Like A Virgin

I'm not exactly what you would call a proactive person. While I generally try to get as much done as possible within a given day, there's nothing I enjoy more than putting off unpleasant things until they eventually build up to the point where shit hits the fan and results in even more problems and I ultimately have to do way more work then if I just got off my lazy ass in the first place. It's a system, really. I'm happy with it.

That being said, when I want something, I get it. I may not be proactive, but I'm sure as hell stubborn. Point is, I tend to be a bitch in the sense that I like getting whatever I want and tend to get whatever I want pretty often. It's sort of like "The Secret", only instead of thinking happy thoughts, I actually fucking do something. (Seriously, happy thoughts? That's all it takes? Fuck "The Secret.")

This was the case with Canada's Next Top Pornstar. Sure, I lost a bit of weight in the hospital, not to mention that they didn't have a tanning bed in the building, and I still had a bit of a nasty scar. But fuck that shit; it was gonna take a hell of a lot more than being cut open and having my insides nipped and tucked to keep me from trying out.

So, having squeezed out a couple pushups, buzzing my hair into submission and scrubbing myself to a soapy sheen, I walked over to Stock for the audition. Considering that this was my first actual live audition, and I was going in with something of a handicap, I was a bit nervous. And by "a bit nervous", I mean my legs decided to suddenly turn into jello. I hadn't been that shook up since I lost my virginity...or when they decided to sell Cadbury Cream Eggs year round.

When I got there, I met the judges, one each from Falcon, Next Door and Colt Studios. As I stood there (legs still shaking) trying to figure out which one was the Simon Cowell, the Next Door Studios guy came over and told me where to fill out all the info and get my picture taken and blah and blah and blah boring formalities. He was nice, so I decided that he wasn't Simon. Maybe Randy or Paula.

The audition itself was...Easy, to be honest with you. It really only consisted of answering a few questions, stripping, doing a little model turn around, and then putting your clothes back on. For some reason, I was expecting a little bit more. Not that I'm complaining, but I was just assuming someone would hold a flaming hula hoop a couple feet off the ground and I would have to jump through it.

As you can see, I have absolutely no goddamn idea how auditions actually work.

The good news is, I only managed to embarrass myself once by dropping my cell phone (among other things) onstage, and I still managed to pass it off as an adorable quirk instead of me being a gigantic klutz. The other good news is that they all seemed to like me. To what extent, I have no idea, but still, considering I spent a week without solid food and I still look like I got stabbed in the stomach, I'll just take whatever I can get at this point.

Dating Advice From My Father

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I would never call my father a stupid man. I would call him many things, and I have, but he's sure as hell not stupid. This does not mean that he is not immensely embarrassing and has the social skills of a ficus tree.

Case in point: Dating advice. My Dad has two employees, both smart, beautiful girls, who look up to him as a father figure since their own father is something of a complete and total toolbox. Unfortunately, they tend to go to him for fatherly advice, and while I love my Dad dearly, I rarely if ever take personal advice from him. Not that this has ever stopped him from giving it.

The older of the sisters recently decided that the guy she met in New York City about a week ago is the man she will marry. On top of the completely preposterous idea that two people can get married without inevitably trying to turn each other into unwilling knife-holders, pretty much every single other part of this sentence is, for lack of a better term, completely and totally shitballs retarded.

My Dad decided to straighten her out with some dating advice. Now, one thing you should know about my Dad is that, much like Halle Berry behind the wheel of a hummer, he tends to start off perfectly well before things go straight to shit. His first piece of advice was never to get involved in a long-distance relationship. Good advice; when even a basic understanding of geography is telling you that you two are not together, that's usually a sign.

Piece of advice number two: Keep an updated list of pros and cons about your man. Okay, maybe a little much, but I can see that helping. Mind you, it might be a little awkward if after sex, I whip out a note book and write "premature ejaculator" under cons, but...Well, that's just the chance you take when you sleep with me.

Piece of advice number three (and bear in mind, this is the point where Dad takes a hard left into What-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about? Land): If you date a guy, don't sleep with him for six weeks. Now, I may be gayer than Christmas morning, but regardless of sexual orientation, I think we can all agree that if the person you're dating is willing to blue ball you for a month and a half, it might be time to find someone new. Christ, I think after four days my ass will literally seal itself shut if my cup doesn't runneth over.

It was at this point that it occurred to me that apparently, my Dad still lived in the Leave It To Beaver era, where teens went on dates to malt shops, people met at sock-hops, and underwear was apparently made of fucking adamantium and welded to your ass. This is 2010! Doesn't he know that everyone meets on Facebook, the average marriage lasts about four months, and at any given moment, Unzipped can and will report on your break-up before you even have a chance to comment? Obviously, there was something wrong with the man.

It was at this point that I noticed Dad's track record. When it comes to Dad's love life, there's apparently nothing he likes more than a blousy alcoholic who works as a waitress. Thus far, every single woman he's dated has fallen into this category (although God be praised, Mom has long since grown out of it), and it does seem to support Dad's overall track record.

Overall, Dad's advice really doesn't make me change my position that dating is a conspiracy made up by straight people to get us to fuck one person forever. If anything, it's convinced me that people who make the conscious decision to date are obviously nucking futs and need to be put on 5150 before they hurt themselves or others. Or before they cock-block someone for a month and a half.

Sexless And The Suburbs

It's been two weeks since I've had an orgasm. This might be a record.

For the record, this was NOT of my own accord. I regard masturbation the way most people regard a glass of red wine: a simple pleasure, but only to be consumed once a day for health reasons. The only real difference between the two of them is that I don't get paid to drink red wine.

Not yet anyway.

The reason I haven't came in two weeks is because, well, the surgery has been kicking my ass pretty hard. Unfortunately, this means that the more important aspects of my life, like getting off or eating solid food, have kind of taken a backseat.

