Thursday, February 25, 2010


I saw this while I was scouring the web for news, and I gotta say, this may very well be the most appropriate Google Ad EVER.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Stoned Dog Is Stoned

I don't know why this tickles me, but it just does. I mean look at him! He is either ridiculously happy or his owner slipped an entire goddamn Sandwich Bag into his little doggie cake. Or both. Point is, *Squee!*

And just for shits and giggles, here's the latest review from Yahtzee over at Zero Punctuation on Dante's Inferno, a.k.a. That Game Were You Kill Unborn Babies You Sick Fuck.

Monday, February 22, 2010

Holy Fucking Fuck A Squirrel Fight!

Since apparently everyone who reads this blog fucking HATES squirrels (although that might just be Stacey...) check this shit out: SQUIRREL FIGHT MOTHERFUCKERS! Seriously, little fuckers are full on tearing each other's shit apart.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

10 Best Eye Patches In Pop Culture

#10 - Molotov Cocktease

#9 - Francesca Cook

#8 - Steve The Pirate

#7 - Lily Charles

#6 - Xander Harris

#5 - Emilio Largo

#4 - Snake Plissken

#3 - Elle Driver

#2 - Nick Fury

#1 - Phil Ken Sebben

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Another Book Excerpt: The "He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not" Phase

Yeah, that book I've been writing? It's still in the works. Hopefully I'll be done soon, but lately I've been stretching myself a bit thin so I haven't had as much time to work on it and blah blah blah bullshit bullshit bullshit excuses. Point is, it'll be done soon, I swear. Anyway, for now because I'm lazy and I don't want to write a whole other blog post tonight and I want to just work on the book tonight, here's an excerpt from said nameless book. Aw yeah, get some.

“I don’t think Jude loves me anymore,” said Claire.

“We’re not having this conversation,” replied Ellis, her co-worker at Radar Records. Claire had taken a job there as a graphic artist upon realizing that selling baked goods out of her parent’s kitchen was not a great way to make a living. She earned rent by photoshopping album artwork and promotional pictures for Canadian artists who would release a couple modestly successful hits before returning to work at Tim Horton’s. Ellis was the only other person who seemed to realize this, which in Claire’s eyes made him the least insane.

“I’m serious. Look at this. What the fuck is this?” asked Claire, handing Ellis a crappy Hallmark Valentine’s Day card.

“It’s a crappy Hallmark Valentine’s Day card,”

Claire proceeded to whack him across the head with the colourful piece of cardboard as hard as she could, which admittedly wasn’t really all that hard. “I know that, but I meant, you know, on a deeper level, what the fuck is this?”

Ellis sighed, something he did a lot when Claire read too far into things that she had no business reading that far into. “It’s a fucking Valentine. They are mass produced yearly in the name of a saint no one actually knows anything about as an excuse to boost the economy while simultaneously making sure that single people feel like total crap,” he said, grabbing the card and regarding it as though it had been covered in a thin layer of mucus.

“Exactly! I mean look at this thing: ‘Happy Valentine’s Day to the woman who stole my heart years ago and still has a hold on it. Love, Jude’ See? It’s over!” She declared, marching into his cubicle while waving the Valentine like a piece of damning evidence in a murder trial.

Ellis had seen this before. Despite his dumb jock appearance and the numerous tattoos that littered his imposing frame, Ellis was gayer than Christmas, which made him a prime target for woman who needed a homosexual shoulder to cry on. What they didn’t realize was that out of everyone at the office, Ellis was statistically the least likely to give two shits about their relationship problems, which ironically, made him the best source for relationship advice due to his complete lack of emotional investment in their love lives, which only further encouraged men and women alike to come to him with their problems.

Truly, it was a rather vicious circle.

“Claire, it’s a card. Get over it,”

“I will not get over it! It’s a false sentiment for a false holiday. He might as well have just written something like ‘Roses are red, violets are blue, here’s a cheap, flashy placebo to distract you from the fact that I can no longer reciprocate the feelings you have for me.’” She emphasized her point by planting her head firmly on Ellis’ keyboard.

“That’s just super. Now please stop squishing my keyboard with your face,”

“Noooooooooooo,” replied Claire, her response slightly muffled due to the fact that her lips were smooshed against his space bar.

“Fine. Get worked up over some shitty holiday we don’t even get a day off for. See if I care,” said Ellis, pushing his spinney-roller chair away from his desk. “I refuse to be the helpful fairy godfather in the romantic-comedy that is your life.”

