Thursday, August 25, 2005

When two unicyles meet.

Yesterday, while waiting for the Queen's City Yacht Club tender at York Quay, I saw two kids (siblings, I believe) collide while riding their unicycles.
They were following their father, who was on a proper BI-cycle. (clearly Darwin chooses him, and not his offspring, to advance)

I was a little upset that they didn't fall into the lake, as I've always wanted to dive in and rescue something spontaneously, like in the movies. Typical male hero complex, I know; but Thunderdome needs heroes.

I don't know what possessed them to roll down through the York Quay on unicycles at that time of day--it's a real cluster-fuck with all the tourists and pigeons. Likely just showin' off.


One of my close friends took up the unicycle "to meet girls". Seriously. Believe it.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

How to Do Absolutely Everything!

On two occasions recently someone has come to my blog looking for instruction on "how to miscarry".

Jeeez-us!

All you had to do was ask. Check out this Irish website for some great pointers on how to carry, and miscarry, items during a move.

Hope it helps.

Catholic a-No-Go!

I was at a wedding recently which led me to think the following unsavory thought:
I wish Catholics would burn in Hell.

I was in a Catholic Church at the time, so you'll pardon me for already being in a bad mood.

Maybe not ALL Catholics; just the ones who believe being Catholic is so cool and being Anglican is so NOT. Like the Mother of the Bride on this particular day, for example.
We were hitting a nice groove about one and a half hours (that IS NOT a typo) into the service when the Most Reverend Toothless led his flock in an intonation of "The Lord's Prayer". I was an altar boy for years and years in a High Anglican Church, and can still remember a time in school when we had to actually SING 'Oh Canada', SPEAK 'The Lord's Prayer', and READ from the Bible (a long time ago, I know)--so I take to 'The Lord's Prayer' like a fish to water. Could do it in my sleep.
But THE CATHOLICS, unbeknownst to me, have some half-assed abbreviated version that omits some of my favorite bits of Deity ass-kissing--the Kingdom, Power, and Glory stuff--and substitutes in a few moments for the Reverend to moan on about something--I don't know what--before finishing the regular way. Needless to say, I kept rolling on "The Lord's Prayer" while the rest of the parishioners fell noticeably silent.

Great.

Now everyone knows I'm Anglican. Terrific.

As if I wasn't enough of an outsider, then the Reverend Father forbids--FORBIDS--me from taking Communion. Now, to be truthful, he didn't single me out personally and say:

R- "Everyone! Come and have a bit of Christ with me! Except you, B, unclean beast that you are."

No. Instead he gets all timid, like a kid forced to apologise for saying something completely honest, yet completely inappropriate, and says:

R- "Now, in the Catholic Church, Communion is a sacred right. . ." blah blah blah ". . .and I ask that only people baptized in the Catholic Church partake."

The fuck you say?
I don't recall Jesus--a Jew--being too fussy about who He shared his wine with. Hell, He even let the dude who was to betray HIm get crunked. Why so picky now, Catholic Church?

Supposedly I could have gone up and crossed my arms and received a blessing--but fuck that shit--the reason I can't get the drinky-drinky in the first place is because I'm going to Hell for being Anglican; what on Earth do I need this guy's blessing for? So he can get some wood being close to a Devil? Bah!

So I sat it out, steaming like I've never steamed before.

AND THEN, to top it all off, during the "Sharing the Peace" part of the service (hour two) when people are supposed to be nice to each other and actually share some PEACE, the mother of the bride turns to me, shakes my hand, and says:

MOB- "Learn your 'Our Father'."

BEEEEE-ATCH! The words you're looking for are 'Peace be with you, brother.'

I know my "Lord's Prayer"; I'll learn this so-called "Our Father" when Christ falls off the cross!

I was so fit to be tied I just wanted to drown someone in the cistern.
But I didn't.
Nearly, though.

Thank God for Summer's Army!