The rub here is that now that my penis is back to regular functioning, the fact that I'm holed up in my parent's house during my recovery time has put something of a dent in things. I generally make it a rule not to jack off while family is around, and now that my family is around me 24/7...Well, you can see how that might leave me with a pair of blue balls the size of watermelons.

Like all sexually repressed gays, I decided to channel my latent sexual frustration into other fields. Only instead of becoming the governor of Florida, I decided to bake. Stress baking is one of those things that works well to get out all of your negativity, although in this case it was more a matter of keeping in all my positivity.

After scouring the cupboards for baking products, I realized that we had no chocolate chips. And you can't make chocolate chip cookies without chocolate chips! Then they're just cookies, and that just ruins the whole fucking point. Naturally, this was the time when The Doddering Live-In Step-Granny came in to ask me obvious questions.

"Are you looking for something?" she asked, while my head was all the way in the back of the fucking cupboard.

My mother thinks that I don't visit her because I hate my family. This is completely untrue; I love my family dearly, and generally like them. I just think that although they're usually well-meaning...They can be a bit much at times. It's a phenomenon I like to call "I Love My Family, But..." syndrome.

That being said, there is one person in the house that has absolutely no difficulty in driving me up the fucking wall: The Doddering Live-In Step-Granny, Betty. Betty is Graeme's (mom's boyfriend) mother. As far as I can tell, she suffers from neither dementia nor senility. However, she does suffer from that oh-so deadly affliction of being both relentlessly boring and incapable of shutting the hell up. Hand to God, she once spent five straight minutes regaling me with a story about buying ketchup. SPOILER ALERT: She bought ketchup.

"Oh, just some chocolate chips," I said.

"Are you baking?" she asked, because apparently the mountain of baking products in front of her wasn't enough of a clue that I was baking.

"Yup," I said. One thing you should know about me is that when I have no desire to talk to someone, I'll talk using only non-commital, one-word, monosyllabic responses. To date, this has never actually worked, but I'm sure it will eventually.

"Well, I don't think we have any chocolate chips, but we have some dried fruit. It's just as good as chocolate chips!"

I have no idea why old people think this, but no one likes dried fruit. No one. Seriously, it's like taking everything you liked about actual fruit, sucking it out, and then pretending that the sad, withered husk that used to be food is actually a great tasting treat. What's that? You like sweet, juicy grapes? Well too fucking bad. Here are some raisins. Gnaw on these depressing little nuggets that in no way look like rat shit and try not to think about the fact that it feels like your chewing on a goddamn tire. Bon Appetite.

"No thanks," I said, grabbing a bag of crushed up toffee bits instead.

"Do you know where Kahlua is?" she asked, because my trick still had no effect on her. "I haven't seen her all day!"

"She's getting fixed," I said. Despite having had Kahlua for two years, we've never actually gotten around to having her fixed. Eventually, after realizing that you can't giving a dog birth control pills, my mother and Graeme decided to have her fixed, thus doubling the amount of sexless recovering surgery patients in the house. They had been planning this for over a month, but apparently, this escaped Betty entirely.

"Oh, I see. The other day, Kahlua chased her tail," she said.

She goes on for another ten minutes. Really.

When she's gone, I go back to making cookies and doing everything in my power to distract myself from the fact that at any moment my dick might explode like the fat guy from Monty Python's The Meaning Of Life. Seriously, I brushed up against the refrigerator by accident and nearly unloaded a fire hose of semen on the kitchen floor.
Cut to me later that night, shoving a cookie into my mouth like it was Matthew Rush's dick (See above). It was only at that point that I realized that, while dark chocolate is delicious, baking isn't a very good substitute for sex. If anything, the only thing that can substitute sex is, well, more sex. Unfortunately, I'm not back home until Monday, which makes any sex something of an impossibility.

This however, does not stop me from having the absolute most depraved dreams ever. Remember Caligula? Well, turn that up to 11 and you're still not even half-way near to what in the hell my subconscious decided to put me through. And of course, the worst part is that I woke before I came, which means that even my unconscious mind is cock-blocking me. On the plus side, I will never allow myself to get sick ever again, as I've learned that I love sex way too much to not masturbate for two weeks.

The Great Slushee Treck

Living in the little western suburbs of Montreal, there are some parts of summer that are traditional to the point of being nearly sacrosanct. Most of these are frozen treats. What can I say? The West-Island has a long standing love-affair with the icy stuff.

Chief among these: The Slushee. Not the actual name, but hey, they're not paying my ass. Why should I give them free publicity? Suck my dick, unnamed French-Canadian convenience store chain. Anyway, The Slushee is like all those other flavoured-slush drinks, but better: You know how when you just suck it all down, you lose the actual flavour about half-way through and then you're just stuck with crushed ice with a hint of flavour? Well this shit is different. You can suck the entire thing back and never lose the flavour.

It's perfection.

Which means that obviously, I needed to have one. This didn't bode too well with the fact that, thanks to my surgery, I don't walk anymore so much as I shuffle about. And the nearest store is about 15 minutes away during a regular walk. But when you're shuffling about with a mid-section that feels like an Alien chestbuster is about to burst out of it...Well, that puts a kink in things.

But there's one thing you should know about me: When I want something, I get it. If that means having to shuffle for upwards of half an hour in pain, so be it. I was getting me a slushee. And so began The Great Slushee Treck.

This involved walking all the way down the street next to my Dad's house, Elm street. Yup, we grew up right next to Elm Street. As if this isn't enough nightmare fodder, right next to our house? Giant ass cemetary. The fact that I was never stabbed by machete-wielding goalies or pedophiles in Christmas sweaters is, in and of itself, a fucking miracle.

