What’s the most politically correct way to say Merry Christmas?

It’s probably Seasons Greetings, but only asshats say crap like that.

(sidenote: I’m making asshat popular in 2009. I think it has potential to reach a “douche bag” level of fame. But more on that later)

Merry Christmas lovely readers; I hope your holiday is filled with faux fire warmth, fruitcakes and knitted sweaters from your nanny. Oh, and Home Alone, because it's not Christmas without Macaulay Culkin's crazy antics.

I like to watch this when my stress levels reach vomit-inducing highs

Goodbye University. You'll be missed.

The end has come. In just one day I’ll be finished classes, and in a little under 2 weeks I’ll be done all my papers, and subsequently, my undergrad career. Now, you’re probably all thinking, “this is so exciting Nicole! You’re done! No more papers!”

NOOO! YOU’RE WRONG!

This is not exciting...a life with out the constant stress of looming deadlines, preposterous academic jargon, and last minute paper writing is a life I don’t want to live! Part of me is excited, yes, because this semester has been nothing short of a nightmare, but the rest of me so desperately wants to sign up for courses in the winter and just continue on...never graduating, and never entering the real world. The second part of my unwavering fear is this “real world” everyone’s so quick to mention to me. I live in a real world thank you very much; it just doesn’t consist of a 9-5 job that I hate. But as much as I try to avoid the thought, come December 15th, I’ll be thrown right into that pitiful hell known as the real world...and I’ll be lost...completely and utterly fucking lost.

What will I say when people ask me what I do? I’m so use to firing off, “oh, I’m a student.” And their immediate response, “oh, cool, what are you taking?” But now it’ll be all, “well, I just graduated, and the economy reeks like shit, so I have no job prospects, and well I’m applying to grad school, but I’m not sure if my grades this semester are going to cut it, so I’ll be lucky if I get in...and if I don’t get in you ask, well, then I’ll cry.”

As much as I’ll miss that sweet aroma of academia, I won’t miss the institution know as the U of C. Wait...that’s not entirely true. I’ll miss stuffed buns, the ejaculatory covered circle couches, the 10th floor of the library, and getting drunk at noon on BSD...yea, I’ll miss all that.

Maybe I’ll take the optimistic high road, because now that I’m done toiling away with my academics I’ll be able to do all that stuff I’ve been meaning to do, like leisurely read! And watch lots of box sets! And potentially make money! And, if I really get the academic itch, I’ll begin writing papers for that sheer joy that only a well-written thesis statement can bring. And then I’ll post them here! Ahh, the glories of a blog.

Well, back to the papers. Wish me luck as I enter into unknown territory where people make more than 14 dollars an hour and don’t talk about the feminist nature of the ninja turtles.

And because it seems marginally appropriate:


Excuse me while I go drown myself in a vat of my own tears.

Nothing good ever happens after 2am

It's 2:20 on a friday morning and I'm awake, high on the buzz of caffeine and academic dreams! I induced this high with a few cups of pop and lots of sugary goodness. I did however manage to complete the most vile paper (on time!) which at one point suggested a "binary opposition equating the boy with femininity through his cow."

Well anyways, the reason for my impromptu visit (where?) is to discuss a matter that has annoyed me to the point of "blogging my inner thoughts and feelings" - yuck. I'll try to keep this as heartless as possible, and say 'fuck' a lot...I'm certain that will prevent this from becoming a whiny pathetic agnst fest...no, wait, that'll just increase its "i'm so daring and rebellious I say fuck, like, fucking, every fucking sentence" angst.

Fuck. Scratch that.

My body doesn't handle caffeine well, or sugar for that matter, and well, I indulged a lot, and even enjoyed some twizzler pull and peels (though, I opted not to pull and peel, because that would've just been tedious and time consuming, and i'd be left irate and the licorice would've lost its flavor and charm. Then i'd become uninspired and unable to perform on an academic level - therefore, pulling and peeling= bad, bad time)

Back to my point. After completing my paper which used the words "affirm" "dichotomy" and "antithesis" far too much for any papers good, I watched 2 episodes of gossip girl (OMFG Serena, how could you, like, even WANT a relationship with him?!) and then creeped on facebook for a staggeringly long while. What is up with people and their need to share their inner most thoughts and feelings on their status?! Or, what's even worse, why oh why do they feel the need write a pathetic and shameless status revealing their inherently flawed disposition. Are they looking for some e-sympathy, cause I can give them some real fucking sympathy. (That was, hands down, the WORST threat ever uttered)

Ok, but seriously now, get a blog or something.

This post is really only directed at one person in particular, and I'm fairly certain this individual doesn't read my blog, and if they do, well, HEY THERE! BFF?! No, really though, they don't...they can't...right? right? I NEED SOME SUPPORT HERE PEOPLE!

I know I wrote a blog about this very topic a few months ago, but I just felt the need to say it again...nobody gives a shit that your iguana died and you can't get it up. (that was never mentioned in a status... i just made it up, as you can probably tell because it's not funny, or neat, or based in any sort of reality, and you know what...i'm rambling...this is NOT a stream of conscious blog, I am NOT one of those people!)


I'm certain I'm going to wake up in the morning and regret this...damn you caffeine and your sleep prohibiting powersss!!!

This week in pictures: copulation, trannies, and post-election fever

Picture this: 52 hours, 650 square feet, 2 grilled cheese sandwiches, 2 salads, 1 bag of popcorn, 2 bananas, 1 bowl of mini wheat’s, a box of hair dye, an “E! True Hollywood Story” on Dawson’s Creek, and season 3 of How I met Your Mother. This my friends, is how I spent my Friday and Saturday.

It appears more reclusive and painstakingly boring than it actually was. Yes, I may have stained my bathroom door with dye, and gained a few pounds, but I laughed and cried, and learned that “Josh is really a lot like Pacey.” Thanks, E! True Hollywood Story, thanks.

So it’s time for me to clear out my pictures folder at work!














This is Britain’s oldest virgin! She just turned 105, and has never been laid! She's adorable, but her facial expression just screams, “I cast judgement unto you, YOU FORNICATORS!” Well, I’m sure it would be a little less harrowing than that, but you never know, some elderly woman can be real pistols!

And on a completely related note: apparently there was a sex shop down in the States that was giving away free vibrators to anyone that voted.
















Not only is Obama making history, unleashing hope on millions, and changing lives, but his victory means that these two twats LOST! I’m so glad we’ll never have to see “speidi” walking around LA with a riffle, a six-pack, and their hideous attempt at political campaigning.

Here’s a close up of their shits, whoops, I mean shirts:















Seriously, faking photo ops is sooo last year.

















I was watching Anderson Cooper the other night…like I do a lot of nights, dreaming of his luscious silver locks and crystal blue eyes…right, uhh, so… I got to thinking about aging. Why is it that when women age they just get furrowed, loose, and unattractive, but as men age, they become “distinguished” and “sophisticated”? You know what, fuck that! Damn those silver foxes and their ability to still get all the women they want (and in Cooper’s case, men). It makes me sick! In fact, it makes me so sick I want to make sweet passionate love to him to cure myself.













Oregon: electing hot Tranny Mayor's since 2008.

I’ve always had a thing for Oregon; I’ve never actually been there, but I perceive it to be a place where everyone drinks like alcoholics on Intervention, and calls all-dressed chips “Canadian.” I’m not sure if it’s because they’re raging drunks, or just really awesome people, but a city in Oregon just elected America’s first Tranny Mayor. His/her name is Stu, and he was a dude for his first stint as mayor, but this time around, he decided to run as a lady, new breasts and all! And he...i mean, she, won by a landslide! It’s weird that a small city in Oregon will elect a tranny, but California, a supposedly progressive state, banned gay marriage.














If you haven't, go see Zack and Miri Make a Porno...or don't, and just go read the review I wrote about it.

and then I said, "this is what blogs are made of..."