The biggest and best difference between Parkdale and Riverdale I've noticed so far?
The Ice Cream trucks!!!
Mr. Softee! Mr. Soft Serve! Dippity-Doo! Dairy King!
No matter where I am in the house, I can hear one of those delightful gentlemen rolling down my street with their merry tune dancing on the air, floating me out of my seat and onto a sea of fancy! Parkdale's finest hour!

Riverdale, on the other hand, only had the Knife Sharpener come to visit. Hearing the tinny clang of "The Blade Runner"s bell doesn't excite the imagination in the same way visions of slush puppies and twist cones do.

Of course, I never had to fight crack whores and degenerates for a place in line by the knife sharpening truck.

Reclining Hostility

There was this old bastard sitting on his walker at the end of my driveway this evening when I returned home. He looked like he was getting ready to auction off my SmartCar Dilton's spot to the next eager CNE visitor looking for cheap parking--dirty Capitalist!
He was most certainly from "Leisure World" down the block, as only residents from the said "retirement retreat" have eyes that are perfectly void of ambition.
I stopped the Smart, blinker engaged, and waited for him to haul his ass off his walker seat and shuffle to a more convenient bit of acreage. He didn't budge.
I gave a light toot of the horn in place of screaming, "Get. The fuck. Outtamyway!"
All that did was get him to focus his thousand yard stare at the impending doom idling before him, and heave a sigh--there were no other signs of life.
I wound my window down:

B- "Hey pal! Ya mind scootin' over a bit? You've picked a hell of a place to take a break."
A- "Scoot yourself!"
B- " . . . " (blink) "Come on, give me a break, buddy."
A- "You give me a break!"
B- "I will, if you insist. My car doesn't look big or mean, and it doesn't have 4 Wheel Drive; but its driver hasn't any conscience and will keep trying until he runs you over."
A- "Show some fucking respect for the elderly!"
B- "If you don't fucking move, I'll be paying my respects to the dead! Now scram!"

He wobbled to his feet, muttering cuss words the whole time under his breath, and shuffled out of the way about as slowly as molasses in winter. I rolled up my drive and parked with no further exchange.

Now I was all riled up, and fit to hunt bears with a stick. Of all the damn days to bump into a born-again slack-jawed teenager, and I run into one just minutes before I attempt to assemble my new barb-que. Shit.

Le Mew. Le Purr.

There is a skunk in Parkdale.
Likely more than one, but I've only had the pleasure of meeting the one who lives under our neighbours porch. Perfectly symmetrical white lines down his back, with a fluffy coat coloured stealthy black--the envy of his peers, no doubt.

I think he looks like a "Kevin".

And "Kevin" let's one rip every three nights RIGHT OUTSIDE OUR WINDOW. What he's spraying, I don't know; all I know is that he sure likes to cut the cheese. And I'd sure rather he didn't.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

My First Job: Whale Contraceptive Cleaner.

And I think Parkdale has a crime problem (present company excluded).

Check out this little bastard!

What in sam hell is that bugger going to do with a HUGE bag of natural gas? Make his whole house smell like a fart? Recreate the Hindenburg disaster for Science Fair? What??

Communists can be so retarded. Kids in a democracy steal shit they can use. Like candy bars.






I think Jack's mom would be even MORE PISSED if he sold the cow for a bag of natural gas; at least you can make soup with beans. . .then fill your own bag later. (da-dumdum) Thank you! You've been so kind! Good night, folks!

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

All creatures wet and wonderful. . .

. . .Parkdale has them all!

This evening, while my parents were visiting the 'Big Smoke' direct from the small town I grew up in, during a fine meal I prepared which we enjoyed on the porch, two different residents of "Leisure World" passed by.
They had both pissed their pants.
As Huggies Diapers once highlighted through demonstration: boys wet mostly in the front; while girls wet mostly in the back.

Now, sure HE could have dropped a soda in his lap; and SHE could have sat in the splashing pond near Queen St. . . but I highly fucking doubt it.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

True crime is nothing like 'Ocean's 11'.