This convinced Claire to lift her head off his desk; a negative of his keyboard, however, was still indented into Claire’s forehead. “Alright, point made. But I just don’t feel appreciated anymore with Jude. It’s like I’m just his Plan B at this point, you know? Like he only wants me there as some sort of sad little back-up plan… Look, just do that calm, reassuring thing you do and I promise I’ll shut up about it.”

Ellis sat motionless. Claire took this to mean “You’re gonna have to do better than that if you want the calm, reassuring thing.” She mentally weighed her options, then added “And I will buy a round next time we go out drinking.”

Ellis raised an eyebrow now, which she knew meant “I’m interested, now just seal the deal.” She sighed, then said “And I will do one embarrassing karaoke song while you heckle me from the audience. ONE. But it can’t be ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’, because that song totally sucks.”

Ellis, having gotten all he hoped to out of the deal, stood up from his chair and placed a pair of frying pan-sized hands on Claire’s shoulders. “You are not a Plan B, you are a Plan A, and any man who thinks otherwise doesn’t deserve someone as wonderful as you.”

Claire smiled to herself, then looked up to the small, gay mountain that was currently towering over her. “Alright, which song do I have to sing now?”

“Celine Dion’s ‘My Heart Will Go On’”

“Why do you hate me?”

“It’s a hobby,” chuckled Ellis. “Some people knit, I crush souls. Now stop pestering me and get back to that album cover you’re working on. Those five-year-old Sierra Leone kids didn’t lose an arm so that Young Ka$hey could show up on his debut album with only moderately stupid –looking blingage. Add some more sparkly shit then call it a day.”


It was 5:57 by the time Claire had driven home, poured half a caramel macchiato down her throat (the rest having baptized her dashboard, steering wheel and cheap-ass $20 capris), kicked off the sensible flats that allowed her to get through the day with shredding her feet into bloody ribbons and flopped face-first down onto the couch in the comfortably furnished condo she shared with Jude. It was 5:58 by the time the cordless phone rang, which meant Claire had to peel herself off the couch and run around the living room searching for the permanently misplaced phone.

“Hello?” she answered, after finding the device in the bread box.

“Happy V-Day, Claire, how are you feeling?” asked Jude, who by the sound of it was still stuck at the office where he reviewed was responsible for editing cooking shows for The Gourmet Network.

“I’m pretty good. Thanks for the Valentine by the way, it was really thoughtful of you.” Not one part of that statement was true.

“Did you get the flowers too?” He asked.

“Yeah, of course, they’re beautiful.” This was also a lie.

“Great, well, I’m glad you like them! Listen, I know you were planning a big, fancy dinner for tonight and whatnot, but I have a huge project and the deadline is tomorrow and just…Fucking chaos. Think we can put this off until the weekend?”

Claire felt a lead weight drop through her stomach. “Sure, I don’t see why not.”

“You sure you’re okay with this? If you’re not I can see if they can extend the deadline a little longer…”

“No, I’m fine. It’s fine. We’re fine,” She wasn’t fine. It wasn’t fine. And they were definitely not fine.

“I’m sorry about this, Ceecee.”

“I’m sure you are,” she lied. She had lost count how many times she had lied to him in order to avoid an argument; all she knew is, it was far more often than she wished. “Listen, can we talk about this later? I’m pretty sure Tia needs to be taken for a walk. I love you, Jude.”

“I love you too, Clair.”

Claire paused a bit to maintain her composure, and then lied one last time. “I know you do,” she said, hanging up the phone.

She took a deep breath, exhaled, and went to get Tia Maria, Jude’s chocolate lab, out of the bedroom. Originally, Jude had adopted Tia when he first moved to Cedar Park, and the dog had since followed Jude around like a lovesick school girl. She had moved in along with Jude when they found the condo, and had for the past few months become both a sounding board and a confidant for Claire. While she did worry that talking to a dog was the first sign of the impending decline of her mental health, she was really just thankful that she had finally found someone that would listen to her free of judgment or opinion, even if she did have to regularly feed her Snausages.

Tia was of course already clawing at the door when Claire opened it, and wasted no time in jumping up on her midsection, effectively knocking the air out of the poor woman. Tia knew that the arrival of the woman meant one of three things: Walkies, Food, or Belly Rubs. Needless to say, Tia loved the woman.