Friday night I ventured out to celebrate my second favourite holiday of the year, Halloween. I spent a mere 12 dollars on my costume and 2 hours HAND SEWING it. You don’t know how many times I pricked myself with that gosh darn needle.

We must stop for a second though and think about the logistics of Halloween; someone thought up a holiday where young kids gallivant through the streets, knock on strangers door and then walk away with candy. It preposterous! Who is responsible for this utter madness! I want to give them a prize!

Mr. Inventor of Halloween is probably stirring in his grave now, thinking about how his innocent holiday has turned into what it is today. And I probably don't need to repeat myself a thousand times and use the phrase "whore fest" again. So I won't. You get the point.

So back to my night out.

I won the best costume prize! (I was a giant crayon in case you were wondering) I think I won the prize only because I was persistent on mentioning to everyone that “I HAND SEWED MY COSTUME! BY HAND! WITH A NEEDLE! AND THREAD!” Plus, when the actual prize was given out there were probably only 15 people in attendance, so the odds were already in my favour.

At the end of the night I hit a brick wall and realized that I was far too drunk to function. I took a lay on the couch and then fell asleep for a good while, periodically waking up to write the most incoherent text messages, ever. Finally, Jeff came to rescue me from myself and walk me part way home. On our journey we stopped to get some pizza and because I was unable to stand for more than 2 minutes at a time, I took a seat and watched. And watch did I ever. Drunk people are great. It’s really amazing how social everyone becomes at 2:30 on a Saturday morning.

I find the first set of people who I watch intently; the girl, who’s less than attractive is wearing a sailors outfit, and the guy she’s with, who she clearly just met, is wearing some boring, generic costume; he was probably a vampire, I don’t really remember. Then, for some reason, they decided to talk to me. It was probably because in my drunken state I was staring at them with the most scornful look on my face:

“You sure look unhappy, don’t you want any pizza?”
“I’m not not unhappy, I’m just waiting for my friend.”
“Oh cool. What are you?”
“I’m a crayon. A red crayon. See. I HAND SEWED IT!”
“OHHHAKHLSDHAHAHAH! That’s awesome! Can I take a picture!?”
“No.”
He then proceeded to take a picture of me.
Some random guy now has a picture of me in a giant crayon costume on his phone. I hope he makes it his wallpaper.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the pizza shop there were two girls wearing the shortest black skirts, corsets, and orange and black thigh high socks. They had pumpkins on their skirts, so I’m going to assume that they went at “sluts with pumpkins on their skirts,” but don’t quote me on that. One of them, we’ll call her Darlene, was chubby and unattractive, but as she stumbled around the pizza place I watched as all the guys in the joint gave her this “I’d totally fuck you silly” look. Poor Darlene. I hope she finds love someday. In the 10 minutes I was in the pizza place, her and her friend managed to chat up, pick up, and then leave with two random guys. One was dressed as a doctor, and I’m certain to think that he used some awful line like “I’m a gynecologist! Can I take a look?”

A midst all the commotion and activity, every three or four minutes you’d hear some drunk douche bag yelling incoherently. It went a little something like this:
“AHHHHHUHHHHHHHHHHhggggggggggggggUHHHHHWOOOOOYEEEAAAAA”

Once Jeff finally got his Pizza, we left, parted ways and I spent the rest of the journey walking home alone, because a cab was near impossible to find. I figured that wearing a giant crayon costume amongst a bunch of slutty outfits would be like wearing sweatpants in a strip club; I was certain no one would even look my way.
Apparently I was wrong, and in their drunken quest to get laid, the men of the evening were hitting on anything and everything, even giant crayons.

Two guys walked past me and used this line:

“You looking to get laid tonight?”
“Not by you!”

ZING!

A homeless man then came up and asked me if I had some matches. He seemed nice enough so I gave him the pack I had and then started talking to him about Halloween and my costume. He laughed and thanked me for the matches. It’s funny when a homeless man is the most coherent and sober person in the middle of belligerent 20 something’s. I’d be proud if I were him.

If you were wondering, I made it to my apartment safe and sound, but vowed to never again walk home alone wearing a HAND SEWN red crayon costume.

Warning: vulgarity below.

On my quest to find a suitable Halloween costume, I came to the conclusion that it’s impossible for girls not to turn into raging whores come the 31st of October. While paroozing through the store I learned that the choice costumes for girls in Halloween costume providing shops consist of 6 options:

1)slutty nurse
2)slutty cop
3)slutty whore
4)slutty maid
5)slutty school girl
6)and my favourite…the big ass slutty slut bag.

SERIOUSLY! Why can’t I purchase a costume that doesn’t make me look like a 2 cent floozy? It seems like people can make anything slutty these days. In one store I saw this:

















“A naughty inmate costume” – well of course inmates are naughty – they’re murderers! (well, and drug-traffickers, robbers, etc) Guys, would you really wanna take a Karla Homolka impersonator back to your apartment? I bet knowing she raped and murdered two teenage girls would really get the conversation going. What’s with society! My god!

Here are some of the other costumes that make me question the existence of morals:

















Disney did not intend for snow white to become a whore! She lived with 7 dwarves, not 7 pimps!


















“Hey God, when you’re, like, not creating natural disasters and letting people through the pearly gates, wanna meet me for some alone time, wink wink?!!”

Since when have God’s messengers been tramps?! One of the commandments of angel life is “though shall not fellate more than 100 men per lifetime” – I can tell you right now that God doesn’t want angels on his crew that have gotten more ass than a high security prison inmate.















A slutty referee. I hope she falls and turf burns her snatch.

















I can tell you right now this girl doesn’t even own a drivers licence. Racecar driving is a skill, and the only thing she’s skilled at is spreading her legs.

















A sexy straightjacket costume? Really? I'm pretty sure that mental instability is not normally considered attractive.
















AND LOOK! You can even turn your beloved pooch into a slutty school girl! God, dogs must hate Halloween.

After realizing the female section of the store had nothing of offer me, I headed to the mens section. It's not much better. Basically you can be a giant dick (literally) or some kind of offensive and/or cliché costume that made me want to pour franks red hot in my eyes.

I’m absolutely appalled at the state of Halloween these days. It’s probably my second favourite holiday, and now it’s just a big hussy convention! For the love of god people, stop dressing like you’re helga the whore!

And because I love embedding youtube clips into my posts, here’s one that fits perfectly(skip to the 5:27 mark...or watch it all, because Mean Girls is amazing)



Listen girls, I have no problem with you personally, but I think if you want, just go as a slut for Halloween. Just wear your lowest shirt and your shortest skirt and call it a night!

And the card attached would say...

You know when you have a ton of school stuff to do, but you'd rather fellate a hot curling iron than actually do it? Yea, that's me right now. GOD! And you know what's even worse, the fucking U of C is just determined to not let me graduate with a film minor. I've been in University for 5 and a half fucking years, just give me my goddamn degree so I can be on my merry way and attend a real post secondary institution that isn't run by a pack of retards. Man oh man.

Anywhooo, to waste time, I decided to go on youtube...Here are some highlight videos of my day.



Remember kids, "zombies don't eat candy, only brains." I should get that on a t-shirt.


I really like Hayden Panaterriere. She delivers that last line with a real punch!

Ok, watch this next video closely...especially the last few seconds...




IT'S RIDER STRONG!!! OMG!!!
What? You don't know who he is? Uh, HELLO! Boy Meets World! It was definitely one of the better mid-90s sitcoms.
But seriously?! Where has he even been this last decade!?
Well I wikipedia'd it and found out that he's really been nowhere. He starred in a movie called Cabin Fever, and Cabin Fever 2...the sequel I’m going to presume. I’m sure it was a raging success.

These were some of my favorite interesting facts about Rider:

Rider writes poetry, his poems have appeared in several literary journals, including "Hidden Oak," "The Chiron Review" and "Poetry Motel." One of his poems was even incorporated into an episode of Boy Meets World.

