Rock the Pants Rant!

Sorry to come back from a long silence with a bitchy, bitter rant but hey, it's busy and I'm hot and cranky. (Besides, this blog needs to earn it's name!) If you'd rather avoid, you can bail now...I won't think any less of you. (I understand the need to self-preserve above all else! LOL) Otherwise, if you have the stomach for a rant, read on, read on...

Dear Boyz:

K. You're driving me crazy. And not in the pleasant Fine Young Cannibals, quasi-sexual kind of way. Sadly, you're not even close to that benchmark. No, you are driving me crazy in a "I totally want to kill you because your cluelessness and capacity for Teh Stupid is at Level Red" kind of way. And that's no good.

(Oh yes, Momma's sharpening her pitchfork for this one. Last chance to bail while you can.)

Men, in recent months, several of you have expressed to me that you will only accept a hot woman as your girlfriend. I understand this. Really, I do. Biological imperative rules your life. Genetics demands that you select only the best. Hormones force you to think about sex every nine seconds on average. (or was that every nine minutes? Nnnaaah! That totally sounds wrong!) You ogle hot women. You lust after them. You weigh and measure and gauge with your eyes...that is, until a perfectly attractive friend (who maybe weighs 100 lbs soaking wet), expresses aloud her need to go on a diet. Well then the horror and confusion and judgment gets marched out. "What?" you cry sanctimoniously, "you don't need to go on a diet. Why are you going on a diet? You're Perfectly Fine the way you are."

And yet, you won't date your Perfectly Fine Friend. Funny that. And your Hawt Girlfriends look nothing at all like your Perfectly Fine Friend. Oh my! What a coinkydink!

::rolls eyes:: Seriously. Lead (densest element known to man) practically floats compared to your heads!

Let me explain human cause and effect to your dumb asses. When you tell the world that you will only date hot women, it's a bad thing. It's not a measure of your virility or your attractiveness or your worthiness. It is the Mark of a Stupid Man. You might as well fly a red flag that reads"I's a Completely Judgmental, Insensitive Clod With NO Social Intelligence. Oh yeh baby, I's a winner!" And, correct me if I'm wrong, but won't this red flag adversely affect your sex life? The one you keep obsessing about every nine seconds or so? Advice to the clueless: Zip! It! Say nothing. We women enjoy honestly but not when it's coming from someone who's completely delusional about his resemblance to any of the cast members of Oceans 11. If the only standard you can measure up to is the Double Standard, you should run, not walk, to the nearest exit.

We women know that we are not all blessed with Teh Hawtness. We know we can't go to Starbucks and order up Teh Hawtness like one would order a latte (tall, skinny, half milk, extra hot). We KNOW this. We don't need you to tell us. Why the hell do you think we deliberately starve ourselves, exercise our bodies to exhaustion and Botox our brows into stiff submission? Because we like it? Hell, no! Because we're vain? Probably. But we're not vain in a vacuum. You're right in the middle of Teh Vain Suckage with us, complicit as can be. Don't! deny! it!!

(BTW, You should know that after a Botox treatment, we actually aren't more amazed than usual at your manhood. The fucking Botox has frozen our faces into a perpetual expression of "wow!" That's what injectable toxic matter does to your face, asshats! Enjoy it while it lasts.)

Being Hawt is a lot of work. And for some of us, putting in the work is no guarantee of attaining Hawtness. So...don't fucking judge us. Zip! It! Or else, karma will bite you in your rather large and overly hairy ass and make you it's bitch one day. And we'll cheer when that happens because nobody loves a loudmouthed SmartyMcNastypants who thinks he's witty (not) and forthright (not!) and deserving (oh, SO the hell NOT!).

You know I'm right. It's already happening...karma has struck insidiously...like a slow, dripping poison. I know you've seen them: the waxed and oiled lithe boy-men with the killer six pack abs in the magazine ads. They're the crest of the slippery slope. Your cash – the once useful enticement for the less discerning woman? Totally useless if you can't Bend it Like Beckham. The sad truth is already here: if you can't rock the pants, you will most assuredly not be rocking the headboards. Yes. You SHOULD be panicking. And doing a ridiculous number of ab crunches. And nibbling delicately on the salad (with dressing on the side) to stave off the hunger. Welcome to our world, bitches. Hope you enjoy your stay.

Billy, Don't Be a Hero: The Sequel

Billy, Billy, Billy...

Dude! You know that I respect and appreciate you, yo? I mean, we don't always see eye-to-eye on the bigger issues but hey, you have passion, you have drive. I totally dig that. I really do.

