Okay, here is the general conundrum that is my work.

I do not plan to leave my job anytime soon. My job is awesome because it pays me just enough to keep my animals and funky apartment and somewhat of a life. I have the freedom to organize things the way I want. I get awesome benefits and room for advancement very quickly.

I make no bones about the fact that my manager is – although very sweet – an absolute retard. I won’t go into the white collar technical speak, but she’s retarded. Myself and Sassy Friend would have a third of the stress if our boss knew how to do what it is she’s supposed to be doing. But whatever, idiots weed themselves out.

Now, consider the other reasons why I do not leave. One of our clients just dropped off a huge ass box of chocolates with a ‘Happy Belated Birthday!!!” and a giant red bow. And good chocolates too, none of this Russel Stover shit. People love me, loud-mouth almost-lawyer says I’m the best receptionist he’s seen in the seven years he’s been here. AAAAAAAAAAAAND he hooked me up with his uber sexy client, the one I was gushing about so long ago.

Yeah, so, fingers totally crossed on that one.

Not to mention people are always bringing me lattes, and cookies and blah blah blah, and entertaining me. Really, I love the people I work with. And I get to work with my best bud! And I have time to blog/facebook/etc. So really, I shouldn’t complain.

However, here is where the conundrum kicks in. I have an awesome job that I would normally love to death if not for the fact that I am surrounded, on a constant goddamned basis, by fucking morons. Some days this gets to me more than others. On these days I try to tell myself that I’m surrounded by morons outside the office as well. Then I remember that outside of the office, I am at least allowed to loudly proclaim my distaste for idiocy (although it is a mental strain to hold back the clenching fists and furrowing brows). In the office, I’m not allowed to tell someone point blank that I consider them a fucking retard. This is why I have a stash of medication here, because there are the occasional times when I just don’t trust myself.

When some underprivileged mother brought in her child and allowed it to sneeze upon my couch, I nearly lost it. The giant hoop earrings of the My First Job applicants being sucked into whatever pyramid scheme some office or another is running is enough to make me gag on any day. The lack of English is bad enough, though I’m generally a little more sympathetic than most (this is quickly disappearing, however. ) The lack of logic, however, never ceases to amaze me.

Today, for example. Some fat, swaddled, gold bedecked gospel singer of a nightmare came waddling up to my reception, and asks to see someone that you simply can’t see without an appointment. Doesn’t happen. She thrusts an envelope under my nose. Rude, but okay. You just want to drop something off for him. Yes, I am capable of making sure your documents don’t end up back in your native land somehow. I am able to sort packages alphabetically.

I take the package, write the name of the company on it so I know who’s mailfolder to send it to. Meanwhile, this golden sausage roll is leaning over my counter, yammering on her cell phone. Hello? I’m answering phones here, could you kindly fuck off with your jibberish? Go somewhere else! The couch, the hallway, eight inches away, I don’t care.

She then leans over my counter and hands me her grubby, makeup smeared cell and instructs me to talk to her daughter. I pick up this instrument with great trepidation and try not to think of the bacteria sliding over my skin . As it turns out, this idiot mother-daughter combination thought it wise to simply show up and hand me the document (not that uncommon) and then, via their fucking cell phone, request that I make an appointment for them with said person (very fucking strange).

No. I don’t do this. I answer the phones here. Everybody makes their own appointments because there’s a friggin’ million of them here! I tell this voice on the phone that no, I will not make an appointment for her. If she would like to see this person, I tell her, she needs to call them and make an appointment herself. Having her mother show up and handing me a cellphone is quite unorthodox.

The reason they did it this way? They had forgotten the number. They had forgotten their fucking lawyers number. And folks? It’s not a hard number to look up. I know some people still don’t know how to use a computer. I try to remind myself of this every time someone calls me from a vague intersection asking for light-by-light directions to the office as though I have time for their ineptness, trying to resist screaming the glorious benefits of MAPQUEST, YOU IDIOT MOTHERFUCKER, MAPQUEST BEFORE YOU LEAVE THE HOUSE!!!!!! But there is the phone book for mere phone numbers. There is 411. Holy shit. You trekked halfway across the city to hand me a cell phone to ask me for the number?!?

