customer service is making me an asshole

customer service is making me an asshole, i noticed today, this evening, outside the walkthrough of the latenight mcdonald's across the street.

i was standing in the line up, behind cars, inhaling exhaust waiting to place my order when a lady came up to me. she wanted some change, so i gave her the loonie and two quarters i had. she said she needed eight dollars and looked really sad, so after i placed my order (mcnugget meal, fries, and a coke, which was delicious) i gave her another two dollars.

then we got to talking.

she was nice, coherent, toothless, on crutches, had a runny nose.

she told me, despite being poor she still plays the lottery. "i'm lucky", she said, which now as i type her words I realize how ironic it was. and sad.

i told her that there isn't a price for a bit of hope, which i thought was clever.

then i got my meal, we continued to small talk about the rich people that were saying no while we inhaled their fumes and waited with our runny noses.

then time came to say good bye, she said good night

i told her to have a lovley night.

we looked at each other, it was awkward silence, i smiled.

then i walked away, thinking of what i had just said.

have a lovely night.

i say that to people on the phones after i'm done giving them their balances or helping them pay a bill and in that context it makes sense, though in the real world, in her real world, as she stood shaking with her crutches in near tears it didn't.

telling somebody to have a lovely night, as though the possibility for one exists is enough to make them cry.

price of cabs

gas is expensive, i know, or have been told (i take transit or walk)

cabs are expensive, i know, because i take them quite frequently now that i've fully been assimilated to city life.

they must be expensive because of the price of gas, i think / thought

...but they all drive Prius'...they don't use that much gas, or any, depending.

i was looking over the shoulder of my cab driver today watching the gauges, watching the gas stay on full, never move, and the power gauge as it moved slightly.

the cab was from the airport to my house was 35 dollars, he didn't use any gas, it took him 20 minutes, he was clearly illiterate and a lesser version of human then I and makes -- at this rate anyways -- $100 dollars an hour.

they should really change the price of cabs, i think.

Quotables!

Raymond Chandler

Would you convey my compliments to the purist who reads your proofs and tell him or her that I write a sort of broken-down patois which is something like the way a Swiss waiter talks, and that when I split an infinitive, God damn it, I split it so it will stay split and when I interrupt the velvety smoothness of my more or less literate syntax with a few sudden words of bar-room vernacular, that is done with the eyes wide open and the mind relaxed and attentive. The method may not be perfect, but it is all I have.

Routes

Looking upwards.

The Ozone layer is the tower of Babel of the modern Era. Here is humanity, so reassured in their vanity and their need of beauty that they knowingly engulf themselves in hair sprays and cologne so they can look good and smell well to their fellow man. As our hubris soars ever higher to the tip of the earth, our egos tear upon a hole into the heavens themselves and down comes the fiery retribution for loving ourselves more than our superiors. Skin Cancer, cataracts, early aging, all the acts of a vengeful universe finally envious. Like the lowly cockroaches who wish to infest our beautiful cities, we squash them when they invade our territory. The little cockroaches, daring to infect the beautiful penthouse apartments on fifth avenue, awarded for their struggle by a steel toed boot.

all it takes is a mother's touch

The snow is pretty to look at even if it's cold outside. I've started to drink a chai latte in the morning after work on the walk home. It keeps me warm.

Hopefully when the cold, snow, and chai latte's disappear they will bring with them the homeless they’ve buried beneath them -- things that aren’t so pretty to look at. Or smell. Or be around. Or have to step over.

And then Vancouver will be better. Better too look at.

A higher quality of life for all.

Mother nature cures social despair, cleans the streets and makes us safe.

I raise my chai latte to you, from all of Vancouver.

Keep up the good work.

MICHAEL RICHARD'S REVIEW OF MOVIES ABOUT BLACKS: AMISTAD (Despite his constant error in refering to it as, Slaves on a Boat)

After his bleak realistic take on the Holocaust, Steven Spielberg takes a trip to Africa to shed some light on the darkness with his new film, Amistad.

I loved it. Seriously, I did.

It’s the type of movie that makes you say, “oh that’s kinda awful isn’t it,” and then go into a diner and cry over a plate of poutine.

Really though, if you don’t like this you’re a racist and I love it and am not.

****

page one from the playbill of michael jackson's new broadway play, "If I Did It"

If I Did It
(a tragicomedy in two parts)

cast
Michael Jackson....Michael Jackson
The Youngster......A young boy

Synopsis:
In this ninety minute play Michael Jackson plays himself, reanacting the molestation of a young boy on stage, doing it the way he would of in an attempt to clear his name.

Reviews
"a mishmash between waiting for godot and lolita. a tour de force."- Karla Homolka

"fucking disgusting"- The New York Times

F.A.Q. To Killing Yourself

1. Is it best to handwrite or to type your suicide note.

It depends. How is your handwriting? The personal touch of a handwritten note is often much appreciated by the family members who read it, assuming your family actually cares enough for you to do so. If you’re putting blame on someone for this suicide then make sure you write their name clearly. You don’t want to chance them skipping over this important detail since what’s the use in killing yourself if you can’t make the source of your misery feel like a murderer.


2. I’m having second thoughts, is this life still worth living?

Absolutely not.

3. I’m a bit overweight, will the rope still hold?

Perhaps, though contingency planning is advised. Perhaps place a bed of knives below you just incase.

4. Is killing yourself really considered a sin?
Unfortunately, yes. Though so is the molestation of young boys, so don’t fret. There’s room up there for everyone. Worst comes to worst, you’ll be reunited with your father.

6. I’m in a lot of pain and I’ve heard about something called Euthanasia. Could you elaborate?

I already told you, i'm not well informed on Chinese kids.

7. What is the deal assisted suicide is it any less painful?No less painful then your current existence.

8. My parents don’t love me, is this the answer?
Probably. Yes.

peeing on people

if this is so exciting for some to do how do they do it with an erection?

it doesn't make sense.

just the three of us: cartoon kasel, james and me in a silly hat

om keeping the streets safe

Suspect shot himself in police car while hands were cuffed behind his back

Full Story
I love reading trashy american news!

YAY POLICE

SAGE ADVICE ON ROMANCE FROM THE CANADIAN ARMED FORCES (AND A JOKE)

Love and War don't mix.

WRONG

Now they do.

