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 How could this happen to ME? Oh, woe is Fred |
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 Pukepics.com... Yes, it does exist |
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 Apparently pants-related |
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 I wonder if Arlington is edible... |
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Or if not Arlington, then Dallas |
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Not quite my thought process, but close. After a truly wretched four days' worth of food intake, my stomach committed high treason and at or around 4:35 AM, January 31, 2002, began the complex process of preparing to turn itself inside out. Not an organ to be satisfied with halfway measures, it sent instructions in all directions (directions in all ways, if you want) in preparation for the festival of evacuation. At any rate, the proceeds of this process were first evident at 7:30 AM, when I awoke to the horrible thought "Hmm.. I think I'm going to puke. Damn, it's New Year's! Nooooooo!" Fortunately, I had little time to contemplate this spiteful twist of fate, as running to the bathroom to puke up the rather tainted salad I'd eaten the night prior became a more pressing concern. Once this storm had passed, I deluded myself into thinking that perhaps the salad was the offending bit of stomach matter, and I could still go to the ball or whatever. My stomach would have none of that: I promptly came down with some impressively violent shivers and had to lie down for five minutes or so just to stop the shakes. At this point, a cursedly repetitive song snuck its way into my head, where the first half would lodge itself for the next three hours, to be replaced by the refrain once my delusional brain got tired of beating itself about the... well, brain with the first part. The lyrics? Frank Stallone. Err... That is... Find it kind of funny Find it kind of sad The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I ever had Mad World, Mad World... Mercifully, once I'd tortured myself with that for six hours, I somehow managed to forget the tune entirely, a strange phenomenon which has stuck with me to this day. On the downside, I have a gnawing suspicion that if I ever hear that song, I'll be immediately ill. So yeah. That was my superfuntastic New Year's... hope you bastards all had a good time. Oh, wait. I forgot the best part. When I called in sick, my boss didn't believe me, as is her wont. After asking how I could prove it (which tempted me to puke all over the phone, before I remembered my sister might have been slightly upset by such a vomitous display) and then demanding to speak to someone who could corroborate, she then went on to stew in suspicion for the next day or so, a delightful romp punctuated by such comments as "If I hear him bragging about a New Year's party, hoo boy is there gonna be trouble." Well here I am, bragging about my party. Which had exactly one person at it: me. Yeehaw. | ||
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| So a week or three ago, there was this rave dance party around the corner from me, and although I declined to attend the crapulent opening three hours, I decided to show up for the DJ in from Montreal, who, along with the last guy, was pretty damned good. Alas, I made a fatal mistake: I wore pants about three inches too big for my waist, and had various items in my pocketses which had various weights, which, being as they were above zero, was a problem. Now, I'm not one to have follies every freaking time I go to a rave solo, but damn were those pants a big pain in the ass. More accurately, they would have been a pain in the ass had they managed to somehow remain hanging there, but sadly, this was not to be. A size 36 waist is the most fiendish invention known to man; I couldn't even freaking walk without them falling down. This was troublesome given the need for incidental gyration that comes complete with any club, and after about two minutes, I had to incorporate a "hitching my damn pants up" move into any dancing I attempted. This was somewhat alleviated by removing my wallet from my back pocket and jamming it in my waistband, but this eventually caused a new problem I like to call crotchwallet.
