Dear Patrick (Number 1)

Dear Patrick,

I’m not sure who, at which point in your life, taught you that walking into someone’s office while they're in mid-sentence (on the phone or with a guest) and proceed to wordlessly bend down next to them and try to lift them out of their chair to try and ‘fireman carry’ them into the hallway. Don’t get me wrong, I love the look of triumph on your face when you succeed, and I love even more the look of sadness when you fail, it’s just that sometimes it’s inappropriate to lift people up. Also, why do you whisper encouragement to yourself?

Further to the lifting issue, I’m going to have to ask you to please stop playing the game ‘Black King, White Queen’ with the chess sets in my office. You’ve now broken  both black kings (not going to accuse you of transferring your race issues onto my chess pieces...I’m going to, for my own sake, say it’s coincidence) and have made no attempt to repair them; looking at them helplessly, then at me with shame hoping I’ll either forget or forgive you... I will do neither by the way... praying the manager of operations will sweep in with the right kind of glue (from his OM utility belt?...which is just cigarettes, whiskey, and anger) and he has yet to.

Finally, please stop awkwardly asking to borrow a ‘twensky’. Say the word twenty. Also you don’t need to explain what it’s for. It always hurts your case. Also justifying your reasoning further hurts your case. When saying you’re taking out a new Polish immigrant (“straight off the bizzoat”) of 16 years old... The look of disgust and pity on the faces of your contemporaries at the office isn’t an invitation to offer justification, it’s just genuine expression of those feelings. Also stating “Well my 19 year old girlfriend has aged terribly” is so horrifying words fail me.

In conclusion, I applaud you on your lifestyle choices in so far as they provide us all with an endless supply of stories and feeling better about ourselves by comparison. Shine on you crazy diamond.

Sincerely,

Newsy

I took all his money, then his soul.

As I anger walk through the crowded train station to avoid the -20 degree wind, I begin to wonder... are these people staring at me because of my phenomenal mutton chops, or because I look so intense and (I think) handsome? I chuckle as I say out loud ‘both!’ so boisterously a nearby mother pulls her noticeably startled child away in the opposite direction.

Having recently removed a rather nasty curse, and everyone back to normal, I’m in an understandably good mood. I bought soup on my way to work, and decided to dust off my smoulder for the soup lady. As she poured soup into her lap, I’m just going to call it a win and high-five myself. The weather is improving, the cloud of misfortune is lifted and I resume training today.

Training is a party. Fortunately I don’t have to start from scratch like last time. Garbage bag sauna suits under sweatshirts and suicide worthy training sessions. But such is the price when you spend years in a hazy not caring about anything daze. Now I get to train like a normal person. Well pretty aggressive training comparatively, but still normal. I plan on dropping to 200 even, 5% body fat (By June 1...Bank on it). Currently 218, no idea the BF%. I drop to 199/200 I get to fight in a better weight class, which is good, cause as much fun as fighting a guy who is 6’8 310 lbs is (and it’s a hoot) I’m somewhat less inclined to lose teeth and break my nose these days.

I bring up fighting as while out celebrating a friend’s admittance to a phd program last week, he got a wee bit inebriated and decided to shout horrific things at the gathering of out of town drunkards on their hotel balcony who promptly came down to settle matters. He was slightly less brave with them standing directly behind him, silent and gesturing aggressively. His associate, who had also been yelling having left moments before their arrival, my friend and co-worker anger ball loud and angry but unable to be hit in the head due to many concussions and danger of death and his lovely wife Diane... somehow angry at me for allowing this situation to arise... it seemed pretty clear that if there was to be a fight, it would pretty much be me against the four of them, which means me focussing on the biggest asshole there, and hurling myself so aggressively at him that the others would presume me insane and run away. It’s my go to in a situation like that, and yes it has happened before. Not since I was like 19 though. I am a grown up now! I should not have to defend drunk adults from other drunk adults. But the situation never arose, and we all just awkwardly walked away. So back to training it is.

Also on Friday, after winning every penny from all participants in our traditional weekly poker game (part of that tradition is me winning every time) being flustered and certain of his eventual victory, one associate, I’ll name Mat, wagered his very soul. Which I won. My CTO mentioned ‘you know they won’t want to come back if every week you win all their physical and metaphysical goods’. You are right sir, but now I got another soul. I’m thinking of a new division of Awesome Inc.

Yessir... Got cursed... For realz.

So turns out I was cursed. Literally cursed. Someone felt so strongly that they actually implemented a full-on, ancient curse to ruin me. Now I know what you’re thinking imaginary reader, that there’s no such thing as a curse. Now I’m not saying ‘up yours buddy, there totally is’ I’m just going to say that if this curse, placed on me at the end of August, was intended to actually ruin my life as much as is possible throughout it’s duration, then mission accomplished. If it was a nonsense thing, then I pissed off God something fierce.

