Yanks eat wierd
This weekend I had the privilege of attending an American wedding courtesy of my cousin Lacey whom I barely know. I was really going because my sister was allegedly showing up, a sister whom I barely see, for this wedding of my cousin whom I barely know. Irony comes in the form of bare disappointment when she (the sister) inexplicably cops out and I am left to enjoy the company of my brother (a plus), my Mormonly mother (a minus), and about 50 other relatives that I had never met. Parents-to-be, spare your spawn a world of awkwardness and keep the mini-me’s to a minimal numeral. Much anticipation and false interest can be prevented with plain, straight-forward foresight.
“Hi. We’re related, but frankly, there’s too many of us for me to give a damn about you. Nice to meet you though.” The unspoken speaks for itself.
The union was short and sweet, and after a rough hour of post-union familial banter we were off to the reception for grub. Shamefully no alcohol was served, but Mormons don’t drink booze now, do they? They don’t drink caffeine either, but then what’s this? Diet Pepsi? Dr. Pepper? Score one for me! If I can’t get sloshed I can at least get overly chatty and excuse myself early just as easily. All the crying babies running around got to me pretty quickly too. The thing was, however, that it seemed they were all raised communally, or more specifically, a teary-eyed child could run up to any given adult and receive instant comfort and consolation. They were so trusting with their kids, hell I could have made a few bucks on the black market.
“Your over-confidence is your weakness.”
“Your faith in your friends is yours. Conservative babies! Come and get your conservative babies while they’re still in disciplinable tears! I’ve got two-years, I’ve got four-years. No home is complete without subservient meat! Buy one today!”
Speaking of meat, there was no shortage to be found as far as wedding food went, and most of it was not of natural origin either. Luncheon meat in wraps, bulk-style chicken wings… I had, or rather was involved in a conversation in the line-up about how good the Costco meatballs were. Apparently their reputation preceded them. More aptly in my mind, if there was one food item on the table that gave off any premonitions it was the mysterious crock-pot filled with a barbecue/dark gravy like sauce with chunks of hot dog floating in it, evenly spaced to suggest that it was either a barbecue wiener stew or that those ahead of me had already filled up on the wiener part of it. It didn’t catch my curiosity in either possibility.
Afterwards I went to the movies with a cousin who I actually knew and one of her friends. We saw Julie & Julia. It was witty at best, but still far better than hanging out with my mom in her trailer watching something of equal or lesser enjoyment.
Just how bad can a band suck?
How about this much?
The Red Room was alive last night with the sound of tonal death to all open ears and minds. Those responsible: Vancouver “rockers” Tarl. Four ne’er-do-wells flopped around on stage representing their lack of individuality by playing the same four-chord “doodooka! doodooka!” songs that a plethora of bands before them have ground into mindless dust while a poorly blinged up frontman wailed about “tonight” and “alright” to an indifferent crowd.
The worst part of it all? Pre-recorded samples of lead guitar and back-up vocals. Solos would come in seemingly before the guitarists were prepared to play them, and on occasion the guilty one would simply turn around in an attempt to hide that he really had no idea what he was doing. Meanwhile those singing back-up were also obviously unprepared, and came in to the microphone too far behind to match what the vocals actually sounded like. It was like watching a whole band of Ashley Simpson.
My only consolation was to laugh at them, instead of with them, though that quickly faded and I was left with aching cheeks and even more sore ears. At least I was drinking.
The most baffling part of the whole yuppie-fest was that the band actually had a decent following (though you wouldn’t know it by the audience), an album and had shared the stage with such “great acts” as Nickelback and Finger Eleven (chortle). My conclusion is that at least two of the band members have really rich dads who are wasting a lot of money and don’t know it yet.
8 amazing things I have done that you should be jealous of because you are essentially inadequate in every conceivable way!
Yes, you heard me correctly, earth-meat. While you have been eating hot dogs and watching Friends reruns, I have accomplished the following, which I shall present as braggartly as I feel is necessary:
1. Played frisbee with a drunk goat, and won.
2. Found a banana that was remarkably reminiscent of Ted Bundy’s penis, and auctioned it on ebay for a hefty sum, despite the banana having aids.
3. Been arrested for juggling wine bottles in downtown Vancouver (i’m really bad at juggling, and had been warned multiple times); I then seduced the guard in order to escape my jail cell, and managed to get arrested again for doing essentially the same thing as before.
4. Jacked off in between two peices of bread and fed it to a homeless person. There’s nothing sluttier than a hungry homeless man.
5. Met the original Lassie (in a dream).
6. Took an 87 year old man’s virginity (also in a dream).
7. Individually married and divorced each of the Olsen twins without them ever knowing it.
8. Constructed a life sized model of the Starship Enterprise entirely out of quack grass and guinea pigs I’d murdered with a hammer, then promoted myself to captain and fought with the Klingons in my mind.
For further re-education, I urge you to order the imagination pills from our online store, and to order my book, Making Love to a Wet Sponge While Operating Heavy Machinery.


Reggie woke up in a groggy haze to the hip hop stylings of 50 Cent playing from his tinny alarm radio. Saturday. 10:30 am. His mouth tasted like a monkey had shat in it, and in his drowsy state, he stopped and considered the possibility that one had.