I seriously hope one or both of them are killed by a collapsing moose this afternoon, because those two idiots win the motherfucking Darwin award.

Thank christ for boxes of chocolate to keep me going in the face of idiocy.

I was late for work this morning. Because I just didn’t wake up. Shit happens sometimes, and I just woke up late. Running out the door, I forgot to grab my meds. You know, the ones I take when I feel like punching old ladies or squishing children between revolving doors? Yeah, not a good morning. Not a good day.

It’s fucking cold, it’s fucking damp, I’m fucking cranky. Irritable, that’s the expression that gets thrown around on my chart, next to ‘anxious’. I get irritable really easily. Think PMS except all the time and without the female excuse and Midol ain’t gonna fix this pisser of a mood.

Today I want everybody to fuck off and die. Well, okay….not necessarily everybody. I mean, how am I going to get laid when I’m eventually in the mood if everybody dies? Not practical, right? But there’s quite a few people I just want to smash in the face with a pickaxe right now.

Mostly I want to hit everybody in the face that walks through my fucking doors without knowing the name or even company of the person they are hoping to see. I know the majority of the population walks in thinking there is only one company here. But when I say “You’re here for an interview? With whom?” you shouldn’t be staring at me blankly, before flipping apologetically through your tacky pile of paper held together with an elastic band trying to decipher your own goddamned writing from the McDonald’s wrapper you inevitably used to copy down the job posting from the inside of a telephone booth.

I also want to hit people in the face for coming up and talking to me about shit that I couldn’t possibly care less about. Like taxes. Really, I don’t want to fucking hear it. Do you not see my eyes glazing over? And what the fuck is it about elevators that makes it so extremely necessary to fill the silence? I don’t know you, and I’m well aware that it’s fucking cold out. Leave me alone!!!

I want to go out and smash every Grand and Toy product available, because my boss has asked me to flip through the catalogue and find prices and yet I can’t find a single thing in this disorganized piece of shit. Or perhaps I could if the phone would stop ringing every five seconds. Literally.

I want to smash the corporate laughter coming from the boardroom and the falseties that people are forced to wear in order to pay their rent. Like ‘liking’ people. I get paid to answer the phone and greet people. I’m only as cheery as I goddamned well need to be.

How many of you, upon calling up some company for whatever reason, automatically launch into “Hi, my name is so and so, from such and such a company. Is whathisface there?” I certainly hope none of you do this, because I don’t give a fuck what your name is. Just tell me who you want so I can press the button faster and get the fuck on with the rest of my day. How pompous do you have to be to think that a secretary is going to remember you by name because you fucking call so often.

I curse the air around me for not being ten degrees warmer, and I curse the fucking clock for only saying ten after three. I want to go the fuck home to my disgusting half-reno’d half-given up on covered-in-animals-and-dishes apartment, crawl under a blanket and sleep through the rest of winter.

I want a blanket and a cigarette, NOW!!!!!!

“Sausage Sag Block”

How in the hell did this lead some asshole to my page?!?!

Oh my god, I’m a freaking Aunt. And I’m Auntie Em! How fucking awesome is that?!?!

So here’s the deal. I’m pretty much the oldest in my generation of the family. I’ve got one older cousin, but that’s pretty much it. No nieces or nephews expected any time soon. But then I fell in love. My Crafty Friend, who is teaching me to knit, has two kids. And folks, I am generally not a huge kid fan. I mean I can be, I’ve worked in daycares, babysat, but for the most part, when I think of kids I think of flashbacks to Walmart. Snot, tears, demands, futile punches. Ech.

Well. Crafty Friend, despite being a ‘young mother’ (but she’s been married to the guy for forever, so it’s not like it’s some hoo-raw) is a fucking perfect mother. Seriously, I’ve never seen better parenting. Apparently, upon realizing she was pregnant, she went “Oh, I better figure out how to do this” and read a bunch of books. What she says about parenting now: “Really, people, it’s not that hard.” This lady is fucking awesome, and her kids rock hardcore.