Anywhoo, cursed. Not the first time either. But I solved the problem a little over a week ago and I’m back to kicking ass and chewing bubble gum. Seriously like night and day. Coincidence? Probably. Does it matter? Not at all. But seriously how messed up is that? How many people can honestly say they’ve been cursed. Several times. I’m weirdly proud, but concerned at the same time. Also, to what extent did this curse impact others and their interactions with me? Regardless super psyched I’m rocking it pretty hard now.

As I pace back and forth in superman pyjama bottoms eating a cookie and listening to a game of thrones audiobook while researching ancient middle-eastern mysticism and curse protection, I am forced to ask myself; could I rock any harder? I respond no to myself while laughing maniacally. With this weird curse business seen to, I have been refocusing efforts to conquer the world. I’m a little sad to say that I have to be more vigilant in curse protection... and occult warfare altogether.

So let that be a lesson to you all... when you’re going through Hell, keep going... and there’s a chance you may have been cursed.

Back to Basics

Now I know I’ve gotten away from my normal ‘how fucked up was my day?!?’ blog posts that made me famous to dozens of Canadians, a pile of Americans, and for some reason a bunch of people from Russia, Ukraine and Germany (dunka). I think that’s mostly cause I got sidetracked by a few personal things, a few professional things, a few unbelievable things, but fear not diligent readers! I’m back with a classic tale of I want to anger bang every employee of Bell/Videotron/whatever person decided to put this voodoo curse on me. At this point actually I’m fairly convinced there’s at least a dozen curses on me. Either that, or this, my 28^th year, is my trial year. I use the term trial year to describe the notion that this year is in fact trying to break me. I know this. I’ve accepted this. And you know what world? Imma fuck you up. I’ll take your surprise 23k lawyer bill. I’ll take the stalker. I’ll take the horrifying betrayal of loved ones. I’ll take the Habs for some reason slitting their wrists in the bathtub this ENTIRE GODDAMNED SEASON (I also believe my personal fortunes are directly related to how well the Habs are doing... seriously, I charted it out. It’s unreal how directly parallel it runs.) I’ll take the constant bills and late payments and delays. I’ll take the cold that won’t seem to leave me, the hydro bill, the riot tax, the constant jaywalking stings outside my office. I’ll take it all. I’ll take it and I’ll remember every goddamned second of it as I destroy you, world. I mean that in the positive ‘bring it on’ sort of way, not the terrifying ‘some men just want to watch the world burn’ sort of way. I’m all positive. SO FUCKING POSITIVE!!!!!!! (My jaw clenched so tight just then I think my already broken wisdom teeth just turned to powder)

Slight digression. Anyhoo, as I was saying. Fuck Bell. Right in it’s stupid face. I don’t even have the energy to write out the line by line phone call I had with the most infuriating customer service representative I’ve ever encountered. I am actually angered out. I have no more anger in me. Or to be more precise I have so much anger, that it’s taking an intermission while I chuckle at this cursed nonsense. ‘There’s no supervisor.’ ... ‘There’s no supervisor.... in the middle of the day... on a Wednesday... at all of bell.... not one person above your station... this is what you’re telling me?’... ‘yes, I’m it.’... That actually happened. Also she gave me her name and employee number to start the fucking conversation. Why in God’s name would you give that information if you were going to be so unhelpful? I will see you on a boat back to Kingston before I sleep, Bell-harpy. I vow it.

MANANA!

I have a nephew. He is 1½ years old. He loves the movie cars and toy story. His favourite thing to say is ‘Oh No!’ while pointing randomly. He refuses to stop moving even for a moment, even when sleeping. He likes to share, and when doing something wrong and getting caught, will continue to do said wrong thing, only much more slowly while maintaining eye contact as if him moving slowly will prevent you from seeing the wrong action. It’s the Jurassic Park approach to wrong doing. He also seems magnetically drawn to danger. He will make a B-Line straight to unattended stairs, will run towards the edge of tables, and I’m fairly sure if he found a pair of scissors or butterknife, would dive head and metal first into an electrical socket. My mother refers to this behaviour as ‘full of beans’. I disagree. This behaviour is more of a ‘full of deathwish’. I think it’s because he giggles all the time while doing it, and if you’re paying attention its pretty easy to stop him from climbing into the mouth of a grizzly or sucking on a blowtorch or something. But that’s the thing IT ONLY TAKES A SECOND! On a plane a few months ago I had him on the seat next to me, he purposely knocked his toy to the floor and the split second I took to grab it, he dove head first off the chair. The stewardesses looked at me as if I were horrible and neglectful and the old lady across the aisle mumbled ‘gotta watch em every second’... thanks old lady. I have Evil Kineval as a nephew. Watch him every second? He’s this fucking close to setting up flaming rings to jump through on his buzz lightyear bigwheel.