The Canadian Armed Forces (god bless them) have started to teach classes on keeping relationships alive, even in times of war. With an increased ammount of troops (god bless them) being sent to the middle east (god smite them) there has been an increase in divorce. This is an excert from the lesson book being taught to soldiers in hopes of changing this trend.

“You fall in love with the front end of the puppy,” says one lesson book, part of a file obtained by The Canadian Press under the Access to Information Act.

“But every puppy has a back end. Things can be fine on the front end, but if you don’t handle the back end well, the relationship will likely not make it.”

Now I'm not sure how anyone can fail.

Unless of course they get shot to death.

Joke:
What is the best thing about your husband being shot to death in Iraq?
You don't have to divorce him for his pension.

Wikipedia Wandering: Toilet

The "Great Equalizer"
The toilet is noted as one of the unifiers of humanity, as people of all social classes must use it. Simply put, everyone poops, and this factor of biology is seen by some to be unifying.

In Poland, it is reflected by calling the toilet euphemistically as the place, "gdzie nawet król chodzi piechotą" (where even the king walks by himself). A similar saying was used in imperial Germany, and a similar saying is still known in Hungary "ahová a király is gyalog jár" (where to even the king goes by foot).

If everyone, regardless of social class, uses the toilet then somebody should tell this to the homeless man I saw taking a shit behind a dumpster this afternoon.

I'm begining to find it increasingly difficult to critique a few women's work in my creative writing class

Sandra, that piece you wrote last week about your mom dying really touched the class. Nice imagery. It was unfortunate Mr. Jordan gave you zero for being absent during the deadline, but how was the funeral? Sad I bet. About your poem though, I must say that the part when you digress back in time to touch on heritage becomes a bit trite. Holocaust this, dead mother that – a bit of a frown fest, don’t you think? Interject some cheery imagery. Perhaps make it a sunny afternoon rather then the rainy, bleak, freezing winter night you described when talking about the concentration camp. A few smiles will make those frowns more devastating.

Amy, nice haiku about the date rape. Is this fiction? Your misery is really coming through in your work though, so congrats. I'm Sorry Tim laughed during your reading, it was totally unprofessional. The pun just caught the class off guard, thats all. Though, since causing uproarious bursts of random laughter seems to be your undiscovered forte, perhaps when you’re through writing this you could write a humor peice ? Just a thought.

I dug your found poem, Pray the shame away. However, I felt that at times the story and outcome wasn’t quite clear. Did you want the baby, or not? You’re young and moderately attractive so I assumed no, but then you started to cry when you were reading it. It was really inventive though the way you used quotes from the various signs the protestors outside the clinics were holding. I can’t believe that one woman actually had a sign saying, Abortions causes breast cancer. Is that true? If so, looks like you have your next poem basically written. Oh, and I also found the title to be a bit twee.

an amusing aside

There isn't much to write about these days. This isn't recent but it happened a few months ago. It was back when it was still warm. The sun had just set and the crows began to fill the skies and the sun painted the city in sillouhette. I had gone to a play in the early afternoon and then drank a bottle of wine with a friend in the park before I met up with my uncle.

I was most excited.

I was perfectly relaxed, not quite drunk but beyond buzzed, though it would make the conversations roll of my tongue like lies did politicians, so I was confident. This would be great, I knew it. I hadn't seen my uncle in some years, he understood, he knew how things could be with family and how hard it was to see one another even when you were in the same city. Thats the beauty of family though, your love lasts across immeasurable distance, time, and continues after life closes the casket.

So I met up with my uncle. It was in a nice little restraunt, it was quiet, which I liked, though perhaps a little more ambient would be nice. It can be awkward when meeting up with an old relative regardless of how fond you were of him. Having a few drinks helped to a degree, but still, a little music would be nice, I thought.

We were sitting in the corner, the candle light was dancing on his hands as he looked at the menu.

I'll have Meatballs, he said.
Just meatballs?
Yes.
You just want a plate of meatballs. Okay, fine, blast, have your meatballs, I said.

The waitress came over.

He'll have meatballs.

I looked down, took my time, felt the leather binding of the menu in my grip.

I'll have a bottle of your house white. What type is that again? Okay, perfect. And, lets see - eyes skimming - oh yes, here, i'll have the lamb shank please. Thanks.

So, there we were, my uncle and I, sitting. He was looking blankly across the table in great anticipation of his meatballs. He always had loved meatballs, I fondly remembered, letting a small smile slip out the corner of my mouth.

Then he slowly rose up for a moment, straightened his spine, leant over and said:
I have pancreatic cancer.

Borat

May as well talk about what everyone else is. Just when the Rick James' quotes were dying out Borat has come along giving us all a new gem to cherrish for the next year. "A very nice."

Let me say this: I love dark humor. There are shows that touch on the very issues Borat attempts to that suceed, and that I love, but how does Borat measure up? Not well.

The entire film is flawed from the begining. Borat is a fictional news reporter from Kazakhstan who is sexist, racist, and clueless. This is when some some questions begin to arise. I watch on and start to ask myself, "is this really satire?" Satire was used to describe the film in the dozens of positive reviews posted across the globe. Every critic laudes it's use of satire, calling it genious, the funniest movie ever made. Not.

What is satirical about it? The fact that he is exposing the stereotypes of a culture we have no knowledge of? Let me ask: What is a typical person from Kazakhstan like? The only person that I recognize from Kazakhstan is Borat, this fictional character. He is creating stereotypes not satarizing existing ones and in doing so crosses the line from satire to racism.

Borat sets out to travel America to understand the culture, with hopes of bringing it back to Kazakhstan to improve there country. Mr. Cohen (the actor)'s real goal, however, is to use this character to expose America, to call them on their racism towards Muslims, Jews, homosexuals and anyone else that might warrant a laugh from a sold out crowd of morons.

It's also hypocritical.

Was this film made so that our eyes would be opened to things we hadn't seen, or things we didn't know about, such as racism amongst college students? Were we to become enraged enough that we wanted to get up and do something like traditional satire intended, or are we meant to just sit and laugh, only to forget the moment the theatre's closed.

Example:
The village that a part of the film was shot in was a poor peasant village in Russia filled with people who were falsley promised a documentary about their country in exchange for their services by producers. They were paid a feeble 3 dollars a day. In the film these people, these poor peasants who trusted the producers enough to allow them to film in their village were portrayed as retraded, incestuous, racist, sexist, monsters.

But wait? I thought this type of behavior is the thing that satire works towards destroying rather then creating?