 Well Crafty Friend tells me that her kids are smitten with me, and I die. I beg her to get them to call me Auntie Em. They comply, and I die again.

 Here are a few examples of how awesome and perfect these kids are. First, the oldest of the two is seven. When he heard tales of Auntie Talea’s childhood Halloweens on the prairies, with the cold and the bundling up, he told his mother that he didn’t think that was very fair, and that Auntie T and Auntie Em should come trick or treating with them.

A considerate seven year old, holy shit! Now get this, his two year old sister, adorable as she is, had a complete racket going on in the candy-aquisition field. She would toddle up to the door, muster a ‘tickertee!’, get candy, walk away, pause, turn back, and go demand more candy. And she got more candy because she’s adorable. But she’s smart too, and also considerate. Instead of putting it in her own bucket, she would walk up to her brother (unaware that he was also in on this candy game) and say “Here!” She demanded extra candy to make sure her big brother got some! Big brother then opens the chocolate after Mom gives the okay, and says “Here Auntie Em, you can have half.” KIDS THAT SHARE!!! LOVINGLY!!! VOLUNTARILY!!! Oh my freaking god. I could eat their faces with love.

Later that night big brother reveals how he will keep myself and Auntie T straight. “Okay,” he says. “Auntie T is really skinny, like a T, right? And you’re, well…kind of chubby. And M’s are kind of chubby. So you’re Auntie Em, that’s how I’ll remember.” I thanked him for not calling me fat. Then he offered me more chocolate. I partook.

Now, the kid is all over the Auntie thing, but he was a little curious about why I was so excited. His mom explained “Well, this is the first time Auntie Em has gotten to be an Auntie. So she’s very, very excited.” He asked her “well, what does her kid call her?” Awesome Mom laughed and said “She doesn’t have any kids.” Apparently his jaw dropped a bit here, which I LOVE!!! “Well…is she married yet?” he asked. Note the yet. Awesome. “No, she isn’t,” explained Awesome Mom aka Crafty Friend. The seven year old boy then comes up with the following logic: “Well, maybe Auntie Em isn’t married because she doesn’t want to have kids. But maybe by hanging out with us, she’ll change her mind. Like Auntie Cait did.”

Seriously, could you ask for a more astute child? He has logic! He is well aware of the difference between himself and the children on Nanny 911. He watches them aghast, and I believe he has used the word “audacity” if I’m not mistaken. Also, he’s going to Ballet School for breakdancing. Smart, considerate, and cool?!  Ladies, watch out in fifteen years.

So, anyways, onto the wee toddler girl that I could cuddle till the day I die. She is known as Bruiser for her habit of dragging furniture and kicking down door-guards. She plays hide and seek, and gets really mad if I lay on the floor and put one leg in the air. She’ll come trundling over and push it flat down to the ground, usually at a terribly awkward angle. When I let it float back up, she squeals, runs back, and fixes it again. Neverending.

Well. Bruiser decided to give me a big ole sloppy kiss goodnight the last time I visited and I honest to god came *this* close to crying. I heart this kid so much. And of course, because my name is Emerald, I am obsessed with the Emerald City and all it’s surrounding glory, and relish in the perfect coincidence that the character in the movie is ‘Auntie Em’. It’s like a full circle of symbolism and awesomeness. So how perfect was it then, when wee Bruiser suddenly poked at my back with a ” ’s dat?” She had discovered my Emerald City tattoo, was enthralled, and the circle of adorableness reached it’s pinnacle. I died a million times.

How sweet is this?

GAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!!!!

Okay. I’m an Auntie Em now, I’m allowed to gush over my pseudo niece and nephew. Tomorrow I will get back to my anger and bashing and morbidness. In the meantime, enjoy the view of my ass.

(Oh, and by the way, not to completely deprive you of my morbid nature: The actress who played Auntie Em was as hardcore as I’ll ever hope to be. She had a longterm illness, so when she was like 80, she said ‘fuck this’ – only far more eloquently – did her hair, dressed up in a blue robe, took an overdose of sleeping pills and covered herself on her couch with a gold blanket. That, ladies and gentlemen, and where hardcore meets fucking class! My hero!)