“Come on baby, you wanna go for a walkie?” asked Claire, the word sending a figurative jolt of electricity down her little doggy spine. Tia began jumping up and down again, the word surging through her little doggy body. Claire thought it was funny how one little word could instantly turn Tia into the Tasmanian Devil. She smiled a little while she followed Tia to the front door.

“You’re owner is a total douchebag, I hope you know that,” said Claire. Tia wasn’t really listening as she was currently sniffing a piss-stained stop sign, but this fact did not deter Claire. “I’m not the bad guy here either, am I? It’s not like I was the one who backed out of a dinner that’s been planned for almost a week now, or the one who sent the meaningless, half-hearted Valentine, or the flowers that will probably die in about two days because every plant I’ve ever had died in about two days.”

Tia, now tired of sniffing the urine-scented pole, resumed walking down the slushy sidewalk. Claire continued, “He should know that by now. When was the last time we’ve had so much as a fern inside out apartment? He should know this by now. He should know ME by now. I’m not asking for much here, am I?”

Tia gave Claire a look that said “Listen honey, I’ve been holding in a gigantic deuce all day. Now, I feel for you sweetie, I really do, but if I can’t pinch one out in peace so help me God I will not hesitate to drop a bomb on your pillow. Do you understand me?”

At least, that’s what Claire thought it said.

“You’re not helping here,” said Claire, reaching into the pocket of her coat for a plastic baggy. “All I’m saying is, it’s been two years, and I’m tired of being the only one who cares, and I’m tired of being stood up and I’m tired of being unable to keep a plant for more than two days before it kills itself because I’m a shitty gardener. Now let’s find a trash can. This is kinda gross.”


An hour after walking Tia, Claire found that her resentment was only increasing by the minute. She had thrown on a pair of pajama pants with a comfy tank top, watched a couple episodes of 30 Rock and had ordered a pizza that had been hauled over by a delivery boy who proceeded to give her his best “You’re a woman alone on Valentine’s Day, and you’re eating a pizza?”
Naturally, she was less than generous with the tip.

But to Claire’s dismay, the comfy pajamas and the greasy pizza and the Tina Fey in no way made up for the fact that she had been stood up on the one day of the year where being stood up was simply unheard of. She weighed her options and decided that she had three choices: The first was that she could sit around waiting for Jude and die of old age. The second was to go on a murderous rampage and go out in a fiery blaze of glory. The third was to unleash some of that pent-up hostility on a hoard of zombies in a game of Dead Last. She decided to go with option three, as a fake gun was much easier to get a hold of then a real one.

The premise of Dead Last could be boiled down into a single sentence: Get from point A to point B while killing zombies and blowing a whole bunch of shit up. Complicated? No, but it did offer Claire a quick outlet for venting some frustration. Today’s game was especially therapeutic, as Claire found herself mentally transposing Jude’s stupid jerkface onto each of the soon to be re-dead zombies.

It was around 10:15 that Jude finally came home. While it took Tia all of three seconds to jump all over him, Claire offered little more than a casual “Hey,” to acknowledge that he had so much as walked through the front door. “Having fun Ceecee?” he asked, kissing her on the side of the head.

“Oodles,” she answered, spitting the word out like a wad of phlegm. She punctuated her taciturn response by taking a baseball bat to an unfortunate zombie’s noggin. Bloody, chunky bits of grey matter painted the wall behind the once mobile member of the undead.

“I take it you’re still mad, aren’t you?” asked Jude, trying to remember if they kept a baseball bat in the house.

“No, whatever would give you that idea?”

BLAM! Another AI controlled zombie was obliterated by grade-a pine.

“Just a hunch. Look, just come to bed and we can discuss this like normal rational people who do not brain their boyfriends with the mighty baseball bat of unspoken resentment and anger.”

Claire paused the game and looked up into Jude’s face. In the two years they had met, Jude looked just the same as the day they met. A few signs of wrinkles here and there, yes, but she could still see his green eyes when he squinted. Sadly, it seemed to be the only part of him that remained from two years ago. The only part that had remained the same from someone else ago.

“It’s not like you didn’t know V-Day was coming Jude. It’s not like it falls on a different day every year and you couldn’t see it coming from a mile away here. I mean, even I managed to put a little planning into this beyond a Hallmark card and some roses which, by the way, will end up dying within 48 hours due to my inability to care for vegetation.”

Jude glanced over at the roses which, sure enough, were beginning to wilt a bit around the edges. “Most people would consider putting them in water or something.”

“Maybe they’re supposed to wilt. Maybe it’s wrong to just cut them while they’re still maturing and stick them in a condo no matter how beautiful they are or how much I love them. Flowers don’t grow in condos you know. I checked.”