I'll admit, parts were funny. We see the inside of a Church and how mad the people inside are. We see some college frat boys making fools of themselves, talking about slavery and women. There is a cowboy that supports Iraq (whoa, i've never seen this done before.) But all in all, the film fails due to the fact that sadly the makers of the film don't hold their own morals higher then the people whom they seem so quick to critisize.

informercials and irony

You probably won’t understand this then, she said, after learning I didn’t own a home.

She could be right. There was plenty of things I couldn’t make sense of, things that I saw on a regular basis. The man last night that was outside, dancing in the moonlight, wrapping himself in tinfoil. Why homeless people like cotton balls and steel wool so much. How two boys could sexually assult a mentally handicapped plummer with a plumming snake in the bowling alley he worked in, like two boys had in a newspaper article I read. Or what about Bill Cosby and the date rape case he is fighting in court.

So, this lady, the home owner might be right. Maybe I won’t understand, still, I humored her. Tell me about it anyways.

So she began:

It’s a ladder, she explained, with a trace of irony in her seventy year old voice. It’s just fantastic. It holds 800 lbs, you could fit your whole family on it, friends too. It’s that sturdy.

She had been watching an infomercial.

The man was flipping it around like a ruler, it was so light. Sturdy too.
It was just four payments. Easy payments.

As she kept on describing the various perks of this amazing ladder my mind began to wander.

She really wanted this, I could tell. She was at first worried that the man on the phone from the Philippines was going to rip her off, steal her bank account number, he credit cards, her life. Now she was growing concerned she wouldn't get her ladder.

There’s something about the elderly that makes me sad and as she kept describing the ladder to me I realized what it was. There was no irony in her words.

a clean bill of health

Disorder	Your Score
Major Depression:	Slight-Moderate
Dysthymia:	High-Moderate
Bipolar Disorder:	Slight-Moderate
Cyclothymia:	Moderate
Seasonal Affective Disorder:	High-Moderate
Postpartum Depression:	N/A
Take the Depression Test

Disorder	Rating
Paranoid Personality Disorder:	Moderate
Schizoid Personality Disorder:	High
Schizotypal Personality Disorder:	Moderate
Antisocial Personality Disorder:	Low
Borderline Personality Disorder:	Low
Histrionic Personality Disorder:	Moderate
Narcissistic Personality Disorder:	High
Avoidant Personality Disorder:	Low
Dependent Personality Disorder:	Low
Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder:	Low
-- Take the Personality Disorder Test -- -- Personality Disorder Info --

Written.

Why easier to write,
Than to converse?
Gives the pen might,
Over spoken verse.

What I wish said,
Easier in text.
Sooner to be dead,
than talk next.

You

I can do naught but access,
until lay you your sweet caress.
For I think not the hand dealt,
When sweet lips I have felt.

My blight on the human race,
erased by your pretty face.
Your body blocking, I cannot see,
finally blinded, by sweet ecstasy.

Broken

Affairs of the heart
at the heart of affairs.
When lovers do part,
souls leave in pairs.

Signals.

A gaze

curiosity

A touch

luminosity

A kiss

electricity

A thrust

humanity

A farewell

sobriety

Susan's trip.

A purple ray of light shot through the ceiling and laid an egg on Susan's head. She woke up groggily, brushing off the spiders that covered her hands, the earwigs in her hair.

On the way to work she saw:

- 2 dinosaurs (mother and baby Tyrannosaur)
- A space ship (filled with 16 extra terrestrials)
- 8 leprechauns (searching for their pot of gold)

Work was okay, minus the annoying vampire who wouldn't stop trying to suck her blood and the pirate who threatened to steal her away to his ship.

When she got home, two ghosts handed her a gold coin and a opaque pearl and made motions for her to eat it.

She opened her jaws that housed 99 giants fangs and swallowed.

The next day, she woke up and brushed 3 spiders off her hands.

She took a plane to work.

Work was alright, two men were arguing about a television show, a mummy was looking for its sarcophagus and there were 15 phone calls.

When she got home, a woman and a ghost handed her a yellow pill and an opaque pearl.

She ate them.

The next day she woke up in her bed. No spiders.

She took the bus to work.

Work was work. Some phone calls, people talking by the coffee cooler.

When she got home, a woman and a man gave her a yellow pill and a red pill.

The next day, there were no adventures, no monsters, no exciting discoveries, no wild animals, no pirates, just houses and cars and buildings.

Just boring, predictable reality. Just maddening sanity.

the ivanhoe is not a butchershop : a poem

The Ivanhoe is not a butcher shop.
Even on Thanksgiving, when people have ham’s
that they want to cut up while enjoying a cheap pint.

Being a gentleman means asking the owner
of a starving dog if you can feed it your ham.
It’s what gentleman do, how they roll –

Your girlfriend is a heroin addict and you sleep in her car.
She’s left you and your half-a-ham out back, behind the Ivanhoe.

Now you’re on the streets.
I’m only as crazy as you make me, you say.
You used to be successful, had money,
but now all you want is your pride.
forget all that other stuff.

You’re thinking…
how do you get it back? Five to ten, that’s all it will take.
You’re going to sit in jail after
you’ve done what you’re about to.

When you get thrown out of the Ivanhoe,
a ham in hand, while your girlfriend drinks inside
with the keys to your bed, sometimes you just have to remember
that the Ivanhoe is not a butcher shop

youtube is worth more then your country

well, maybe not more then your country, unless you live the The Gambia.

...or one of these guys:

Cape Verde
Eritrea
Antigua and Barbuda
Saint Lucia
Maldives
Bhutan
Burundi
Guyana
Djibouti
Seychelles
Grenada
The Gambia
Saint Kitts and Nevis
Saint Vincent and the Grenadines
Comoros
Timor-Leste
Samoa
Vanuatu
Guinea-Bissau
Solomon Islands
Dominica
Tonga
São Tomé and Príncipe
Kiribati

It's kind sad..

...how bad i am at geography. i don't know where any of these countries are.

Reaching for the Sun.

Four grains of sand emerge from a pair of Swimming shorts, hidden in the back of a bag in the corner of a closet.

A mountain of nostalgia, a left hook, a petal, a kiss.

Memories long forgotten emerge to the forefront in a rush of color. For a moment, You are not in Toronto, you are in Cuba, amid the sun and sky and trees.

Just as you reach, just as you grasp, just as you reach out, it's gone.