How precious is that?!

In 2004, he graduated Magna Cum Laude from Columbia University as an English major. It was there, he wrote the foreword for fellow Columbian Steve Hofstetter's "Student Body Shots".

MAGNA CUM LAUDE! (you know, i honestly have no clue what that exactly means...but it sounds fancy…so I’ll go with it.)

Strong remains good friends with his former Boy Meets World co-stars Danielle Fishel, Ben Savage and Will Friedle. He even guest starred in several episodes of Kim Possible, for which Friedle was a regular cast member.

I can just see it now, him and Topanga meetin' up for some venti decaf lattes at Starbucks and reminiscing about the good times they had on the set, and how SHE DATED LANCE BASS! Holy hell! Hold the train!

Her most visible relationship was with Lance Bass, who revealed that he was gay in 2006.[4] Of Bass's sexuality, Fishel said, "It wasn't a shock for me. I found out probably a year or two after we broke up. People magazine was not my first time knowing Lance was gay! He is an awesome guy, he was an awesome boyfriend and he is still a very good friend of mine."[5]

Topanga Lawrence and Lance Bass. This coupling has regained my belief that love really can be beautiful.

Now, this one’s for you my loyal reader’s. You’re all awesome…like chocolate filled chocolates and Barney Stinson.


Thank you...for being a friend.

OMG! TTYL! WTF! BBQ?! NO...HSM3!

This my friends is the day every 14-year-old girl has been dreaming about for the last 2 months...well, every 14 year old girl and myself...oh, and Jeff too. You might be asking what this occasion brings us? A new Jonas Brothers album? A new Barbie? A new Britney song? No, my friends, today is the opening of HSM3!! And for all of you that don’t get the lingo, that’s High School Musical 3!

WHO’S EXCITED!??!

I AM! I AM!

Ok, so before you start leaving nasty comments questioning my taste, let me give you some of the reason why I actually like High School Musical movies.

1) Zac fucking Efron.


















He’s a babe. A total friggin babe. Sure he looks like Malibu Ken, but he’s wholesome, AND HE SINGS! And I know what you’re thinking, “fuck Nicole, he’s like 15” – actually, you’re wrong! He just turned 21! Which means, he’s only a year younger than me…well a year and a bit I guess…so there!

2) It’s a musical! And more specifically, it’s Disney! Remember when Disney movies use to have really amazing songs that you’d sing all the time? I do! Gems like, “hakuna matata,” “ a whole new world,” “I’ll make a man out of you,” “be our guest,” “under the sea,” “PART OF YOUR WORLD” OMG!


Disney songs were amazing. Then they hit a decline…a recession one might call it…and they began to suck. This though turned around when, dare I say it, high school musical came out. Now, don’t get me wrong here, the songs from HSM will NEVER be on the level of the aforementioned songs. Disney simply cannot make masterpieces like they once could…but they’ve put in a solid effort; the songs are catchy, upbeat, and they linger in your head long after you’ve seen the film.

3) I can’t really think of another reason, but I will tell you this: the movies are incredibly cheesy and over the top, but I get a bizarre enjoyment out of movies that target prepubescent females. I just can’t help it! And I won’t apologize for it!


Also, remember when I was having that dilemma with the whole “boom-bust,” “recessesion-idontknow” thing…well after wikipediaing it for a solid 15 minutes, I couldn’t find anything. They just kept calling the opposite of bust, or recession, a boom! I swear to everything holy that there was another name for a boom. One article called it “recovery or prosperity” – but that just doesn’t seem right. You know what the worst part is? I totally got an A in first year econ.

This is as political as i'm going to get.

This morning at work, for some reason, I was reading the Calgary Sun. I was bored OK! Anyways, I stumbled across this article with the title “Thanks for not voting: Some young people doing us a huge favour.” The beginning of the article starts talking about voter apathy in 18 to 24 year olds, and presents some stats…blah blah…then, the author goes on to say “that last thing we want in this country is young people voting.” No, no, just wait, it gets better.

“While most people in that age range have recently managed to free themselves of certain myths – I’m special, a man in a red suit brings me presents at Christmas, the Jonas Brothers rock – they are still, by and large, unsophisticated cement heads”

Alright! Fine! You caught me! I like the Jonas Brothers! I have a terrible weakness for brother pop trios! But that’s beside the point! Now, I will agree that there are a lot of “cement head” 18 to 24 year olds out there that act like raging dickheads and don’t know the first thing about politics or what is good for our country, let alone themselves…but there’s a vast population of young people out there who actually know what’s going on, and care. I care. I’ve voted in every election since I turned 18. (this is me gloating) Frankly it was a big step in my life that first time I went out to the polls. I’m surprised my family didn’t buy me a dairy queen cake to celebrate the occasion.

Here are more quotes from the article:

“They’re fresh out of school and have been raised in a culture that replaced such outmoded values as Duty, Honour, Country with Recycling, Diversity, Hugging”

“Frankly, If young people find the Canadian voting process intimidating, we’ve got a bigger problem here than voter turnout…we’ve got a generation of giant wussies on our hands and the only solution might be to round them up at gunpoint and run them through boot camp or something”

“If young people are wondering why they don’t like their government, it’s simple. Because I vote. And you don’t”

I officially have all the answers I've ever needed, thanks mr. sun journalist.

But on another note, this video is pretty funny...

A fecal error.

I had an epiphany. I’ve come to the conclusion that shitting yourself is potentially THE funniest thing that can happen to a person. Now, you can’t just go out and crap your pants and hope that everyone will think you’re a comic genius…there has to be a story.

I bought this book entitled “I hope they serve beer in hell” by Tucker Max. I saw it at Urban Outfitters and I though it looked interesting. Basically, he’s America’s biggest douche bag, and he goes around and gets unreasonably drunk, acts like an ass, and sleeps with inhumane amounts of women…and I mean, inhumane!!!!! amounts. We’re talking triple digits here. Furthermore, he went to Duke Law School, so he’s smart. He’s an intelligent dickhead, which makes me a little sick. Anyways, the book is ridiculous, and captivating at the same time. It’s like an anthropological study into the lives of those guys you hate. Anyways, I was reading the book one night and it comes to this story about how he got unreasonably drunk and shit himself. I thought I’d share the story... (also, I’ve got a case of writers block, so I figured I’d just allow someone else to be funny for me)



“I hadn't realized how supremely shit-housed I was until we stumbled into our room at the Embassy Suites. Have you ever been so drunk you forgot that you have to shit until the last minute? Well I was at that stage. I nearly had my pants completely off when SlingBlade snaked past me and got into the toilet first. Fine, I go get out of my bar clothes and change into a t-shirt and pink Gap boxers to sleep in. I wait patiently for about three minutes, then I start pounding on the door, screaming at him that I am going to shit on his bed if he doesn't get out of there.
A short time later he opens the door laughing his ass off, and says, "That was perhaps the most prodigious shit ever. I just put that toilet into therapy."

I take a gander into the bathroom. It looks like Revelations. The toilet is overflowing, brown shit water is spilling out all over the bathroom floor, and the tank is making demonic gurgling noises.

THE MOTHERFUCKER CLOGGED UP A HOTEL TOILET!

Hotel toilets are industrial size; they are designed to be able to accommodate repeated elephant-sized shits, and their ram-jet engine flushes generate enough force to suck down a human infant, yet skinny ass 170-pound SlingBlade completely killed ours.

I nearly panic. I let loose a flurry of unintelligible curse words at SlingBlade, punctuated by a "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!," and knock over the lamp in my dash out of the room. The turtle is sticking his head out, and he is coming whether I am on a toilet or not.