Thanks Joebec!

 

1. My uncle once: had the habit of getting a new tattoo with every paycheque. He is my hero.

2. Never in my life: would I buy a fucking minivan.

3. When I was five: I hit my dad in the face with a telephone

4. High School was: a complete and utter non-event. I seriously don’t remember much of it at all.

5. I will never forget: getting married in kindergarten, and he used to write ‘I love Emerald’ on the insides of his shoes to remember which was left and which was right.

6. I once met: a lot of fucking people. My dad is a roadie. We’ve been over this. *sigh* FINE. Off the top of my head, Steppenwolf, the Doobie Brothers (or their guitar tech anyways), Big Wreck (the drummer said I was the nicest bitch he’d ever met), Serial Joe (like they count), the Backstreet Boys (like they count), Sum 41, Hawksley Workman, Aqua (yeah, I know, I didn’t mean to), pretty much every VJ on Much Music before it started sucking ass a few years ago. I dunno, whatever. Um, that Charles guy on MTV Canada who got Darryn Jones tattooed on his ass? Yeah, I used to go to highschool with him.

7. There’s this girl I know who: instead of just cheating on her boyfriend and getting over the morality of it, whines about which boy she should pick. And it doesn’t matter, because she’ll be sleeping with them both at the same time, but calling whichever one she most recently met at a ravey-ravey dance party while fucked up on Ketamine her ‘boyfriend’ instantaneously, while still pining over the previous one, and already looking at the next. And they allllllllllll look alike. Like emo mixed with ‘lack of medicare’.

8. Once, at a bar: I let Shirley the Drag Queen take a picture of my tits for an extra arms length of tickets for dirty bingo. Which was fucking worth it, because I won the goddamned prize with that set! Who got the pink bunny?! THIS GIRL RIGHT HERE!!!!

9. By noon, I’m usually: ready to stab some irrational fucker in the eye.

10. Last night: I spent two fucking hours in a waiting room filled with crying toddlers and teenage mothers trying to REASON with them, all to have my prescriptions refilled because my doctor is on mat leave, and her replacement is a retard for scheduling our next appointment weeks after I run out of medication.

11. If I only had: more drugs, and a license to kill, or at least shove.

12. Next time I go to church: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!!!!!!!

13. Terry Shiavo: I don’t know who the fuck that is…hang on…googling….oh right, that. Yeup, if I say ‘fucking kill me, motherfucker’ you better pull that goddamned plug.

14. What worries me most: that I will never be able to stop my brain from dwelling on terrible, horrific things.

15. When I turn my head left, I see: A grey fucking door. To my storage cupboard.

16. When I turn my head right, I see: Three grey fucking doors. Storage, courier supplies, and the door to the rest of the office. I’ve started keeping it closed….

17. You know I’m lying when: you ask me and I fess up. Other than that, there are lies that have never been uncovered. Mwahahahaha!!!!!!!!

18. What I miss most about the eighties: everything In highschool, on assignments, I would write the date like I was supposed to, but every year was 1987.

19. If I was a character in Shakespeare, I’d be: nobody. I do not read Shakespeare, because I do not find it impressive to have someone invent words, and retell other people’s stories in Iambic Pentameter. Also, in school, I was fantastic at faking my way through things.

20. By this time next year: I’ll probably still be alive.

21. A better name for me would be:  um, hello? My name is EMERALD. Doesn’t get much fucking better than that, does it?

22. I have a hard time understanding: why everyone else is so fucking retarded.

23. If I ever go back to school I’ll : continue my downward spiral into a morbid obsession with forensics.

24. You know I like you if: I share my weed with you, or cook for you, or tell you that I lub you like a raccoon lubs shiny things, or fuck you. Actually…that last one might not mean anything. You know how guys do that? Yeah….

25. If I ever won an award, the first person I’d thank would be:  my plethora of awesome friends

26. Darwin, Mozart, Slim Pickens & Geraldine Ferraro: indicate that whoever started this meme was running out of ideas here.

