So there’s a couple of things in life that are pretty unavoidable. Death and taxes, for example, at least until I finish up with the cryogenic reasearch (not for me, I’m already immortal, but for the bastards who keep taking my money). Another is celebrity gossip, at least in snippet form. I know none of you would dream of picking up the US weekly going on about Brangelina’s latest addition to their multicoloured genetic sampling, or Oprah’s most recent weighing in. But the information still manages to worm its way into your innocent bystander brain. You know Beyonce and Jay-Z got married whether you give a shit or not, and that Britney has gone from being tasteless to flat out fucking nuts. Because when you’re in a lineup at the grocery store and the feeble old lady in front of you insists on counting out her pennies, your eye will naturally wander to the giant bold font of every colourful magazine with its scantily clad wares on full display. You know Lindsay Lohan is about as classy as a puke filled tobacco spittoon, and I can guarantee that nobody wants to hear the name Miley Cyrus ever again.

Frankly, it’s getting a little old. I really can’t see much of a difference between Britney and Lindsay. They’re both blonde, strung out fodder for magazine punchlines, and neither of them have a smidgen remaining of any potential they may have once had. Mariah Carey is STILL struggling with her image and posing with the exact same facial expressions that she’s been carrying around in her luggage for the past decade and a half since she decided to flatiron her hair. And yes, J-Lo still has a great big booty. BORING!

You know what I miss? The fun-tastic celebrities of yore. The face-slapping antics of Macaulay Culkin and the goggle-wearing goodness of the entity forever known as “that Urkel kid”. We all know where Will Smith is nowadays, but what about Carlton? Or Hilary, who once made a huge deal over a boyfriend with a mole and was given the snappiest line ever: “You’re making a mountain out of a mole, Hill!” What’s Emilo Estevez up to these days? I haven’t heard anything about him since Will Ferrell drunkenly rambled his name back at the Roxbury. And Screech! Come on! Why aren’t these guys on the Surreal Life?

Well fine then. I’ll do it my damn self. I’ll find out what the hell happened to these people. And in the meantime, I’ll think up some fun alternate endings that would have ensured their lasting memory instead of their imminent disolve into obscurity.

Macaulay Culkin:

I really don’t know if I can come up with anything more insulting or outlandish than this photo, but just for the sake of morbid curiosity, I’ll switch from Google images to just plain Google.

Let’s see. Well firstly, he was arrested for marijuana possession back in September of 2004, probably still self-medicating after his harrowing Michael Jackson ordeal. He’s had a failed marriage or two, but who hasn’t? Oh here’s an interesting tidbit: he apparently bought Marilyn Manson his first pack of cigarettes for his role in Party Monster (yeah, I’ve never heard of it either). And it seems he stopped accepting roles while his parents were seperating because they were squabbling over his money like wonderful parents do, and after the flop of such atrocities as Richie Rich, never made it back into the limelight.

Cause of Obscurity: Fucked over by parents. It seems all the fame and money in the world can’t stop the inevitable.

Far Better Explanation: While he may have thought it ironic that he was corrupting a previously cancer free Marilyn Manson with his bad boy smoking ways, the tables were clearly turned shortly thereafter when Macaulay was roped into the Mechanical Animals as an understudy. He never got a chance to wear the boob-suit however, because his outlandish choice of personal styling was what Marilyn describes as “just a little too weird for my taste.” Macaulay currently remains in Marilyn’s employ by licking makeup brushes clean in exchange for petty cash and vitamins. Jackson is coming for him soon, he promised, he promised.

Steve Urkel:

Although the irony of the actors name - Jaleel White - does not escape me, the simple truth is that you probably didn’t even know what it was. He is, and always will be, just plain Urkel. But after his final nasally rendition of “Did I do thaaaaaat?” he was never heard from again. At least not so that anyone would notice. Did you know Bea Arthur performed the Urkel dance with him on stage at the American Comedy Awards? That’s cause Bea Arthur kicks your mothers ass.

After Family Matters got the boot, Urkel tried to write and star in his own show called GrownUps, which was a clearly failed attempt to carry along his childhood fame into adulthood. Bringing along Punky Brewster didn’t help, and the show tanked. Since then, he has managed to get a few bit parts here and there instead of tastefully hanging up the suspenders and calling it a day.

Cause of Obscurity: Cancer of the pseudonym. Without Urkel, there is no Jaleel White. I’m sure his friends and family will claim otherwise, but they are wrong.

Far Better Explanation: Urkel and Bea Arthur got married on the hills of Pasadena and now own a ranch known affectionately as “Burkel.” They have three children, all named “Argyle” and rivalled only by Michael Jackson’s kids for the collective title of “Most Obscure and Probably Really Ugly”. We’re not quite sure how, but they are in fact responsible for the crisis in the Middle East. Something about a Burkel brand Burka, with a terrible, terrible misunderstanding along the way. A camel was also involved.

Alfonso Ribeiro:

You probably didn’t know his real name either, but it was mentioned on Family Guy, so that’s good enough validation for me. I do know he was on another show, since that was the point of the reference, but I can’t for the life of me find it. And by “find” I mean “click more than one Google link”.

At any rate, Alfonso went through a divorce as well, and handed physical custody of his daughter over to his wife while still insisting on joint legal custody. Clearly this child is being primed for showbiz and a future battle over the assets gained by her no doubt gapped teeth. Alfonso himself appears to have never gotten over the loss of fame once promised him when he was cast in one of Michael Jackson’s Pepsi commercials, and has most recently been seen in a McDonalds’s ad.

Cause of Obscurity: Graciously exited the scene after McDonald’s told him he wasn’t black enough for them. He is now a professional dancer. I’m not even kidding.

Far Better Explanation:  Are you retarded?!? He’s doing the Carlton Dance for a living! What could possibly be better than that?!?

Hilary Banks:

Unworthy of any mention of her real name, not much is known about this elusive character except that she was a bit of a jerk on Fresh Prince. She was also on Blossom before that, as clearly indicated by the headgear, and had a brief stint on Melrose Place as well. Nobody has seen or heard of her since she appeared in The Ladies Man back in 2000. It was filmed in Toronto, and yet I don’t recall it - either a testament to our more presitgious productions or to just how lame a gig one gets after sporting ridiculous hats for a decade. Either way, she seems to have been filtered out of the far more talented (term used liberally) ranks we see on television today.

Sidebar: IMDB member blaque108 informs us that Hilary was on the cover of Ebony once upon a time. Thanks blaque108.

Cause of Obscurity: The hat, clearly. Whereas Michael Jackson absolutely made his career by sporting a mysteriously bedazzled white glove, this atrocious number never made it out of the early 90’s. Not seen in this photo are tendencies towards spandex, wild prints, mirrorball earrings, parachute pants and other era-approrpriate faux-pas including the themesong to Darkwing Duck playing constantly in the background. 

Far Better Explanation: Anything to do with Michael Jackson because that fucker has clearly ruined the life of every single celebrity I once loved and cherished.

Emilio Estevez:

We all remember Emilio Estevez from his days as the Mighty Duck Coach. But do you remember in the third installment when the story replaced him for the most part with a tight-ass college coach who looked distressingly identical to him? Yes my friends, it was a sign of the times to come. Our most recent recollection of Mr. Estevez was his not-quite-cameo in A Night At the Roxbury with Will Ferrell screaming Emiliooooo!!!!! Emilioooo!!!! Before that, and before Mighty Duck fame, he was an apparent member of what was known as the Brat Pack. I’m a tad young for this to have any bearing on my consciousness whatsoever, and only know this as a fact because I was too lazy to turn off a biography on Demi Moore a few weeks back. I also recall it having something to do with Molly Ringwald whose cause for celeb I still can’t figure out.

Since hanging up the skates that were never his in the first place, Emilio has actually continued to act, just not in anything worth mentioning. His name does not conjure up the same initial absence of recognition that Alfonso Ribeira does, but rather a feeling of “Awww, yeah, I remember him!” We remember his talent fondly.

Cause of Obscurity: Suckage. While his most recent stint “Bobby”  actually did fairly well, Emilio made a crucial mistake by abandoning the Mighty Duck bandwagon all those years ago. Apparently he only agreed to appear in the third installment at all in exchange for Disney’s financial backing in his actor-director fiasco “The War At Home.” Critics liked it, but nobody else did. And thus began his tailspin. His failed engagement and marriage to Demi Moore and Paula Abdul respectively didn’t do much for him either.