She had checked. But both Claire and Jude knew that they were no longer discussing flowers or dinner or killing the thoughtless, wandering, apathetic person your boyfriend has become. They were talking about their relationship, but neither wanted to admit it. Neither wanted to admit that much like the flowers in the vase that would have sorely enjoyed a bit of water, their relationship was slowly withering away. They were like a fourth of July sparkler that, despite once being full of light and warmth and energy, was now just an ugly, blackened husk of its former self that was more painful than pleasant. They both knew this, but neither wanted to talk about it, for doing so would break the illusion that they were still a couple.

So they didn’t. They sat in silence while the thirsty flowers and the paused game and the dog who lay at their feet, knowing full well that she would not be receiving a belly rub tonight.
Claire got up, shut off the console, and turned to Jude, the only light coming through the windows of the living room. “Want to just go to bed? We can have a post-Valentine’s tomorrow or something.”

Jude chortled, happy that neither one would be forced to face any harsh realities tonight, and that his girlfriend wouldn’t be wailing on him with a Louisville Slugger anytime soon. “Bed sounds nice. Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to sit in a chair all day long?”

Monday, February 15, 2010

Waltz (Better Than Fine)

A couple people have asked me why I want to move to L.A. and aside from the more obvious reasons (it's warm, it has famous people, everyone is gay), I couldn't quite put my finger on why I wanted to go. I mean, I knew why, but it was one of those feelings that is completely indescribable although instantly recognizable.

Until today.

Just imagine this: You wake up one morning, look around, go to work, come back home and think, "this is good enough." You wake up the next morning, look around, go to work, come back home, and think, "this is good enough." You repeat this again and again and again until you wake up one morning, look around, go to work, come back home and think, "This isn't good enough. I want more."

Maybe that sounds selfish or greedy or narcissistic, but all I've been able to think about lately is that if I stay in Montreal, I'll never do anything. I mean, of course I'll do something, but I won't be doing what I want to do. I just want to do something big and important, and if that's selfish and bitchy, then maybe I'm okay with that. There are some parts of Montreal I'll be upset to have to let go, like my family, who I will miss terribly, but when it comes to everything else, is it so wrong to want more out of my own life than mediocrity?

I'd be lying if I said there weren't other reasons too. It's time I get a fresh start here, time I start taking control of my career, time I start trying to get my life back together after Clyde...And there's one more reason. I won't say what (or who) it is, but it's a reason I wish I could say wasn't as important as it actually is. All I can say is, I'll be happy to finally be rid of it.

That's it for now. Come tomorrow, I'll be heading to the consulate so that I can get my life to a place where I won't wake up everyday wanting more. If I want to define my life in two words, I don't want them to be "Good enough"; I want them to be "Even better."

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Cannonball Read Entry #15: Brutal: Uncut - Aiden Shaw

Valentine's Day is here again (or at least, was here, depending on when you're reading this) and if you're sick to death of the faux-sentimentality and heart-warming bullshit, then sweet holy fuck do I have the book for you. Brutal: Uncut is a 280 page sadgasm, an emotional throat-punch while you're parents tell you that they're getting a divorce and it is entirely your fault.

And I loved it and I wouldn't have it any other way. Happy Valentine's Day!

Brutal: Uncircumcised tells the story of Paul, a drug-addicted, sex-addicted, HIV-positive prostitute who takes self-destruction to a whole new-depressing level. The guy isn't so much suicidal as he is about five seconds away from riding an atomic bomb Dr. Strangelove style; he's so completely oblivious as to his own impact that he becomes a threat to himself and others.

Considering how many prodigal son stories there are out there where everything is handled with politically correct kid gloves and things like drugs and sex are only used as a means of reinforcing societal taboos, it's nice to see that Brutal: Foreskin handles the subject of the adult industry with honesty. To balance this out, Paul's sessions with his therapist Sky as well as his own personal reflections work well as a means to introduce both character growth and as a respite from the near constant hatefuck of the overall story.

That being said, anyone who reads this book will notice the book's sole glaring flaw. And oddly enough, it's not the authour's fault: The book has what can only be described as the worst editing job I've ever seen. I'm sorry if that comes across as harsh, but it's true; it's really just...well, bad.