27. Take my advice, never: do ’shrooms at your exboyfriends house with a bunch of assholes who don’t listen to my request to kindly stow away any sharp implements for my inevitable freakout. I have an eye on my knee now, you bastards!!!!

28. My ideal breakfast is: after good sex.

29. A song I love, but do not own is: a song this guy friend of mine keeps playing, it’s English slow punky, about a guy who loves a girl and he says “i told her ‘i’m the most illegible bachelor in town’, and she said ‘i know, that’s why i can never understand any of those silly letters you write’.” Anyways, eventually she cuts her hair and he stops loving her. I can’t remember the name of the song or band, even though I ask him to play it for me every time I see him. Ahh, good memories.

30. If you visit my hometown, I suggest: um….well Kensington Market for the hippies, if you idiot tourists could ever FIND it. Jesus Christ, I felt like a frigging tour director when I lived there. Don’t do the touristy stuff, ooh, look, we have a big tower. Find some local colour and ask about cool places to hang out. That’s the really cool part about Toronto, none of what you see on the TV. Oh, and hop on the streetcar and just see where it takes you.

31. Tulips, character flaws, microchips & track stars: comprise a list of objects once again indicating the author of this meme was running out of ideas.

32. Why won’t people:  stop being so fucking stupid!?!?!

33. If you spend the night at my house: You’re fucking brave. Dude, I live in a zoo. You’re also probably drinking, smoking weed, eating the best Thai food in the city, and either having sex with me, or making a laughable pass at me that ends in you being on the bus within twenty minutes. Chris? Yeah.

34. I’d stop my wedding for:  the opportunity to punch out my groom’s ex-wife who had the nerve to stand up when they said ’speak now or forever hold your peace’. Because I’m just assuming that with my lack of morals, I’m going to ruin someone’s home one day.

35. The world could do without: Idiots.

36. I’d rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: lick the asshole of a cockroach 

37. My favorite blonde is:  that blonde out behind the tourbus. (If you don’t get it, you’re not a roadie. If you want to get it, www.roadie.net, look for the top ten lists and read them all.)

38. Paper clips are more useful than:  my boss. Whoops! No I didn’t!!!!!

39. If I do anything well, it’s: scheme. Mwahahahahhahahah!!!!!!!!!!

40. And by the way: I licked all your styrofoam mugs, you germaphobe nazis!!!!!!

…How in the hell-ass did “Jesus Fucks A Monkey” lead some poor schlub with too much time on his no doubt greasy hands to my fucking page?

Seriously.

Sorry about the short post. More genius at a later time.

Hey, remember when I told the story about dragging a dresser home from someone’s curb and lugging it up the stairs?

Well here is the mother fucking dresser:

Okay, it’s a little wonky looking because the click-and-drag photo editor here doesn’t follow the rule of thirds. But it’s big and fucking heavy. That’s wood baby, none of this Ikea light-as-a-feather mumbo jumbo.

 And here are the motherfucking stairs I descended with my newfound treasure.

Like something out of Hitchcock’s ‘Vertigo’ right? I mean, the fucking colour is bad enough, but on top of that, there are two more flights of these babies that you can’t even see. And don’t even get me started on how narrow they are. Seriously. Turning corners is hazardous even when not carrying furniture single handedly. If you look carefully, you will see my downstairs cunt of a neighbour has a lovely little welcome mat. It’s narrow end is almost half the width of the staircase. That, my friends, is a narrow fucking winding staircase.

And I got that fucker up there. All by myself. I rule.

I will now accept your glowing accolades, and I thank you in advance.

We all know my beef with jackasses on the subway. Or, if you don’t, go here and figure out why I often want to punch people in the goddamned face. Especially since Toronto relies so heavily on it’s transit system. We’re pretty green, after all, and our streets and highways are a nightmare to navigate – there really is no better way than the TTC. Millions of riders a day. I love my subway system.

Unfortunately, my subway system is also a great cause of stress for me. This is due to the simple fact that when I see other people being discourteous, it sparks that nasty little homicidal tendency in me. How dare you fuck with my transit! Especially because I know that most people (polite because they are Canadian, and perhaps fearing violent lashback for speaking up because we are in Toronto) would rather stand than tell some jackass to move their fucking bag.