The memory is still there, but it has receeded. The vivid view, the perfect eyes, the time machine, it's over.

You barely felt the sea water, the indentations of your feet in fresh wet sand are gone. Bikini clad folk become faceless blurs, tropical sounding music becomes the wind.

You look down at the floor and search for the grains of Sand, hidden somewhere in the carpetting like diamonds in the rough. You search and search and search, hoping and pleading and cursing the poor lighting and eventually begging for just one slight grain of sand to hold, to help remember.

But you don't find it.

You're in Toronto.

And it's cold outside.

the man has whiteout eyebrows

the man has whiteout eyebrows. he has whiteout on his palms and blood on his fingers.

it is a saturday afternoon, a bit overcast in an east coast kind of way. there's a fog thats fallen over the city and it's been here since 12:30 last night. we've decided to go for a walk, picked up a drink for the way and wondered down through unexplored parts of the city to crab lot park.

it's a hidden park. not so much hidden but unpractical for going to because it's seperated from downtown by train tracks.

we're sitting, looking out into the sea, watching tug boats. I fantasize about being a tugboat captain.

then i take a look down the beach:

a man approaches us. he shows us a small dirty DV tape and says he's been making a movie. it's the man with no eyebrows, except for the whiteout.

i ask what the movie is about and he says "i've been reading her --" and i misunderstand him. I ask what type poems and he corrects me. "Palms. I've been reading her palms, like fortune telling."

he thinks we're with a non-existent film crew, maybe part of his, but i tell him we're with neither. he lights up a spoke, turns to the girl, smiles, says he's had fun, that they should do it again. she agrees, "yea."

they start to walk away, the fortune teller has a garbage bag in each hand, cigarette hanging out of his mouth. there's futures to be told.

best of all bands starting with dead

browsing for a friends band, typed the word dead on purevolume received some interesting names. First to come up, and fairly mild is the band Dead to Me, a bit melodramtic and they're listed as punk but somehow i think they're not. Then we have Dead to Fall, a hardcore band. Then they begin to progress and get a little more violent along the way. Dead Smiling Pirates, kind of a cute name, then DEAD WHORE DEAD, a death metal experimental psychedelic band, whatever that is. Using two deads in one name is a bit much. It seems to be in though as the next band listed is Dead Bury Dead, this time not in all caps.

Here are a few more:

Dead Poetic (deep)
Dead on Broadway
Dead Hearts (so sad)
Bury your Dead (a bit obvious, no? anti-cremation?)
Dead, Boys, Dead, Girls (lots of dead people, cool!)
Dead! (clean and simple)
Dead is Dead (it is, isn't it)
Dead! Dead! Dead! (so angry, calm downEXCLAMATION)

Then there was 1,492 more and i stopped. To much death. Who said there was a lack of creativity in music these days?

Not I.

ps. DIE

potassium sorbate doesn't taste like sorbert

had a nice lunch today. i had: Carbonated water, high fructose corn syrup, caramel color, natural flavors, coffee extract, phosphoric acid, potassium sorbate and potassium benzoate, caffeine, aspartame, acesulfame potassium

oh wait, that wasn't my lunch. that was this horrid "fusion" drink by Coke.


apparently coffee and coke is what has been missing from my life. a promotion team was handing them out on granville today. i recieved a free bottle, took a drink and threw it in the next trash bin. probably the most vile thing on earth.

buddhism and banking

sitting at my desk, my new found religious text in hand. i'm staring at a 45 degree angle (that's what they say to do, so i am), eyes half open, tongue pushed to the top of my mouth against my teeth. i'm breathing through my nose, not making much noise because thats bad and distracting to other people meditating. hands pushed together, raised nose height and then --

my first moment of realization. a thought. thoughts are bad when you're meditating and blogging is just as bad i suppose but george oh well, i'm doing it anyways.

i'm a white male, which means i can't blame store clerks for giving me eyes as i shop, for not getting into bars or from booking tee times at the golf course, but now that i'm budhist allow me to shelve my quest for self realization aside and point the finger for a moment.

the bank! it's a systematic prejudice geared towards those who want not to sell but to search their souls and better themselves.

you see, now that i'm budhist greed has no place in my life, and apparently neither does sex so maybe i'll just take yoga classes, but nevermind that.

greed. i need to be greedy to succeed in the buisness world, it's cut throat, jugulars only, forget the organs. if i want a better job i need to make more sales, that's the bottom line. if i don't, well, forget that new job, the one you might want regardless of the financial gains. self fullfillment right? see, i'm already thinking like a buddhist.

perhaps the whole world is against buddism? installing escalators on every stairway to catch the robes and suck the buddhist's down into the turn buckle, destroying them all, one at a time. maybe i'm reaching, but thats what my freedom as a member of a religious minority.

really though, clearning your thoughts does feel good. passing moments seem cluttered with the useless sites and sounds of the city. advertisements, cars moving past, people yelling. it's nice to be able to retreat away from all of it, even if it isn't in a literal way.

so it's time to return back to my position. to sit at my desk, press my hands together, to stare at a 40 degree angle and ponder my place in this anti buddhist world.

this is not satire

A sitcom about Canadian Muslims called Little Mosque on the Prarie will debut on the CBC in January, officals said yesterday. - Reuters

I guess you can't be a nation without a fatwa against you.

on suicide

my friend tried to kill himself tonight. i told him to cut that shit out.

on math and happiness

over lunch today, outside enjoying the warmish sun and the coolish fall air a friend and i discussed women. i said that math and women are the only two things that you can’t bullshit your way through. of course with math theirs imaginary numbers and stuff, but forget about that. i already have.

a few minutes later, back inside, my break now over, I read through some emails that had been sent over lunch. On a day where two more soldiers died in a war we shouldn’t be fighting, or at least should be winning if we’re going to bother being over there, there was some good news! :

66% of employees at my work are happy! a three percent increase in happiness levels since last year, double exclamation !!

i thought of math, of the conversation earlier and how perhaps math isn’t so concrete. Maybe nothing was.

my first thought was that happiness seems like a strange thing to be calculating through an equation in the first place and if happiness was just a matter of math then perhaps somebody could give me the formula. (is it alright to put ‘lol’ into a blog post, if so, I just did.) fuck carlin, you’re funny.