Far Better Explanation: It’s a little-known fact that his engagement to Demi Moore failed after she discovered Emilio canoodling with fellow Brat-Packer Molly Ringwald. Unfortunately, Molly also had a severe case of ringworm, as indicated by her unfortunate family name. The medication involved in the treatment affected his ability to make clear decisions later on in life. Emilio is currently a stockholder in Neverland Ranch, a further testament to the devastating effects of this illness. Please contact the author of this blog for info on where to send your charitable donations. A food drive will also be set up, as Mr. Estevez claims to be shockingly low on Doritos and Mr. Pibb

Screech:

This guy goes by a whole plethora of awesome names. Firstly, the character he played was actually Samuel Powers and would have been a super mega hunk with a super rad name like that if the writers hadn’t already decided to turn him into Screech. The actor himself is named Dustin Deschaine or Dustin Diamond, depending on which Wiki article you look at. And considering that he was with Saved By the Bell right from its early inception in ‘88 to the final curtain on several modernized versions in 2000, he’s had a fairly good haul. Since then he’s apparently been trying to get his standup comedy routine up and off the ground, and was also a member of Celebrity Fit Club Season Five. His shitty attitude during the latter and tardy arrivals in regards to the former have kept him well out of the public eye. Apparently he was also a bass guitarist for the now-defunct band “Salty Pocketknife” but of course just because you and your friends got drunk in a basement within proximity to some instruments and gave yourself a clever name, it doesn’t constitute a “band”. Especially since Salty Pocketknife isn’t really that clever.

Most recently, Screech has been seen in his own sex tape scandal, leading one to wonder how anyone would get in bed with someone most notably associated with the name Screech. Assuredly, a bad vocal pun was made somewhere in the film. He has also been on radio shows explaining how broke he is, and hawking $15 Tshirts that say “I Gave Screeech Fifteen Dollars to Help Save His House,” explaining that there is an extra e in Screeech because he does not own the legal rights to his namesake.

Cause of Obscurity: Poor financial planning, the plague of most child actors. Anybody remember how Will Smith was nearly bankrupt after Fresh Prince went off the air? And how he resorted to cheesy feel-good rapping? Well, apparently the original Mr. Smith had a few things that Screech here didn’t, including talent and work ethic.

Far Better Explanation: Never got together with Michael Jackson.

So there you have it folks. I hope you enjoyed this trip down memory lane. Wasn’t it far more adventurous than seeing Lindsay in her umpteenth teary-eyed snot-nosed photo, or speculation over Mariah’s actual weight? And it was far more informative too. Knowing Brangelina’s exotic humanitarian vacation getaway details is not going to save your own children. Realizing that Michael Jackson secretly controls the world is vital to their survival. Remember these important things people. And now, just because I’m so generous:

 CREEPY BONUS ROUND!!!!

The Zodiac Killer:

Instead of continuing on with the shoddy actor theme, I decided to go a little more morbid. This fun little fellow killed a few people in Northern California back in the 60’s, and is most notably known for stumping police with his cryptic messages, some of which have never been deciphered. Five confirmed killings are on the record, as well as two survivors and his own claim to as many as 37 victims.

He was never apprehended, and the killings stopped inexplicably. To this day, nobody knows exactly who he was or what his motives were, though he still retains his boogeyman status with frequent pop culture references including a movie with Jake Gyllenhaal. Interestingly enough, the Zodiac Killer himself once told the media “i am waiting for a movie about me i wonder who will play me the world is in my hands now.” Fantastic grammar and everything.

Cause of Obscurity: Stopped killing. This freaks people out because serial killers usually continue until they are caught, as it is a terrible compulsion not easily ignored by even the smartest of fiends. Some speculate that he went into hiding or simply moved to a different state and continued his plan unrecognized.

Far Better Explanation: Hit by car on the way to pick up a box of cat food.

So I’ve found myself a little stuck with writing lately, only because I’ve been generally less pissed off thanks to my awesome boyfriend and my overall improved ability to not let the world’s jackassery spin me into a trauma that’s much less eloquent outside these virtual perameters. And unfortunately, it’s when I’m pissed off that I write my best. It gives me the outlet to be snappy, sharp-witted, and sarcastic in my observations; to provide helpful suggestions as to storage places within various bodily orifices for the idiodic ideas of the masses; in other words, the chance to be a bitch. 

On a day to day basis, I am actually very nice. Karma and such - I go out of my way to help friends and complete strangers where I can. Even when I call someone an asshole on the subway, it’s for the greater good. But there is a side of me that just really gets a kick out of being mean. Not to “people” really, because when I get pissed off enough, you’re no longer human, and I can be as mean as I want. This doesn’t work well in person though, because people cry and leak and stuff and then they’re human again and I feel like I’ve stepped on a starving African orphan. With AIDS. 

But if they don’t blubber and wail, or if they are distant somehow I’m GREAT. On the phone, for example, I can be as aggressive and mean as I wish I could be in real life. I had a super proud bitch moment a few weeks ago. Our internet went down and everyone was pissed. After an afternoon/evening of disarray, we figured out that a single phone number had been disconnected by mistake. The next morning it was my job to get on the phone with Bell (who we no longer use) and figure out what the hell happened. The fun part is that these people on the other end of the phone aren’t real to me, so I had an absolute blast. “No, we aren’t waiting for a tech, 4-6 hours is unacceptable. I don’t think you realize the severity of the situation or precisely how much it has cost my clients so far. I need to know why this line was cut, and I need to know immediately. No, that’s not good enough. Your employee number please? Listen, we’re going to get a MASSIVE bill for tech support, and I need to know who’s going to pay for it. Yes, I realize you are just doing your job, but so am I and I have 60 people breathing down my neck - you have one, me. Then put me through to someone who can.” One hour and five different phone monkeys later I was put through to someone who told me exactly who’s fault it was, and it was AWESOME. A fantastic feeling of accomplishment. Me, *I* figured out who’s fault it was. And it was an important person. Delicious.

Last weekend, my internet blipped for thirty seconds. Twenty minutes on the phone later, I was discounted up the ass. “I’m sorry but this is not at all what I plan to continue paying for. You’re automated menu has mentioned internet difficulties in my area since the minute I signed up. But I give you the benefit of the doubt and am left with unreliable service in return. Do you think I feel like a valued customer at the moment? No, I don’t. No, discounting me for the offline time is not acceptable. It doesn’t matter that I couldn’t get online for thirty seconds. It matters greatly that for several weeks, I have been unable to write an email, or transfer funds between my bank accounts (right, because I’ve got SO many with SO MUCH money in them) or go about any of the activities I pay for the convenience of having online access to without wondering if my internet will go down. Really? That’s what I’m paying for? One more thing to worry about? I want these charge reversed. Your name and employee number please” So the bill comes along with two months worth of phone charges, and only ONE month of internet charges. Because my internet went down for thirty seconds. I wasn’t even online at the time. If I hadn’t been in the room, I wouldn’t have noticed the little light blip off and then on again. SWEET. Next time they ask if they may know to whom they have the pleasure of speaking, those faceless little monkeys will be calling me Princess HottenTots.

Notice the absence of any swearing or personal attacks. These are ineffective measures in getting what you want, because they make you look desperate and flawed. I’m right, and perfect. The insects on the phone, they are not. And don’t give me shit for dehumanizing people, you all know you hate those headset wearing liars. They do lie, they hold out the serious discounts for the people who demand them. And if you are one of these people, well hey, I would probably hold the door for you out in the real world somewhere, but as soon as you adjust your little foam covered mouthpiece, your ass is MINE.

In real life, I sometimes get a rare chance to fuck with people legitimately. Because it’s not about being a bitch. I’m really an awfully nice person. But there’s that funny little side of me that needs to be let out once in a while, so if I’m given good reason to fuck around with someone, I’ll take it and laugh with glee. One of our very pleasant clients came up to my desk and said “I just got a call for someone asking for someone I used to work with. It’s a very unpleasant matter, and I don’t wish to speak with them. Is there any way to screen those calls out?” I said absolutely, it would be my pleasure, and proceeded to demonstrate: “Hello? No, I’m sorry but there’s nobody here by that name. No, you have a wrong number. I can’t imagine how you just spoke with him, there’s nobody here by that name. No, you weren’t just speaking with me. I can’t imagine what you dialed earlier, but you simply have a wrong number. No, you can’t. No. No. No. Well I hardly think your opinion of my personal character has any significance in the matter. Goodbye now.” He was quite pleased.

We’ve got someone in the office who likes me to screen people for her. She’s got me on instant messenger and will often send me instructions.

Client: “She’s here for an interview, I’m still trying to find an assisstant who isn’t a total retard. What does she seem like?”
Me: “Rather timid, really. You seem like you’re looking for someone aggressive. She seems frightened of me, and mispronounced your name.”
Client: “I don’t want her.”

“I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to reschedule your interview. She was called away a few moments ago, I just spoke to her on her cell phone. There’s no need to leave your resume, we’ll be in touch. Bye now.” Nothing personal. I don’t dislike you as a person. But you’re unnecessary, so you can continue being a pleasant individual elsewhere.

Client: “Thanks, you’re great. Can’t you be my assistant?”
Me: “I like realistic pay and benefits.”
Client: “Shit.”

The same client had someone show up a day or two ago. I greeted her very politely, asked who she was here to see, and then her name. I left a voicemail and within ten seconds received an instant message:

Client: “She had an appointment hours ago and didn’t show up. She’s been jerking me around and it’s wasting so much of my time and money. Get rid of her, feel free to be rude.”
Me: “Yes ma’am!”