I don't want to come across as petty, but here's the thing: at first, it was just a misplaced apostrophe or quotation mark here and there, and I was fine with it. Then, the word "he" was spelled as "hr". But the story was good, so I ignored it again, figuring it was just a fluke. Then at one point, the spacing between words fucked up, and a four word sentence was somehow stretched across an entire page. But whatever, maybe it was just an accident. I moved forward. And then, for absolutely no apparent reason, there was an S floating around, just smack dab in the middle of the page. There was no sign of it being part of a word, or of it having any purpose in the story. Just a big random S floating on the page.

I'm not going to blame Aiden Shaw for this because yes, writers make spelling mistakes. God knows what I write is usually littered with typos. Who I will blame for this is Don Weise, the guy credited with editing Brutal: Prepuce. To use a food metaphor here, it doesn't matter how good the dish is, because if you don't know how to plate it no one is going to want to eat it. And quite frankly, I just think that a story this well-written and honest deserved much more than what little effort Weise put into editing it.

If I could describe Brutal: I'm Running This Joke Into The Ground in one sentence, it would probably be something like "A fantastically dark and incredible story that's ultimately killed by poor editing." The sad thing is, I actually loved the book. I really did. I just hated the editing.

The 10 Best "Fuck You We're Over Asshole" Songs

#10: Grizzly Bear - The Knife

To be perfectly honest, it's not the best "Fuck You" song, but it is an absolutely beautiful song, and it's about a relationship going straight to shit because the other person a lying liar who tells lies.

What It Says: "So you're a giant sociopath and I can't believe a word you say, so get the fuck out."

#9: Hot Hot Heat - Goodnight Goodnight

The song itself is about two minutes long, but it's essentially what happens when your snobby-ass ex tries desperately to win you back and you have to show them the door.

What It Says: "You're a pretentious dick, you have no real friends and you're embarrassing to be around, so never see me again."

#8: Kate Nash - Shit Song

This song pretty much sums up what happens after a relationship: You drink a lot, miss your ex, than realize you're better off without him and drink some more because you can.

What It Says: "I could go back to you, or I could just drink this entire bottle of wine while I remember what a total piece of shit you are...Yeah, I'll go with the wine."

#7: Be Your Own Pet - You're A Waste

This one is a little weird, considering that not only is it a "Fuck you" song, but it also squeezes in some actual emotional input and talks about how relationships are the responsibility of two people, not just one person constantly fucking up.

What It Says: "Yeah, I fucked up, but you were a dickhead too, and seeing you in pain makes me pretty happy because you're an absolute fucking tool."

#6: Ben Folds Five - Song For The Dumped

So you've just been dumped. What's your first instinct? To get back all the things you've ever given that whorish bitch. Hey, you bought them, so technically they're yours.

What It Says: "You want to leave? Fine, give me back all the shit I ever gave you, you gold digging whore. I don't give a shit if it was a gift, you owe me slut."

#5: Lily Allen - Not Big

So is your stupid shit of a (soon-to-be-if-not-already) ex-boyfriend a terrible fuck with a small dick and a case of premature ejaculation? Well have I got the song for you...

What It Says: "You were fucking awful in bed and your cock is bad. Therefore, I'm going to fuck all your best friends then tell everyone about what a lousy lay you were."

#4: Rilo Kiley - Breakin' Up

So you broke up and apparently everything is supposed to go to shit...Except it doesn't. The world keeps turning and you realize you're going to be okay with or without him. And then you realize he's the one hurting and all of a sudden all you want to do is twist the knife while it's still in him just because you can.

What It Says: "So you dumped my ass and now you're the one who's in pain, so now I'm going to rub it in about how fucking meaningless you are to me and how goddamn awesome I am so THERE."

#3: Sia - The Girl That You Lost To Cocaine

You're significant other has a thing for drugs and/or booze and no matter how much you do for them it doesn't work. What do you do? Well, two choices: One, you can keep trying to break own this brick wall with your bare hands, or you can dump his stupid ass so that he can go be with his druggie loser friends.

What It Says: "Obviously, you'd rather hang out with a bunch of drug addicts than me, so fuck you; Go die of an overdose and see if I care, you fucking narc. And good luck paying for a new nose when that fucking beak you have now collapses on you."

#2: Miranda Lambert - Kerosene

To be honest, this entire list could have just been Miranda Lambert, so I just picked the best one: If you ever wanted to get back at your cheating, lying, disrespectful, good-for-nothing low-life, this might give you a couple ideas.

What It Says: "You treated me like absolute shit and lied to my face, so I'm going to shoot you and set your corpse on fire. How you like them apples?"