Anywho.

it wasn’t so much the news that surprised me. Maybe two thirds of us are happy, but why is this necessary. the reason I come up with is that productivity is linked to happiness and happier workers make for better workers. with my pessimism at work i thought for a few moments. maybe they really care if i come in with a smile on my face. probably not.

i find that sending out a questionaire with the question, are you happy cryptically hidden beneath true and false questions mildly insulting. walk around, absorb the smiles, the emotion thats in the air. you can do it if you try hard enough.

a passing "how are you doing" doesn't really mean you care. it just means you've said hello already earlier in the day and have no other segway into a polite good bye. the answer is always the disenchanted, "good," that people sing throughout the day, all the while hoping it might actually be true.

the later part of the email explains coaching strategies for those who answer, "i'm doing shitily. no really, im fucking a mess."

it's these sanitized approaches to real emotion that office lifes about. sexual harassment means no hugs when somebody might need one, that you can't place your hand on somebodys shoulder or pat them on the back. you're left asking,how are you doing, and as you walk you hear the defeated answer somewhere in the background as the door behind you closes.

I look around. inoffensive art hangs from the walls, people speak with safety, never saying to much or anything. The clothes they wear are distinct but the same, mine included. each day, in the elevator up to the sixth floor a metamorphosis takes place, you change from a person into an employee, void of feeling or opinion.

in a world where a third of the people in a workplace can be concidered good, a success, i think we need a solution thats route doesn't come from an equation or survey.

maybe the answer is more hugs?

fuck noah and his arc

i hate animals. every time an animal is put on the endangered species list i go out and have a drink.

my distain for animals really took perspective one day as a child during sunday school. we were all learning about god and stuff. he seemed okay and i really dug jesus and we were talking about heaven and how great it would be (thats what we always did) and i was thinking about god and stuff.

- i raised my hand. "why did god kill my grandma"

it was a silly question. i wasn't aware that it was just part of the path god had chosen for me so that was alright. we were all given struggles and overcoming them would save our seat in the clouds.

then we started to learn about Noah and his arc. it was at this point that the lines between heaven and hell started to blur.

heaven is open to all god's creatures. this includes animals. so this means that there is going to be animals in heaven. not just dogs or cats (i hate both) but also dangerous animals like tigers and lions and snakes. dinosaurs won't be there since they never existed, so thats good, but still..

also, I can't picture any animals being sent to hell. this is a problem. i've never known a rabbit to be evil, to rape or steal, or do anything else that would hinder it's chances of getting into heaven. and even if he did, he's a rabit, cut him some fucking slack.

long story short: there's going to be a lot of fucking animals up there. remember the movie all dogs go to heaven. not just some dogs, but all dogs.

so now i am left with the image of heaven being a fucking jungle. dogs humping my legs, snakes biting me in my sleep. flies. there must be flies too. we'retalking ALL of gods creatures. all of them.

for the rest of the day that sunday i thought of these things and when the day was done i left the church and never went back.

heaven is bullshit and to be honest, all things concidering, hell doesn't seem so bad.

clotheslines and questions

the rain had let up and i was outside enjoying the blue sky. next door lives a chinese family and they had their clothes out on the clothesline, drying in the sun.

i always ruin my clothes in the drying machine. the instructions on our machine is in spanish for some reason. the landlords probably got a deal on it or something so i often look to the clothesline with jealousy when holding another of my shrunken sweaters.

a thought though: it's winter. it is always raining. how will they dry their clothes?

how do you wash your clothes if you can't dry them? they'd be all wrinkly and stuff.

maybe they have some inventive way i haven't thought of like in the oven or on their tv set, one sock at a time.

or perhaps in the winter my chinese neighbors just dont wash their clothes?

i'll keep my eye and nose on their laundry to see if and how they do it and keep you posted.

here's to hoping the weathers good.

5 Easy and Helpful Steps To Making A Blog Post.

I've gotten a lot of emails* concerning the procedure and mechanisms involved in each and every blog post that Carlin and I write. Where do you get your inspiration? How do you decide on titles? How do you successfully cocksmack carlin without waking him up? The usual stuff.

Well, rather than answering each email individually in a tedious and repetitive format, I've decided to simply make a post that will outline and go into detail in a step by step format of how ideas go from the brain to the blog.

STEP 1: Slack off.

STEP 2: Pull something out of your ass. This is where most of the posts come from. It's getting late, you've had nachos and tequilla for dinner again, and then you go, hey, it's been like 28 hours** I better post something on the blog. Then you think of the most horribly offensive thing imaginable and let the bigotry work itself through your fingers and onto the keyboard.

STEP 3: Pull something out of Carlin's ass. (Just kidding, who wants to see a bunch of articles about big black dicks?

STEP 4: Start to write a post, then pick up your phone/gameboy/ipod/dvd player/xbox/lesbians/dart board/etch a sketch/lawn darts/unfinished screenplay and do that instead/slack off.

STEP 4: If the previous steps don't work, just make a bullshit how-to cop out post without coming up with anything original.

*None at all.

**No fucking clue.

just a joke

a doctor calls a man and says, “I have some bad news you need to get down to the hospital right now. Your wife’s, she's been in a car accident.”

The man runs down to the hospital and is met by the doctor. The doctor has looks grim and says, “your wife, she’s paralyzed from the waste down. You’re…you’re going to have to look after her. She can’t control her own bowels, you’re going to have to change her, and feed her, and bathe her and look after her.”

The man looks devestated. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. “that’s awful, god…I, I don’t know what I’m going to do.” He stands there silently, thinking....

then the doctor slaps his leg and says, “I’m just fucking with you. She’s dead.”

an open letter to the YCL (Young Communist League)

Let me first say i’m not your comrade, so stop calling me that in your emails.

ending up on the list was a mistake, the work of a wily left wing prankster but it’s time this stopped.

i’m not sure if you know, but I work at a bank. I like money, in fact, I love money. A friend of mine started a new job at the bank I work at and her job is to count money all day. And in counting the money she smells money. Then I think of twenty years of birthday candles and how maybe dreams do come true.

I know, saving the world can be fun, but then again, so is being better then other people. Ironically, the only reason I’m here is because of communism. It’s really a romantic story, so I’ll tell it.

The Russian communists tried to kill my grandparents so they escaped to British Columbia and after decades later my parents met.

It’s time to free yourselves from trust funds and work dear friends. theres also something is creepy about being a 30 year old man hanging around young kids in a community centre talking to them about socialism.