And because this walk hadn't touched on enough suppressed childhood phobias, I was met at the door of the store by, what else, a big fucking spider. Admittedly, I think all spiders can be classified as "Big fucking", so chances are this was probably yet another one of those itsy bitsy spiders that climb up water spouts and don't try to eat your family, but obviously when it comes to spiders, my view is a bit askew. While most people see spiders and think of something like this:
Instead, I see this:
So yeah, I'm not gonna lie: I shuffled my ass right out of there. I was in no mood to be shanked by something that essentially shits its own home.

But all was okay, because as it turns out that angry little spider was the only thing standing between me and the store. Sure enough, there was the magical little machine churning about the slushee, coming in such flavours as Cherry, Blue Raspberry and...Pink? To be honest, I'm not sure it's supposed to be bubblegum or cotton candy or watermelon or that pink fluffy stuff they use to insulate the walls. Therefore: Pink.

After mixing them all together into a high-fructose corn syrup orgy, I commenced walking home in the sweltering heat, taking care once again to avoid the spider (whom appeared to be busy happily devouring a mini-van.) In it's place, I was attacked by a bee, who was quite intent on either stealing my slushee or, failing that, burrowing itself into my ear.

Because bees are evil.

Cannonball Read Entries #25-27: The Threesome

Since I ended up knocking out three books while I was sick and without an internet connection, I'm going to go ahead and cram reviews for three separate books into one post, else I end up clogging your RS Feed. Is it cheating? Maybe a little, but your Google reader will thank me.

Cannonball Read Entry #25: Things I've Learned From Women Who've Dumped Me - Ben Karlin
Admittedly, it's a tiny bit unfair for me to try and review this one, especially when you consider that I have never dated a woman, nor do I ever plan on being one. Essentially, the power of the vagina, a key motivator in the book, holds absolutely no sway over me whatsoever. Now, if we were to whip out some dicks...

But I digress. Compiled by Ben Karlin, Dumped is a collection of life lessons that have come from being kicked to the curb by those of the fairer sex. Some are important, some are essentially throw away little moments, and some involve cumming on a cat.

Really.

Anyway, since there are a shitload of short stories in here, I'm just gonna go through the table of contents and see what I can remember from reading this while on morphine:

• Andy Richter: To be honest, I kinda wrote off Andy Richter for a long time, although recently I've come to appreciate him on the sole virtue that OH MY GOD! He's really funny! Even if he did star in "Quintuplets". But whatever, his story about being fattened up by his family so that he would stay with them forever made me laugh.
• Stephen Colbert: Despite being the top-billed star, his story is...Well, it's disappointing. The joke of the story is that he let his wife black out bits she didn't approve of, and most of it ends up being blacked out. *Rim Shot* This is one of those jokes that works better in theory than execution.
• Larry Wilmore: Proves what I suspected from his book: Namely, that he works better in short bursts of energy, instead of spreading a joke waaaaaaaaay too far.
• Rodney Rothman: Has the longest story of the bunch (clocking in at 25 pages when most last only about five pages) despite being the least recognizable. I wouldn't mind this as much if his "sweet good guy routine looking back on loves lost" routine didn't wear it's welcome out about half-way through.
• Tom McCarthy: I'm not sure who he is, but ultimately, this was one of the sweeter and more heartbreaking of the stories. Sweet, endearing and endlessly charming.
• Dan Savage: Yup, he's in here too, despite being a card-carrying homosexual (Yeah, there's a card for it now.) Not surprisingly, it's the dirtiest story out of all of them, but whatever, I liked it.
• Alex Gregory: This one irritated me a bit. For fuck's sake man, I know you're a cartoonist for the New Yorker, but even the guy from OK GO took the time to pump out a story. This is a fucking short story book. There is no reason you get to shit out a clever little drawing and call it a day.
• Patton Oswalt: I've decided that Patton Oswalt is Jesus. This is the only story out of the entire book that made me physically laugh out loud.

All in all, a pretty good book. There are plenty of other stories, but they're all just sort of okay. Nothing great, nothing terrible. Just okay.

Cannonball Read Entry #26: My Horizontal Life - Chelsea Handler
I am fully aware that it makes absolutely no sense to read Chelsea Handler's first book last for the CBR. Why did I do it? Well, it's simple: I have no sense of planning.

Oddly enough, despite being her first book, "My Horizontal Life" is actually her best book. While it's another memoir compromised of short stories, this one focuses exclusively on her one night stands and the various lessons she learned from them.

Starting to notice a pattern here?

Granted, her later books are both better in at least the comedic sense, but the thing about "My Horizontal Life" is that it has a purpose and a message: The stories are are all still loaded with booze, sex, and a complete lack of dignity, but they're at least focused on the overall message of the story.

If we're going to compare "My Horizontal Life" to Handler's other books, it's not as funny as her later work, but it's definitely a tighter, more focused package.

Cannonball Read Entry #27: My Blind Date Went Blind! (...And Other True Stories Of Dates Gone Wrong) - Virginia Vitzthum
Yes, shut up, another book of short stories where people learn life lessons from amusing anecdotes. I was in the hospital for fuck's sake! My gay uncles bought it for me and they are awesome.

But yes, it's another collection of stories, this time about bad blind dates (something I'm not exactly unfamiliar with). For the most part, they're really not that bad, and only a small percentage of them are outright cringe-inducing. Not that I'm trying to be petty here, but when you're touting a story about a blind date featuring temporary blindness and most of the dates only feature jerks and assholes who don't understand the difference between "Being honest" and "Being a douchebag", I just feel a bit ripped off here.

There are stories about blind dates that, despite going wrong, actually end in happily ever, and along with providing an emotional backbone, these are actually the far more interesting story then the ones about "Oh, he said he wasn't attracted to me then drove off!" If you filled the entire book with stories like these, it would've probably been much better, but sadly, we settle for just being okay.