Me: “Ma’am? Hi. Unfortunately, you missed your appointment this morning. So you won’t be able to speak with anybody. You’ll have to call and reschedule.”
Her: “But I just need to speak with her for five minutes.”
Me: “She’s unavailable. You were expected at 9:30 this morning, and it’s nearly noon.”
Her: “Yes, I was unable to come in. I just need a form. It’s very urgent, my court date is tomorrow.”
Me: “You should have called. She’s unavailable now, and won’t be available any time today.”
Her: “But my court date is tomorrow!”
Me: “Yeah, she’s STILL not available. You’ll have to call and reschedule.”
Her: “Okay, I will come tomorrow morning then.”
Me: “No. How do you know she’ll be here? You could drive all the way for nothing. Call and make an appointment, and show up on time.”
Her: “Can you make the appointment for me?”
Me: “No.”
Her: “Well then what time tomorrow she is here?”
Me: “I don’t know. Call to make an appointment with her.”
Her: “But my court date is tomorrow!”
Me: “Yes. It is. Call to reschedule. Thaaaank You!”

Saying thank you at the end of a sentence is a really good way to indicate that the conversation is over and the other party must now leave. And they can’t even say you were rude - they just didn’t like the answer you gave them.

Anyways, I’ve rambled enough. You see, the thing is, this sort of ability to see someone as not so much a human but more of a bundle of cells comes in very handy when you work for a corporation. Corporations are recognized legally as seperate entities - this being the benefit of incorporating. But if you look at a corporation as a seperate individual and run a few diagnostic tests, you’ll find that they are quite psychotic. Cold, emotionless, unable toform any lasting bonds. They will be super nice and bend over backwards for you as long as you have something they want, but the minute you bounce a cheque you’re dead to them. No love lost. Goodbye corporate luncheons, hello call to security the moment you step foot back in the door. As Talea put it so well “If I took my job personally, I’d be on the floor crying all day”. So it is really an asset to be able to detach yourself in this manner when you need to wring necks in order to find out who’s going to foot the mile high tech bill for pulling the plug on everyones life internet.

Outside of work, it’s considered a ‘problem’. A ’symptom’ actually if you want to get up close and personal. It’s actually pretty nice that my job gives me an outlet for the dark side. But I figure I should probably work on other outlets as well. What if I don’t need to squeeze answers, discounts and apologies out of people? What if I start lashing out at people I like because I just haven’t gotten my bitch-fix lately? This is not good.

So I’ve decided on some new goals. For my very nice wish-I-could-fix-the-world side, I’d like to have my finances in good enough order by this approximate time next year so that I can buy one of those $100 lottery tickets that donates proceeds to childrens hospitals. And for my holy-shit-I-am-SO-good-at-bitching-people-out-and-secretly-really-LOOVVVE-it side, my goal is this:

I want to make a collections agent cry.

I know what you’re thinking, and it’s true: I would make an excellent collections agent. But I’ve been on the other end of that, and while I was never intimidated I know there are a ton of people who are just trying to make ends meet to feed their kids. So the morals of that don’t sit right with me. I want to use my evil for greater good. But I’ve already gotten rid of all the creditors in my life. So I need some Karma. If anyone has someone out there who owes them money, or who’s hassling them for money, let me know. Is the phone company threatening you? Is your internet bill astronomical? Well I can help, because I am good at being a bitch for constructive purposes.

It’s a new marketing campaign. Call me. Please.

When’s the last time you got a raise? Just a general survey here, is anyone absolutely rolling in it? Is anybody else encouraged to simply stop doing their job because they don’t get paid enough? No? Well all y’all are apparently schmucks, because it seems all you need to do to get whatever your little heart desires is sign up for a pair of grey shorts as a member of one of several unions related to various job positions within the Toronto Transit Commission, hereafter known as “you jackass sons of whores.”

Let me back up and explain a little bit of what’s going on. The TTC employees, responsible for running our busses, streetcars and subways, as well as all the eletrical work and safety considerations etc. that go hand in hand with running any large-scale organization intended for public benefit, have gotten a little pissy lately. Like everyone on this great green earth, they want more money. They also want more benefits, and whatever else they’ve been yammering about. Currently, they only receive 70% of their income if they have to take time off due to a work related injury, including assault from shadier members of Toronto’s vast public. And yes, it might suck to have your income drop because of an incident beyond your control - but you’re still getting paid despite your absence in the economy, just like everyone else fortunate enough to work for an organization that provides these benefits in the first place. A hell of a lot of us are shit out of luck if we break our leg or sprain our ankle. And you may run the risk of having some punk ass kid take a swing at you because he doesn’t like your face or system, but my job isn’t without it’s risks. I’ve had some serious nutcases in my little reception area, and I’m pretty sure one of them declared Jihad on me. More than once I’ve had to have security escort someone out, but that’s just part of my much-slimmer-in-the-general-wallet-vicinity type job, now isnt’ it?

Now, I’m not saying how it currently goes is necessarily right. After all, it’s not my fault I fell down the stairs (maybe….) But I do think that’s one of those things where it’s just the way it is. And if you do want to change it, simply not doing your job isn’t really the way to go. Shit, if you don’t like a law, change the way you vote. You could maybe go against the law if you’re willing to spend some time rattling your donation cup against the bars and having your friends hand out pamphlets up about two blocks from me, but it’s not all glitz and glamour behind those iron rods of injustice. The simple fact is that the majority of us have no choice but to suck it up and do our jobs in order to pay our bills and put our kids through college. 

But no. The TTC can decide to strike. If I were to go on strike, you know what would happen? I’d be replaced within five minutes by the next doe-eyed multitasker ready to abandon all hope for the future of humanity in exchange for a meagre paycheque. Yes, that does give you a glimpse into my average day. If I wasn’t so good at ranting about it, I wouldn’t love my job so much. But I digress: the point is, I can’t go on strike. It wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t work for just about anybody. The TTC on the other hand, has the city by the short n’ curlies and so can just up and walk away and get handed whatever the fuck they want. Why? Because we as a city had the super smarts to think “Hey, cars aren’t really the best option around here. Gridlock and terrible smog, and the rising cost of fuel and parking and such. Lets build a city-wide infrastructure to support the commute of MILLIONS of people every day at a fraction of the cost of driving.” Good idea! So many benefits with just a few downsides, one of them being the apparent superiority complex given to every beer gutted bastard sitting behind the wheel of a bus.

Some people don’t get to strike. Some jobs are considered an essential service. The nurses went on strike once, back about the time I smashed my clumsy toddler head into the wooden arm of a couch and needed stitches - put in by my DAD, thanks a lot. Traumatizing much? (For him, not me.) And since then, they’ve been made an essential service. This means they can’t strike, but they do get paid a lot (Yes, I know our health care system is ridiculously underfunded, that is a systematic flaw. I know how much nurses make, and I’ll dip my hands in guts for that kind of dough any day.) And there has been a lot of talk about making the TTC an essential service. I know it seems kind of odd to look at the roster there: firefighters, nurses, doctors, policemen, and the TTC unions. Four out of five save your lives on a daily basis. The other one gets you to work. Yeah, sweet, that job I’m sure you love so much. However, as a city, we do need the TTC to function. So there are a lot of pros and cons to making them an essential service, because while it would prevent strikes, it would also give them the right to a lot of stuff - not for stitching wounds and dragging babies out of burning buildings, but for driving a bus all day. And while it is essential, something about that just doesn’t sit right with me. And something apparently doesn’t sit right with those who actually make the decisions, because our government has been hemming and hawwing in their quintessential Canadian sort of way.

Anyways, carrying on. They nearly went on strike about a week ago, and there was a whole shitload of “Will they? Won’t they? What the hell are we going to do?” going on. And so the TTC agreed to at least give the city 48 hours notice before going on strike so that the majority of us who rely so heavily on them could make alternate arrangements. Last weekend, they decided not to strike. They accepted the deal on the table for the time being and kept on truckin’ (or bussin’, rather) throughout the week until it could be officially voted on. Friday at midnight: not a fucking bus in sight! Stranded! Not me, personally, once I’m home I don’t really go anywhere I can’t walk to, because, um, I live downtown and that’s the benefit of paying ridiculously high rent. But yeah, right out of nowhere! Never mind two days notice, we got about two hours notice.

This, tactically, was a shitty move. Firstly, who the hell are you trying to paralyze in a city of commuters on the weekend? I’m not denying that some people were very definitely fucked, but overall, not very effective. Secondly, that gives the city 48 hours to retaliate to your ongoing bullshit. So what did our government do? Well, they didn’t declare them an essential service. That’s a very permanent move to make on such short notice. Instead, all three parties of our provincial legislation got together and put a nifty little bill on the table that was passed within half an hour. It said essentially this:

Dear TTC,

You have officially pissed us off. Yes, you may have the city by the short hairs, but you’re forgetting who can smack down the law ’round these here parts. You didn’t hold up your end of the 48 hour deal. So you want to play hardball? Here’s hardball: either get your asses back to work on Monday and settle your shit, or pay $2000 per employee (of which there are a LOT) and $25,000 per union for every single day this idiocy carries on. You also have five days to find someone to help you settle your shit, or we’ll pick one for you. You also owe the city of Toronto an apology.

