dreams of pain and fire. Looking forward to doing some damage tonight. To myself. To our opponents. To my teammates. To any-fucking-body what gets in my way. Until manana, y'all, when I'll be back with the results of my latest long dark night of the soul. I geuninely hope your day is going better than mine did. Luckily, it ended at noonish and soon, a new day will dawn. Another chance to hate.