The other night, while lording over some bottles of Steam Whistle like a despot, a great idea came to me.
I won't describe the great idea--it was to involve a theft of something relatively innocuous--but I will describe my plan. It involved a ladder which I likely shouldn't have been thinking about climbing, considering how many wow-ee pops I'd had to inspire me in the first place; nevertheless, my loving E turned me loose on an unsuspecting Parkdale, and I was ready for some Pink Panthering.
This 'recipe for disastrous hijinx' had but two ingredients: the first being myself; the second being a ladder.
I had myself.
Earlier in the week I had noticed a ladder in my neighbour's back yard--PERFECT!
I now possessed all the ingredients necessary. . .or did I?

Dressed in black, not by design, I shuffled into the neighbour's backyard, grabbed the ladder, and proceeded to walk away nonchalantly. My 'just out for a stroll in Parkdale under the cover of night' demeanour (an activity which, in truth, doesn't exist--EVERYONE 'strolling' in Parkdale at night is "working") lasted only until I ran out of arm's length; then the ladder, which refused to follow, and my hands (which refused to let go) worked in tandem to bring me flat on my back.
What. The. Fuck.
Being a bit on the 'tight' side, I stood, gave the ladder a scowl, and then grabbed it and gave another pull.
Still nothing.
Pull pull pull.
Nothing nothing nothing.
I couldn't budge the damn thing, and the whole time I'm thinking, "This puny ladder's got nothin' on me!".

That's when I heard, "Hello?", followed by a bunch of whispering.

Hearing someone's voice call to me brought about the gravity of my situation: I was dressed in black in someone's backyard wrestling with a ladder. It likely didn't look too good.
I kicked into acting mode, looked towards the sky and around the yard like I was confused or dumbstruck, then zig-zagged back down the driveway.

Two minutes later I was safely in my house watching ALL the neighbours search their 'estate' with flashlights and rakes.

Two days later, while my lovely E was having a visit with her bridesmaids from the 'burbs' (who already think we'll die a grisly death at the hands of some deranged crack whore) when our upstairs neighbour stopped to tell the ladies:

G- "Now E, I don't want you to worry, but two nights ago the next door neighbours had a PROWLER. He was trying to get a ladder to do God knows what, and one of them scared him away."

E's bridesmaids eyes are larger than saucers by now.

E- (in rehearsed horror)"Oh my!"

G- "Now, don't worry, THE POLICE WERE CALLED, and everything should be okay. Just maybe keep your windows closed."

E- "Okay. I will."

Cue the bridesmaids losing their shit, only to be comforted by E stating under her breath, "B was the prowler."

Do they make greeting cards they say something to the effect, "Sorry I was prowling around your yard last night. . ."?

Saturday, August 13, 2005

Two words for the Liberal Party: Soylent Green.

On Spencer Ave, in glorious Parkdale, is a place called 'Leisure World'. Far from the haven for nerds into model trains and D&D that I recall from my youth, this so-called Leisure World is just the type of place I'd send my aging stepfather if he beat me as a child.
Instead of flowers, Leisure World sows it's gardens with half-wits and attention-starved elderly.
They're everywhere.
There is one man of particular note who, though saddled to a wheelchair, lives life without boundaries; unfortunately, one of the boundaries he now flaunts pertains to the sensible use of a public thoroughfare--for daily I encounter him asleep at his wheels in the middle of the street. The advantage of driving a Smart Car is generally I can maneuver around him.

He does exhibit an uncommon trust in Toronto drivers; I wouldn't sleep in the middle of ANY Toronto street, no matter how much physical mobility I stood to lose.

Polar Bear Camoflauge

It's official.
I've just finished moving into my new home in Parkdale, and already the accolades have started piling up.
Through an empirical evaluation of Spencer Ave, I have determined that I, B, am shirtless more often than any other crack whore or dementia-addled old fart on the street. The second and third floor residents have encountered me SHIRTLESS on average once a day since the start of the month. In that time they have seen me do the following things shirtless:
drink a beer;
use a circular saw;
take out the garbage;
dump waste illegally;
relax on my porch in a large round chair.

In short, I've settled into Parkdale living just fine. I'm showing some promising signs of assimilating with the riff-raff long before the chilly season, when shirts must be wore rather than tied around the waist.

How did I become such a skid?