In solidarity,
carlin

talking with lou

this is a story about lou. we met him outside a friends apartment. he was walking down the street, a skinny man about 50 wearing a captains hat. white with the gold rope, black brim. he had with him a jacket, and then after speaking to him and introducing ourselves he pulled a gun case filled with pot.

it was strange, he offered us some. it smelt like tea and i wasnt to sure about it. then he pulled out a pill case. then he asked if we had ever freabased cocaine. and that is really where the story begins.

behind the apartment is where we ended up and that is when he presented us with a red lighter and hollowed out bic pen, burnt around the edges. he then began to freebase, which was new to me, and scarey.

he offered. we refused.

he's abit of a hot head, he admits. which is a problem when you have submachine guns lying around the apartment. he tell us that if he keeps a machine gun fully put together around the apartment then he's likely to go off one something (somebody) with it. so in order to combat this hes desembeled the machine gun and had burried it beneath carots.

one night though, he had to pull up the carots. a friend of his had swaped out some cocaine with a bogus stash and to get back at him he took his machine gun and filled up the car with bullets.

hours later, in his apartment he was greeted by police who, "put guns in my ears and their feet on my head like they were budding out a ciggarette."

You know what they charged me for?, he said.

"Attempted murder and robbery."

he completely understood the attempted murder but would say that the robbery charge was bogus and arose from some loose change the was lying around his apartment when they hadarrested him. he ended up speding 10 years in prsion. you could see a story in his face and after we had first introduced ourselves i asked for him to tell us a story, and this was the story he told.

we also had a great conversation about keychains made of ivory from alaska, but i thought ivory came from elephants and africa, but now am unsure.

Our First Guest Writer: Michael J. Fox.

I know this site is new and all, but I went out on a limb here and asked fellow Canadian and one of my favorite actors of all time, Michael J. Fox to guest write us a new article, to see if he could help us garner some attention with his celebrity status.

Here is the email I sent him.

"Hey Mike, do you mind if I call you mike? Anyways mike, I'm a huge fan of yours, my buddy carlin thinks you suck but don't listen to him. Anyways, I was wondering if you could write something nice for us, maybe something catchy. I think if people knew that the great Michael J. Fox himself wrote something to us, they'd be running to come check out our site. If the great Marty Mcfly himself approved of our work here, it would mean the world to me."

This was his reply.

"Dehajkhrhkr Talhgjdfhgjkgus


Thdjfnanlk yiohu fouiyur yourkbj nicye lkettehjbrhjv I hdbidhjuj wanjkhted to8h8 saljky, I thuinok wha6gt you're pjdiong is gjbrea8t. A;lktjigyugytways, I knklnow huihurw hakjbkrd it cnjkdnh fdjsfhjl ekjhehr a knejkh klrjwheuu so I jkdhsjkdhf tp tuibnio about elhoebe ehejk.

sjdhsjkdfh eeej wejkrhejkrh wjkhwe jhw jkhk l;khl;k and then klhjdj lkdflkj parkinsons jsdhfjkh so jhdjf then iabye kjdfhsjk l;lekrjkl ejkh rjrj jr mnv,lklakla

ypoiiur pajkl

M. J. Foxuhx

when a picture doesn't speak a thousand words

it's been said, as i'm sure everyone other then the people in those poorish countries (they don't have books over there) know, a picture speaks a thousand words. i look at a picture and sometimes agree. sometimes not.

then i think of that rene magritte painting and how he tries to sum up the idea that a million words still don't measure up to a single image because you're limited to our vocabulary.

theres something evil in the message of this painting. my first thought is well sure, but what about the blind guy i saw today giving himself blisters on braile. a thousand words is say, oh i don't know, ten thousand bumps of braile. on that hard plastic too.

i picture a blind man reading the words on the painting through braile. "This is not a pipe."

Then asking Magritte.

-Well then, what the fuck is it.

-You'll never know.

when a picture speaks a thousand words

www.newbirth.org

The Live Journal of Anne Frank

SexyJew66

[entries friends calendar]


[ userinfo livejournal userinfo ]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[Sunday September 17th, 1943 03:54pm ]

[Mood = ]
sad

So like today t0tt4lly sucked. We've been stuck in these rooms above my dad's office for months now, and it's soooooooooooooooo boring. I think Mordecai likes me, but we never really get to talk because we have to be super super quiet which sucks so much. I hate my parents, every time I want to do something they always ruin things. Like today I wanted to talk to Mordecai but my mom wouldnt let me go talk to him because the Nazi's would hear the creaking of the floors, she's such a bitch.

So like, there's not much too do and I made a poem, I hope you guys like it. It's called, the dark abyss of my heart.

The dark abyss of my heart.

my heart is a dark abyss, it's like a well that goes on for eternity.

Deep down where things are dark and grim, I see a ray of light

It is Mordecai's smile, the one beacon of hope in my life

In the dark abyss of my heart.

So like I gotta go now, we gotta be quiet again, luvz ya all!!

social class

today, at work in the elevator a thought dawned on me:

social class can be determined in an elevator, be it work or your apartment

the higher floor you work on the more money you make. if you live in an apartment on the 30th floor, you're that much richer then those below you.

i think of my basement suite.

being poor's a bitch

are you feeling lucky?

it's a question to which the limitless homeless and junkies, prostitutes and drug dealers in the area would respond to with a hardened, "NO."

the chinese have a different take. they love luck. fortune cookies. the crazy gambling game that they play during the night market for which i know not that name.

around the corner of my house is the lucky room. it's where moonboy lives.

down the street further, across the corner from the park where needles grow in the grass is the lucky red.

it's a sometimes an art gallery, but most of the time it's closed. the building itself is about a 10 X 10 box, and the owner said that it's an illegal space and a fire concern, so if they open it up they can get in trouble, which is why it's hardly ever open.

not so lucky.

J.R.R. Tolkien black guy.