I love the little guy more than anything, but I am always relieved when I hand him back to his parents. I’m cautious, but easily distracted by shiny things. I can’t wait till he’s a bit older and I can be the uncle that has advice on usefull things like fighting and... not liking authority?... Alright, I may not be the greatest uncle, but my love is unconditional and my desire to help is genuine. Let the others teach him not to cut electrical wires, diving head first off the roof is bad, and that fire burns. Once he has a basic grasp of how to stay alive on his own, then i’ll get to shine.

Although I am concerned that my brother in law has weird views about bullies. Him being a teacher, and apparently never having been picked on a child, seems to have the whole ‘tell an adult and talk about feelings’ approach to bullies. I disagree. Now as Evil Kineval is his son, not mine, I will of course defer to his school of thought on the subject, but if lil evil comes up to me and says ‘Dad told me to tell a teacher, but it’s not helping, the bully’s going to beat me up after school.’ I’m probably going to teach him how to fight. Fortunately my sister got into more fights as a kid than I did, and will probably teach him to fight long before I get to. Which is definitely to his benefit. She’s terrifying when angry.

I also have the honour of being his Godfather, so I get to instruct him on all matters theological. I am very excited by this prospect. He’s going to be the only kid who can speak latin, greek and Hebrew, can name every ecumenical council, and can perfectly articulate which Hagiography is his favourite and why Protestantism is fundamentally flawed (It is). If he grows up to be an Atheist, Johova’s Witness, Mormon or Buddhist, I will be fine with it so long as he can explain in perfect detail why he’s making that decision. No nephew/godson of mine is going to be spouting off about organised religion being bad without being able to pinpoint EXACTLY why he believes so with absurd accuracy. I may disagree or think he’s wrong, but by God he will be BRILLIANTLY wrong. If he’s anything like me he’ll be quoting Aquinas to his first grade teacher. Knowing him, he’ll be able to do it while juggling knives and chainsaws.

Also, being unable to pronounce my name correctly, I have been dubbed uncle manana. There is great debate as to what it is closer to. Man, Nana, Banana, a combination of all three? Regardless, my family’s tradition is that the person will be called whatever the first grandchild calls them. So I will now forever be uncle manana. I’m alright with that.

Don’t pee in the water.

We had thought this was a normal jungle village, as these people seemed pretty jungle-y. Turns out that was not the case. These people were the aristocrats of the jungle world. We later had the opportunity to flee danger by stumbling into a different village, much further into the hell that is the jungle. We stopped dead in our tracks, as the few people standing in view stared at us like we were aliens. According to our guide Pepe, they had never seen white people before. Frankly I tend to believe him as when my sister took a picture with her camera and showed the ominous old lady the screen, she shrieked like she had seen the devil and ran. The entire village swarmed out to meet the chaos as they listened to the old lady shout and point. She then angrily pointed at the camera, and my sister a little worriedly took a picture of one of the men. He saw the screen and shouted in surprise and excitement. They all cheered (for reasons known only to them). He motioned for her to do it again, and she did, as he posed in a ‘I’m throwing this spear at my village friend here’ sort of way. The others swarmed in to see, but the subject of the picture was having none of it while knocking them over and tossing them all aside to get to the screen.

Long village jungle story short, a tiny boy (I named lil’ Pepe) in that village would NOT stop following me. It was creepy. He was like a friggin jungle-ninja. Ultimately, in the hut of the medicine man, he finally came up to me and pointed at my bandana. I took it off and handed it to him to SHOW him. He bolted like there was a giant spider chasing him (there could very well have been. I could have been a Spider contorted to look like Newsy. To eat Newsy). I sort of just stared as I realised that bandana was now gone forever. So I hope it served you well lil’ Pepe. But still... fuck you thief. I’d have given it if you had asked. Pfft. He’s probably been eaten by a spider by now anyways. And then that spider eaten by a spider. And that one eaten by a puma.

Did you know there’s a kind of fish... a little teeny tiny fish that is attracted to urine and will swim up your urethra if you pee anywhere near it, hook into your flesh, and the only way to get rid of it is to amputate? Neither did we. As Pepe mimed ‘hook onto the inside of your penis’ we could not tell for sure what he was trying to say to us. We all just nodded as he seemed to desperately want to impart this piece of information. Then I said ‘so... DON’T pee in the river?...’ and he nodded emphatically. To which my brother in law, clearly upset by this responded ‘can I stand next to the river and pee into it?’... ‘Why would you possibly want to do that?’... ‘I don’t know. Can I pee into a cup and throw it in the river?’ ... ‘Knock yourself out.’