But I have to tell you Billy, I know that you've been f*cking with my cats. I know this. Don't. Deny! Now, I know you be hatin' on me 'cuz I told you to get Fall Out Boy to help you with your campaign. But I was only talking truth, man. You need help from some bigwigs. That's all I'm saying, you dig? So just chill, okay? There ain't no call to be all nasty and sh*t. I mean, dude...you seriously f*cked with my cats. I have proof. Look! Look what you did to my cats!

source: www.pyzam.com

Dude, that's just cold. Where's my respect, yo? I deserve better than this. So I'm asking you nicely to stop this now. Don't you mess with my cats. If you keep this up, I will come over there and give you the beat down. You know I'll do it. I love those cats, man. Those cats are innocent. You leave 'em alone, y'hear?

Peace out,

lughcifer

Traveling with the 'rents!

Mom tricked me into going onto this trip. Well, that’s not entirely true. First she guilted me into going. “Your dad and I are too afraid to travel on our own anymore. Death is practically beating down our door. Dad has HEALTH problems, remember? (But I’m perfectly healthy like a 28 year old, just so you know.)”

Then, when my will was completely broken and I lay in a crumpled heap on the ground sobbing “yes, yes…anything!! Just please, STOP the guilt!”...that's when she tricked me.

She: We’re going with a Chinese tour group.
Me: Oh god, noooo! Not again!
She: What was that?
Me: Er…ah…I’m…I’m hot? Yes, Hot. Hot again!
She: In November?
Me: The fireplace has been going all day and I’ve been…uh…cooking. Yeah! I think?
She: Ooh-kay. [aside]Strange kid. I think there was something off about the egg that created her.
Me: What?!
She: I said I booked us on a cruise.
Me: WHAT?!! Hellz no!
She: [said using the Voice of God] Excuse me?!?
Me: [whimpers]
She: That’s a good girl.
Me: [quiet sobbing]

So that’s how I ended up going on a tour with my parents to Las Vegas. That sojourn was followed by a short jaunt on a cruise ship (aka “The Floating Prison”) heading to that wonderfully exotic, bestest of all locales…Vancouver! I shit you not. We went on a cruise from L.A. to Vancouver and saw a lot of flat ocean. And Victoria. Whoop-di-f*cking-doo.

My friend laughed his ass off when he found out about my predicament. “Did you draw the short straw?” he mocked. He suggested that I make the most of my situation. “Find yourself a rich old man to marry while you're on the cruise,” he advised. “Just make sure he has one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.”

On the whole, however, the trip turned out much better than I’d anticipated. Las Vegas was actually hella fun. Outlet shopping, Cirque du Soleil, and the fantabulous swimming pool were all hits with the ‘rents and myself. Unfortunately, the High Desert heat and dryness were not. Temps started at 35 degrees Celcius and went up from there. I could feel the water being sucked from my lungs even in the air conditioning. Still, the surrounding mountains were starkly beautiful (think Georgia O’Keefe in her Arizona phase), and I saw my first Joshua Tree enroute to the outlet mall. (U2 lives! So does mass consumption!)

Best of all – there were endless things to mock in Vegas! I was in complete and utter snarking heaven. There was just so much cool/weird stuff in Vegas that you can’t find up here in Canada: cigarette vending machines (Joe Camel lives! So does cancer!) Hawai’ian Villas with white hula girls and a South Asian (East Indian) restaurant (but no Hawai’ians); video poker terminals in the local grocery store. Dad sarcastically snarked that there were probably slot machines in the toilets of the lower end hotels.

There was one symbol, however, that came to encapsulate the spirit of Vegas for me:

You can't tell from the still photo but the sign actually glitters and sparkles. Seriously. How can you NOT love this?!? It is totally teh awesome!

Paris, Vegas was also pretty cool.

I know it’s not the Eiffel Tower. But 1) palm trees silhouetted in front = fantastic; and 2) you have to snicker when you see French-hating, Freedom Fry-lovin’, red state-livin’ Americans totally losing their shit over this replica. Would you like a side of irony with those Freedom Fries, ma'am?

Surprisingly, I did not see any Elvis impersonators anywhere. But I did see the four? eight? wedding chapels at Caesar's, a drag queen in full make-up but no wig, and a billboard for Celine Dion. (She was wearing a far-too-revealing sequined mini. My eyes practically melted out of their sockets and I'm still having PTSD flashbacks.)

Cool highlight: The fountains at the Bellagio.
I know it’s totally teh cheese. But honestly? I heart the fountains. The fountains totally rocked. Classical music on a blaring p.a. + expensive mood lighting x unfortunate spurty male symbolism = f*cking cool! Plus, it was the only place on the Strip where I didn’t feel my skin crying out for moisturizer.

After Vegas, we boarded a bus for L.A. Ahead lay The Death Cruise. But first: a pit stop. McD's, tacky souvenirs, and this little gem:
In case you can't tell, the chess pieces are "cowboys" and "indians." o_O !! This piece speaks for itself, I think, and it's saying some really socially awkward and highly inappropriate things. Gaaak!