I figure that there must be a bathroom somewhere in the lobby, so I shoot down the hall and hop in the elevator. Once in the lobby I can't seem to spot a bathroom anywhere. So, I head around the corner to the front desk, which doesn't face the lobby. It's about 4am, and no one is at the desk. I furiously hit the bell for at least a minute--CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG --until some poor lady comes out with sleep lines all over her face and tells me that the bathroom in the corner of the lobby.

I turn the corner from the front desk into the lobby and realize I don't know which side of the triangular lobby she is talking about. I don't have time to go back and ask her, and I see a white door at the end of the left-hand side, so I quickly waddle towards it. Why am I waddling? Because I have to physically hold my butt cheeks together to prevent myself from crapping all over my pink Gap boxers. One of the prouder moments of my life.

I nearly bust the door off it's hinges as I plow through it. I hear a loud, "AYYYY!!," that almost literally scares the shit out of me. I jump back to see that this is a janitor's closet, complete with a small Mexican lady janitor. I momentarily contemplate taking a dump in the janitors bucket, but decide against that, mainly because of the presence of said female janitor.

I try to be as diplomatic as possible, considering that I am about to crap my pants:
Tucker "WHERE IS THE BATHROOM?"
Janitor "No, no se habla Ingles."
Tucker "WHAT?!? Huh, uh...DONDE ESTA FUCKING BANO?"
Janitor "AYA, AYA!"

She points across the lobby. About 60 yards from where I am standing, at the complete other end of the lobby, there is a set of doors that have a large "Restroom" sign over them. Right where the front desk lady said it would be, except on the opposite side of the lobby.

I have about half a second to make a crucial decision: I can either sprint and hope I make it there before I shit in my boxers, or I can stick my thumb up into my ass and shuffle the 60 yards to lavatory freedom. The decision is simple: I break into a full-on dead-ass sprint.

I am a decent athlete, I played football, baseball and basketball in high school, and I stay in good shape. I have run from cops before, I have run from guard dogs, from a legitimate drive-by shooting once while in Kentucky, but I don't think I have ever run that fast in my life. Nothing motivates like the prospect of being covered in human excrement.

Unfortunately, I was not fast enough. It went something like this:
-20 yards into the run I feel my boxers start to sag.
-30 yards into the run, about halfway, I feel my ass crack and legs get noticeably wet.
-40 yards into the run, my boxers have slid down to mid thigh. I am struggling to keep it together.
-50 yards into the run, I can feel wetness all over me and little specs of something hitting the back of my head and ears.
By the time I get to the bathroom door, the end of the 60 yards, I have completely lost it. I am shitting myself. Full on crapping in my pink Gap boxers.

I step out of my boxers as I crash through the door. Shit is puddled in the seat. I blindly hurl them away from me, and nearly break the door to the first stall. I plop down on the seat and immediately slide off, because my ass is covered in slimy, runny feces. All the while, my butt hole is spouting forth waste. I finally get situated on the toilet and lose perhaps 20 pounds in the next 2 minutes.
During a short respite in my nearly superhuman flow of crap, I notice that the toilet is almost completely full of shit, so I flush. Predictably, the toilet overflows. Great. I move to the next stall, and continue my little adventure, except this time I courtesy flush every few seconds.

By the time I finish, I am physically exhausted, completely dehydrated, and my eyes are tearing up from shitting so hard. I laugh at the inadequacy of toilet paper to clean my body. I take my shirt off and see that the back of it is completely covered in little specks of shit that my heels kicked up from the diarrhea that ran down my legs as I ran. I throw the shirt in the trash, and then see the mirror. My pink Gap boxers are crumpled in a ball on the sink, with a thick black streak leading from the top of the mirror down to them. This is their final resting place.
Completely naked and covered in my own poop, I chuckle, because at this point if I don't laugh I have to cry. As I open the bathroom door to the lobby, I think to myself, "Who else on earth could be having a worse night than me?"

My question is immediately answered.

I see a trail of shit, starting very wide at my feet, getting progressively smaller until it apexes at the chunky white shoes of none other than the small Mexican lady janitor.

Her eyes met mine. We may have been separated by numerous religious, language and socioeconomic barriers, but the "What the fuck just happened?" expression on her face crossed all boundaries.

Now really--picture this scene: I am butt-ass naked, crap plastered all over my ass, legs, back and head, standing about 20 yards away from a Mexican maid, with a trail of black liquid shit leading from her directly to me. What would you do? I wasn't sure. I don't think there is any defined etiquette for this situation.
I shrug my shoulders, say, "Uhh, sorry. I mean, uh--lo siento. Good night. Buenos noche--or whatever," and calmly walk to the elevator.

From the glass window in the elevator, I can see her sobbing. The rest of the lobby tells me why: Not only had my legs kicked shit up on the back of my ears and head, they had sprayed little specs of poop all over EVERYTHING. The couches, the walls, everywhere.

Come to think of it, she wasn't sobbing. I believe "hysterical crying" would be a better descriptive term. Oh well, someone has to clean up my messes, and it sure as shit isn't going to be me.

When I get back to the room, SlingBlade is already in bed. He rolls over, takes one look at me and, never one for sympathy, begins laughing uncontrollably. He literally has to stop laughing because he strains his abdominal muscle. It takes him five whole minutes before he can get the words out,
SlingBlade "Where--where the fuck are your pants?"
Tucker "FUCK YOU ASSHOLE. This is all your fault, Mr. Rhino Dump. If you hadn't had that miscarriage in our toilet I wouldn't be COVERED IN SHIT!"

He couldn"t stop laughing long enough to respond. I took what remained of my dignity and got in the shower. As I was cleaning the poop off my back, I could hear him yell out:
"This is clear proof that there is a God, and he is just!"

I'll call this one a picture blog.

Picture one.
















I remember looking at this photo and thinking, “MY GOD Katie Holmes is a giant!!” Then I sulked around because I realized that I too feel her giantess pains. I think she just looks so gargantuan because she’s beside Tom Cruise, and well, he’s an asshole.

I hope I can find a suitable bachelor that’s over 5’11, because that way random people on the street won’t think I’m dating my younger brother.

Picture numero two













I laughed for a god 16 seconds when I saw this picture. Then I read the caption, which was for the MTV reality show 'true life', and that episode was about people who stutter. This woman has a stutter, and I, my friends, am an awful human being.

Picture Three





















This isn't a picture so much as it is a book. I discovered it recently and wondered who might benefit from a book like this? Is it a children’s book? Do they want to teach children that bodily functions are a normal part of existence, and that we should not fear the poop? Then I thought, maybe this book is for people like myself, who can’t fathom the notion that celebrities poop. It's hard to entertain the idea, you know? I get this picture of Brad Pitt taking a crap and it’s highly unsettling. Though, the thought of anyone pooping is kinda gross.


Picture Four















Peter Patrelli would be an amazing boyfriend. He could fly me places! And he’d never die! And he could time travel! Though, last season he did abandon that marginally attractive Irish girl in the future. I can overlook that though.

I'm a Vampire (though this blog has nothing to do with that)

Do loud breathers know they’re breathing loud? There’s this dude that sits next to me in class sometimes who breathes like a freaking snow blower. Either he’s got inhumanly small nostrils, or it’s booger city up there. I think he should just consider breathing through his mouth from now on.

On a completely unrelated note...I’m really bored. For some reason when you have an extraordinary summer, and return to the sullen and pitiful urban landscape we like to call Calgary, everything seems really boring. And lame. And you spend your nights eating tiny Halloween chocolates, watching Party of 5, and thinking about how you can really relate to the characters. Sometimes you leave the house only to discover that your distaste for the city and its people is still there, and then you run back inside your apartment and begin reading one of the 3 novels you have on the go. That’s right, 3! They’re all collections of work, like essays, or short stories, so none really have a narrative sequence that needs your constant attention. What was I talking about? Oh, right, boredom. So yeah, my life is fairly boring right now. I’m thinking though that this is just one of those recessions in life...much like in economics. You can’t always be in a period of boom and prosperity; sometimes you have to recess. Is it boom and recession? No, it’s boom and bust right? But there’s gotta be another word for boom...?