#1: Fiona Apple - Get Gone

This song is what happens when you've reached the end of your rope, and you're tired of defending him and making excuses for him and trying to help him and giving for him and all you want is for him to just get the fuck out of your life.

What It Says: "I know you couldn't give two shits about me, so pack up your shit and fucking leave already, your worthless, ungrateful fuck."

Thursday, February 11, 2010

The 10 Worst Screen Couples Ever

#10 - Buffy (Sarah Michelle Gellar) and Riley (Marc Blucas) in Buffy The Vampire Slayer
Honestly, if you tried to pinpoint the exact moment where Buffy started going down hill, it was when stupid Riley showed up. He was hot, yes, but Riley was fucking boring and kinda useless and we all know that Buffy could do so much better than this dork.

#9 - Ben (Seth Rogen) and Alison (Katherine Heigl) in Knocked Up
This one is pretty bad for two reasons: the first is that it ushered in the Hollywood fad of pairing an average looking dude with a hot and completely out of his league chick out of sheer wish fulfillment. The second was that their entire relationship is based around the fact the he got her eggo preggo. They don't actually love each other; she just happens to be lugging around his crothfruit.

#8 - Jake (Sam Worthington) and Neytiri (Zoe Saldana) in Avatar
Why yes, this entry is here for the sole reason of pissing off Avatards, why do you ask? Oh, and also because they're fucking furries. Seriously, at some point you have to wonder when people will back off and go "Hmmmm...Is it weird that the main character wants to fuck a giant cat?"

#7 - Vivian (Julia Roberts) and Edward (Richard Gere) in Pretty Woman
What's that? It's just the story of a girl with a heart of gold finding the man of her dreams? Yeah, not really. No matter how you cut it, it's still a movie where Richard Gere can only love Julia Roberts after she fits in with the rich, elite crowd. Because love means completely selling out to people more powerful than you are.

#6 - Jim (Jason Biggs) and a pie in American Pie
...It's a fucking pie, you sick fuck. I don't care how boned up you are, WHO FUCKS A PIE?!

#5 - Anakin (Hayden Christensen) and Padme (Natalie Portman) in Star Wars: The Shitty Ones Everyone Hated
Christ, I don't think these two were involved so much as they were just spouting cliches at each other while George Lucas continued to curb stomp every last ounce of good will he had left. You know you're in a bad relationship when one of you dies, the other becomes pure evil and this is still seen as one of the better outcomes.

#4 - Izzie (Katherine Heigl) and Denny's Ghost (Jeffery Dean Morgan) in Grey's Anatomy
This is the one that elicited the most cries of "What in the fucking fuck is this fuckery?" and for good reason: somewhere down the line, the writers apparently got bored or just grew tired of Heigl's bullshit and decided to write the most fucking stupid story arch ever where Katherine Heigl fucks either a ghost or a figment of her imagination while everyone else wondered what the hell happened to the days where everyone just sat around talking about va-jay-jays.

#3 - Carrie (Sarah Jessica Parker) and Mr. Big (Chris Noth) in Sex and the City
I don't know which is worse: The on-again/off-again bullshit that the writers pimped out for six (SIX!) goddamn seasons and two fucking movies, the fact that even while she was dating guys who were named after gay porn stars (No, really) all she could think about was the rich guy with the big dick or that we're supposed to buy into the notion that their romance, based entirely on convenience, is true. All I know is, these people need to get to the fucking convent before they procreate.

#2 - Bella (Kristen Stewart) and pretty much fucking everyone in Twilight
This one may not be the most annoying, but it is the most culturally poisonous; Apparently, Bella's only standard for dating is that her guy needs to be some sort of pussified mythical creature. It doesn't matter if he treats her like total shit and never full reciprocates her feelings (Edward) or simply lies in wait until she's emotionally vulnerable and easily manipulable (Jacob), he just needs to be inhuman. You see ladies? Guys don't need to treat you with respect or decency, they just need to fulfill a weird fetish of yours.

#1 - Ross (David Schwimmer) and Rachel (Jennifer Aniston) in Friends
Like you totally didn't see this one coming. Eight years. Eight goddamn years of the writers playing the "are they or aren't they card" and for what? They get together at the end of the series? Well Jesus fucking Christ, it's a Christmas miracle. Let me pick my jaw up off the floor and pop the champagne because the two most unlikable people on a TV show run into the ground might be fucking. Truly, my life is complete.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

How To Bullshit Your Way Through Valentine's

Step 1: The Restaurant

Start off by making a reservation at a restaurant. Any restaurant, really. Apparently, the fact that you can pick up a phone and make sure that there will be a table waiting for you on the day people demand romantic gestures is a fucking panty-melter if ever there was one.