Dear Toronto,

Please don’t beat up transit workers on Monday, that’ll only give them more fuel for their whining, blubbering fire.

So there! Take that you assholes! Try to hold my life hostage, will you? Just because we need you to function on a daily basis doesn’t change that fact that you DRIVE A BUS!!!!!! I still love my TTC as a system, because I love that we have taken on such a green, sustainable, economically friendly infrastructure and made it something that is really essential. But goddamn if I don’t hate the day-to-day assholes who yessssss keep it running (*clenches fists*), but who whine ceaselessly about it.

My solution? Get a couple of blogs, jerkfaces! Venting does the body good.

Okay, so maybe I’m just the teensiest bit sorry, but I really do have a good reason for being so absent as of late.

I kind of fell in love. Like, retardedly in love. As in, sweet old ladies probably vomit in my presence kind of love. Cause I’m so cute and all. I know! What the shiznat, right? Me?!?! How did that happen? Just about two months ago, I was all “Valentines Day is for suckers!!!” and such. I’m what you might call an angry kind of girl. A little bit crazy, definitely twisted, and not an awful lot about me makes much sense. I think everyone and his mother is a douchebag, and I’m a big fan of throwing the word cunt around needlessly. Plus, I’ll smack you in the mouth for the last nacho. Not the kind of girl you want to introduce to your parents, you know?

Well apparently the air between 800 miles has some an interesting qualities of refraction. It turns out that was the precise distance needed for this fellow to see through all of my bullshit and get me for who I am, as opposed to the plethora of things I like to think I am (like someone who’ll actually smack somebody over a nacho as opposed to just call you a cunt behind your back, ha!) When someone is able to think your thoughts for you at least five times a day and can completely appreciate your desire to run down the street in a pink dress while carting along the gas tank of a flame thrower in a little red wagon, well…800 miles doesn’t seem that far anymore.

Anyways, if you don’t know who I’m talking about yet, you really need to get around the internet more, cause it’s kind of obvious. It’s really a wonderful place, the internet. You can spout off whatever lies you feel like portraying as truth, edit the shit out of your photos until you’re perfect just the way photoshop made you (thank you Lovely Friend Cait, for that memorable line), and find someone who fits you as perfectly as an Escher print through a random series of little 0s and 1s. I love the internet! All these bitchface pedophiles are giving it a bad rap.

This here is Josh, in all his manly glory:

Here’s a few excerpts from the inside of his head, in all their excellence.

So here’s the tale of it all. I’m sure you’re all avidly drinking in the details and have already read his account of how we met, but here’s more. You know those sickly sweet couples that are always holding hands and telling you adorable stories about how they met and you really just want to stick ‘em with a chopstick? Well I’ve never gotten to be on the other end of that chopstick, so just patronize me a little bit here, okay? I’m obnoxious about everything else, I might as well be obnoxious with spreading the love.

I owe a lot to May and Talea I suppose. Talea because it was through her post that Josh found me, with my gloriously biting tale of woe from the Toronto Independent Music Awards, which I still say sucked big ass donkey balls. Also because she is completely supportive of my internet love (as are all my friends, but Talea’s sort of a pioneer to me). And May because it was she who sent me along to cover that fateful disaster of a show in the first place! And who is now my shining beacon of domesticity now that I find myself rapidly turning wifish. And because they both called me up within minutes of Josh proclaiming his love for me in the public forum that is his blog to read me excerpts and fawn over my deliciously sweet boyfriend. Think about it: your best friend announces that despite all her left-wing, city loving vegetarian ways, she has falled madly in love with a rebel flag waving meat worshipping southern boy she hasn’t even met. The first thing any girl would do is try to talk her out of it. But no, they got past the initial oddities of it all and now give their full fledged support. And as any lady with a strong group of ladies knows, this is of the utmost importance. And Josh, in his infinite manly wisdom, knows the importance of and appreiciates their support too. Also a shout out to Romi for listening to us both gush about each other to her before we finally started gushing about each other to each other.

So all that having been said and explained, where have I been? Well shit, I sure as hell haven’t been in North Carolina, that’s for damn sure. I’m kind of broke right now, and a lot of shit is up in the air with work and life and the fact that I don’t even have a passport. So instead of facebooking and blogging, or even paying enough attention to the world around me to find something worth blogging about, I’ve been spending nearly every waking minute of my time online with him, sinking my nails into every precious second. He most often comes home from work at lunch to chat with me, and races home afterwards again, and I’d stay late at the office just to have a few more words. Eventually I sucked up the idea of paying for the internet and got it at home just because I missed him so much on the weekends. I even got myself a webcam, wooooaaah! I know, you’d think someone who now spends nearly all her free time sitting in the glow of that little blue light would be all over the blogging, the doritos and the mountain dew, but no. We’ve been folding laundry in two seperate worlds and watching shared youtube clips for kicks. And as for my wifishness, or wifeliness, or whatever it’s called, well I’m hardly recognizable sometimes.

However, now that I do have the internet at home, I should probably stop ignoring the rest of my life (Seriously, the dishes? Let’s not even go there, my OCD will start screaming) and maybe pay a little more attention to the medium that brought us together in the first place, right? So here I am, back in blog world, and while I can’t promise I’ll be able to spit out a daily dose of observatory sass-back like I once could, I’ll try not to disappear for weeks at a time. And I’ll try to avoid asking the world their opinions on baby names and such (you probably won’t like them anyways, shut up Talea). I’ll still be all “Oprah-bitch this! And fucktardery that!” and all the rest of that deliciousness you’ve gotten nice and used to, but to make a long and super-awesome story short, that’s where I’ve been. On my ass in love.

Anyways, I know I just said I wouldn’t be all “ooh, what do you think of these curtains?” and all that stuff that makes even a newfound cute-bot such as myself gag, but another thing I’m sure you’ve gotten used to besides my rampant awesomeness is my tendency to post pictures. (Also my tendency to exclude myself from my own rules.) And it just so happens that my pictures as of late revolve around my latest and greatest ability: concocting super awesome birthday ideas for loved ones! May has lovingly taken me under her super-wife wing and is coddling my emerging urge to get my bake on! And since Josh is the latest and greatest addition to the list of loved ones, and since it was indeed his birthday recently, it only makes sense that an appropriate level of well documented fun was had on his behalf. Just because he’s 800 miles away doesn’t mean he can’t have….

JOSH’S SUPER MANLY AWESOME BIRTHDAY PARTY!!!

That’s right biznatches, pictures ahoy!

So I realize that the frilly whipped cream is not that manly, but I did make sure to get blue candles. It took me a hell of a long time to wade through the mountains of pink candles first, apparently a lot of males were born in April?

Okay, I know I’m not exactly starting off on the right foot with the whole “manly” birthday party business, but I’m the one getting drunk, okay? Also, I don’t have wine glasses. They got broken by a former roomie, who happened to be psychotic. And clumsy.

Look, I couldn’t get it off, okay?!?

Next up on the wifely to-get list: apron. Don’t worry, I’ll stitch skulls and crossbones all over it or something to make it extra rad.

Veggies rolls! Thanks for the sushi Talea! This is like the McSushi that you can get just about everywhere up here (not actually at McDonalds though, that would be gross). You can even get sushi at the drug store.

Home made whipped cream motherfuckers!!!!! YEEEAAHHHHH!!!! You have no idea how good this was, and it ended up pretty much everywhere. There was no way in hell I was going to use some junk like coolwhip to make this masterpiece:

WOOAAAAHHHH!!! LOOK AT THAT!!!! How awesome am I? Very. Very, very awesome. Dudes, this took hours, mostly because I’m lacking in counter space, but also because absolutely everything was made from scratch. Even the berries, I combined the carbon based molecules myself. No I didn’t.

Talea posing very sexily with a very sexy morsel of deliciousness.

Consuming said sexy morsel of deliciousness and realizing how delicious said sexy morsel of delciousness really is. Yes. Try saying that through a mouthful of deliciousness.

And I didn’t just make one thing. This is a man’s birthday party, and men eat a lot. They require a smorgasboard of fun and yummy things. Hence:

Almond lemon squares!!! OOHHHH MY GOD. Oh. Oh, oh, oh. Smorgasmically good. Like ridiculously, retardedly good. Moving on before I make a mess.

Got kind of messy anyways. And as much as this depiction of chowing down may imply otherwise, I did not in fact consume the entire pie right there, even though it was key lime. I did consume it, don’t worry. It just took me nearly a week is all.

Mid smorgasm.

You might think I snuck up on Talea and smooshed her face with a forkful of pie. However, while this would have been hilarious, it would also have resulted in my face getting smooshed with a forkful of fork. And no pie. Which would be sad.

I spilled mah wine. I has a waste

Um, yeah, I kind of spilled it down my shirt as opposed to on my shirt. Because I’m classy like that.