For the most part, the cruise was surprisingly enjoyable. The ship was tastefully decorated, the staff were incredibly courteous, and the food was mostly decent. There were a lot of young families and singles on board so the portable defribrillators weren't marched out all that often. Which is a pity. Because I certainly needed my heart started again when I beheld this during an evening performance:Yes, those are red/pink metallic pants. And to add insult to my (visual) injury, dude proceeded to sing Tina Turner and MIMIC HER DANCE MOVES. The 'rents and the woman sitting next to me could not figure out why I was screaming "auuuugh! auuuuugh!" under my breath. Luckily, my dad fell asleep a third of the way through the performance, giving us the excuse to jump out and escape this monstrosity.

Dude, by the way? Thirteen time winner of Star Search. He'd better hope the Fug Girls don't get their hands on him.

I managed to catch Little Miss Sunshine onboard and there was a very funny kickass juggler/comedian as well, so I started to believe that red metallic panted Tina Turner channeling guy was a glitch. I confidently strode back into the auditorium to watch the Sapphire Princess dancers perform with some piano playing dude. And this is what I got for my faith and effort:
An ode to Liberace. LIBERACE, MIND YOU!! And in case you're wondering what's on top of the nearly nekkid dancer's head to the right, it's a candalabra. One where the bulbs flash on and off in a rotating pattern.

Dear god...I felt sorry for those kids until this pink monstrosity showed up on the stage. Then I knew they were complicit and my pity died stillborn in my dark, black flinty heart. Seriously...if you don't resign on the spot when faced with this shiteousness that passes for a costume, you deserve what you get.

So...I survived my travels with the 'rents and a good time was had by all. Any trip where you don't push a parent overboard is a good one! Unfortunately, I've just been told that my mother is raving about the trip and that my Dad wants to go on another cruise soon. Gaaaaak!! I think I'll make the brother go next time. I'm still waking up in the night screaming about the monstrous pink tulle gown lurking under my bed.

Billy, Don't Be a Hero...

WARNING: Rant dead ahead! May be offensive to Christians

So, Billy Graham has an advice column. Who knew?!? Check out this little gem.

Billy Graham Advice Column

Billy, don't you know that in our post-, post-modern world, Jeebus no longer lives in our hearts? He lives in the condo three doors down from my friend Abigail. He has a miniature chow named "Princess" whom he walks religiously every day. And he gives the best dinner parties. I have no idea where he gets his wine from but it's like the best homebrew, ever! I really must order a kit for myself this summer...

Seriously, Billy, WTF?!? I get that the whole point of right wing evangelism is to recruit but honestly...you cannot be telling me that you are giving love – LOVE, mind you – the smackdown?? And y'all wonder why the common people are running away from the church in droves? Bitch, please! You need to tell Pat Sajak that you want to buy a clue. No, scratch that. You should not, in fact, still be playing "Wheel of Fortune" when everyone else has moved onto "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?". That totally will not dovetail into your recruitment strategy.

Call me. We'll talk. Between you, me and Fall Out Boy, we'll have 'em packed in the pews in no time.;)

Home again, home again, jiggity jig...

Lots to blog about from the travels with the 'rents but first must gush about the quality of martinis in Vegas. I dunno about you but I would watch Sex in the City and wonder what in hell those women saw in cosmopolitans. I mean, I've tried them here in Vancouver and as far as I could tell, they were pretty red drinks consisting mostly of fruit juice and a polite amount of timid vodka. (I like my vodka bold and of high quality. Hmm, come to think of it, I like many things bold and of high quality...hee!...but I digress.)

Then, I had a cosmopolitan in Vegas. It was $12 USD but I swear to the gods, it was totally worth it. What follows is (nearly) verbatim my description of the experience to a friend:

"...had the best cosmopolitan EVER in Vegas. The stuff that they serve up [in Vancouver] is fricking fruit juice in comparison. If I were comparing it to kissing, it would rank out like this:

Vancouver cosmopolitans – soft, lingering lip contact, sweet and lovely. An "I think you're great – let's do this again" kind of drink.

Vegas cosmopolitans – head grabbing, being bent over an arm, firm lip contact with tongue. A "you are a total sexybeast and I want you in my bed NOW" kind of drink.

Damn...who knew a cosmopolitan could be like that?!? If I could keg the damn stuff and IV drip it into my system, I totally would! LOL!"

I repeated this story at a dinner party tonight and every person there (including the two men) agreed that they wanted the cosmopolitan behind Door No. 2.

I'm currently taking names for the next trip down to Vegas. Sure, it's overly neon and glittery and full of too many tourists. But the martinis kick ass, the shopping is awesome, the desert is amazingly beautiful and did I mention that the martinis kick ass? Woot!

Scenes from Birdland...

Sorry for the lack of new material. It's been a hella busy week. Aside from which, the only real funny occurrence this past week happened at the Reifel Bird Sanctuary. I know, I know. There is nothing funny about birds! Well, not usually anyways... but put me together with my smart-ass friend and our particularly odd brand of anthropomorphizing and you've got grannies with birdscopes chasing us down wooded paths because they want to give our disrespectful asses the beat-down. Good times!