But honestly, it's a nice little throwaway book; It's nothing really all that serious, just something meant to be picked up on the fly, read for a couple pages, then put down. Something for, say, when you're stuck in the hospital and you keep getting knocked out by gravol.

I'm Not Dead

(Image belongs entirely to Allie Brosh. I just think it's pretty.)

If my life could be summed up in five words, they would be "Of fucking course it did". This is generally the phrase I turn to whenever things fuck up, and believe me, they fuck up.

So after a week of throwing up, fever dreams and various other unpleasantries that carried over into my trip to Toronto, I decided that this shit would not fly. I decided to go to the hospital on a whim, hoping to clear up whatever exactly the fuck was wrong with me. They pulled me in for an observation and asked what was wrong with me, to which I replied by grabbing the waste basket and heaving.

I like to think that was pretty self-explanatory.

The rest of the day was spent turning me into a goddamn pincushion, x-raying me and voiding the contents of my stomach. For the most part, everything was pretty tolerable until they brought in the fucking nose tube. Needless to say, when a doctor comes up to you with an unbearably large tube, telling you that he needs to shove this up your nose and into your stomach, fucking run. That voice in the back of your head saying that it won't fit in your nostril? It's right. And it's going to continue being right even as the doctor feeds the damn thing down your esophagus and you sob and gag uncontrollably while you pray for it to just please God make it stop.

It was at this point, as I sat there completely discombobulated and wondering why there was a straw jutting out of my nostril, that Dr. V walked in. Dr. V was one of those classically beautiful women, with the black curls, the pale complexion and the perfectly refined bone structure that makes it appear as if she walked off the set of Some Like It Hot. I suppose this made it easier for her to tell me that I had a strangulated hernia; bad news is just easier to handle when the bearer is pretty. For those of you wondering, a strangulated hernia is when part of the colon gets attached to the mesh used to repair the abdominal wall. This results in the large intestine clogging up and...You know what, I'm just going to stop right there. Believe me, there's more to it, but it's-It's just fucking unpleasant and it makes you feel absolutely horrible all over.

And the kicker in all of this? According to Dr. V, strangulated hernias are a complication that arise in only one in 35,000 hernia operations. That's less 00.003%. This is a nice way of saying that God essentially just bitchslapped me in the face.

The surgery went well (or at the very least, I'm assuming it did; I wasn't exactly lucid through most of it) and when I came too I was surrounded by my enormous family, which as it turns out would be something of a running theme throughout the week. Thankfully, as we all know family is much more tolerable when you're tripping balls on morphine. This would be another running theme throughout the week.

Oh, and just to top off my complete loss of dignity and/or self-respect: They stuck a catheter in me while I was out. In all honesty, while I'm generally very good at sticking things into openings they usually don't go, I tend to draw the line at sounding; things are not supposed to go up my peehole. But there it was: a tube jammed up my cock. And just in case you're wondering: Why yes, it is unbearably painful when you take it out! I'm not going to lie, I cried a little.

The next week (yes, week) was spent in the hospital with all of one book and a TV with about five English channels. I walked around a little, I slowly regained control of my insides, and I got jabbed with needles. Now, for the record, I'm terrified of needles. Well, that might be a bit general; I'm terrified of intravenous needles. There's a big difference. You see, tattoo needles only go about 1/4 of an inch deep into your skin. All in all, not too bad. Piercing needles go through a thin layer of skin, and most importantly, don't go through any big arteries or veins. Once again, A-okay. HOWEVER, needles go right into your fucking bloodstream, and then they introduce new shit into your bloodstream. This does not fucking sit well for me. Not that it stopped the nurses from teasing me about my inability to go through a blood test without squirming uncomfortably.

Speaking of the nurses, they were amazing. Actually, the hospital in general was pretty amazing. And the food was one of those room service deals where you could order down to the kitchen off of a giant ass menu full of amazing food whenever you wanted. For free. God bless socialized healthcare. That being said, I was really only too happy to get the hell out of there.

So where does this leave me? Well, it'll be another two or three weeks before my body is back to normal. I lost a ton of weight, which I worked my ass off in the gym to pack on (I'm not saying it was that much, but I'm still proud dammit!) I decided to go off my vegetarian diet at least until my body is back to it's regular fighting shape. And I can't attend the Canada's Next Top Porn Star competition hosted by Falcon, Colt and Next Door Studios that was going on up here in Montreal since my stomach looks like I got into a knife fight, which quite frankly just depresses me since I was really looking forward to it for the past couple weeks. Sooooooo...Yeah. Sad Panda. But whatever, no one ever got anything done by sitting around and complaining about a shitty hand. Looks like it's time to rebuild myself again.

I dunno...Jeremy Feist 2.0?

There's No Business Like 'Mo Business

So by now, everyone and their dog and their dog's mistress have weighed in on Ramin Setoodeh's article in Newsweek, with the opinions ranging from "What a douchebag" to "Who's Ramin Setoodeh?"

Anyway, Dustin made a list on Pajiba of the least "Gay" Gay characters on TV. While I can appreciate the importance of having strong gay role models in the media that don't necessarily kowtow to the ideal of what people think a stereotypical character should be, fact of the matter is, we need our femme, showtune-obsessed queens as much as we need the strong, masculine gay men.

[Note: For the sake of simplification, I'm going to use Glee's Kurt Hummel as my representative for the effeminate side of gay characterization, and for the masculine side of the equation, I'm going to be using Torchwood's Captain Jack.]

On one hand, we have Kurt. Kurt dresses in equal parts discomfort and high-fashion. He moisturizes more often than most people shower, he wears impossibly high-end clothes for someone without a high school diploma and he can name every single song from Wicked before I could name even one. He is, essentially, a walking gay stereotype.

On the other side, we have Captain Jack. Gallant, daring, and unabashedly bisexual. Not straight up gay, but in all fairness, this is a man who can kiss a woman one second then play tonsil hockey with a guy the next. He is, for the most part, a very masculine man who just so happens to like banging other guys.