Needless to say, I was gruntled at the conclusion, although the music was great and there was a giant inflatable snowman in the corner that people kept punching, which was kind of funny. So yeah. Wear pants that fit - or a belt. Yes I have a belt. No it isn't in Toronto. Screw you. | ||
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I seem to have been slightly preemptive in my dismissal of Gord Ash from all things baseball. He's been hired as assistant GM for the Texas Rangers, a decision that surely means they've decided to suck for the next eight years or however long it takes for Gord Ash to get his grimy paws all over a baseball operation and destroy it utterly. Since Gord Ash is now gainfully employed again, he is once more fair game. Also, cheeseburgers the world over are trembling. Also, I will now keep a Texas Rangers loss-o-meter on hand to gauge his effect on the team. Also, I reserve the right to remove said meter should the Rangers defy logic and the laws of nature and be a good team. Finally, what the hell is up with Mikael Renberg? First he tries to convert his leg into a pile of finely sliced barnacle ham using his motorboat, and now he frigging gets an official Ashitaka Infection of Death from his skate blade. For those unfamiliar with Ashitaka Infections of Death, check Princess Mononoke, one of Miyazaki's more renowned films. In the start, the title character, Ashitaka, gets an Infection of Death from a disgruntled nature spirit. This evilicious scar of doom proceeds to wend its way up his arm in angry scarlet bands, resulting in Ashitaka's exile. Ashitaka later gets rid of it using the powers of love and conservation, which proceed to get it on afterwards in a nearby tent, but how exactly this helps Renberg isn't exactly clear. I don't know what Renberg did to piss off the King of the Forest, but he got the exact same thing, and I daresay he doesn't have the powers of love and conservation on his side just now, since he hasn't been wandering through any primeval Japanese forest recently. Whatever the case, he had his hand balloon to the size of a boxing glove, and then back down again. Fortunately, the King of Antibiotic Reactions was smiling upon him, since he Reacted Well and managed to cheat both death and the hand butcher, who word has it is on the way back to Iran to see if he can't implement some good old fashioned medieval legal code and chop up assorted thieves. Oh, Cherezakumis... Will you ever learn? In conclusion, the moral of the story is, the Leafs rule, and the Senators are broke. How often do I get to laugh at Ottawa here? It's just not fun anymore. | ||
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So anyway, as mentioned variously on index, I'm now short one cat and up another, leaving the second Law of Cat Physics intact for the time being. I'm gonna archive that bloggy grumblemudge eventually, so I won't repeat myself here. Instead, I'll lead into a new bonus topic: that guy in Britain. I've widely circulated this particular anecdote, but I think I'll set it down here so that I can always look back on it when I'm old and the internet is this little curiosity you get in cereal boxes like hockey cards, and I'll be all like "Hey, let's see if that Yahoo! place is still around" and hey presto, it still will be through the magic of one young boy's hope or something. How this relates to cats, or thats, or cats in thats is anyone's guess, but the story goes as follows: Dude gets a traffic ticket. Dude uses archaic law extent in Britain for whatever reason and challenges DMV to single combat using nunchaku, samurai swords, or some other bladed weapon I'm too lazy to look up (let this serve as notice: I may have misheard this story, if it even exists at all. Let's just run with it). Sadly, the yellow-livered sons of mongrels at the DMV in Britain declined the guy's challenge, so he gets off scot-free, which will be even more deliciously ironic if he's Scottish, I think. Here's to having thousand-year-old laws on the books. We oughta get some of those around here... | ||
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Metroid Prime owns you. This is Nintendo's latest entry in the series, and it's in full 3-D, which they've somehow managed to make feel like the 2D classics of old. On a side note, I hate Nintendo for always for coming out with a backlit GBA now, mostly because that's another 140 bucks I'm going to throw away like a big dumb idiot. Oh, well. Speaking of big dumb idiots, how about... Oh, screw it. I have no energy for political commentary anymore, and besides, I'm a no-nothing hack as it is, so anything I say here will only be contributing to internet bloat. Which would probably help the internet if it had pants a few inches too big, but since the internet is kinda like a perverted old man and goes around pantless, I guess that analogy is null and void. Along with this column. | ||
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 Oh, I see. Cop out on the political stuff, eh? I was all set to make some sort of George Bush related diaper surprise, but now I think I'll just be sick. Like you were! AHHAHAHA! When I puke, I can do it all over my shirt! You had to use a disgusting puke bag! To think.. Me, resplendent with chunks of Cream of Carrot all over my bib, while you languish deathly pale, pukefree and shivering. Delicious! |
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