That's Whack.

the moonboy video club

east vancouver, more so then the rest of the city feels alive. It is breathing, aging, and now due to gentrification is dying. the rich neighborhoods perserve their youth like an aging actress, masking its years with fresh paint and renovations.

i've started to think about writing a collection of short stories based on people around strathcona where i live, and when thinking about the characters that call dis' hood home i instantly think of the moonboy.

he's a white man, about 40 years old who sits out front of a pink boarding house called the lucky rooms. a poor translation from its former owner i'm sure, but he's sticking with it.

each day he smokes his cigar and sits proudly in his track pants and leather vest, worn overtop of his shirtless overweight body. the leather is the same type a cowboy would wear and in a way perhaps he is.

the reason i call him the moonboy is besides running the lucky rooms he runs a store called the moonboy video club. i first noticed the store walking around after moving into the neighborhood. there was a sign out front painted black with a picture of pac man wearing a feather headband smoking a pipe that read, "MOON BOY VIDEO CLUB".

the obvious thought would be, oh it's a video store. i hoped it was something strange and different, but no. it's a video store. but this isn't about the video store, its about the moonboy.

on the door of the store is a picture of moonboy stretched out atop a mountain. it's from the side angle and aparently his hiking clothes are the same as his day to day clothes, except when he wears short shorts, which i will talk about shortly. everything is normal, or as normal as a man stretched out in joggers and a leather vest atop a mountain could be, except in his hand is a dagger. its big. really big and scarey.

as i was examining the picture i noticed the door to his room was open and as i peaked in i saw the dagger on the floor resting atop a towel. he was cleaning it.

it's been a while since i've been over to the moonboy but i've been hearing stories from other people in the area about him.

the other day outside benny's corner store i was talking with two of my roomates friends. they warned us of moonbody. apparently if you start renting there you musn't stop or he stalks you, comes to your house, finds you in the street and screams at you.

they also told us the time the moonboy fell in love....with one of them....except their lesbians. so as hard of a time it would be normally i would figure for moonboy to get a date he really made it that more difficult on himself in this situation. but he had a plan. he was going to seduce her. but how?

short shorts.

and dancing.

moonboys love story is a sad one, and as i write this i realize i haven't seen a star tonight so i walk over to the window and wish him luck. but then again, who needs it when you have dem' shorts.

- carlin

on euthenasia

actually, i don't really know anything about chinese kids.

-carlin

bad reviews of stuff i like

one of my most favorite things to do is to look up negative reviews for stuff i like. for instance, last week i went and checked out gondry's new movie the science of sleep. i thought it was rad. really neat stuff like stop animation and a cute love story with some really funny bits.

so instead of looking up reviews of something before i go, i come home and do it sometime afterwards when i have nothing to do, like tonight, since i'm at work.

heres a review i got off imdb:

I received a pass to go see The Science of Sleep and could not get any information on this film, so I went to see it with an open mine. I sat through the first 50 minutes of it and could not make head nor tail of what was happening, the only thing that made any sense at all was that the young mans mother got him a job interview, and he went to it. From that point on it made no sense at all and I left the theater not knowing what was going on nor did I care to know. This goes to show you that the films being turned out these days are for the children, or people who have not taste. Take my word for it, pass this one by and save yourself the price of admission. Don't even rent this stinker

I read through it and smile. Then i get mad. And want to strangle the person.

IF THE MOVIES FOR KIDS THEN WHY CAN'T YOU UNDERSTAND IT YOU DUMB BITCH!

Also, for a book i really liked, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close there was this gem on Amazon:

Please help me to understand why anyone would enjoy this book. I found it so difficult to read and forced myself to finish it- but felt I did not understand the novel nor did I want to.

You didn't understand it? It was a first person narrative through the eyes of a 9 year old. You can't follow his thoughts? DIE.

- carlin

I have a McDream.

Martin Luther Burger King Whopper Jr.

I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in fast food history as the greatest combo deal in the history of our nation.

5 score bars ago, a great fatass, in whose shadow we stand today (mutha fucka was HUGE), ate the Constipation Stipulation. This momentous feat came as a great bacon sandwich to millions of hungry people who had been seared in the deep fryer of withering McJustice. It came as a happy meal to end the long night of vegan smear campaigns.

But one hundred meals later, the people were still hungry. One hundred meals later, the lives of people are still sadly crippled by the manacles of healthy living and chains of daily exercise. One hundred meals later, the people live on a lonely island of salads in the midst of a vast ocean of Chicken Sandwiches. One hundred meals later, the people are still languished in the corners of the food pyramid and find themselves an exile in their own favourite KFC restaurant. And so we've come here today to dramatize a shameful condiment.

In a sense we've come to our favorite Mcdonald's to cash a check. When the chefs of our republic created the magnificent recipes of Betty Crocker and Chef Boyardee, they were creating a gift to which every person should be entitled to. This gift was a promise that all people, yes skinnies and fatties, would be guaranteed 'unalienable savings' of 'Delicious, affordable combos and the pursuit of a Quarter Pounder'. It is obvious today that the people have defaulted on this gift, insofar as fatties are concerned. Instead of honoring this tasty obligation, the skinny people have given us a bad check, a check which has come back marked "WE BEZ HUNGRY'

But we refuse to believe that the freezer is out of stock. We refuse to believe that the McNuggets are finished in the giant storage vaults of this establishment. And so, we've come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the fries of freedom and the security of burgers.

We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind the people of the fierce hunger of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off food or to let the ice cream melt gradually. Now is the time to make real promises of savings. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of expensive double cheeseburgers to the sunlit value of 59 cent hamburgers. Now is the time to fill our mouths like quicksand to form the round blubberish mound of brotherhood. Now is the time to make fast food a reality for all of God's children.



It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer deal of the people's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of affordable combos. 3.92 for combo number 5 is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the people needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation does not lower the cost of super sizing the fires. And there will be neither subway diets nor salad bars in our country until the people have been granted their deals. The earthshatterings of obese revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of value meals emerges.

But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the deep fried threshold which leads to the palace of white castle: In the process of gaining our rightful meals, we must not be guilty of wrongful food choices. Let us not seek to satisfy our hungry for food by eating from the plate of healthy vegetables and fruits. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of grease and mayo. We must not allow our creative protect to degenerate into eating healthy foods. Again and again, we muse rise like delicious cakes and meet lettuce with twinkies.
The marvellous new militancy which has engulfed the fatass community must NOT lead us to distrust of all the skinnies, for many of our thin brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize how god damn tasty McGriddles are. They have come to realize that fast food tastes good.

We cannot eat alone.

And as we eat, we must make the pledge that we shall always keep eating.

We cannot stop eating.