But fact of the matter is, we need both of these characters on TV. It's easy to write Kurt off as just another stereotype, detrimental to the notion of homosexuality in modern cultural, but that would be too easy, and in all honesty, something of a disservice.
Is Kurt a big, capital-F fuh-lay-min' queen? You bet your ass it is. That's why we need him. Kurt represents, if not what homosexuality actually is, then at least one of the most fundamental ideas behind it: the ability to be who you are without feeling ashamed of it. Kurt may skew towards the more feminine side, but so what? He has a good head on his shoulders, he has a healthy self-image about himself, and furthermore, he's a positive model for young gay teens everywhere, a group who quite frankly is in desperate need of someone to look up to. Yes, there are plenty of little gay kids out there who do indeed read Cosmo, enroll in the artistic extra-curriculars at school, and use skin creams. They at least deserve, if not need, a strong, gay character they can associate with.
But of course, we also need Captain Jack. Captain Jack is how we balance out the anima in all of this. He's essentially here to prove that yes, you too can fuck guys and still kick ungodly amounts of ass in a barfight, or if need be, travel through time and space. We're here, we're queer, and we can cave in your windpipe with a good, solid kick if you fucking make us.

Together, it creates the sense of balance of they gay community. Gay isn't a personality; it's just a matter of what you happen to be sticking your penis into (or, depending on your mood, who's sticking a penis in you.) We need a diverse range of characters because, well, we're pretty goddamn diverse ourselves. There will never be a gay character that can fully encompass all gay people; hell, there will never be a character that fully encompasses any group. Simply put, a person is not a people. Why bother limiting ourselves to just one kind?

Fuck

So as it turns out, just when I thought I was over whatever exactly the hell was plaguing me, I just caught the fucker all over again. I spent the day alternating between napping, barfing and drinking a bottle of Powerade, which happens to be the only thing I've had to eat all day. Soooooo...yeah. I pretty much spent the entire day wondering if I was going to die. Melodramatic? Very. Dignified? Not at all.

In the meantime, check out this dancing dog.

Bow Before The Porcelain God

It was around 3 AM on Monday when I realized that something was severely fucked up. I woke up on my Dad's couch, feeling as though I had just been Pillsbury poked by Jason Voorhees, and if the pain itself wasn't bad enough, it was also cutting in on my precious, precious sleep.

Four sleepless hours later, I was on the road to work, my Dad graciously giving me a lift, when I performed my first Linda Blair impression into a plastic bag on the side of Highway 20. He then pulled over and I proceeded to unload the rest of last night's dinner (which was basically salad and rice, since the only thing on the menu was pork) onto the curb.

Now, there are some people who, when they (oh, how can I sugarcoat this...) purge themselves of certain unwanted contents, are discreet, polite, and dainty in their execution. I am none of these things. You better fucking believe that when I heaved, I sounded like a dying man in throws of goddamn agony.

But let's face it, I'm a drama queen anyway.

What happened next, I can only describe as me completely losing any remaining dignity I had: I proceeded to stumble around work, falling asleep and generally acting like me on a bad day or Lindsay Lohan on a good day. I was staggering around, moaning like Jacob Marley, and my Dad's suggestion in all of this: "Take the metro home!"

Now, I should probably tell you about Montreal's metro: the metro is what most people refer to as "a subway", but as we all know, Montreal has a tendency to dive up its own ass, so we call it something else. Said metro can only be described as what happens when you take the very worst aspects of humanity, cram them into a glorified metal can, then fire it off under the city at high speeds. It's generally considered a good day if someone doesn't jump in front of it.

And he expected me to ride on it in my sickened state. Obviously, I don't get my brains from my Dad.

Instead, I got a taxi, rode home and proceeded to spend the day floating in and out of consciousness, punctuating my fresh new hell by voiding the contents of my stomach into the toilet. Over the past two days, I've subsided on a steady diet of protein shakes and Powerade (their should-be slogan: "Drink me to forget that you are essentially a harbinger of disease!")

But hold onto your goddamn hats, because here comes the piece de resistance: I spent the night tossing and turning between fever nightmares of (and I swear to God, this is true) Tila fucking Tequila.

Apparently, Tila Tequila is like my own personal Freddy Kreuger or something, because I spent the entire night with my brain screaming at me through images of a whorish, poorly tattoed Myspace midget. On the plus side, I no longer fear death.

On the plus side, I feel LOADS better today than I did yesterday, although my body is still in something of a state of disrepair, and I still can't take off all my clothes without turning all the lights off in my apartment, but hey, at least I can keep solid food down.

Things I Learned From My Mother

www.nataliedee.com
Mother's Day: The day of the year where you celebrate the woman who is terribly, terribly disappointed in you. In all seriousness, I probably wouldn't have turned out quite as well as I would have without her, so here are a few of the things I've learned from my mother.

• If you want a great Cosmo, it's one part Triple Sec, one part lime cordial, two parts vodka and two parts cranberry juice. If you want, you can also switch in some Sour Puss for the Lime.
• There's never a bad time to laugh at someone else's expense. Do it often.
• If you want something, get off your ass and get it. What the fuck did your last maid die of anyway?
• "Sarah Palin is a cunt." - My mother's exact words.
• Shoulder Pads are the goddamn devil. Seriously, why did anyone ever wear those?
• There is absolutely no argument in the world that can't be won with the phrase, "Because I said so."
• The laundry basket is RIGHT. THERE. There is absolutely no reason why you can't put clothes in the basket when it is two feet away.
• Speaking of laundry baskets, if you ever want to get your kids to eat their vegetables, remember these words: "Finish your dinner or else you don't get to go down the stairs in a laundry basket."
• People don't slave at work all day so that they can come home and wash your dishes.
• There's nothing you can do that would make your mother stop loving you. I should know; I've pretty much tried every trick in the book here.
  