I will not do this. Oh no. I will push my way through a crowd and walk up to someone who has let their shopping hang so carelessly from their arms or lap, not-really-but-may-as-well-be taking up the seat next to them. Move the bag, it didn’t pay the $2.75, thanks.

This sort of incident is bad enough. Imagine my absolute fury then, on a recent trip home, to see some poshy looking hip businessy type with her similar ‘my bag is worth more than your life’ friend displaying the ultimate show of rudeness. Not only was she taking up a full seat with her bag, meaning her big ole trendy purse was sitting smack dab in the middle of it’s own seat as though it were ready to start up a conversation with other passengers, but she herself wasn’t even sitting!!!!!

Oh. My God. I will kill you. I will fucking kill you. What is wrong with you!?!?!? Do you honestly think that not just you, but your fucking inanimate possessions are that fucking important?!?! If I could pick one shining example of why I believe the world is going to be blown to smithereens by superior beings, that would be it. We are too selfish to move fucking handbags.

Then, when a group of cute little prep school kids (not the annoying kind, but the “they’ll probably be really cool once they finish puberty” kind) shuffled in and sat down. This “I’m too cool to sit” twat gave them one glance and then oh-so-graciously moved her bag one seat over so as to allow all of these kids to sit together. Because, you know, you can’t let your purse sit between two kids, they might get chocolate on it or something.

The kids knew she was a jackass, but didn’t say anything. They all had a seat, so…okay, whatever. But no, I was having none of it. Very loudly, and looking directly at her, I said “Or, another option is to be less of a jackass and to move your bag so somebody else can sit down.” The kids looked at me - clearly I was awesome. I looked at them “Well, yeah,” I said to them, translating in tween-speak to “You know I’m fucking right.” They knodded.

Posh cunt? Didn’t even acknowledge my existence. I found this delicious. She and her friend departed shortly thereafter. I gave her the finger on the way out, and it felt fantastic even though she didn’t see it. The only thing that could have made the experience more satisfying was if one of two scenarios had come to pass.

1) Some pregnant/old/disabled person had come aboard, (I was silently pleading for this to happen) at which point I would leap from my seat for them, make sure they were comfortable, and then walk over to Miss Cunt (now her name for ever after), pick up her handbag and toss it at her, not really considering her ability to catch it. This would go along with a haughty, “I paid the fare – your tacky accessory did not, thank you,” as I perched myself so delicately on the seat.

2) Far more likely, although this didn’t happen either, I was expecting them to get off at Union Station. This is the hub of our transit system, where suburban commuters connect from their trans-city GO Trains to our beloved inner-city transit system. This would have allowed me to loudly proclaim upon her exiting “Ohhhhh, she’s an outsider, riiiiiiiight. Suburban commuter, of course she doesn’t know any TTC courtesy. Got that big ole SUV mentality.”

However, neither of these happened, and so I had to settle for a flipping of the bird upon her exit a few stops before my predicted destination. I, however, was accoladed by witnesses, caught a few smirks from other listeners-in, and was satisfied with my handiwork.

So, just a warning to anybody riding the subway in Toronto. You’ve seen my pictures on this blog, you know what I look like. If you catch me on the subway, you better have your bags in your lap or at your feet. Otherwise, I may spill their contents into the nearest puddle of spilled coffee.

And remember, on the escalators it’s “walk left, stand right”, or I will push your motherfucking ass to the sharp below.

So I’m sitting at work in the fucking dark, or dim rather, since someone blew a fuse in the kitchen. And I can’t help but think that today fucking sucks. I’m having one of those days where, for no particular reason, I want to go out and just punch babies. Nobody did anything to me, nobody offended me, my brain is just in an angry fucking mood. Time to up my medication, I suppose. Except, oh wait, right, I was supposed to see my doctor this week for that, but they rescheduled. To make matters worse, I have an ear infection that has physically fucked up my right ear to the point where I can’t hear out of it at all. Not good for someone who answers phones for a living.