Step 2: Flowers

Can you drive to the nearest flower shop? Can you pay $20 for a dozen roses? Well then aren't you just a regular fucking Casanova. What better way to tell your loved ones how special they are then by giving them the exact same thing everyone else is getting?

Step 3: Chocolates

Much like your relationship, most of the chocolates look good at first glance, but upon further inspection, the better part of them are just absolute shit. Chances are, she'll eat the five good ones then throw out the twenty or crap chocolates that absolutely fucking no one likes.

Step 4: The Movie

What's that? You want to go see a well-written movie with competent acting and professional directing? Well fuck you Mr./Mrs. Elitist, because you're going to pay good money to see one of the various shitty Romantic-Comedies that Hollywood seems content to crap out for this exact season and you're going to fucking like it.

Step 5: The Card

And here's where it all comes together. You could write an honest, staightforward letter about you true feelings, but emotions and independent thought are for pussies, which is why James Cameron now has more money than God. Considering that most people write at a third grade level (which shouldn't be all that surprising considering your education program is based on The Three R's, a system where 66% of the curriculum is spelled incorrectly), you're best bet is to buy a mass produced Valentine's Day card, because impersonal corporations who have never met you know exactly how you feel.

Just follow those five steps and I guarantee you will be up to your neck in pussy. Happy fucking Valentine's Day. Weep for humanity.

Monday, February 8, 2010

Bad Romance: The Start Of The 1st Annual Anti-Love Week

It's Valentine's week, and as you all know, I fucking despise Valentine's. Hate it. Hate hate hate hate hate. Honestly, I hate VD more than life itself. Therefore, I have declared this week to be Anti-Love Week here at NOBN, which (as you might expect) is seven days of pure, unadulterated hate to balance out the capitalist, faux-sentimentality of VD. To kick things off, here's a first in a series of honest Valentine's Day Cards. Give it to someone you love hate this Valentine's Day!

Hey Look, I'm On TV!

Yup, this is me on The Rotten Tomatoes Show. Spiffy, huh?

Sunday, February 7, 2010

New York I Love You, But You're Bringing Me Down (...That's What She Said)

My birthday weekend this year started the way it usually ends: By getting pulled over by the police. I was on my way to NYC, when my father, forgetting to wish me a Happy Birthday before I left, decided to call me up while I was driving down. Unfortunately, I picked up literally two seconds away from a cop, and so, I started off my birthday by getting scolded by a state trooper in a doofy hat and a purple tie. Thankfully, I know how to talk my way out of a ticket (Mentioning the fact that it was my birthday every other sentence didn't exactly hurt either.)

New York City itself was something of a wonder to behold. The moment I saw the skyline, Empire State of Mind started playing on the radio, which would probably sound like a boldfaced lie if it wasn't for the fact that American radio stations play five songs and only five songs. Still, it gave me a bit of the wiggin's.

Our first stop was of course Time Square because everyone knows that when you go to New York, you have to see Time Square. Seriously, I think it's a law. If you don't, the NYPD actually hunts you down and beats you. Well, not really, but you get the point: Go see Time Square. Actually, it was pretty amazing, especially at night. Actually, on the way there we ran into who I think was Lil Wayne, which resulted in this conversation with my cousin Lyndsey:

Me: That was Lil Wayne.

Lyndsey: I think it was too. Let's go back.

Me: Nah, he kinda looks like a Cabbage Patch Kid.

Granted, we don't know for sure, since we didn't exactly chase him down and demand photo ID, but in all fairness, he was short, had the same hair, the same face tattoos...All of it. So yeah, we're sticking to that story.

Afterward, we went to Moma, which for a free exhibit was actually kinda fucking boring, and to make that even worse, the Tim Burton Show was sold out. Bummer. Although I did get a picture with a big blue thing, which was pretty cool too...I guess. I mean, it's big, and it's blue, and Tim Burton-ey. Yay?
But that was all okay, because the day after, we went to 30 FUCKING ROCK. Mind you, it looks NOTHING like the 30 Rock on TV which may have something to do with the fact that they don't actually shoot any of it inside 30 Rock, which really sort of seems like false advertisement, but who cares?! We got to see the SNL band rehearsing, which was fucking FANTASTIC. Actually, the only thing better was the oddly obsessive guy on the tour who kept asking questions that only a crazy stalker fan would know.