Clearly, Talea is also very classy.

That business about being hungry again an hour after eating sushi must be true since at about midnight I decided that I needed to cook some pasta tubes, stuff them with ricotta and spinach, shred some cheese and stand in front of a hot oven for half an hour. You know, just a quick bite.

We are running out of alcomahols! This is a bad thing!

Maybe just a bit left at the bottom? Jes? Jes? No.

No!!!! Not me too!!!

It is gone. I am sad. Sad and confused. For a birthday party, I am not nearly drunk enough.

This is the next day at May’s house. It was a two day birthday bash! And she made more pie! Awesome, awesome pie!

Look at that love! Personalized pie! It took both May and I to get that little J in there. Please notice the attention to detail in the form of a heart and a tree. That’s because earlier that day Josh had chopped down a tree, and I hearted him for it.

So there you have it, a fun filled weekend of long distance birthday goodness. And may I please take this time to reiterate that just because I’m now an official love-bot, it doesn’t mean I’m any less hardcore. In fact, I’m even MORE hardcore, cause now I’ve got someone who is just as hardcore as me to add his own special brand of awesomeness to our newfound sweet blend of hardcore kickassery! I can kick your ass in life AND the kitchen! Up yours world, you’re in trouble! Now it’s not just me you’ve got to deal with, I’ve got a partner in crime who’s just as bad ass as I am. Hide your women, children, beer, flamethrowers and nachos!

Oh, and I know I said “I think everybody and his mother is a douchebag” but Josh isn’t a douchebag. And his mom’s pretty sweet. It’s just a figure of speech, people.

Are we seriously still talking about this guy?!? Holy God, it’s been over a month since this whole Eliot Spitzer shiznat barreled its way onto that unavoidable little tv in my corporate elevator, and while the coverage has decreased to the status of satire on This Hour has 22 Minutes, it’s still hard to believe that the squawking box hasn’t tired of this yet. Are you guys in need of a little more excitement maybe? Hmm? Not getting enough in the bedroom? It seems that as soon as a political figure admits to having a dick you go absolutely apeshit, and I just don’t understand.

Now don’t go thinking I’m defending the idiot. There’s nothing I love more than seeing the life of a douchebag go up in media flames. We all love car wrecks, we slow down to gaze at the carnage - don’t deny it - and at the end of the day, I get a certain sick little kick out of all the shebang. Does that make me a bad person? Well, maybe, but my ass isn’t on the news now, is it?

My question is why does it always have to do with sex? I know other shit is going on, but with my ongoing attempts to avoid a steady influx of political crap, only the most outrageous incidents filter through. It’s a decent gauge, I find: if I know about it, then holy crap it must be a HUGE story. And it’s not as though we Canuck’s don’t have our own scandals. It’s just that they’re not about sex, so why would the American media notice? Not that they notice much about us, a fact that sometimes pisses me off and sometimes makes me grateful that the world doesn’t hate us. If anything, our scandals are far more interesting. Everybody knows what hookers are all about, but how about a political party trying to gain the support of a certain important figure by offering him a million dollar life insurance policy? The catch - the guy’s on his deathbed. I know, freaking Days of Our Lives or what?! Now that is awesome.

But no, you settle for the humdrum. Oh wow, look, another public figure who claimed that he was SO not about the paid-for poontang up and got himself caught with his dick in a borrowed pot of honey. Fantastic. And on Valentines day too! Double trouble! I bet all those years of sneakily ruining people lives, stock value and reputations in the press instead of in the actual courtrooms looks pretty regrettable now, doesn’t it you two-faced douchebag? And when you settled things out of court, effectively beefing up your own reputation while still letting people you called criminals go free, why didn’t anybody call you on your douchebaggery back then? Because you managed to keep your dick in your pants, that’s why. America loves a good dick story. Don’t you have better things to worry about? For example….hey, do we have that clip of ANYTHING GEORGE BUSH HAS EVER SAID?

But admittedly, there are a few things that caught my interest. The story did, after all, manage to worm its way into my consciousness. Firstly is the bill he footed. Holy fuck. If you have that kind of money, good for you, but in all honesty, there are only so many tricks Cosmo can teach you, and only so many orifices on the human body. Unless her pussy was gold fucking plated, I’m not buying. And even then I’m not buying because who wants to fuck a gold plated pussy? Was it stuffed with blow? Small children willing to do your gardening? Elves? I’m not only assuming she swallows, I’m assuming she swallowed several balloons worth of peruvian heroin to be marked up and sold on the streets, because that is only justification I can see for spending thousands of dollars on one overused funbox. What the hell?! You can get it cheaper!!! I’m not saying go for the Costco version but shit dude! Maybe if you spent a little less on the hookers and a little more on paying off the press you wouldn’t be in such hot lube right now. And maybe if you spent a little more on your wife’s Valentines Day present, you might have had a little more support from her - something the public tends to appreciate, we women have funny little powers that way - instead of winding up in this memorable photo, in which she is instead very clearly plotting his demise.

It’s a patient, smug, cold look. It’s the kind of look I like to think I wear whenever I succeed in getting someone fired. It’s the kind of look that let’s you know you’re in serious, serious shit. Obviously, she got a card. Obviously, he lost his testicles later that evening.

The other thing that caught my attention and honestly bugs me the most, as immature as it may seem, is that he was known as Client 9. Why? There’s nothing impressive about single digit numbers. I, for example, live in apartment number 3 in my particular little flat. You didn’t think apartments came in single digits, did you? That’s because they usually don’t. When you live in a real apartment building with things like elevators and fire escapes and garbage chutes and laundry rooms, you get numbers like 103, 1408, 217, fun things like that. When you go to a hotel, you get suite numbers of the same variety. When you go to a shitty motel, you get room number 4, maybe even 11 or 12. You get the idea. I can’t imagine such a high class escort service wouldn’t have hundreds of clients, so why such a low number? I don’t suppose he happened to be their 9th client, this is the oldest profession in the world we’re talking about. Seriously? 9?

I know you’re all thinking it. Why the fuck wasn’t he Client 007? COME ON!!! How cool would that have been? If absolutely nothing else, it would have given him a clever out by way of the good old Section Eight*. Clearly he’s got some delusions of grandeur, right? And we all know that politicians need only the most transparent of excuses to get away with downright murder, so why the hell didn’t he think of this?

Really, to be completely honest, if he had been known as Client 007, I would totally have been on his side, because that is just plain rad.

*By the way, if this image didn’t come immediately to mind when I mentioned Section Eight, then you suck and Alan Alda is coming after you in your sleep.

You’d think I’d learn, wouldn’t you?

Welcome to my daily grind: I wake up on a crappy futon because I haven’t gotten around to getting a nicer one even though I can easily afford it. I am greeted with the scent of bleach because ever since putting all the rabbits in a room of their own I have become slightly obsessive about keeping the rest of the apartment clean (let’s all take bets on how long that will last, huh?) I watch a bit of news on one of my five fuzzy channels, get myself in some sort of hygenic state, and put on some relatively clean clothes. I don’t even bother with makeup until I get to work.

I’m supposed to get to work at 8:15am. I get to work at 8:22 on most days. And my boss doesn’t notice because she usually rolls in far later than I. On the rare occasions she shows up earlier, I get some mild faux-friendly chiding about my arrival time. I snort to myself and ignore. My first task is to tidy up the boardroom for the daily 8:30 meeting for one of our clients. I change the newspaper in reception, make sure it’s all tidy. Then I go to the kitchen to clean up after the slobs that apparently don’t show up until well into the wee hours of the night to dump disgusting grime covered dishes into the sink for me to touch. The dishwasher has usually been run overnight, so it’s my job to empty it, put away the clean dishes and put in the herpes-riddled mounds of bacteria left for me. All this while, I’ve also got a fresh pot of coffee brewing and forcing polite chit chat with the early morning seekers of clean mugs, trying to figure some way to determine those that rinse their dishes and those who surely leave spit in the sink. There must be some telling sign of such gross disregard for civility: a twitch, surely, perhaps a tendency to drool? Alas, nothing so far. One night I’ll snap for certain, and end up camping out in fatigue gear with an infrared camera to catch these perpetrators.

Also, right now, I’m pretty sure there’s black fax toner in my coffee. Super.

Right, coffee. I usually end up getting a grande at some point during the day. Because once I finish cleaning the kitchen, turning on my computers, putting on makeup and reading my morning email from my super sweet boyfriend (seriously, retardedly adorably sweet - more on him later when I’m in less of a foul mood), there’s really not that much for me to do. Sure, I’ve got phones to answer, maybe an email or two. But nothing that really requires very much attention. And so it doesn’t take very long for the inevitability of last nights insistence on staying up to watch The Hour to kick in, and I start feeling that doziness.

I needs mah caffeine.