On top of all of that, I’m out of fucking weed. God fucking DAMMIT!!!!!

So instead of going out and punching babies, which would obviously be far more detrimental what with prison time and all, I do this little exercise where I try and figure out who’s got it worse than me. Usually when I get down about my life I think to myself ‘At least I’m not O.J.’ But he at least got to (allegedly) stab someone, and had a pretty decent car. So no O.J. consolation today.

Okay, so who sucks more than me? British fucking theatre, that’s who.

Now, I know not everybody is a fan of musical theatre. But for those who are, we’re used to Broadway shows filtering up into Toronto, etc. Does anybody remember the days of The Phantom of the Opera? Miss Saigon? Les Miserables? Even with this rash of family friendly Disney Musicals you at least know what to expect. But NOW, I’m seeing a big ol’ shitload of musical theatre coming in from across the pond, and it’s all directed at slowly aging Baby Boomers trying to relive their youth. Mama Mia, We Will Rock You, Dirty Dancing, Desperately Seeking Susan?! WHAT THE FUCK!?!

I couldn’t give a shit about Abba, you can murder their music all you want. And Dirty Dancing was a joke as it is. And as for a musical based on a Madonna movie? Well, what part of her soul hasn’t she sold yet? Nobody cares. But a musical based on the music of Queen? In a futuristic backdrop where all the ’popular’ kids listen to “Internet Gaga” prefab music and all the cool rebels are out to find rock n’ roll? And pop culture references are made not only to Queen themselves but to fucking EVERYTHING!?!?! No!!!!!

Here are a few lines that are sure to make you gag, even if you are only remotely familiar with Queen:

Opening line: “Well, well, well….Do I see a little sillouetto of a…spy?”

“I’m getting tired of you, Mr. ‘I Wear My Sunglasses…Indoors!’”

“They want this, this Video Tape (pronounced, as though foreign in this futuristic world, as Vi-dayo Tappy), but it’s mine, mine!!! My PRECIOUSSSSS!!!!!!!”

“Nobody knows what happened to this band, Queen. They disappeared, pausing only once to create a musical based on their music.”

“I’ve got it! We need to find ‘living rock’! But it’s not an object, it’s a place! The greatest stadium ever known! MAPLE LEAF GARDENS! (Crowd falls for this and goes wild.) Well, no, Wimbledon, really. Plus, they didn’t turn it into a Loblaw’s.” (And the crowd goes wild again, oh my GOD they made a reference to a Toronto landmark, let’s applaud!!!)

Holy fucking Christ, I couldn’t make myself vomit more if I had a coat hanger down my throat.

So all the mainstream ‘in’ kids were dressed as Go-Go 60’s mods, dancing wildly and happily to their downloadable tunes. This would normally be boring, but was instead horrifying as I was mesmerized by the fuzzy treasure trail of pubic hair snaking down the front of one cropped-top male dancer. Wardrobe, hello? Did you not have dress rehearsals? Did nobody notice this atrocity?!?!

And if that weren’t bad enough, all the rebels were named after snippets of music of the days of old, featuring such gems as Boy George, Clay Aiken, and Madonna. The lead rebel, of course, was a tough fellow by the name of Britany Spears. Naturally, they were dressed all hardcore, with spikes and wild colours and mohawked hair.

The outcome? Shit. It was shit, pure fucking unadulterated shit. If I wanted that many pop culture references shoved down my throat, I could have stayed home and watched Family Guy and at least have been entertained instead of bored to fucking tears with bastardized versions of decent fucking songs.

You know what it looked like? It looked like the cool homeless kids (yeah, there are cool homeless kids in Toronto, the ones who hang out along Queen St., our uber-popular entertainment district and will openly admit that they want money for weed) at Queen and Bathurst just got really fucking bored and decided to put on a half assed production of Cats. And yes, I made hairball noises during the encore.

So Britain? You suck. You suck far worse than my day. Your food is terrible, nobody gives a shit about your fashion input, and you fail at cosmetic dentistry. The only thing that might possibly redeem you is your musical exports: the Beatles, the Sex Pistols, and so on and so forth. But now, by trying your hand at musical theatre and just plain sucking ass, you fail in that genre too!