Maybe I’ll write a self help book, something like “The booms and busts of life: understanding the rough times using simple economics.” It’s destined to be a best seller.

ANYWAYS. I thought I’d tell a story about a simpler time. I was talking to a certain friend today, and he reminded me of all the crazy shit I did as a teen. That’s right, I was once a rebellious, no-holds-barred, unruly teenage. My friend’s mom use to say we were “rebels without a clue.” You know, instead of “rebels without a cause.” – right – anyways, she was completely accurate; we were without a fucking clue. One night, after watching a lot of CKY and jackass, we decided it would be a great idea to play “fire in the hole.” Now the object of the game is to order a “litre of cola” at your local McDonalds drive thru and then upon receiving said “litre of cola” you throw it back in the window and then drive away…not too abruptly though, you need to ensure you see the pain on the face of the drive-thru worker. Oh, and you also have to scream, “FIRE IN THE HOLE” whilst chucking the cola through the window.

I always felt really bad, and was never the one to do the actual throwing, because I just knew that woman in the McDonalds window was working minimum wage just to put food on the table for her infant son, who had alzheimer's and whose father was wrongly convicted for stealing a television and is now serving 10 years in prison. We only managed to successfully do it once, and we watched in slow motion as the extra large coke flew through the window, and the small acne ridden worker looked down at the cup and then up at us with a look of sheer horror, and dismay, and probably thought “NO GOD! WHY! THAT LIMITED EDITION POKEMON JUST ISN’T WORTH THIS GRIEF!” We laughed for a good few days about it, but deep down we were all ridden with guilt. We never admitted it though, because, well, we were way too friggin cool for that shit.

Whatever, like, you know?

I’m in a blog frenzy these last few days…apparently I’ve got a lot to say. Actually, it’s more that I hate doing actual work, so instead I just write a bunch of gobbledygook (what a flipping fantastic word!), and then post it for you to read. Oh, beloved readers, you make the sun shine brighter... all 4 of you!

I was on myspace the other day, and I know what you’re thinking, “myspace is totally 2 years ago, you weirdo!” And yeah, sure, maybe it is, but sometimes I like to check it. One day someone’s going to send me a message on myspace telling me how cool and awesome I am, and then if I don’t log on, I’ll never see it, and we’ll never be friends, and that would be a right friggen tragedy.

So while I was on myspace, I found a survey, and thought to myself, “god, surveys are, like, so 2 years ago…I’m, like, totally going to do one!” – you see, being on myspace MADE me talk like that.

So I stole the survey, and then got really fed up with all the lame balls questions, so I deleted most of them and just kept a few that I actually wanted to answer.

1. How do you feel about the person who texted you last?

It was jeff. I feel great things for Jeff.

2. How's your heart lately?

It’s beating quite nicely. No murmurs to report. If I were Mandy Moore in Chasing Liberty though, i'd have to say "it's a little bit broken" and then make this "i'm so cute and tragic face"

3. Where is your phone?

You mean where is my blackberry? God, freaking simple-minded cell phone users! You’re all no-good bags of trash!

4. Do you like country music?

3 words: Garth. Fucking. Brooks.

5. Are looks important?

Attraction is all relative. You know, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” But there of course has to be a physical attraction or you’ve got nothing more than some ugly dude sitting in front of you.

6. Have you ever had someone sing to you?

Yes! I have actually. It was really cute and I just remembered about it right now. And, no, it wasn’t Taylor Hanson...but he did look deep and longingly into my eyes while he was singing, “mmmbop, dippadopppadooooboppp.” It was a beautiful moment in our blossoming relationship.

7. Do you believe in love?

Pshh, love’s overrated, just like Burger King and The Arcade Fire.

8. Will you get married?

I don’t know, why the hell don’t you tell me you lousy survey? Will I? Will I pop out some pesky rat children right after? Huh? You think I have all the damn answers! No! I don’t! And so what if I’m a spinster for the rest of my days??! Huh survey? What’s wrong with that?!!

7. Are you happy with yourself?

I’m awesome, why wouldn’t I be.

8. Who's the funniest drunk person you know?

Who wrote this survey? Seriously! Jump off a 3rd floor balcony!

9. When was your last encounter with the police?

Who's asking?! I’ve had a few actually. Why don’t I tell you about one. One time, in high school, after having a toga party, we took a venture on over to the local watering hole (swimming pool) where we were going to sneak in for a late night dip. On the way there, in a drunken mess of a state, my friend and I decided to moon this mini van. Funny, I know. Turns out said mini van was an off duty cop. He pulled over and yelled a bit, and showed us his badge, and then drove off. We then proceeded to illegally sneak into the public pool. I was some kind of awesome back then.

10. Do you regret some things you've done in 2008?

I figure, why regret anything? What you do makes you who you are, right? It’s stupid to dwell on things that you can never change. Just embrace them. One day you’ll look back at it and laugh... or cry... you know, whatever.

11. What did you want to be when you were a kid?

I wanted to be a few things. I first wanted to be Elizabeth Manly.





















She was so awesome, but my mom told me I was too tall to be a figure skater. Sad, I know. Then I wanted to be a doctor. That dream was really short lived. And now, I want to be a retiree, and live the sweet life eating fig newtons in my 1986 Chieftain 26' Winnebago...

Straight out of the recycle bin

After reading the adbusters article about hipsters, I had this immediate urge to write a response. I thought the article was true and hilarious, but the ending was pretty retarded. I figured I might as well post it, my response that is, because I’d just end up deleting it from my computer, and well, that’s no fun. There may be no logical insight to the whole thing, but I’m not too worried...read it if you please...

Hipsters just need to grow up and admit that they are in fact part of a group. So to get the ball rolling…MY NAME IS NICOLE, AND I, REGRETTABLY, MIGHT BE A HIPSTER. (except – I don’t think I’m doing anything really unique…I like to say that I like what I like because I just like it. Or maybe subliminally I think I should like this stuff so I’m always on the cusp of coolness. Clearly… I have no fucking clue.)

I guess it’s really going to come down to what the hipster will do for society? Are they going to be a self-denying subculture that vanishes in a few years with only a cloud of American Apparel cotton left in its wake? Or, will we fondly remember the hipsters as the group that made strides to progress our cultures ultimate coolness? Most other movements and subcultures are fondly remebered for inspiring, creating, and moving civilization along. The beats had the drugs and the literature; the hippies had the freedom, the protests, the love and the drugs; and the punks, well, the punks had their rebellion. Even grunge had its thing: uncleanliness.

I’m not sure that I believe that the hipster culture is going to be the cause of societal failure. Hipsters might not be advancing civilization, but who really is these days? Western civilization was already doomed, hipsters or no hipsters. We’re a culture of apathy, egocentrism and oblivion; we do nothing, we say nothing, and therefore, we really know nothing. We aren’t failing at the hands of wannabe artists and DJ’s adorned in thick rimmed glasses; we’re all failures. I get that we need a movement from a counterculture to try and shake the pot and change our ways, but hipsters just won’t be that group. We should just leave them to ride their fixed gear bikes, paint their art, and dance their dance.

I'm the queen of guilty pleasures...

I went to see Hanson.

Yes, the 90’s brother band that resembled girls is back, and back with a vengeance. They came here a few nights ago and it was pure magic. I got to relive all my childhood fantasies. Listening to mmmbop live was like eating buttered corn in a field made of daisies.

I spent a lot of my youth denying the fact that I liked Hanson because, well, it was largely uncool. But now, I'm not really prone to caring too much about what's cool and what's not. I like Hanson, and specifically, Taylor Hanson. He’s one fine specimen of a human being. It makes me swoon when he plays the grand piano with his supple skin and his golden locks tossing about.

What an effing dreamboat.


