There are those who are asking the devotees of triple thick milkshakes©, 'When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the fatties are victims of the unspeakable horrors of vegan restaurants. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot drop a giant log in the motels and highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the basic mobility of the people is from a hamburger to a cheeseburger. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their Double double big macs and robbed of their supersized fries by a sign stating "Breakfast until 10:30". We cannot be satisfied as long as a fatass in Mississippi can't get a burger at 8 am and a fattie in New York can't afford anything on the menu. No, no we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until "Chocolate rolls down like waters, and fudge like a mighty stream"

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come from forklifts and narrow doorways. And some of you have come from areas where your quest -- quest for freedom fries left you battered by the storms of soy and staggered by the winds of fat free chocolate pudding. You have been the veterans of creative culinary experiments. Continue to work with the faith that unearned sandwiches are not worth it. Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, Go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the buffets and diners of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this food issue can and will be changed.

Let us not wallow in the valley of diet cola, I say to you today, my friends.
And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow’s specials, I still have a McDream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the fatass dream.

I have a McDream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its menus "3.99 combo meals every day, 1.99 quarter pounder, smiles free"

I have a dream that one day in the IHOPS of Georgia, the sons of former fatties and the sons of former skinnies will be able to sit down together and enjoy a delicious pancake at the table of brotherhood.

I have a McDream today!

And when this happens, when we allow freedom onion rings, when we sell onion rings in every village and every hamlet, in every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, fatties and skinnies, tubbies and sticks, chubbies and toothpicks, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old spiritual:

"Ba da ba ba ba, I'm loving it'




-tal

Baby, I'm sorry.

Baby, baby, where you going Baby?

Come on baby, don't be like that, baby please come back, I love you baby.

Listen baby, I didn't mean for it to happen, it just came out, you know I love you right?


Despite my most valiant heartfelt efforts, my 2 month year old son just wouldn't return my phone calls.

-tal

On being blunt.

Don't let the title fool you, none of this has anything to do with the marijuana, but I'm sure it'd make it a much more entertaining read.

Back to the matter at hand, I think you're ugly, terribly dressed and should be sent hurtling into the sun just so we can make SURE that every single inch of you is completely incinerated.

See, that wasn't nice and all.

Now you may call me a hate filled cynic, but that little girl selling you cookies, that nun, even that lazy eyed nursery home grandmother who knits and talks about her grandson are all harboring these prior mentioned thoughts about you. I might not be right about the grandmother, she might be looking at the mailbox. You see, us Canadians, and it's amazing how we stereotype when it's a positive thing, are known for being polite.

Thank you, yes please, I'd love to.

We like to be known as that humble pacifist that lives upstairs to the incentuous gun nuts who live downstairs. However, is this in our best interest? When visiting New York, I was amazed by how loud and how vocal people were about their gripes, it was uncanny and contagious. Ofcourse at first glance someone telling you off might seem a terrible thing when compared to the 'how do you do's' and 'nice day's that we're used to. But then you realize that after the shouting comes resolution, grievences become pleasentries in seconds.

In Canada oh sure we're polite, but hiding behind each tactfully chosen word is hidden bile. Instead of lashing out and getting it out there and solving the situation through confrontation we simply let the tiffs and spats and grievious insults torment us and pile up until the jenga tower of hatred is built so high it eventually comes crashing down under the guise of psychosis, double homocides and parachute pants. I'll let you decided which of the 3 is worst.

(Parachute pants)

So, I'd just like to say professor, when I told you to 'Go fuck yourself you old sack of shit' before I realized who you were, I only had your best interest at heart, and wanted to become closer to you as a student.

I hope this won't be on the exam.

-tal

ink blots

ink blot test time.

a devil in the clouds with lightning firing into him from the left and the right. theres a little bit of blood too. the devil though, he takes it like a champ. stands proud in the clouds unphased by gods attempts to destroy him.

-carlin

like cheers but ted danson's a serial rapist

two dollar pints all day every day. where? the pacific pub.

i walk in and look around. there’s a motorized wheelchair parked against the faux wood walls which insinuates that perhaps this place is magic. i look for a paraplegic man walking but realize that without his wheelchair he blends in. the handicap are chameleon.

the pub is lit like a bingo hall but without bingo and instead with two dollar pints. they do have keno though, which is pretty much like bingo anyways, but with tvs, which are less cool then dabbers but only because dabber is a better word then tv.

we'll come back to the keno in a bit.

so, i go in and i order a pint. $2. i had asked before what type of beer it was to which the man whom was serving me beer responded in a voice much funner to impersonate then describe, "it's called VANCOUVER, we brew it in the basement."

it's alright beer as long as you don't smell it. god help you if you do because then you taste it, but you taste it anyways without smelling it and it makes you gag but not puke, which is good --

the head on the beer confuses me. it looks like dish soap and water combined. rachel said that maybe it was and then i stopped worrying about the cleanliness of the glasses.

i look around at the people. i spot a man looking much like santa sitting with a maybe pedophile and a definite heroin addict. they are in the smoke room which is surrounded with Plexiglas. i want to go sit next to them and eavesdrop but there are a few criminals running a muck in the smoke room so i try and lip read but they smoke to much and i never see there lips.

the jukebox is playing the celine dion song from the titanic and everyone is digging it. well, that’s not true. there are two men that look alike, not to be confused with the man in the cut offs and reflector vest, listening to walkmans.

back to the keno cards.

when you're in a bar you don't leave your drink down. its a law punishable by date rape. people here have taken a look around and have decided there is nobody worth being date raped by so they have cleverly guarded their drinks. they have put a safety device similar to the club people put on their stearing wheels over their drinks. keno cards. just put a keno card over your drink and nobody can mess with it. the ingenuity!

there’s lots of other stuff i don't quite understand too, but don't want to, because logic makes things less fun and funny:

behind the bar above the cigarettes they sell tide. they have about 10 boxes of mini-tide and i want to buy some for the man covered in paint and dirt.

theres about ten extra extra large generic white pizza boxes stacked up against the wall by the wheelchair. they don't sell pizza here. a chinese man walks out of the backroom and says "pizza pizza" like the bad itallian accent in the little ceaser commercials but it sounds like somebody with a thick chinese accent trying to do a bad itallian accent. i secretly cheers him because he rules but then he decides he wants to stare at me for ten minutes straight so he does and then i think he wants to kill me only to realize he was just watching the tv behind me so its cool and i cheers him again, secretly.

i sit for a few more moments and draw a picture of santa and a side profile of the child molestor, finish my pint, tip the waitress and tap my toes as celine reminds me that life will go on and on...

- carlin