Britain, thank you for making me feel like less of a failure. Because nobody, not even my shit-ass baby-punching day, could possibly fail more than you.

Disclaimer:

A few people I work with read this. So while I briefly considered censoring myself, I fucking hate censorship and decided against it. Instead, I will take this opportunity to inform those coworkers that they are not allowed to hold any of the following information against me. If they do, violence will follow.

Thank you for your attention, and now moving onwards.

1) As is probably evident, I have ‘anger management’ issues or some such happy horseshit. I rant and blog away to keep myself from screaming at idiots. It all stems from the fact that I’m pissed at my parents for not helping me with school/moving out/bills/anything really and then interrogating me about my credit cards. All of this while my sister is in private school. Fuckers. Fuckers who are not allowed to talk to me anymore. Under that is the fact that I’m surrounded by fucking morons 90% of the time, and am not allowed to punch them in the face. So all that anger gives me anxiety attacks, and now I’m on happy pills. For anyone out there looking for a kick, Zoloft and Clonazepam are great, but Ativan is where it’s at.

2) I had something called Meckles Direticulum when I was a young ‘un. This basically means my intestines told the rest of my body to fuck off, they were going to do their own thing, thank you very much. So they twisted themselves into a knot, I dropped into convulsions and was rushed to the hospital. So, risky surgery and last rites later, I told my intestines to fuck off, since I was in charge. Now I have a six inch scar running vertically through my navel. I kind of like it.

3) I have a thing for musicians in general, but bass players especially, and long hair, piercings, tattoos, etc. It’s not my fault, my father is a roadie.

4) I heart body modifications. I have the Emerald City tattooed on my back in glorious 17 hour technicolour. I have the Pi symbol between my shoulderblades with “Beware of the Devil’s Magic” below it (because Pi does some scary shit, yo.) I had 8 barbells in the back of my neck, flat rivets as opposed to balls on the ends, so it essentially looked like I had 16 nails in the back of my neck. It was fucking sweet. It was also a fucking expensive way to figure out that I’m allergic to nickel. I have my lower lip pierced, my ears of course, and I have an flower scalpelled into my right hip. That’s right. I let my piercing artist cut me with a scalpel for over an hour while I laid there taking it. The other artists in the shop all came over to see because they were all “Dude, is she okay? She’s not even screaming or anything.” That’s right, I’m hardcore.

5) Pain killers do not work very well with me. To illustrate this, there is a good chance that I have endometriosis (look it up). But, it can’t be diagnosed without a laproscopy (look it up), which is too risky in my case due to the scar tissue from my childhood surgery. This essentially means that despite my high pain tolerance, as indicated by fact number 4, my girly time of the month is excruciating. Tylenol, nope. Advil, nope. Aspirin, nope. Stolen Oxycodan, nope. Stoned? Yes. Numbed? Not at fucking all.

6) In fact, drugs in general do not do very much to me. Someone commented last night that I do not appear to be a drug user. This is correct. However, I smoke pot on a near daily basis, which just makes me the happiest person on earth. I can easily snort a gram of coke and carry on a normal conversation (just a little faster than usual maybe). But I don’t do this very often because I am not down with spending that kind of money. I used to do a lot of ecstasy. However, one night at some random millionaires loft with a friend, we helped ourselves to the same batch of pills random millionaire left out for us. She took one and was flying for the next 24 hours. I took eight and was fucking bored. Not, I thought to myself, the drug for me. I’ll stick to my cheap ‘a little bit giddy’ pot, thank you very much.

7) I fucking knit. That’s right. Me, hardcore, totally pierced, tattooed, scarred, coke snorting, pot smoking, pill ingesting, over drinking, constantly stab-stab gesturing, ball breaking, head banging ME. I knit.

That’s right. Look at me and all my glorious knitting. Embrace it.

So, there you have it. I hope you enjoyed this little trip further into the Emerald City. Motherfuckers.

(Sorry, I just didn’t feel I had said ‘fuck’ enough in this post. Had to meet my quota. Shit fuck damn.)