Post-Surgery Blues: Blue-Balled

I haven't came in five days. There, I said it!

Honestly, this is a bit worrisome to me, as I like to make sure I drop a fresh batch of fellow-jello at least once a day, for the sake of both physical and mental health. Twice if I'm feeling fresh and spontaneous, but let's not fly off the handle here.

The reason for this is twofold: First, considering that I've been surrounded by family and sleeping on my brothers' beds for the past little while, jacking off has been something of a no-no. Second...well, I'm paranoid. Ever since my surgery, my balls have been swinging a little lower and freer than usual, and I've entirely convinced myself that this has something to do with going under the knife, and that any ejaculation will somehow fuck up my precious, precious vas deferens. I'm just going to chalk this one up to my hypochondria, an illness that I still think is something of a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Thankfully, nothing much else has been happening, since I've been staying with my father rather than my mother, which means the crazy bitch isn't actively trying to kill me. But I love the psychotic S.O.B. anyway.

Anyway, I did get tagged in one of those Facebook poll thingies, so I figured I might as well tag it onto the rest of the post because I can and shut up your face, I'm doing it. Normally, I'd also jokingly add something like "Suck my balls!", but...Well, see above.

Put your iPod/music player on random, and answer these questions, one at a time, using the song titles. Then add one of your own questions at the end. No cheating and skipping songs, unless they're instrumental.

1. What do you think of me, iTunes?
"Cheated Hearts" by Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

You know you're love life is severely fucked when an unfeeling computer program pities you.

2. Will I have a happy life?
"Little Favours" by KT Tunstall.

So basically, I'm going to spend the rest of my life doing pain-in-the-ass favours for others? Yeah, actually, that sounds about right.

3. What do my friends really think of me?
"Almost Lover" by A Fine Frenzy.

I'd like to thank my iPod for REALLY rubbing it in at this point.

4. Do people secretly lust after me?
"Can't Get Enough" by Mary J. Blige.

Hey, I may have the shittiest love life ever, but at least I'm pretty!

5. What does my crush/lover/S.O. think of me?
"Nothing & Nowhere" by Emily Haines and The Soft Skeleton.

This would hurt so much more if I were still capable of feeling things in my heart.

6. How can I make myself happy?
"Take It Back" by She & Him.

I'm not sure who tagged me in this thing to begin with, but...Why?

7. What should I do with my life?
"Dreamworld" by Rilo Kiley

I'm just going to assume that this means "Porn".

8. Why must life be so full of pain?
"Oh My God" by Pink.

This is the most soul-crushing Facebook quiz ever.

9. How can I maximize my pleasure during sex?
"Anyone Else But You" by Ellen Page and Michael Cera

SOUL. CRUSHED.

10. Will I ever have children?
"Get Gone" by Fiona Apple.

My iTunes is actively trying to kill me.

11. Will I die happy?
"Got Money" by Lil Wayne.

Well, at least I'll be rich...Wait, rich people don't die!

12. Can you give me some advice?
"Adventure" by Be Your Own Pet.

Hey, works plenty well for me, thank you very much.

13. What do you think happiness is?
"Neighbourhood #4: 7 Kettles" by The Arcade Fire.

Actually, I do sort of have a thing for kettles. What? They're adorable and tea is delicious.

14. What's your favourite fetish?
"Firewalker" by Liz Phair.

In all honesty, I really do want to try this one eventually. MAKE IT HAPPEN, BITCHES.


15. Will I get a good job?
"I've Got To See You Again" by Norah Jones.

Okay, so so far, the message my iTunes is trying to tell me: You are a hollow shell, heartbroken shell of a human being, but you are hot, so do lots of porn. Honestly, it kinda balances itself out, doesn't it?


16. What will the day be like tomorrow?
"Ode to Divorce" by Regina Spektor.

Actually, considering that tomorrow is Mother's Day and my parents have what can only be described as murderous rage towards each other, this makes a lot of sense.

17. What awaits for me this summer?
"Personal" by Stars.

Oh, of course; NOW you decide to start holding out on me. Fuck you, iTunes, you cockteasing whore.

Cannonball Read Entry #24: The Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption and Pee - Sarah Silverman

I honestly can't remember where I first saw Sarah Silverman. The furthest back I can think of is "The Aristocrats", which featured Sarah Silverman telling the funniest, most offensive joke in a movie that was about funny, offensive jokes. And if anything, she did it with the fewest amount of words possible.



Let me preface this by saying that rape isn't funny, and it's not a joke. If anything, it wasn't so much the fact that the joke was about rape, it was how the joke was told: The awkward silences, the deadpan expression, the slow realization with which she reaches the punchline...Any idiot can tell a rape joke. A comedian knows how to make it funny without denegrating those who've been hurt by the subject. It's a thin line, but few people can walk it the way Silverman can.

The reason why Sarah Silverman's routine, as well as her autobiography, "The Bedwetter", works as well as it does is because she knows what it's like to feel and be powerless. Her jokes aren't meant to mock those who can't stand up for themselves, but rather, to attack those who have the power, and abuse it. She's a comedic Robin Hood: She takes from the rich and gives to the poor.

For those expecting the sort of fearless, confident stories you might find in Chelsea Handler's work...Not here. If anything, it actually adds more to Silverman's narrative. She's not afraid to show her weakness and her insecurities, and it adds a layer of emotional honesty to the proceedings that I always felt was missing in Handler's memoires.

If you liked Chelsea Handler's books, you'll love Silverman's. It has all the humour and candor of Handler, but it has the one thing she never bothered trying to show: humanity. She's nowhere near perfect, but let's face it, perfection is overrated anyway.