Scene: Duck Blind #2
My friend and I are sitting at the far end of the duck blind. A young woman in her mid-20s is meditatively seated at the other end of the blind with tiny but expensive high powered binoculars in hand. She's attractive, but a bit prissy in a smug "I'm now at one with nature. Do you see me being at one with nature? By the way, I only eat organic food" kind of way.

Friend: Hey, are those female buffleheads?
Me: Are those the small brown ones with the deformed skulls?
Friend: They're not deformed.
Me: Their heads are practically square.
Friend: Like all females.
Me: Nice one. Die, asshole.
Friend: hehehe!

[shocked stare from the young woman]

Friend: Hmm. A couple of those buffleheads could be males who don't have their colours yet.
Me: Older women with younger men? Those ducks are cougars? Woo-hoo! You go, girls!
Friend: Yep, I'm pretty sure that there's a couple of immature males in that flock.
Me: [grins]
Friend: Yes, yes, I know. "All men are immature."
Me: Admitting it is the first step to recovery.
[Friend smacks me on the shoulder]
Me: Ow! Quit it! [I smack him back]
Friend: You quit it!

[flurry of smacks back and forth. Young woman sniffs in our general direction, leaves duck blind. Older couple enter the blind. They whisper in low, reverent tones "look! Over there. A mated wood duck pair..." My friend checks out the water.]

Friend: Hey, look. There's a trio of wood ducks over there. Do you see 'em?
Me: Hang on. [scans water with binos] Okay. Yep. I see 'em. One male, two females.
Friend: Oooh! Lucky guy.
Me: Luckier than you.
Friend: Ha, ha, bitch. Nice one.
Me: I try! [grins]

[couple stops whispering and stares their disapproval]

Friend: Actually, I've never seen two females wood ducks stalk one male before. They're usually in pairs at this time of year.
Me: Maybe the odd one out is trying to poach the male?
Friend: You mean the extra female is a nest-wrecker?
Me: Sure. Maybe her guy got eaten. Or maybe he was the "hump 'em and dump 'em" type.
Friend: So she's trying to jump some other female's mate?
Me: Hey man, survival of the fittest.
Friend: [blows a raspberry] Pbbbtt! NEST-WRECKER! Floozy! Pbbbtt!

[bench scrapes back suddenly. Couple grumbles audibly and leaves in a huff.]


Scene: Path along the dike. We're trying to entice black cap chickadees to eat from our hand. They're nowhere to be found. (Prolly gettin' bizzy!)

[liquid musical bird chirps]

Friend: Ah, I really love bird song. Doesn't it sound great?
Me: You know what they're saying, don't you?
Friend: They're just singing because they're happy it's spring, aren't they?
Me: Nope. They're saying "Fuck off. This is my turf."
Friend: What?!
Me: Well, sure! Songbirds are ubër-territorial during mating season.
Friend: ... I don't believe you.
Me: Well...alright. They might not be saying "fuck off, get your own tree." They could be also be saying "Yo, girl! Whassup? Yeah, dat's right. I'm sex-aaaay!"
Friend: They are NOT saying that.
Me: Or they could be saying "See how pretty my song is? Somebody, please...take me home!! I want to get laaaaaaid. "
Friend: .... [stares at me and shakes his head]
Friend: I don't know why I come here with you.

[multiple bird chirps]

Me: Ooh, that one sounded pretty angry. I'm pretty sure he said "back off or you're getting the beat down, bitch!"
Friend: I'm leaving now.

The most awesome cover evah!!

This is the cover of the Wednesday, April 25, 2007 edition of 24 Hours.

I know that many of you have probably already seen this but I still get a HUGE chuckle out of it everytime I see it.

The day before this was published, I was suggesting to some chinese colleagues that we all march down to the temple and offer some BBQ duck on rice to the gods. The 'Nucks can use all of our sympathetic magic right now...

And no, he is NOT wearing that jersey while he works. Note how clean it is. No BBQ duck juice anywhere. Only an idiot (or a man with magical laundry grease remover) would wear a $150+ jersey while he's working in a very messymessy job.

Dating and Sex Toys and Bears, Oh My!

Undercover again…this time at a speed dating event hosted in a sex toy shop. The added bonus? 2-for-1 admission for women. Yo! Don’t judge. You KNOW you can’t resist this set up any more than I can. The only difference between you and me is that I have no shame.

4:45 pm – call from my sister.
I tell her my plan. “Perverts!” she screeches, “You’re dating perverts!” Then she asks “are you going to dress skanky?” o_O!! Even if I wanted to though, sadly there is no push-up bra in this universe that can sling my girls back to their formerly perky selves. So, skanks of the world can rest easily now. (I'm sure they were quaking in their thigh high booties.)