He’s mormon though, and has 4 kids and a wife. It’s a damn shame.

To whore or not to whore...

I was thinking about becoming a whore to the consumer world and completely selling myself out via my blog (I'm broke!). I’ve got to test the waters first just to make sure the whoring out market is right for me. My first client is Jeff. He’s not paying me anything, as of yet, but for right now I’m going to do it out of the goodness of my heart. He doesn’t have any products to sell, so I’m just going to have to sell him. So here’s to you JEFFY!

Why YOU should pick up your very own Jeff!

Jeff is awesome.
He likes Star Wars.
He has dreams of ponies and unicorns dancing together in jungles made of lollipops.
He always informs me that if he were born a girl he’d want to be just like me*. How sweet is that?
Jeff is a sweet boy.
Sometimes he drops his ice cream and cries jelly bean tears.
He likes pina colada’s and getting caught in the rain.
Jeff comes in 1 size….5’7 and ½.
Oh, and he really likes to read.

*He’s never actually said that specifically, but I just know that he’s thinking it! Am I right, or am I right?

If you, or anyone you know needs some promotion, contact me. I’m available to sell-out any day of the week.

This just isn't going to work out.

Summer’s almost over, and you can’t even believe how unhappy this makes me. I start school again on Tuesday, and that not only saddens me, but terrifies me, because in a mere 4 months, I will be what is know as a “graduate.” Eww! This is the point in your life when people start saying shit like “welcome to the real world” or “what are you going to do now that you’re in the real world.” You know what, screw you! AND your real world!

Anyways...A little while ago I was talking with my sister on the phone, and she was trying to tell me that I use far too many swear words in my blog. I told her that they were just there for emphasis, and not to make me sound like a potty mouth. You know, like instead of just saying “he was a douche bag” you say “he was a fucking douche bag” – it makes the individual sound that much more foul. Now, my sister is very much one of those “optimistic” “glass half full” “let’s be positive about things” type of person, so she suggested that I write an optimistic blog about things that I actually like, instead of constantly talking about shit…I mean…stuff I hate. So this one’s for my sister. And if it sucks balls...I mean...if it disappoints you, blame her and her awesome attitude!

After staring at the computer screen for a short while, and forcing myself to not write about the douche bags at the Oasis concert, I’ve decided to just write down a list of some things that I actually like...some I might even dare say I love. This is just to prove that I actually have positive feelings toward things, and people. But after this, I’m back to my regularly scheduled societal bashing.

Item #1

Pictures of pretty houses. Apartments that make you want to become all artsy and hipster and “escape to Paris and fall in love.” That phrase would never come out of my mouth though, because I hate Paris. Oh man...this whole optimistic thing is already proving to be challenging. Anyways. I like homes with chandeliers. Oh, and cute bikes...



















Item #2

Sex and the City. I’ve decided to devote much of my spare time to watching the entire series. It’s pretty much amazing. And, because everyone always likes to decide which character they most resemble…I’m Miranda…bitter and sarcastic, yet still funny, compassionate, and intelligent. We both also have long necks.











Item #3

Bread. My logic is fairly simple: carbs = love.

Item #4

Cute couples...


















Especially if they are over 70...












Item #5

Cute boys with nice beards.




I used the word “cute” far too much. I resent myself for that. I guess I’m still a girl though, and that gives me some kind of genetic urge to use awful words like “cute” “adorable” and “oh my goodness!"

Well, clearly I like more than 5 things. I like dogs too, and sushi, and my apartment, and orange juice, and notebooks, and mushrooms, and black and white movies...you know...but this isn’t a facebook profile...I was just trying to show you that I’m not just a crazy cynic... I like shit too.

FITY FOR A TEABAG!

This is a tale of male strippers, and it comes with a warning... If you dislike talk of penis, teabagging, and/or strippers, this blog is sure to offend you.

One fine night in Montreal, me and a few friends decided it would be funny to check out the male strippers in the local gay village. Now, I’ve seen male “dancers” before - you know - the ones that appear at the “ladies nights” and all they do is dance seductively, take off their shirts, and then rub their “pecks” down with some oil? These "dancers" never actually get naked, they just prance around in their tighty whities and make all the girls crazy. The point is they aren’t actually strippers. The strippers in Montreal actually get naked…and I mean, balls out naked.

The second we stepped into the bar we knew we’d entered an alternate universe where the men were now the objectified lifeless crack addicted whores, and the women were psycho sex fiends.

We sat at the back and took it all in. Before I went, I was told by a number of people who’d previously gone that all the strippers were actually really hot, but I have to say that I disagree. This is probably because I don’t find really built douche bags to be particularly good looking. Actually, I find them fairly unattractive. I can guarantee if I’d seen any of those men randomly walking down the street, I wouldn’t look twice... Or, I’d look twice, laugh, and think, “Shit, another idiot with a popped collar and a faux hawk.”

Anywho! Then they got naked! The part everyone has been waiting for! I have to tell you, I saw far too much flaccid penis for one lifetime. Some of the men just couldn’t get it up, and then danced around while their penis just hung limp, like a sad, sad puppy. I felt kind of sorry for those flaccid men...I’m not really sure why. Now, it’s not that I’m against the penis, but really, men shouldn’t be leaping around and dancing with no clothes on...it’s simply just not attractive.

There were the guys though that could get theirs up, and they got all the ladies. And these ladies were friggen lunatics! They’d put their 20-dollar bill in their mouth and lie down on the stage and let the gross naked stripper rub his balls all over her face. One stripper even took this chick, flipped her upside down, and stuck her face in his junk, presumably tea-bagging her. She probably had a fity in her mouth.

It was all very, very disturbing. And not to mention, the strippers looked like zombies on far to much cocaine. The way they danced was in no way attractive, and they were clearly dead inside, like most strippers I guess. I kind of wanted to put their clothes back on them, take them for a nice warm coffee, and tell them that they are better than this, and that someone, someday, somewhere, will love them.

There was this moment during the night where I had to go to the washroom. It was horrifying. I was holding my purse firmly with two hands, much like an old woman would when walking through a heard of fifteen year olds. On my way to the washroom, because I was concentrating more on hugging my bag then looking forward, I ran right into one of the strippers. Like, my forehead rammed into his enormous pecks, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He proceeded to give me this creepy look and then rubbed my back…I quickly lowered my head, let out a yelp and ran towards the washroom. On my quest to find the washroom I stumbled across the “secret rooms” where the women get their private dances from the strippers. That, or they just go into the room and pay 15 bucks to get tea-bagged. I’m going to conclude that’s what actually goes on.

To finish the night we ate some poutine. Mine had hot dogs in it. I’m only now realizing how gross that might appear...on all levels.

So, in closing, I’ve decided to use a timeless, tired, and overused cliché to create a new slogan for the male strip club:

Cover: 5 dollars
Cost of a single beer: $6.50
Seeing lunatic women get teabagged by male strippers: priceless

dolla dolla billzzz y'all.

Dear readers, friends and confidants,

I’m sorry for my absence. I’ve been in Montreal for the last 5 weeks, and I drank too many 40s. You might be asking yourself, “what does 40 drinking have to do with actually writing in your blog? Were you drunk all the time, you goddamn alcoholic!?” Well, no, I wasn’t drunk all the time, but I did loose a number of brain cells. It’s simple really; a litre and a bit of beer priced at a mere 4.67 can really affect your intelligence. It still hasn’t fully recovered. My intelligence that is. I probably should have said, “I haven’t fully recovered’, but that would've been far too grammatically correct, and right now, that’s not in my cards.

So, for now, I’ll give you this article I wrote about the reasons I hate the stampede…which isn’t a surprise, seeing as I hate everything and everyone… No! just joking! I like you!

http://www.glossmag.ca/issues/11/socialite/1-calgary-stampede.html

I’m going to stop writing now because I’m pretty certain I’m coming across as 6 year old with a speech impediment. Please check back in a while. I have many interesting stories to tell.