Cannonball Read Entry #23: America (The Book): A Citizen's Guide To Democracy Inaction - Jon Stewart & The Daily Show Writers

I think we can all agree that 2004 was...Well, it wasn't a great year. We elected a president who was functionally illiterate, we were stuck in a poorly-planned war, and Courtney Love had just unleashed "America's Sweetheart" on the general public.

All in all, it could have gone better, really.

Such is the problem with Jon Stewart (And The Daily Show Writers)'s "America: The Book": It's throwback to an era that, quite frankly, is still just a little too fresh in our minds for us to look back fondly on.

The good news is, with the amount of corruption in the American political system at the time, 2004 was the year where "The Daily Show" really began to hit it's stride, and it shows: "America: The Book" is hysterically funny; it's really not a stretch to call it the standard for modern satire and social commentary.

The format is meant to resemble one of those crappy little school text-books you've no doubt been subjected to, down to the end of chapter question sections and the student registration section on the inside of the cover of the book. Each chapter is dedicated to a different aspect of the American political system, and for a book that's meant to be little more than a spoof, it's oddly informative. You can call "The Daily Show" many things, but you can never accuse it of talking down to its audience.

The only problem with the book is that, well, it's just really dated at this point. While this sometimes works to its advantage by being almost foreshadowing of various preceding scandals that followed the book, for the most part, it's a look back on something we'd all kinda like to forget about.

It hurts to say this, but as satire, America (The Book) is definitely worth a look, at least to see what balanced, equal-opportunity humour really looks like. But if you didn't read it when it first came out, you're just missing a huge, fundamental part of what made the book funny in the first place; You'll still laugh, you'll just be laughing too late.

Post-Surgery Blues: My Mother, The Bitch

nataliedee.com
As it turns out, having someone cut you open and fuck about with your insides tends to screw up certain bodily functions. And by that, I mean I've been having some "intestinal distress", which quite frankly just irritates me to no fucking end. To those of you who have never spent half an hour in the bathroom with a copy of Sarah Silverman's "The Bedwetter", waiting on something to happen that most people can do without so much as a second thought...Well, it's pretty much the most depressing thing ever.

This was in no way helped by my mother. Now, for those who don't know her, my mother is clinically insane, and sincerely enjoys fucking with us for her own amusement. It's called the bitch gene, and yes, it is genetic. Case in point: While I was in the bathroom praying for my insides to resume their regular functioning, she decided to hide in my bed until I got back, then scare the living shit out of me. For someone who just got out of abdominal surgery, this is what is known as a terrible fucking idea.

This didn't stop my mother from (A) doing exactly that, and (B) laughing hysterically while I was doubled-over on the floor, feeling like someone had just jabbed me in the stomach with a rusty screwdriver.

But in all seriousness, I love the crazy whore.

Speaking of my mother, in my efforts to return to normal, I decided to try and leave the house and go to the mall and pick up a gift for my mother. As it turns out, when you're bloated and stitched up, your jeans don't actually fit. Who knew? So of course, I spent a full hour and a half doing my best granny-shuffle through the suburbs of Pointe-Claire while feeling like someone in their third fucking trimester.

This wasn't made any better when I got home, showered, removed my bandage and looked down at my stitched-up stomach to discover that my belly button was now practically non-existant. As in the top half was still perfectly in tact, while the bottom half was completely gone. It wasn't so much a belly button as it was a tiny little dent in my stomach. Fantastic.

For now though, I need to go eat my feelings and self-medicate some more. Apparently, these painkillers don't treat emotional pain. Woohoo?

Post-Surgery Blues (Or, Tila Tequila Needs To Commit Suicide)

Hey, y'all remember that time I went on about that hernia I needed to have...um, de-herniaed? Yeah, that's probably not an actual word, but that's beside the point. Point is, I finally went into to have that fixed up.

The good news: I no longer have weird looking rips and swelling in my abdominal muscles.

The bad news: My torso is a lovely shade of pink, I'm covered in bandages (one of them currently rather bloody), my throat is still pretty sore from having an airtube shoved down it, and I feel vaguely like I just got hit by a truck.

Thankfully, to even this out I was given enough medication to effectively knock me out for a nice long while, including various painkillers, anti-bloaters and these weird little green ones that I'm told to take only when I "really need them".

Needless to say, I'm a bit wary of those little fuckers.

Since I need to take a week off until I get better, I'm spending it at the parental units' houses, catching up on the Cannonball Read. Thankfully, I brought enough books with me to tide me over, not to mention that I'm now spending a pretty substantial amount of time telling Tila Tequila to fuck off on Twitter.

Seriously, I really don't think you people understand how much I absolutely goddamn hate Tila Tequila. I'm not saying the world would be a substantially better place if Tila Tequila would just fucking kill herself already, but...Actually, yes, that is exactly what I'm saying. Tila Tequila needs to commit suicide for the good of the entire world.

Anyway, time to return to my routine of self-medication and reading. God bless Socialized Healthcare!

Gleecap: Bad Reputation

We open on the Glee clubbers watching Sue Sylvester recreate Olivia Newton John's "Physical", because everything is funnier when Sue Sylvester does it. Sue Sylvester, surprisingly, is not amused by this, so she pulls up a list of the sluttiest Glee club members. Naturally, Santana is number one, while Rachel is dead last. Because as we all know, Rachel's vagina has pretty much sealed over. Hey, girl needs to put something in it before it grows over. As punishment, Will makes the Glee club perform Vanilla Ice's "Ice Ice Baby".

I think we call all agree that Will Shuester is a fucking sub-mental.

Embarrassment over, Sue Sylvester is back in the teacher's loung, being laughed at by all the teachers. In slow motion. Molly Shannon comes over to make fun of her some more for some reason. Really? Molly Shannon? Meanwhile, Rachel, pissed over the fact that she's essentially a rape-whistle away from being a 40-year-old shut-in, decides she needs to slut it up a little, because virgins are BAD...Or something.

