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