Here’s the kicker: we HAVE coffee here in the office. It’s free. It’s better than free: it’s paid for by the same bastards who leave their slime covered flatware in the kitchen every night. Well, it’s actually paid for by all of our clients, even the ones kind enough to rinse their dishes or *gasp!* actually put them in the dishwasher with a grain of courtesy. The coffee used to cost $1.25 a pop, but now every client pays a flat monthly kitchen fee, and that’s just how it goes. The downside is the constant pissing and moaning from some of the less gracious of our inhabitants. The upside is free coffee for me.

But I don’t want it. I might frothy up myself a hot chocolate in our wee little nook, perhaps even an herbal tea or two. But I don’t want a hazlenut flavoured cup of cheap. I’m not interested in some ‘House Blend’ or some other signature series of whatever-the-hell. I want Starbucks. I want my overpriced goddamned status symbol. Why? Because I woke up on a crappy futon with crappy cable, and put on expensive enough clothing to convince those around me that maybe I’ve got my shit together. I feel the need to add that one little extra accessory to complete the ensemble: a ridiculously complicated sounding helping of overpriced steamed milk with that zealous little green logo on the side to make sure everybody knows that I can afford to pay four dollars for my beverage. That’s right people. Look at me go.

“But that’s retarded!” I can hear you all thinking. Yes. Yes, it is. So why do I do it? Because I’m a girl and therefore allowed a certain amount of irrational behaviour. I’m not heavily medicated anymore, I haven’t even used the word fuckbag in this post (yet), and haven’t made any stabbing gestures in a fairly long time. Let me have my crazy fucking coffee, okay?

One of the reasons I like my fancy ass coffee is that I’m really not a fan of the taste of coffee. I know, I know. More irrational chick shit. But it’s like alcohol - you may want to get yourself good and toasted, but that doesn’t mean you want to be sucking down some sort of gasoline-and-cinnamon flavoured mixture. I want the caffeine without the taste of some Ethiopian nation or another, thank you very much. And yes, I’m willing to pay for it.

Now Talea, being my best bud and all, usually scores herself a coffee by the mere fact that everytime I get myself one, I grab her something because that’s just how I am. In return, she often fills me up with Chilean red wine at her less bleachy smelling abode. She also doesn’t have a mouse in her kitchen (but I bleached!!! I BLEEEAAACHED!!!). So, fair trade. We both tend to go through phases in what we order, myself moreso than her. She’s more likely to switch it up, whereas I am a little more steadfast. For several months I would order nothing except a Grande Non Fat Extra Foamy Vanilla Latte, until I realized the majority of their foaminator monkeys sucked ass at their trendy job and couldn’t whip up a decent foam if their self-aggrandizing art school documentary or the proper healing of their most recent piercing depended on it. So I switched to a Venti Caramel Apple Spice avec Whipped Cream. This ceased immediately after realizing that I was drinking over 400 calories worth of warmed up apple juice every morning. What, I asked Talea, should I drink now? Her latest thing has been a Grande Triple Shot Caramel Macchiato for those times when she reeeeaaally needs the caffeine. That sounds good, I commented, but does it taste too coffee-ish? Even without the extra shot? Well, she explained, a Grande usually comes with two shots of espresso, but you can ask for just one - called a Solo, apparently. More jargon to make my order sound even more complicated? I am so there!

So down I go to get this more-caramel-than-coffee cup of sweet sweet wakefulness. And I enjoy it, and decide to make this a regular purchase.

This ends today, and makes for my shortest Starbucks trend yet. Perhaps one of these days I’ll kick this foamy monkey off my shoulder and suck up the free shit in the kitchen.

Today, you see, I actually paid attention to what they were keying in on their fancy little machine before I paid. Two grande caramel macchiato, check. A bit extra for Talea’s extra espresso shot, no problem. And then! The BASTARDS!!! You’d think maybe, just maybe, they would knock a few cents off for the fact that I only wanted half the espresso. But no, that would not be in accordance with the ass-raping ways of the Starbucks we’ve come to know and love. Okay, regular price then. Oh no! Not so! Those sons of bitches actually keyed in AN EXTRA SHOT OF MILK AND CHARGED ME EXTRA FOR IT.

Are you retarded? Did you think I wouldn’t notice this and perhaps find several shots worth of fault in this logic? You are charging me extra for my decision to use less of your core ingredient and more of your cheap filler? Your cheap filler that doesn’t even come in shots, but is simply poured until full? No. No, no, no, no, no.

You know what? This is the last straw. Three strikes and you’re out. No more Starbucks. I’ll spend that money on a manicure and a fancy ass haircut and find other ways to convince an uncaring public that I’m all swank and hip and whatnot.

Starbucks? Fuckbags.

I stole this from cowgal because I saw it while doing my rounds of reading and it looks like fun.

1. If you were to attend a costume party tonight, as what or whom would you go?

I don’t really have much in the way of costumes just laying about, so I’d probably have to improvise with my makeup. This would probably lead to something horrific, like “sex games gone terribly wrong”, which was my Halloween costume a few years ago, or another botched abortion, which was the costume last year. Probably something involving sex, zombies, death, or whatever is causing unrest in the media that day. Cause, you know, that’s how I roll, yo.

2. What are your choice of toppings on a hamburger? And do you prefer gas or charcoal grilling?

Oookay, well, vegetarian, but I do have veggie burgers. Usually grilled onions and mushrooms with honey mustard and mozarella. Sometimes avocados if I’m feeling adventurous. Pesto and goat’s cheese are really good too. As for gas or charcoal, ha! I live in an apartment, you think I have a barbeque? Frying pan, baby. If I did have a BBQ, though, I would probably have Talea over very often, so I’d have to use whatever was most environmentally friendly or she’d yell at me. If the boyfriend was over, he’d get full reign of the grill, yelling Talea or no.

3. You are chosen to have lunch with the President. The condition is you only get to ask one question. What do you ask?

What fucking drugs are you on and where can I get some?

4. It’s your first day of vacation, what are you doing?

Studying maps furiously so as not to look like a tourist when I step outside.

5. What is your concession stand must-have at the movies?

Nachoes with shitbuckets of that fake cheese crap, and salsa and jalapenos if they’ve got them. And a ginormous bucket of iced tea with no ice. Yes, I get the joke.

6. Which do you dislike most, pop-up ads or spam email?

Pop-ups. I can ignore spam email, pop-ups get in the goddamned way. Rollover ads are even worse. 

7. What do you think Captain Hook’s name was before he had a hook for a hand?

Dr. Barnswell A. Lovingtouch, registered massage therapist.

8. Rock, paper, or scissors?

A shot in the face beats all three, sucker! Ha!

9. How long was it from ‘the first date’ until the proposal of marriage?

Um…I’m not married yet.

10. Which is worse, being in a place that is too loud, or too quiet?

Too much quiet is not always a terrible thing. For short periods of time. If it was total silence for too long, I’d start thinking I’d gone deaf and start gibbering like a lunatic. Too much noise can be good if I’m in that kind of mood. If I’m not in that kind of mood, I start hitting things and screaming. So…it depends on which version of crazy you feel like dealing with.

11. What is one quality that you really appreciate in a person?

Hey, if you can deal with my neuroses, psychoses, loud mouth ways and tendency to recite comedic monologues or bust out into interpretive dance moves at any given time…well, I can appreciate that.

12. At the good old general store, what particular kind of candy would you expect to be in the big jar at the counter?

Um…I live in a city? The only ‘good old general store’ I know of is in Pioneer Village, where you can get bits of chewable wood that tastes like black licorice. Cause, you know, that’s probably where it comes from. I keep getting that shit every time I go there even though I don’t really like it.  

13. What is the most distinguishing landmark in your city?

CN Tower, yo! Formerly the tallest freestanding building in the world. Recently outdone by some tower in Malaysia. Fucking Malaysians. Maybe you wouldn’t be such a crap country if you didn’t spend all your money trying to compete with our bad asses. We would totally make out tower taller if we weren’t spending all our money on more important things, like, you know, being a first world country, bitches! In your face!

14. Everyone hears discussions that they consider boring. What topic can put you to sleep quicker than any other?

Pretty much anybody on the subway talking about their day, and how, you know, John in accounting is just *so* unreasonable, and oh my gawwwwd, where did you get that purse? And then, so, like, anyways, OH MY GOD SHUT UP!!!

15. How many times did it take you to pass your drivers test?

None, suckers! Nobody drives in downtown Toronto, there’s too much traffic.

16. If you had to have the same topping on your vanilla ice cream for the rest of your life, what topping would you choose?

Sex. Wait, what?

17. What food item would need to be removed from the market altogether in order for you to live a healthier, longer life?

Canned soup, believe it or not.

18. You are offered an envelope that you know contains $50. You are then told that you may either keep it or exchange it for another envelope that may contain $500 or may be empty. Do you keep the first envelope, or do you take your chances with the second?

I fall on the floor in a panic attack. When I get over it, I take both envelopes and pants you.  

19. If you had to choose, which would you give up: cable TV, or DSL/cable internet?

You mean give up my five fuzzy non-foreign channels?!?!? Never! Ha, and I don’t have internet at home, but that will soon be remedied. I’m willing to pay for internet, not tv.