The rest of the Glee Clubbers decide to follow suit, by being their badass little selves, while Sue talks to her mentally-disabled sister about how bad it feels to be laughed at. Sue decides to counter-act this by becoming a therapist at the school. God help whoever takes mental health advice from a woman who looks to be one set of testes away from being Owen Wilson.

Rachel decides that in order to get her badassness quotient up, she needs to start fucking Puck. Let's review, shall we? In the space of about four episodes, Rachel has fucked Finn, Jesse and Puck. How is this woman considered a virgin anyway? Girl has seen more hot cock than the inside of a KFC.

Sue, having told Emma all about how Will had a sleep-over with April and made out with the coach of Vocal Adrenaline, confronts the whitest person in the world, while an old woman talks about her dead husband. Sooooooo...yeah, not a great time. Anyway, Emma calls Shue a slut. Because he is, despite the fact that he's so white, even his jizz is darker than he is.

Meanwhile, in order to get on the top of the Glee slut list, Arnie, Kurt, Mercedes, Brittany and Tina decide to perform MC Hammer's "Can't Touch This" in the library. Aaaaaand fuck it. Glee? Meet me at Camera 3.

Look, I know the whole purpose of this episode is to show that you don't have to be ashamed for who you are, but so far you've pulled up the two most embarrassing songs of the 90's. Seriously, the only people who listens to that shit does so ironically. Please stop making my ears bleed.

Anyway, Shue decides to interrogate the Glee clubbers about who put up the list. Fingers are pointed, words are said, and Brittany reveals that she can't turn on a computer. Kurt has the final say, asking if Shue has started watching Law & Order reruns because of the divorce. The kids decide that, with the library performance backfiring, they need to come forward about leaking Sue's video in order to claim their badassery. Speaking of Sue's video, Olivia Newton John gives her a call over the video she made, so guess who's gonna be guesting this week?

The teachers, having found out about Will Shuester being a filthy manskank, decides to rake him over the coals for it. Really guys? Out of all the things you can make fun of him for, you make fun of him for having the most nonjudgmental cock ever? Did you not see his lame, early aughts boyband hair? Or the fact that he can sing "Ice Ice Baby" without a deep-seeded sense of shame?

Kurt decides to come forward about leaking the video, but SURPRISE! Since Olivia Newton John is coming in, she's decided to forgive them. And of course, we get the remake of Sue Sylvester and Newton John. Thankfully, the guys are all hot instead of schlubby, so I'll let it slide. The only downside is that Sue sounds so auto-tuned, it's like she's had her vocal chords ripped out and replaced with an iPhone. But hey, ABS!

Shue, running out of time to figure out who posted the slut list, decides to look at the kids "Bad Reputation" videos. Rachel and Puck do a video together, and unfortunately, does not in anyway involve Puck whipping his dick out. BULLSHIT. The least you could do is at least give us a shot of his ass, but no. On the plus side, it does involve Rachel getting shot by one of her gay Dads, so there's that.

However, this backfires to, because Finn, Puck and Jesse all think that Rachel is a huge whore now for cheating on them. Sue, the slightly less slutty video whore, tells her sister that she made the video with ONJ in order to impress her and, in yet another act of surprising sweetness, gives all the money she earnd to the nursing home her sister stays in.

Back to everyone's favourite Jew-Fro'd whore, Shue goes back to Emma to beg for forgiveness. Emma decides to continue with the relationship, probably because she knows she has Mr. Wonderbread by the short and curlies. However, his newfound shame allows him to figure out that Quinn put up the list because she's pissed about how quickly her reputation went to shit. However, he decides to let the whole thing slide, since you'd have the be a huge dickweed to expel a pregnant teen.

The newly-cuckolded Jesse St. James decides to break things off with Rachel now that everyone knows she "Took the slow train from Philly".

...That's code for "Check out the slut".

Anyway, we cap off this weeks train-wreck of embarrassment with "Total Eclipse Of The Heart" because really, this show could use a little more red-faced shame, couldn't it? All I know is, somewhere out there, Stacey is currently screaming with rage.

Notes:

• Does anyone else think it's about time they brought Sue's sister back? At this point, it's the only human thing about her?
• Alternate title for this episode: "Let's make sure we don't sell a single fucking song off of this week's show!" Seriously, Vanilla Ice? MC Hammer? You're better than this, Glee. You're better than this.
• Didn't we all know that Rachel was a huge whore even before this episode? Seriously, poor girl's seen more nerd cock than the urinal at a Star Wars convention.
• I guess this week's badass move by Kurt is meant to apologize for the weird/creepy crush he has on Finn. Seriously: FINN?!
  

The Meatless Life

Today marks my last day as an omnivore. This was my last meal as a meat-eating man. Yes, out of all the meals I could have possibly had, I had a fucking Double Big Mac. Literally ANY meal, and I went with that one.

To be honest, I'll miss them a little bit; Clyde and I had a thing for Big Macs. Admittedly, they actually kinda totally suck, but that's beside the point. The point is, he can't have Big Macs anymore, and to be honest, if he can't have Big Macs, why should I? What's the point of even having Big Macs if you can't share them with the one person you want to the most?

So, yeah. No more Big Macs for me. Hell, no more meat for me. Well, I should probably clarify that a little: No more meat that isn't alive and attached to another man. Fair compromise.

...Although I still don't see how fish isn't considered meat...

The 10 Hottest Jews

Because I haven't made a list in a while and Jews are hot.

#10: Natalie Portman

#9: Jon Stewart #8: Alyson Hannigan #7: Joseph Gordon Levitt #6: Mila Kunis #5: Jake Gyllenhaal

#4: Jason Ridge

#3: Jenny Lewis

#2: Michael Lucas

#1: Rashida Jones