Sincerely yours,
Nicole

fourmis! partout!!

Oh dorm living. It’s one of those things that you never really understand until you actually get to experience it. Going from a 680 square foot comfortable apartment, to a 100 square foot room has its disadvantages. First there’s the bed. As a taller female, I often have trouble finding places to sleep that actually fit me. I grew out of my twin size bed when I was about 8, but my parents didn’t believe me and made me sleep in it until I was 14 or so. It sucked. I’d actually forgot how much I hate twin size beds until I’ve recently been forced to again sleep in one. The ones here though are extra awful because they’re essentially a piece of foam covered in a thick plastic. I’ve nearly fallen off the thing a hundred times, but luckily I wake up right in time when I realize how close I am to landing in a pile of dead ants.

This brings me to the ants. For some reason, I’m the only person on my whole fucking floor who has an ant infestation. In order to try and kill off my guests, I’ve created what I like to call “The ant trap hell death gel fence.” I presume they’re living in the walls because when I first got here there were none, but then I dropped a piece of my granola bar, and didn’t think much of it and when I woke up one morning it was covered in ants! I immediately went out and purchased two forms of ant killer; a liquid gel like substance that you just squirt all over the ant colony, and then these little house things that lure the ants in because they think its food, and then eventually they find out it’s poison and they yell “RAID” and die. Kind of like in Mean Girls when the teacher is all, “don’t have sex because you’ll get pregnant and DIE.” Actually, it’s not like that at all, but I really like that line in the movie, so I had to throw it in somehow. ANYWAYS… I decided to put two of the house things down, and then I barred off the area with an insane amount gel killer to make a fence like device. And now I have this….

(blogger decided to hate me today, and that's why you're not looking at a picture of dead ants. Use your imagination. And if you don't have one, look on facebook. And if you're not my friend on facebook, then how the heck did you find my blog? If you like it though, please message me, i'd love to hear from you. especially if you're a straight male. I don't have many heterosexual male readers.)


Even with the bugs, the communal showers, and the eau de fecal matter, dorm living is pretty fun. It’s unusual to me to have neighbours that actually want to talk to you. At home, my neighbours and I try very hard to avoid each other. Mostly we communicate via mat stealing.

Other than dorm life, Montreal is fucking amazing! I'd love to give you a day by day recount of all the awesome things I do, but that would just make you jealous, and then you'd hate me, and because you're reading my blog, I like you, and I don't want our relationship to be burdened by your persistent jealousy. So i'll just tell you that sometimes I’ll be out drinking and having a great time and think to myself, “shit, I’m totally getting paid to be here. Dope!” Even though I don’t fit in my twin size bed, I sleep easy at night knowing that in a week I’m going to get another 325 dollars to use towards eating and drinking 40s… and all I have to do in return is learn me some French. C’est fucking fantastique.

Ou est le bibliotheque?

While reading Cosmo today in my ant infested dorm room, I learned some very, very useful informations. And yes, informationS, because I learned a plural of things. For example, in the article “7 things you think will make you happy…but won’t,” Sonia Lyubomirsky. PhD shared this useful fact with Cosmo readers, “happy people are more likely to be in long-term relationships and are better liked than unhappy folks” Like, NO SHIT! I don’t think you need a fucking PhD and a ridiculous last name to pull that one out of your ass. God, I could have told you that and I barely have a useless undergrad degree. Happier people are better liked? Really? Because I was under the impression that I should be extremely surly and depressed around people and they’ll immediately gravitate towards me and want to hear me bitch and complain about my sad pathetic life. I should probably try that out here, since at this current moment my friend list is a big fat zero*. Except for maybe the woman in the bakery where I bought the most wonderful tomato bocconcini panini today. It had panini bread with black olives baked into it! Jesus, it was like heaven in wheat form.

I guess you want to hear more about Montreal, and less about the interesting and ridiculous things Cosmo has to offer. Well, Montreal is good. It’s only been two days, and I’ve not yet started my classes, so I’m hoping that’s where I’ll meet some interesting folks. I’ve had a few measly conversations with a few people. One was a French boy who could barely understand me, and I could barely understand him. After everything he said in French I’d give him this unsure look, and then he’d attempt it back to me in English. Needless to say our conversation was a touch awkward**. I’ve also just realized that I don’t really know how to approach people. I’m generally just introduced to people, and then we become friends. It’s a weird concept this ‘making random friends’ shit. I wonder too, if after I make a friend, do we have to wait a little bit until we start hanging out all the time, or do we just dive right in because we’re on time constraints. Fuck, I don’t know, apparently I’m more socially inept than I once thought.

*I now have like 6 new friends! Go me! Last night after I wrote this self-deprecating blog, there was a mysterious knock at my door…and guess who it was…
**random French boy that lives on my floor. He was there to invite me to a floor party that he had planned. So I went to the floor party and I made friends, and had good times and frankly, I’m not as socially inept as I once thought.

I composed a poem to express my joy via rhymes...

Shit is good, friends I did meet.
Montreal is sweet.
I have blisters on the feet.
Let's compete.
I wear deet.
MEAT!

A month of much content.

Welcome to the life of unemployment. Currently it’s 2:46pm, and today I’ve watched 3 episodes of Dawson’s Creek, ate 1 bowl of minute rice, and I’ve not yet bathed. Nor do I plan to. What’s the use really? I plan to spend the rest of the day doing the laundry I’d intended to do a week ago, and watching more Dawson’s Creek, because I’ve missed Joey’s crooked smile, and Dawson’s general aura of idiocy combined with his painfully ugly face...









Then there’s Pacey, who never ceases to flatter and charm me. Yes, I know he’s not a real person, but I’ve spent most of my adolescence searching for my very own Pacey. Of course I haven’t found him, so I guess if you’re out there, Pacey-like-individual… I’m waiting… but not in a creepy, desperate way, more in an endearing, princess looking for her prince kind of way. Though, I’m sure saying this here is pretty pointless, as 99.9% of my readers are gay men. Shout out!

Besides the greasy hair and grotesque amounts of Dawson’s Creek, I’ve been having a fabulous summer. It all began in Vegas, where I rolled in style with my female family members. Vegas can really be summed up in a word: tacky.

Then I ventured over to Florida, to experience Disney World, and Miami. I wrote a blog when I got home, but never got around to posting it. So I’m going to insert it now….

Disney creates magic. So much palpable magic they can barely contain it within their Mickey shaped walls. Last year was my first ever venture into a Disney park…I was 21. Clearly my parents neglected my infantile needs. Needless to say, it was the most magical place ever. You really are unable to be unhappy in Disney Parks, and maybe this is a bad thing, or this is the best way to keep small children from lashing out at their parents. All you have to do when they’re having a temper tantrum is look at them sternly and suggest, “tommy, we’re at Disneyland, you’re NOT ALLOWED to be sad! Mickey mouse will come eat you if he sees those tears.” And that’s that. The kid shuts up, you laugh a little inside, everyone’s happy.

Now I had a few issues with Disney World. First of all, it’s too big. It’s the size of fucking Boston! You can’t walk from park to park because there’s an interstate connecting the two. Scratch that…I mean connecting the 4 parks and 2 water parks! I think Walt went a little crazy when making Disney World. Now I understand he wanted to make you feel like you’ve left reality and entered this inescapable world of bliss, but it’s just too much magic for any one person.