20. What is your highest level of education?

You’d think being so fucking smart that I’m some kind of well educated genius. Not so. I’ve done all kinds of crazy Mensa tests, but I couldn’t get through one year of university without going fucking nuts. This is what happens when I’m surrounded by jackasses and shitty architecture. So yeah, high school, extra credits, and one useless year of University.

21. How much is a gallon of gas in your city?

I don’t know, we buy them by the litres here. It’s over a dollar a litre now. For all you Americans, that is approximately “retarded”.

22. What kind of lunch box did you have as a kid?

I didn’t have a lunch box, I went to daycare until I was way too old because I lived too far from my house to go home for lunch. Then we moved, and I lived close enough to go home for lunch. Not that anyone ever had any actual lunch boxes. Oh wait! By the time I was in highschool, I went out of my way to use a lunchbox. I rotated between my Spinal Tap lunch box and my Ozzy Osbourne Bark at the Moon lunchbox. I’m hard to the core, yo.

23. What would you rather have, a nanny, a housekeeper, a cook, or a chauffeur?

I don’t need a nanny since I don’t have kids, and I don’t need a chauffeur since I think cars are retarded. You’d think I’d like a housekeeper with all the rabbit shit I’ve got to sweep up, but I have this funny thing about people I don’t know being in my space. She’d probably steal all my weed too.

24. Would you rather be trapped in an elevator, or stuck in traffic?

Traffic, because 1) I’m almost never in a car and it’s therefore less likely to happen 2) I can stay sitting 3) less likely to be surrounded by jackasses in ties 4) radio equals not going mental and 5) windows equal air.

However, I’m assuming I’m stuck in the car due to traffic. If I were stuck due to, say, rolling flames pouring out of the engine, I might choose the elevator. Unless that was on fire too, something tells me I’ve got a better chance in a flaming car than a flaming elevator.

25. Lets say a brick fell on your foot, and your kid is standing right next to you, what is your ‘cleaned up’ swear word?

I don’t have a cleaned up swear word. If I can’t say shitass motherfucker in front of you, then get away from me. My kids will learn to swear good and proper and learn when they’ll get a smack for saying it in front of the wrong people. And they’ll learn grammar too. The correct past tense term of shit is shat, not shitted. My brother got a smack for that one.

Alright, bitches!!! Time to celebrate! Actually, last Wednesday and Sunday were the times of celebration, but it’s taken me a while to edit the photos and actually get myself some time in front of the computer. So here we are, and this is going to be another delicious photo fest! So sit back and enjoy!

Firstly, the internet is a super awesome place filled with super awesome people. Yes, there are douchebags, but there are enough awesome people to make up for the douchebaggery. Like Josh (I lub you! He’s sending me BBQ sauce!) and Romi, our newest spicy cohort! That’s right, we finally got to meet Romi!!!!!!! The blogging trifecta is complete!!!

Firstly, Romi and I wore nearly identical shoes. That means, natch, we are soulmates.

How sweet is that. Second, she brought cupcakes. And booze. And gifts. And me? I brought sparklers for the cupcakes and a motherfucking PINATA! That’s right. I am the best friend ever. Who doesn’t want something to kick the shit out of on their birthday? Especially when it bleeds candy.

There it is, the giant lipstick. Okay, less explanation, more pictures.

Sparklers! A first for Talea!

And then we busted out the prezzies! Yayyyy! Romi was super sweet and got all kinds of fun stuff for Talea. Including her favourite oddity….CHEESE WHIZ AND JAM!!! EWWWW!!!

That’s right. Look how friggin’ happy this girl is to get two of the most disgustingly inappropriate-for-mixing toast-toppers ever. And yes, she made us try it. The result was unpleasant.

Yeah, it’s as awful as it looks. Dear god people, don’t EVER try this. Gnarly to the core.

Anyways, aside from the giant pinata, I got Talea a cute little wallet. The upside? It’s totally racist, awwww yeeaaaah (If you don’t like it, get the hell off my blog.) Observe.

Hah! YESSS!!! Okay, I know you can’t read it, but it says “I got you a gift” followed by “WHY YOU WASTE MONEY!??!” It’s funny because it’s true.

After the prezzies, we beat the shit out of the pinata. With a spoon. Romi was the tree.

Look how awesomely angry she is! Fun times! The face! Always with the face.

Grarrrrrrr! Don’t take Talea in a fight, she’ll frigging BITE YA! Hahahaha.

Now it’s my turn!

I. Totally. Kick. Ass.

And seriously, it took quite a bit of effort to get the candy out of this thing! Eventually we gave up on the spoon and Talea just smashed it into the floor until it gave up the goods.

Ah, the sweet, sweet entrails of a fine Mexican tradition. For some reason, this entire bout of shennanigandery struck us as retardedly funny, and we all wound up sitting on the floor giggling our asses off.

That’s right, confetti in the hair. And look at Talea all smiley and shit. Anyone who doesn’t think Talea smiles has never given her racist accessories, cheeze-whiz-n-jam, or projectile candies. That’s all it takes people! A few bucks at the dollar store for cheap thrills, I am SO down with that.

So anyways, at this point, we decided to roll around in the candy. Yeah.

With some interesting results…

And eventually…

Yes. Unsurprisingly, Romi ended up missing her bus back to butt-fuck suburban nowhere. But it was a delicious evening indeed! Romi now has a standing invitation to join us every Wednesday for America’s Next Top Model deliciousness. 

Disclaimer: pinatas will not be available every Wednesday. Thank you.

Well, Wednesday was only the beginning of the par-tay. Thursday itself was Talea’s *actual* birthday, which meant the celebrations had to continue. Thusly, I snuck into work early (by ’snuck’ I mean ’showed up’) and decorated her office! Wooot! That’s right, STILL the best friend ever. And? And? And? I got her a cake. Fuck yeah, bitches, that’s no shitty-ass Costco vanilla-that-really-just-tastes-like-sugar-and-cardboard nightmare. That’s a vanilla bean extravaganza made with real cream and pure essence of  excellence.

And fun was had by all. Well…not really. Just the clients we like enough to share the cake with. So that was fun. Actually…the half eaten cake is still in my cupboard here. Hmmmm. I think we may have forgotten about it. Well, there’s cream in there, so I guess it’ll start to smell when it goes over. Carrying on!

So THEN (yes, it’s still continuing, Talea is quite loved by all) we had a little bash on Sunday. This little bash was thrown by none other than our super-great Crafty Friend May! She is excellent. She is excellent because she could take Martha Stewart any day of the week, and do it all without that hideous blank expression. May is fun to the millionth degree, and because she has kids, she only knows how to throw little-kid parties. Little kid parties for adults? AWESOME.

Firstly, Talea and I met up by coincidence on the dreaded Dufferin bus and made our way to May’s house. And when we got there:

May and the kids had decorated the front window! And we were greeted with balloons! Seriously, I don’t care who the hell you are, being greeted with balloons is super awesome. And she got all kinds of awesome stuff!

Flowers! And loot bags filled with goodies of the homemade cookie variety! And for lunch we each had personalized pies (mine was veggie) with our initials on them! And crowns! Truly May is a kiddie-party hostess extraordinaire.

I got a crown too, we all did. And now a brief pause so that I may be narcissistic:

Look at me, I’m so excellent! And I’m wearing a shirt that Talea gave me, extra excellent!

Me and May! Another twin shot! May is famous for her ‘May and YOU!’ pictures, she takes one with everyone on every occasion, and we almost always end up looking like twins.

There was also continuing fun with the ongoing theme of Optimus Domesticus, with little Woogs joining in. (For those in the know, Woogs is also known as Baby Chuck Norris, because she will kick your ass harder than his secret third fist hidden under his beard.)

Top left, that would be May in the mask. Top right, that would be Cait in the mask, with May going “Ugh! Do NOT light that cigarette in my house!” And below we see Woogs threatening to kick ass in an upside down mask that’s just about as big as she is. Seriously though, don’t mess with this kid. She’ll bitch your face up. But then give props, so it’s all good.

The day was excellent, and we had an awesome amount of food and good times. And, of course, there is still cake in the cupboard here. So I would say this was a very successful birthday indeed! We got to meet our spicy new internet friend, candy was shed all around, and it was overall a half-week of celebratory goodness.

And yes, I wore a crown too. Thank you…and good night.

It’s motherfucking BUNNY TIME!!! I love my bunnies. I heart my bunnies. I adore my bunnies so much that I gave up my bedroom in my teeny weeny apartment and converted it into a room just for the bunnies. I stripped the tiles from the floor because they would chew them up and that’s bad for them. I peeled the shitty paint from the walls and scrubbed off the horrifically multicoloured acrylic job underneath that was starting to show through as the bunnies chewed at the edges of the baseboards. My Awesome Aunt and I patched up all the holes the bunnies made - and that I made trying vainly to even out the walls. I painted it a nice green, with white trimming, and got some raw pine slats to nail up cottage style about half way up all around the room (my dad helped with a lot of that, I’m not very good with a saw). Safe chewing now, all the wood is untreated and chemical free! There are no wires, no electrical outlets, no phone jacks, nothing. The floor is painted a soft brown and there are chewy toys and hay everywhere! It’s bunny land!!!