6:25 pm – dinner with my partner in crime (PIC).
Cute waiter. Hmm. Is it crass to hit on the help? Maybe I could make an exceptio…oooh, look! Sambal eggplant! Yumyum! And spicy prawns, too! Yay, food! [Drools]

7:30 pm – let the games begin.

7:40 pm – holy paperwork, Batman!
There’s a comprehensive form that needs to be filled out in case we click with someone tonight and want to further contact them. First question: “I am: ( ) shy and sweet ( ) romantic ( ) a homebody ( ) the life of the party.” Huhn. There's no box for: “an evil bitch who enjoys laughing at your sad ass.”

7:50 pm – hi, my name is lughcifer…
Ice-breaker exercise. We’re each carrying playing cards that feature nekkid folks. Dude on my card is large and in charge and every guy comments on that. (With rather stunned expressions on their faces. Hmm. Telling!) There is, I suspect, more breakage of egos than ice in this exercise.

7:55 pm – …and I'm a punaholic.
When one of the guys relates a mildly harrowing story, I automatically respond “Dude, that’s hardcore!” Gaaaaak! Then I compound my pervy reputation by using the words "back-end" in what I thought was a harmless comment. I’m not doing this on purpose! My punnage switch is stuck in the “on” position.

8:00 pm – reeee-jected in round one!
I sit out round one with two other women. I can either stare at the wall of dildos and butt plugs beside me or introduce myself to them. I opt to chat. We start off our discussion wondering whether there’s a remote controlled, wireless vibrator on the market.

“Why would you want something wireless?” Blondie asks Sassy Girl.
“Well, I like the idea of a remote. You can have your hands free,” SG replies.
“Why would you want your hands free?”
“Well…what if you want to hold a mug of coffee? Or talk on the telephone?”

8:10 pm – Date No. 1
This guy cornered me during the ice breaker. Five minutes into the formal date, I’m scrambling like mad to keep the conversation flowing. He’s a hygiene specialist. He has no hobbies. He tried ballroom dancing once. He liked it so much that he wants to take lessons. He's never had a relationship. He asks if I bowl? He doesn't bowl. He's not into sports.

As we continue bumbling through the conversation, I realize I’m starting to pity him, a dating danger zone for me. Then he swigs from his water bottle, wets his lips...and leaves them that way. Gaaaah!! My eyes! They're burning!! Pity's been firmly killed. Moving on.

When he leaves, I have this fleeting realization: his face would be on a level with my boobage if we ballroom dance together. Bleeaaaahrrgh! Why did my brain think such a thing?!

8:25 pm – Date No. 2
Dude = deer in headlights. Either that or he was mesmerized by the vibrating thong in the showcase behind my head. (It’s tiger print – very compelling!) Still, he laughed at my jokes. Boys who think I’m funny get a pass, no questions asked.

8:30 – Sassy Girl bails.
She wishes me “good luck” before she leaves. Does she know something that I should know? Damn it! I wasn’t supposed to drink the Kool-Aid*, was I?

8:35 pm – Date No. 3
Dude starts off by telling me people think he looks like Ross from Friends. I give him my sincere condolences and automatically win points because we agree that everyone on Friends is neurotic as hell. We’re discussing how snotty women in Vancouver can be when he leans back. I see a flash of Fire Engine Red from underneath his jean cuffs. Real crocodile shoes. Shiny. Expensive. Very Pope Benedict XVI. I’d totally covet them if they came slingback style in a 2” kitten heel.

8:45 pm – Date No. 4
Stand-up comedian, dj, and new reader of this blog. Which is why you'll have to email me for deets. (he, too, laughed at my jokes and so, got a pass.)

8:55 pm – Date No. 5
Dude said hello and then revealed his Hostage List of Demands: a girl who’s shy, semi-creative, has family-oriented values. The words “I’m okay with having mixed-race children” were used before we passed the two minute mark in the conversation. He asked me what I valued. I replied “balance” and he interrupted with “Yin and Yang…I love that too!”
...
...
Oh god. I think I just sprained my eyeballs from rolling them so hard. OwowowowowOWW!!

Then, on a dime, he tells me that he has an asian ex who was really messed up and bitter about her heritage. "So," he concludes, "it could never work out between us." WTF?! He kisses my hand and leaves the room. Damn! That was the fastest bitch ‘n’ ditch I’ve ever seen. Dude should just chill. Perhaps he needs some Kool-Aid*?

9:05 pm – the end! Thank god.
We submit our choices for a follow-up date and call it a night. My partner-in-crime checks out the merchandise before we leave and debrief over tea and dessert. Poor girl was trapped between harnesses and nekkid DVDs for the entire night. Yin/Yang Dude was her first date and his Hostage List of Demands threw her for such a loop that she was traumatized for the rest of the night. I cut my chocolate fudge square in two uneven pieces and push the larger piece towards her. She needs the healing powers of chocolate more than I do.