After we spent 4 days gallivanting across the great land mass they call Disney World, we ventured over to Miami. I had my skepticisms about Miami. I was certain I would feel completely inadequate aesthetically speaking. I envisioned a place where people never wear clothes, and all the women, with their incredibly perfect bodies, rollerblade around in pink bikinis and Oakley sunglasses. Sadly, I didn’t see a single bathing suit clad rollerblader, but I did see this man:













He had NO shame. His shame glad was clearly replaced with a second awesome gland, because to have the cahoonas to wear that tiny thong on the beach is something only a truly awesome person would do. I’m certain this man is a professional beach goer. He most likely worked as a financial planner for 40 some years, and was married with 3 kids, and loved his wife dearly. They had a 5 bedroom home in upstate Connecticut, and would spent summers at their cabin in the woods. One day, he woke up and discovered he wasn’t happy in this life. He packed his bags, abandoned his family, bought a thong and sought out a life of pleasure in Miami. He now spends his days on the beach and his nights at the clubs looking for a two-bit floozy. Meanwhile the wife and kids are struggling to stay afloat in Connecticut, where the wife works as a secretary and a waitress on the weekends. Soon though, she’ll meet another man, who her kids will hate, but she’ll adore. Eventually thonged man will realize his immoral life is becoming boring and return to the wife. At this point she’ll inform him that she’s in love with another man, and he’ll saunter off into the night, gaze up at the moon, and howl, “WHY ME!”. Cue credits.

The other thing I saw in Miami was homeless people. I’m forced to disagree that the homeless in Miami have it good, because I’m certain they’re crazier than the average homeless person. Most homeless males had wheelchairs to which they’d ride around and then sometimes find themselves in the middle of an intersection, not sure how they’d ended up there. Most of the time cars would just honk and drive around them, as if it were a daily occurrence. Eventually they’d wheel themselves out, but then, 10 minutes later, you could find them lost in the intersection once again.

The women were equally crazy and all carried around strollers and various child like paraphernalia. Often their stroller would get stuck somewhere and they’d growl and groan as they yanked it out. I’m bound to conclude that all this craziness is due to the weather. For the better part of the year it’s 30 plus degrees, and for the remainder of the year, it’s hurricane season. So either you’re being swept away by 400 mile an hour winds, or you’re intolerably hot and sweating uncontrollably.

I can attest too, that the heat makes you crazy, because at one point in our Disney adventure we’d come across a 34-degree day, and there was no escaping it. I couldn’t stop sweating, and that made me so angry and exasperated that I’d sweat more thinking about how angry I was. I almost started crying. It was a bad time in my life, but I’m certain it was all because of the heat. And it’s not a dry, can’t breath heat, it’s a humid heat where you’re always moist, whether you like it or not. Obviously the homeless have no escape from this heat, and I’m sure they’re equally as bothered as I was to be sweating. Plus at the end of the night I can go back to my air conditioned hotel room and take and nice shower, and they are forced to sleep in the sweat soaked clothes all night, and then wake up to find themselves lost in an intersection.

All in all it was a good time. Then I went to Sasquatch, kanye, and engaged in other various forms of crazed summer fun to which I’ll elaborate on later.

A permanent piece of my medium-sized Canadian heart

Could Tokyo Police Club be any more awful? Why the answer is an astounding YES, they can. I sometimes feel bad for them, because they’re so boring and homely, and they try to make good music, but they just fall so short.

I recently heard their latest musical catastrophe, a song called tessellate, which if you’re wondering means: “To form into a mosaic pattern, as by using small squares of stone or glass.” I’m certain the pale, scrawny 13 year old lead singer was all:“I heard this word today guys, and it’s like super awesome cool rad, and I think we should like totally make it a song!”
The other 13 year old, pale, scrawny, guitar player adds, “but like dood, we totally can’t make a whole song with just one word!?!”
Finally, the humble Jewish boy* in the band, (see above, he’s got like 7 sandwiches in hand), suggests, “but guys remember when we had that song where we chanted our own band name the whole time?? Why don’t we just do that again, but just say TESSELLATE in a mock British accent over and over.” Then, in unison, they applauded the brilliance of the Jewish band member! Hooray! Bar Mitzvah! Shalom! Hanukah! (* I’m Jewish so I’m allowed to make sly remarks on the topic.......well I’m not actually Jewish per se, but if I’d had the choice to be born either Jewish, or not Jewish, I’d chose the former.)

The song goes on to talk about how “broken hearts will tessellate…tonight.” God, what brilliant lyricist; they’re so poetic and endearing. Their 13 or so years spent on this earth have given them such beautiful insight into the world of severed hearts and unrequited love. When I hear that lyric I’m forced to envision axed cow hearts cauterized together to form a lovely mosaic pattern. Remember in high school when they forced you to dissect a cow’s heart? And it was fucking creepy as shit, and people spent the majority of the class running around and screeching at the top of their lungs every time someone touched the fucking thing? And it smelt like formaldehyde? And when you finally got the courage to cut the thing open, you had to saw for like 10 minutes? Meanwhile, your lab partner continued to yelp with ever motion of the knife? And then you finally got so fed up you cut off the aorta and chucked it at your feeble, annoying partner? Good times. Though, I was in “advanced placement” biology, so it’s probably just something us “90 percent average” kids did. Man we had it good.

I’ve forgotten what I began talking about. So now I’m going to stop…and leave for Disney World! Feel free to be jealous, because you know deep down in your tessellated heart that Disney brings on the magic like no other.

Collars Erect! "Why the popped must be stopped"

The Collar Popper.

They're the quintessence of what it means to be a douche bag...actually, I’m lead to believe that they coined the term. I hate them. I hate how they walk around in their too tight, pastel, American Eagle polo's with the collars popped. They're usually found in packs with other collar poppers who are equally as arrogant and dim-witted.










Often, the collar popping clans will get together on Friday nights in a pre-bar ritual I like to call “getting yourself psyched to knock up some whores!” They begin by all standing in front of the bathroom mirror in their effeminately coloured polo’s, lubricating their hair into faux hawks. Once they’re done that, they pause, pucker their lips, turn to their cohorts and yell, "COLLARS UP!"

Once at the bar, they're usually found hitting on females and saying things like:
"Hey baby...wanna GRIND?!" or
"you see how my collar's popped? yea, well my penis is popped for you hunny! ZING!....wanna GRIND!?"

Sadly though, the girls will generally accept their offer to overtly gyrate their hips on the dance floor, and often will end up sleeping with these tools. The reasons why they do this are two fold:
1)They are drunk to the point of being deaf, blind and mute...we'll call it a Helen Keller drunk (and I’m going to hell!)
2) They make equally appalling clothing choices. Ie...they wear valour sweatpants with sexual innuendoes on the ass...


















They can also be found wearing clothes 3 sizes to small, causing the oh-so-dreadful muffin top...
















I think there are various levels of collar poppers. There are the infrequent poppers who’ll do it just when going to the bar, or various other social outings that require a slight ego-boost. Then there are those that do it daily. These are the ones that’ll sometimes wear 2 coloured polo’s together and upturn BOTH collars. They’ll generally combine a baby blue, and a light green, or a pink and a light yellow, but their absolute favourite combination is the baby blue with the light pink…

















I'm really quite perplexed as to how their collars manage to stay so erect. They must use starch, because it seems to me that any regular cotton polo would just fall over, especially whilst grinding, drinking and engaging in countless gestures of male camaraderie.

So, this all leads me to wonder why people are so intent on popping their collars when the trend clearly died in early 2006…and it wasn’t even cool to begin with. I’ve come to three conclusions:
1)The popped collar provides an exclusive membership to a secret underground society to which us “regular” folk aren’t privy. They hold meetings in caves and discuss the benefits of the popped collar. Then they drink candy apples and reassure their heterosexuality.
2)Upturning the collar protects them from the elements. It’s like a built in scarf. Wind, rain, cold, sun…the lower two inches of their neck will always be protected.
3)And finally, it can be used to cover those regrettable “love bites” from the muffin topped Helen Keller they picked up at the bar the night before.

The trend may never die. But to each their own I guess. In the meantime, if I see you with a popped collar, I will turn it down for you, even if you throw your finger in my face. And before you turn that collar back up again, ask yourself if it’s worth it to have the general populace look at you like you’ve just mugged a pony.















IDIOTS!