Thursday, March 31, 2005

Young George Washington played by Jack Nicholson.

I have resisted the urge for far too long.

I'm going to tell you all a tale my mother wouldn't want you to know, because she's polite, and courteous, and respects the feelings of others.
Those atributes must have skipped a generation.

But this is a secret story, so keep your traps shut--Mum's literally the word, fuckers.

So Mumsey (M) works with this gal we'll call A. She's a real go-er, and continually keeps the town busy-bodies well stocked with fresh gossip to exchange over coffee or bridge. The sweetest gossip about her, however, had nothing to do with A boffing so-and-so's husband, or drinking too much and popping a squat on Main St., or going outside during winter without sensible shoes--oh no. In this tale A plays only the role of Innocence.

Thirty years ago when rubber met pavement, and the roar of a finely-tuned Harley filled the air, rubber did not make a vital connection elsewhere, and so A was born.
Nothing slows an easy rider down more than stopping to buy soft serve ice cream for some brat, or pulling over to throw a tit in some rug rat's mouth; so mom went one way, dad the other, and baby was left to be raised by grandma.
Classy people, eh?
Some time when A was a kid, her dad hooks up with some new old lady, then promptly murders her with an axe.

Yes. An axe.
And you know what murdering someone with an axe makes you--an AXE MURDERER.

Her father was an AXE MURDERER.
I bet you didn't even know such a thing truly existed, did you?

I didn't.

Neither did M's boss, M'sB, when he came in to work one morning chuckling away to himself.
What was so funny? Glad you asked.
M'sB had just read that some dude with the same last name as A, and who was an axe murderer jailed in Kingston, had just died.
"Someone related to you, A? Har har har!"

. . .and the 2004 Foot In Mouth Award goes to. . .

My mother won't admit it (because she's polite and considerate, you'll recall), but the look on her boss' face when A said "OMIGOD! OMIGOD! That's my DAD!!" must have been a classic.
What are the odds, eh?
Your dad's a convicted axe murderer--he dies--and you're the last one to find out.
And they way you find out is some clown you work with pulling a nudge-nudge wink-wink routine.
From Office Hero to Office Zero in five seconds flat. The thing that haunts me about this story is: that could have just as easily been me cramming foot.

The footnote of this story is (and I have it by good report from my mother and two childhood friends who have each done some light lifting at her home, if you follow me) she leaves the teevee on for her father. . .who now sits patiently in an urn on her kitchen table.

"Dad gets lonely."

His favorite show? Lumberjack Challenge on OLN.

i made that last bit up.

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Sorry Mr. Jobs--"I'd Rather Have Jesus"

Today I purchased a brand spanking new Mac G4 iBook.

It's a thing of beauty.

With luck it will improve my blogging habits.
Realistically, it won't.

Lacking a mouse pad, I've turned to my RCA Victor Stereophonic recording of George Beverly Shea's "How Great Thou Art" (arranged by Ralph Carmichael!!). It seems to work out very well. The added benefit of having G. B. Shea condemning me with his eyes curbs my internet porn searches.
Please, if you happen to know that this record album is worth thousands of dollars DON'T TELL ME. I've been dragging a mouse across it all day, and have likely ruined its patina.

I had toyed with the idea of calling this entry:
"Give me Jesus, or Give Jesus Death!"

It's too close to Easter to be funny.
God will make my chocolate bunnies taste bitter.

Thursday, March 24, 2005

Best. Job. Ever.

At some point in high school, I began thinking about what I wanted to be when I grew up.
As a young boy I had answered the question with the truth of the time: "I want to be a policeman!" I illustrated my desire with a stick B wearing a cop hat, shooting hyphens at a burglar who lay dead, x's where his eyes should be, in a pool of red. The sun, as he always did in my illustrations, had a big smile on his face as he looked down upon the carnage.

I received a "Good Job!" and a stamp of an elephant wearing a sailor's cap from my teacher for my effort.

High school led me to think that perhaps I was too much of a wuss for policing, and shouldn't it be a nicer life just pretending to a police officer in the movies and on teevee.
So actor it was.

I met a gentleman on Parliament St. the other day who chose a much different path from both the Young B and the Present B: he turned on and off the ignitions of a sheik's Mercedes Benz collection. All day. Every day.

To describe him, I can't avoid telling you that he had one proper arm, and one that was more like a chicken wing. That was not his key turning arm, thankfully, or heaven knows what he would have grown up to do!

The SmartCar, which I may or may not begin calling Dilton after Archie Comic mainstay Dilton Doiley (who was the smartest person I knew growing up) served as Matchmaker for this platonic meeting of two men with little to do. I was waiting for one of my beer customers to open her doors; he had a shipping tube which his chicken wing was flipping around like a baton--neither of us particularly busy.

The conversation grew so quickly from Smart-centric questions to "I worked for a sheik in Dubai who was so stupid!" that I don't even recall how he and I got in Dubai. But with an opener like that, I quickly forgot all about Dilton and threw myself headlong into the "Arabian Nights" tale unfolding before me.

"Every day I turned on each of the sheik's 160 Mercedes, let them run for 10 minutes, then turned them off. I had a stopwatch."
A was answering a question I suppose he saw in my eyes; more accurately, my eyes were saying "What the fuck!?" not "However did you know when the 10 minutes were up?"

"For this I was paid $100,000 American dollars! Which is very good money. But this sheik was so stupid. He was illiterate! He couldn't even write his own name! He could afford to pay me $100,000 American dollars, but he couldn't buy himself some sense!"

I was more happy at this moment than I had been all week! And it was THURSDAY! This man, A, was making my day a classic!