* I keep typing Kook-Aid instead of Kool-Aid. Talk about Freudian slips! LOL…

Dear Dude,

There really is no nice way to say this so I’m going to be straight with you. I’m not trying to hurt you…I just want to be fair. You seem really sweet. And you’re cute. But I just can’t date you right now. I know that Spring to you means flowers, warm days, and the undeniable urge to snuggle. But to me, Spring means only one thing:

NHL Hockey Playoffs!!

It’s me, not you. I’ve loved hockey since I was a wee thing. In fact, it’s ridiculously embarrassing how much I love hockey. I’ve sung along to stupid parody “go team” songs, worn unflattering team jerseys, and whored myself out for game tickets. I’m not proud of that. (But damn, did I ever get some great seats!)

Hockey is all-consuming for me. I live and breathe for it, despite the rollercoaster of emotions that occasionally derail and fling you to the shockingly hard ground below. You can’t know how desperately I cry into my beers…uh…beer…sh*t!…tea…when my boys are eliminated and have to exit, ashamed, to the golf course. You can’t know how gloriously, giddily euphoric it is to finally win the Holy Grail of Stanley. I was laughing and crying at the same time when my Flames won in '89. I was so incredibly, endlessly proud when I saw Lanny McDonald hoist the Cup above his head, tears streaming down into his crazy bushman playoff beard. I'll remember that moment until the day I die...or I contract Alzheimer's...whichever comes first (my money's on the Alzheimer's).

(That beard, by the way? I only put up with it because it’s tradition – even though it’s probably hella itchy and totally looks like complete ass. Don't ever try to pull it off. Nobody can rock that beard.)

I know this is hard to comprehend. I’ve tried to understand it myself, believe me. But this is a decades-long love relationship. You can’t just expect me to up and leave. I’ve tried…I really have! I totally cut hockey off when Keenan took over the Canucks and traded my boy Trev. You cannot know the dark depths of my hellacious fury in that moment. Words cannot describe how much I still loathe that maggoty little ferret-dicked asswad, Keenan. (with apologies to maggots, ferrets and asswads.) I held strong in my oath to boycott that nasty phlegm fungus while he was coach. When that tuberous parasite of vermin left for good, I thought I was cleansed of my debilitating addiction…that I was finally my own woman. Independent! Strong! Available to date in Spring! But then…then I went over to a girl friend’s place for what I thought would be a harmless junior cup game. And that was the beginning of the end. I was slowly sucked back down into the unescapable vortex of slapshots and cross-checking and five-on-three power plays. (Add chips and dip into that mix and I’m a lost girl.) I know I’m weak. I know I have a problem. But honestly, how can something that feels so good be so bad? [weeps]

So please, forgive me? If we could still be friends, that would be great. Truly. Maybe we could even try again after the playoffs are over? Although I should qualify that. If the Canucks win the Cup, I won’t be available. I’ll be stalking Luongo, holding a sign that reads: “Roberto, I want to have ur babies!”

Peace,
lughcifer

Addendum to last post

The owner of the handcuffs kindly pointed out to me that MD Charlton is a local supplier of ordinance and equipment for military/police organizations. (Yeah, I know some interesting people.) He suggested She pick up her own set of steel bracelets so that she wasn't reliant on his...er...schedule. *ahem!* So of course, I checked out the website...and lookee what they have on sale!



Seriously!?! When did Hello Kitty get into manufacturing tactical restraints? I mean, owning an airline makes sense to me. Even the Kitty vibrator makes sense to me (even though it's wrong on so many levels, it is hilariously subversive). But hot pink handcuffs?! Honestly, I don't know if I heart these cuffs or if I should be insulted that some security geek thinks I care whether or not my cuffs match my "getting arrested for drunk and disorderly" bar whore ensemble. Although...the pink cuffs do scream "don't eff with Hello Effin' Kitty or she'll beat you down, bitch!" and that is, not surprisingly, incredibly alluring to me. You?

The inherent dangers of the interweb...

So there I was, pondering yet again how to take over the world when my telephone rang.

Me: Hello?
She: I have to ask you for a favour. But you need to just listen and not judge, okay?
Me: …this already sounds promising.
She: I need you to ask your friend if I can borrow his handcuffs.
Me: What?!?
She: The novelty kind suck! Those things can’t restrain a flea!
Me: …
She: And the pink, poofy feathers? No. Way. Ever!
Me: …
She: Is that judgment I don’t hear in your voice?
Me: …
She: What?
Me: Gaaah! …no details, okay?
She: Deal.
Me: And make sure you clean them off!
She: I’m a dirty girl, not a gross one.
Me: Whatevs. I'll have to ask my friend if the cuffs will be…um…available this weekend.
She: Eeew! Totally TMI!
Me: Uh...hello? Pot? Kettle? Black!
She: I really need them soon.
Me: It would be a lot easier if you had your own set.
She: Can you even buy them?
Me: Well, the cops have to get them from somewhere.
She: Where?
Me: I dunno. Have you tried Googling “handcuffs?”
She: Are you sh*tting me?
Me: I’m serious. You can buy practically anything online. Here, wait…I’ll check it out. My machine's up.