On a side note, I am short a few animals now. I got rid of my cats. I had to. Come on people, I had a bit of an unexpected bunny explosion and I had to deal with it. Apparently they can copulate through cage-dividers, hence more bunnies than I had anticipated. And you just can’t have seven animals running around a junior one bedroom without going insane. Especially not when two of them are whiny fucking cats who cry at all hours of the night just for attention. Not for lack of food, that was always in supply. They just wanted me to be awake because they were awake. I got cats because they’re supposed to be independent!!! Not on par with infants who don’t yet sleep through the night!!! So it was an easy decision. They will now be taken care of by someone who doesn’t resent them, and I can actually SLEEP! Seriously, my life has improved just by having a full nights sleep for the first time in months. Sorry kitties, I got you off the streets, now it’s someone else’s turn.

I also had to give up one of my bunnies, which was very difficult but necessary. You see, four of the five bunnies are family. The other was outcasted. Not allowed to play, not allowed to bond, not allowed to do anything except mope around away from all the other bunnies. If he went near their cages, he would get scratched or bitten. Poor little guy was becoming very depressed, and it wasn’t fair. So I called up a very sweet coworker who adores bunnies and all things cuddly, and who had recently lost her own big eared little friend to the great garden patch in the sky. I asked if she would be interested in giving him a new home. She thought about it and decided yes, she was ready for another bunny. So he now lives with her and is doing wonderfully! I still have visitation rights, natch, and he is adjusting perfectly. If I really love my bunnies, I have to do what’s best for them, right? Right.

Here is a short tribute to the not late but still absent Darth Vader. Posing for an emo album cover, apparently.

Dark and mopey on the outside, super soft and cuddly and easily beat-up-able on the inside. 

So! Carrying on. Now that things are all adjusted and good, I thought it would be a good time to take some pictures and show the world my awesome house of bunnies! While looking around the room just after it’s completion, I decided that I want a picture of each rabbit over each respective cage with a brief bio for visitors. And for my own amusement, of course. And since many of you live far, far away and may never have the chance to visit said land-of-the-rabbits, I decided to sketch out the first drafts and general ideas here.

Enjoy!

First, some pictures of the room itself to give you a general idea:

Before and after!

Woo improvement! And look at all the room they have!

This is their litter box corner! Complete with random chunks of wood for chewing, and a big ole basket of pine shavings for easy refills.

Hannibal is supremely happy to no longer be my coffee table. And that chair to the left is basically one giant chew toy. I don’t know if you can tell, because the wood behind is the same colour as the chairs innards, but there is a giant chunk missing out of the top of it. This is what happens when I get mad and don’t have anyone around to say PUT DOWN THE SAW!!! Yeah. Well, like I said, it’s been destroyed by rabbits already, it’s not like I damaged something I cared about. So it’s their’s now.

Free! Out in the open! Well, not yet, it’s not their turn to be out, but at least they’re not under a desk anymore! Okay, it was a table, not an actual desk. It’s not like they were confined or anything, it was just a pain in the ass to clean when the door only opened enough for them to get in and out, but not for me to reach in . Now I can move the cage around to clean without having to lift furniture! Sanitary!

Individual bios now, woohoo!

This is Finnegan Cabbage Esquire. He’s the head bunny ’round these here parts. First bunny, first love. Very well socialized and a very strong personality. He’ll come up to you if he feels like it, and ignore you if he feels like it. Let him do his thing, and you’ll get along fine. Piss him off, and he’ll stamp his feet, ignore you for days, or give you a nip. He won’t do much damage though, mostly he just headbutts your hand away if he doesn’t want attention, or pick your hand up with his mouth and fling it away. He’ll also fling his food dish around when in his dramatic I’m-not-coming-out-of-my-dressing-room-until-I-get-Evian-water-and-not-this-Aquafina-shit!!! mode. He’s a Netherlands Dwarf and very energetic. He’s responsible for most of the damage to the walls in the apartment.

This is Sunshine, named so because she doesn’t look very sunny. I’m down with the irony. She’s a very sweet girl, and very timid. Really not a fan of being picked up, but every now and then she’ll come up and try to climb your leg or give you kisses on your arms when you’re not looking. She can be noisy when she’s excited or stressed out, making these strange screechy noises. She doesn’t bite, unless you count floor tiles, which she will chew to her hearts content. Also, she seems to think she’s constantly pregnant. This means ongoing nesting behaviour, jumping in the litter box and pushing the shavings around, bouncing back on forth on her front legs to pat it down and starting all over again. She’ll do this to couch cushions, blankets, your face, anything. She’s a mini rex, a breed known for their super soft velvety fur. She and Finnegan fell instantly in love, and share a cage. They can’t be seperated for very long or they get depressed, especially her. She’s also the biggest of all the bunnies, nearly twice as big as Finnegan (he being a dwarf, her being a mini, the next size up). He likes the fat-bottomed girls, methinks.

Here they are in love:

They spend the majority of the day licking each others faces.

On to the babies! Sunshine had six babies, only two of which survived, Hannibal and Brutus. This is what they used to look like:

Gah! So precious and gross at the same time! They used to make little squawky noises and wobble around on their useless little legs. They grew so fast though - within two weeks they had grown a teeny bit of fine fur like peach fuzz, and their eyes opened. Watching them trying to hop and just falling over was hilariously cute. Anyways, that’s Brutus on the left, Hannibal on the right. You can tell Brutus apart really easily because of the pink strip up his head. That turned into the white mohawk he still has, just like his daddy, while Hannibal is a solid brown.

Now six and a half months old, these twins are all grown up and as different as night and day. Let’s start with Brutus!

A little traumatized by living with his psychotic brother before being removed for his own safety, Brutus is still coming out of his shell. He’s timid, like his mom, and doesn’t care for unexpected petting or handling. He’s becoming friendlier, though, and when he is in the mood for human contact, he’ll rub his nose into the palm of your hand or put his paws on your shoulder. He has his mothers weight and shyness, but physically looks almost identical to his dad. The easiest way to tell them apart is that Finnegan has more white around his head and shoulders, and is the only bunny to have a lovestruck mate at his heels at all times. Brutus doesn’t seem to get along very well with others, and it may require some extra effort to socialize him. He’s still very much an enigma and hasn’t really bonded with either myself or the rest of his clan.

I’m sure he’ll be fine. After all, I managed to tame this little monster:

That’s right. Hannibal. You all remember him and the damage he did to my fingers and various limbs. He got a good chunk out of my lip and nose once too, and my leg is still scarred up. But he’s gotten better! I’ve been working on the whole social thing with him. Sure, he still bites on occasion, that’s just his homicidal nature. But instead of biting with his razor sharp teeth and tearing flesh, he bites with his jaws, leaving only a bruise. Yes, rabbits can choose how they injure you. And overall he is far less malicious. He usually only bites when I’m doing something he doesn’t like, such  trimming his nails or moving too fast when reaching into his cage to fetch his upturned food dish. Gone is the crazy little monster who would fly up off the floor and attack anything that moved:

He’s much tamer. I can even do the bunny trance on him more easily than with any of the other bunnies. For those not in the know, this involves cradling the bunny on his back and stroking his nose slowly until his eyes half-close and his head starts to fall back. He’ll be completely hypnotized with his little paws sticking straight up in the air, and he’ll usually stay that way for quite some time until you lift him right side up again or something startles him. It’s very useful when you have to trim nails or check their teeth and would rather not be injured. That’s right, I tamed the monster. Look at him now:

Still got that crazy look in his eyes, but he’s lounging, relaxed. See the paw splayed out in front there? He’s chilling, not all wound up ready to pounce. Sometimes he’ll even spread all the way out on his tummy with his two legs sticking out behind him like chicken drumsticks. That means super relaxed bunny. And when he doesn’t think anybody is looking he’ll even go up to mom’s cage and give her a kiss! That’s right. Super crazy psycho bunny has some lovey dovey tendencies deep down.

Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

Well, that’s all for now folks. Thanks for indulging me on one of my rare sappy moments. I’m sure next week I’ll be all pissed off at something else while I try to get a phone installed in my apartment, then a decent smoke alarm, then a doorbell, then a proper shower head holder, all the while continuing to battle the constant idiocy of the world around me. But for now, I’ve finished a major project, my quality of life has gone up now that I have the majority of my apartment to myself again (Sleep! Oh precious sleep! And no fur on everything! And I can buy a new futon and not have it chewed to shreds!)

All is well in bunny land!

I hate Valentines Day. I think it’s stupid. Some random saint or another who I’m pretty sure was a little too down with the children somehow conjures up five dollar cards that smart people throw away after a week and idiots keep in a box for the rest of their lives? No thanks. Flowers? Cute, I guess, but they’re going to die. Kind of a waste of money. Fancy dinner? I’m always up for that, but why today? It’s fucking Thursday! And have you looked outside?!?