From there, we went to Central Park and Ground Zero and Chinatown (which for some reason beyond me warrants being mentioned in the same breath as the first two) which I really wouldn't have minded if it weren't for the fact that it is FUCKING COLD in NYC. Seriously, for city that is further south, and covered with properly-heated buildings, how are you guys even colder than Montreal? And why does everyone in NYC dress their dogs in sweaters? It's not like Kahlua ever came in from the cold and went "Hey, the snow is great and all, but know what I could use? A nice winter jacket. Maybe with a fur trim around the hood. That would be great. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to steal all your socks and hide them under my bed."
What I really wanted out of all of this? Cupcakes. Apparently, NYC is all about the cupcakes, and you know me, I loves me my food. All I wanted was a fucking cupcake, and instead, I kept getting dragged around Chinatown while people kept offering me fake-ass cubic zirconia Tiffany knock-offs. Hey, if I wanted Tiffany's, I'd go to Tiffany's. But I wanted a freaking cupcake, and I was going to get my freaking cupcake.

Thankfully, we eventually made our way to Magnolia Bakery, where Lyndsey, Marisa and I waited in the longest line ever for a cupcake. But honestly? SO worth it. The frosting alone is worth it really. The best part about it was that while we ate our tasty little cupcakes in the park by the shop, a Sex And The City tour group passed us by. I'm not sure if you've ever seen one of these, but hooooooo boy that is a very special kind of crazy. I liked the show as much as the next gay, but the way these women hung on there guide's every word was so sad it looped around from funny, passed sad again, and went back to funny.
Anyway, after we got back to the hotel and I had a nice hot shower, I went out to a birthday dinner/return trip to Magnolia with Vince Lambert, who gave me the single greatest calendar ever willed into existence by the internet. Honestly, considering my track record with men, this is the closest thing to a boyfriend I will ever allow myself to have. Awesome! Thanks Vince!
But sadly, all good things come to an end, and we had to head back. Anyway, it was Lyndsey, Marisa and I in one car and two other girls in a car following us. To guide us home, I borrowed Mama Feist's GPS, which she for some reason felt the need to program with an Irish accent. This lead to some confusion (apparently, a "motorway" is like the Irish version of a highway. Who knew?) This was not helped by the fact that the two others in the car kept making suggestions about which way to go, and the fact that the GPS has a tendency to scold you for forgoing its directions. Needless to say, early into the trip I ended up switching lanes at the last minute and watched as the other girls drove off in the completely wrong direction. Whoops.

Still, not a bad way to celebrate my ability to go an entire year without dying. And we did get some pretty good "That's what she said!"s out of it. This one being my personal favourite...
...That's what she said!

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Shut Up Woman, Get On My Horse!

I honestly have no way of explaining what the fuck is going on with this video. It involves a horse, and watching it will cause you to completely and totally lose your final remaining shreds of sanity. Seriously, I've been muttering "Sweet lemonade, sweet sweet lemonade" to myself the ever since I saw it. Might be a tad NSFW, due to a brief glimpse of cartoon horse winky...which apparently is the image that represents the video up there. Sorry about that. Probably should have given you a heads up or something. Oh well, there's no unseeing something like that, so I guess you're fucked, huh?

Monday, February 1, 2010

Things I'll Never Say

Yes, I stole this from Lainey, but to be fair, she stole this from a Hobo (or something) so it's all good! Anyway, here's a list of things you'll never hear me say:

  • Aw man, you know what's fun? Flossing twice a day!
  • Tila Tequila totally deserved that Academy Award for Best Actress.
  • I think I've had enough Diet Coke for one day.
  • I'm going to stop wearing leather and eating meat, and join PETA!
  • 30 Rock? No thanks. I'd much rather watch The Tonight Show with Jay Leno.
  • Does this cookie come in a tasteless, calorie-free variety?
  • I vow never to let a single drop of alcohol pass these lips ever again.
  • Man, I could totally go for some pussy right about now.
  • I'm going to quit porn and become a man of the cloth.
  • Sorry Matthew Rush, but my type of guy would have to be someone anorexically thin, hairless, and with absolutely no tattoos whatsoever.
  • My ass is too fat.
  • Only one more week of throwing up and I'll finally reach my goal weight of 120 pounds!
  • You know, I could probably go a week without my iPod.
  • I don't miss Clyde at all.