[sound of typing keys]

Me: …Hmmm. Holy sh*t! They’re $165! There has to be someplace cheaper. Let’s see…Here we go. “Protection Depot.” There's the menu. Click there...and there. Okay. Huh? What the hell is a kubaton?? Never mind. Here we go – police issue handcuffs: $15.99 US.
She: That’s not bad. I can swing that.
Me: Are you interested in leg cuffs or thumb cuffs? They have those, too. In fact, those thumb cuffs are actually kind of cute.
She: ...You’re a sick, sick puppy!
Me: Thank you. I try. I’m going to be in the States next month. Want me to pick up a set for you?
She: And how are you going to explain it to customs?
Me: Truth usually works. Besides, they’ll be looking for other stuff. My niece wants me to smuggle some sort of spicy gourmet wieners for her.
She: Wieners and handcuffs. That’ll be an interesting interview at the border.

[sound of mouse clicking]

Me: Hey, they have slingshots!
She: Seriously?
Me: They’re stainless steel with rubber tubing. And they prop up on your wrist. Get this! They come with “premium steel ammo shots!” Only $3.89 per package.
She: What?!?
Me: Hey, you can hunt with these things! This site is insane! Let’s see what else they have.

[sound of mouse clicking]

Me: Oh. My. God!! Blowguns! They sell fricking blowguns!!
She: WHAT!?!
Me: With darts! Oh!Oh! Get this! They come in .40 and .50 calibre models!
She: ...That's too bizarre and is kinda freaking me out.
Me: The blowguns have an anti-inhale safety mouthpiece! That is totally the freaking bomb!
She: Okay – now you’re officially scary. Like "I ate his liver with fava beans and a nice chianti" scary.
Me: Uh, right. Hello...paging Officer Kinky!
She: Oh, no you di'n't!!
Me: Whoa! Score! They have stun guns!
She: ...uhhh..."Score" and "stun guns" should really not be used together in the same sentence...
Me: Hey! They have a purse-sized model called the “Small Fry!”

www.protectiondepot.com

Sacred Sounds of Spring

Fuelled by a multiple chocolate rabbit gorgefest (because the yummy buggers are 50% off today), the Loyal Fan, the Wise Analyst and the Shit Disturber (guess who?) have at it over that most sacred and profound spring subjects – NHL hockey playoffs!

Loyal Fan: *pops open a brewsky* So, I’m calling it Canucks in 6 or 7. What do you two think?

Wise Analyst: Dallas is hot right now, and they have some good veteran leadership. They’ll give our boys a challenge. But our special teams and goaltending will edge them out. Canucks in 7.

Shit Disturber: I dunno. Luongo’s untried, Turco’s an old hand at this and the Stars like to get down and dirty in the neutral zone which isn’t how our boys usually like it. I say Stars in 6 or 7.

Loyal Fan: PPBBBBTTTT!!! *beer spews everywhere* [BLEEEEEP!] What?! No [BLEEP]ing way! Turco SUX! He’s King of the post-season choke!

Wise Analyst: Well yes, there is that to consider. I think we might see Luongo struggle to get his playoff legs underneath him. He might even lose a game. But he’ll prevail in the end.

Shit Disturber: *chomps the ears off a chocolate bunny, chewing furiously* True, true. But how do we know Luongo won’t choke? Sure, he’s hungry but does he have a mental game? The playoffs are a totally different beast y'know...

Wise Analyst: *sniffs disdainfully* Come, come Shit Disturber. Luongo has bagged 48 games and an MVP nomination. That’s not going to disappear overnight before the puck drops on Game one.

Shit Disturber: *muttering* ...or so you hope...

Wise Analyst: *glares* Besides, we have the Sedins, Cooke, Burrows, Cowan and Linden to deliver a pounding to the aging Stars.

Shit Disturber: Well, sure, the Ugly Twins [TM] are physically as strong as they’ve ever been and the ‘Nucks have the advantage as far as youth and physical conditioning are concerned.

Loyal Fan: Damn straight! [BURPS]

Shit Disturber: *bangs chocolate rabbit on table to make a point* But are they tough enough to mentally survive the old coots grinding away on them? Wait… that sounded vaguely perverted…

Loyal Fan: *crushes empty beer can* Yo, Shitty Cent! Luongo = World Cup AND Memorial Cup champion, you asshat. *bounces beer can off Shit Disturber's face* Who let you on this bandwagon anyways?

Shit Disturber: WHAT?!