"He thought that I had caught the eye of one of his 20 wives--he had 20 wives! it's true!--and came to me one day. He told me, 'I know that you are trying to fuck one of my wives, and I want you to leave. Here is one million dollars. Go.' So I went. And it was not true that I was trying to (hand gesture roughly like that of throwing a jab in boxing) his wife; but he had so many wives that he couldn't fuck them all himself! He would fuck one for maybe one week, or two--a month if she was really hot--then leave her and marry another. He was so stupid! All these wives and he couldn't fuck them all!"

Such a waste! I swore, silently, that I would never marry so many wives that I could not sex them all up. The key would be to have a great personal organizer.

There was no stopping my new friend! How'd he leave Dubai with a million dollars?
"Taped to my body--that much money is heavy and hot to wear!" (I'm sure that I'll never know)

Were there any other jobs? Perhaps I could get a sweet job, too?
"He had twenty or thirty Phillipino servants, because they were small, and he fucked all of them too! Men and women! And he gave them a thousand dollars to keep them quiet."

I suggest passing on that job if you see it come up on

Was there a uniform?
"One day I took him to a market, because he wanted a new robe. We found this robe made from baby camel hair--the mother was killed, then the baby pulled out and skinned--and the sheik wanted this. He paid way too much for it; but he had no sense!"

How much is too much for a robe made from aborted camel baby fur, really?

I was heartbroken when the restaurant owner showed up, bringing an end to my deeply engrossing conversation with A about the "dumbest sheik in Dubai"; but all good things in life must come to an end.

Waving goodbye, I couldn't help wondering how someone gets to a point in their life when they get paid great money to do something so beautifully simple--something they love. . .
. . .then I took a nice long pull off my Steam Whistle, which I am obliged to have as part of my Sales duty (we like to call it 'rotating the stock') and thought about what to have off the menu.

Work work work.

Friday, March 18, 2005

Wanted: Cowboy for 'Village People' Tribute Band--NO POSERS!

There are a few specific types of people in the world that I would want to survive a nuclear holocaust.

A short list includes: people who dance like no one is watching; people who's glass is always half-full; people who do as they please; people who don't spend their lives up to the holocaust appologizing.

Those fit for extinction are: people that have desk calendars imploring them to "Dance like no one is watching!", "The glass is always half-full!", "If it feels good, DO IT!"; namby-pambies.

While my twin brother C and I were in Edmonton on business, we saw a man fit to repopulate the Earth after a cataclysmic event (and would likely enjoy the challenge of all that sexin').

The Sandman Hotel in Edmonton has a grotto of sorts, complete with an indoor pool, hot tub, and astro turfed picnic table area--a very relaxing and social atmosphere. The rooms of the Sandman overlook this grotto; some rooms even have patio doors opening on it.

At one in the morning, mountain time, there came a whoopin' and a hawlerin' from this grotto which C and I could not resist investigating. Earlier, there had been some teens enjoying booze at the picnic tables while a fella and his mother relaxed in the hot tub. By the sounds of it, the relaxing was officially over.

Peeking out from our second floor room, there below us was a rail thin, 60-something-year-old in tight Levi jeans and a huge, white, ten gallon hat. He hollered for everyone to stay exactly where they were--he'd be right back! For the deaf, his broad gestures communicated the same message, with the same enthusiasm.

C and I smacked our lips and poured a scotch.

Moments later, the Cowpoke returned to the pool deck (running) in nothing but his ten gallon, some tighty briefs in tastful navy, and a huge lit cigar. As if that wasn't a big enough statement, he put an exclaimation mark on it by dropping a perfect cannon ball into the hot tub. The son and mother didn't even see it coming.

The high-jinx he got up to befit a man one third his age--he was powered by what must have been enough booze to drop an ox, and an unchecked libido in full bloom. Finally, to conserve energy, he began floating in the pool like a corpse adrift.

Neither C or I saw what happened to his cigar.

As the evening began to wind up, thanks to some fat killjoy from the front desk who, at 2:30am came and, in a "Romper Room" voice said, 'Let's pretend that it's 5 to 10, okay? Five more minutes!', I made a mad sprint across our dark room to get my camera. Don't ask me why, but i desperately wanted to have a picture of this perfect specimen of 'homo parti animalus'; but the room was impossible to navigate!

Crashing around, grabbing at everything in the dark room like a drowning mariner, I hit the lightswitch. This, in turn, illuminated C pressed against the window wearing nothing more than his tighty navy briefs. He went into shock and, rather than take evasive action, stood perfectly still like a chameleon.

I am sad to report that, by the time I had camera in hand, it was already too late. The cowboy was gone.

Leaving only a girl with massive fake tits in a flimbsy white Hooters bikini, attempting to have sex with her "friend" in the pool.

damn it all.

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility

The beauty of blogs is that anyone can do it.

"From A to B" is certainly an example of just some Johnny Canuck whiling away at the records of his day, never really attempting any high falootin' political discourse, or sharing anything too painful or profound. Mind you, one can find plenty of what my blog lacks at other blogs.
For instance, Mortgage talk!
Some folks just can't stop themselves once they get started writing about something they love, I guess.

In many ways "Nathan" has become a Mortgage guru to Googlers just as I have become the first, last, and only word on Shitzus. Humbling as it is to know that "From A to B" is such a gross disappointment to someone looking for help during their Shitzu-related crisis, I'm not nearly as active as the guy at Printinginfo in garnering hits. The 3 per week I get, after Shitzu-inflation is removed, is plenty.

incidentally, if you look at "Nathan"'s profile, you'll notice that he employs 5 other blogs to get the mortgage word out. Literally, just the word "mortgage", though he has tried to corner the market on "cancer", "insurance" and "Freddie Mac".
The power of blogging to the people!!