Wise Analyst: Now there’s no need for name calling…

Shit Disturber: Seriously, did you just throw down, punk ass?

Loyal Fan: WOOooooooo! I’m sooo scaaaaared!

Shit Disturber: That does it! The gloves are off, pansy! You and me, after school! Three o’clock, by the tetherball pole. And no open handed slapping allowed! *sticks out chocolatey tongue*

Loyal Fan: *rude gesture* Bring it on, bitch!

Wise Analyst: Wait…this is not how a civilized society resolves its conflicts!

As birdsong echoes melodiously in the background, and the earth unfurls it's new leaf green robe to the sun, we exit to the traditional spring sounds of flesh smacking on plexiglass and men weeping unabashedly as they exit to the golf course...

Singles event from hell

Okay. I admit, I went to this party under false pretenses so in hindsight, I got what I deserved. But this event was seriously horrid. Why did I hate it? Let me count the ways:

1. Silver holographic heart stickers used to indicate your status. Two heart stickers per label if you're part of a couple. One lone heart if you're a singleton. Why not just brand a scarlet "S" onto my boobage and be done with it? I'll even moo and pretend to enjoy it.

2. Adjectives used instead of names on ID tags. I would have given this a pass had the greeter not asked: "Do you know what an adjective is?" My friend dragged me away before I could bitchslap the wench into next week.

3. Party held in completely darkened art gallery.When I asked why all the lights were off, I was snottily told that the gallery required "ambiance." Hmm...I see. Art does not = "ambiance." So, what..."ambiance" = stranger groping boobage accidentally/on purpose in the dark? Hard up for a cheap thrill, are we? Ha, ha! I said "hard!" Gaaaah! Please...shoot me now!

4. Insipid, grammatically incorrect survey foisted upon attendees.Hey – pretend you're an event planner. You want people to mingle with members of the opposite sex so you pass out a survey with a list of questions to get the conversational ball rolling. Really interesting and arresting stuff like "Are you wearing grey or blue?" and "Is your birthday the same month as mine?" Wow! My schedule is going to be booked with a lot of weddings...tee hee, tee hee! (Time elapsed since arrival: 8 minutes. This marked the beginning of my party-long Quest for Booze.)

5. BLARING karaoke = party music. Honestly, there isn't enough alcohol in the world to make this acceptable in any public social situation.

6. Crustless heart-shaped ham-and-cheese sandwiches drowned in Miracle Whip served as haute cuisine. Presented on silver platters, no less. How charmingly twee. A woman actually squealed with delight at how a-DOR-a-ble they were! Where the hell is Gordon Ramsay when you need him most?!?

7. Potential stalker in da haus. Dude wouldn't! stop! talking! The more deliberately inane I was, the more he loved it. He nearly stalked me to the bathroom! Thank the gods my friend was there to bail me out with her best "Back Off, Ass!" face [TM]. Yes, she was totally golden. And yes, I owed her big time.

8. Speed dating was hellacious. My friend was curious and wanted to watch, not play. I owed her. So, we parked ourselves out of the way to view the unfolding trainwreck. Five minutes later, the hostess auctioned our non-consenting asses off to two strangers. We did the only thing we could – we ran and hid in the karaoke corner.

9. Party-goers were humourless. So there we were, by the karoke. We figured, we're there...we might as have some fun at this shiteous party. (Don't judge! Karoke is crack for asians.) We sang along with some guy in a fedora who was totally rocking Bohemian Rhapsody. We headbanged enthusiastically. I threw devil horns at the crowd.

Turns out the crowd didn't appreciate our "hogging the spotlight" with our "showboating antics." [insert Jon Stewart "Huhhn?" here] They were hella serious about cruisng for their next mate at this party and we were mocking the proceedings by not being dignified. Uh...true. But come on...holographic heart stickers, coy little adjectives instead of names, heart-shaped sandwiches. Who among you could have resisted the snark? Don't lie!!

10. The glitterati were illiterati.My friend's adjective for the night was "Sparkly," in honour of her love for all things shiny. Turns out nearly everyone that night called her "Sparky." She was not amused. I pointed out that it was a built-in way for her to eliminate the swimmers from the shallow end of the gene pool. She arched an eyebrow at me and countered, "if you can't read, you can't date me?" We paused, sighed heavily, grabbed our coats and left.

But not before I woofed twice at her and called "Here Sparky! C'mere girl!"

The beginning of the end...

Welcome, bitches!

Yes, it's yet another blog that will steal your soul as well as your precious time. Because what else is there to do when 24 isn't on TV?

Why bitchy, bitter blather? Because it's the best type. If this commentary doesn't make you laugh out loud, then hopefully it will send you into a spiralling rage/rant. At any rate, you'll get it out of your system in a way that doesn't involve vomiting (smells gross, horrible clean up) or going postal with an AK-47 (smells gross, horrible clean up). So strap in (or on...whatever your preference) and enjoy the ride!