As we waded through the waist deep water, trying to figure out if there are urethral muscles we could clench to make sure we didn’t get any unexpected visitors, I noticed the eerily calm jungle surrounding the water. It seemed to be unnatural. I dismissed the calm (cause fuck you jungle that's why) as I was planning on being eaten by a spider any moment anyways, and we came to the base of a waterfall. I don’t mean a little cute waterfall, I mean a big ass fucking waterfall. Like a fall and you’re dead 100 times before you hit the rocks below, waterfall. As Pepe scampered up the wet rocks in his bare feet and tiny hands, my sister, brother in law and I all looked at each other and without having to confer, I shouted (irritated) at Pepe, ‘Yo Pepe! None of us seem to posses your apparent ability to scale wet rocks unaided... lil’ help?’ ... the response came swiftly; a rope came flying down to us. I don’t recall how we all got to the top of that godforsaken waterfall, but we did. And we were both, elated that we laughed in the face of death yet again, and also furious that we had to do such a thing in the first place... yet again.

That is where the jungle adventure ends. We were there for another day, but after the waterfall I can not remember a thing until the airport. The weird thing is neither of the others can remember anything either. I’m just going to go ahead and presume I was drugged and gang raped by pumas and spiders. And spiders pretending to be pumas. To eat pumas. That’s the least upsetting option really.

Suddenly I’m startled awake at the airport by a horde of children trying to take my shoes off. They get one as I say ‘Why are you taking these terrible jungle drenched shoes?’ they laughed and scampered away with only the one of my shoes. As I sat up and shook my head a soldier holding an assault rifle nudged me and said in rapid Spanish something along the lines of ‘you look retarded with only one shoe and I am hungry’ (My Spanish wasn’t great then) to which I stared blankly at him and responded loudly ‘My roommate is in the army in Canada... So we’re like... cousins or something.’ His icy glare was enough of a conversation for me as my plane was called to board after my 32 hour Ecuadorian airport adventure without a dollar in my pocket. The airport, I later learned, was shut down immediately following my flight as there was military unrest, and mine was the last flight out.

I managed to smuggle a cocoa bean fruit out of the jungle and bring it back to Canada. Every single border agent seemed not to care at all that I had it. They seemed to feel nothing but pity for me and just kept waving me through. Which in hindsight was a dangerous decision as it could have been a spider contorted to look like a cocoa bean fruit... to eat... I don't know, let's say oompa loompas.

I arrived home in Canada to my mother excitedly waving as she ran to hug me. My father asking ‘where’s your luggage?’ and my mother immediately following up with ‘and where is your neck pouch?’ I just looked at them. One shoe gone. No luggage. Dirty. Exhausted. Bleeding from several wounds. Clothes literally torn all over the place. And I just replied. ‘Actually Mom, the neck pouch wasn’t overly helpful. So I put it in the luggage. And Dad, the jungle people stole my luggage. It’s theirs now, but don’t worry. They have already been eaten by Spiders, so it’s OK. Justice was done. Jungle justice. Let’s just go home.’ Oddly they didn’t really follow up with too many questions.

In the final chapter of the jungle tale, Jungle diseases and you... See a fucking doctor.

The Police are your friends. Except traffic cops.

As my court date for a jaywalking violation resulting in a 37 dollar ticket approaches, I am struck by a few thoughts. Although I am consumed with hate for the one remaining officer who issued the ticket at the jaywalking sting outside of my office, I refuse to get into the nonsensical cop bashing that goes on all the time.

In my years as a PI/Security Guard/’Bat-Themed Vigilante’ I learned a thing or two about police. I learned three key things people should always remember; one, the thing police hate more than anything is having their time wasted. Do not involve them in stupid things you can solve yourself, do not make situations where they are already involved worse for them or more complicated. Two, the thing they hate ALMOST as much as having their time wasted is being lied to or having details omitted when speaking to someone (If you get caught in a lie or key omission, it will work out badly for you). Tell them the truth, do not omit anything that could be significant, keep it brief, and let them do their job. Three, they are almost always nice guys. I use the qualifier of almost as traffic cops are dicks. But something to bear in mind, they have to be dicks. They have to be dicks cause we’re all assholes when it comes to traffic violations. I get it, I’m the worst offender there is. I already got the jaywalking asshole traffic cop’s partner removed for *censored*. Seriously. I don’t feel bad cause it’s a traffic cop, and cause fuck you for wasting tax money on a jaywalking sting, but that’s the exact attitude everyone has, so they have no recourse BUT to be dicks. So I forgive them, but will make them cry if necessary... This fight has to happen.

Anyhoo, Traffic cops aside, regular officers are pretty cool guys. I say guys as 90% are men. The female cops all tend to gravitate to traffic or desk jobs. They may start out doing normal patrols, but they usually go back to traffic. Not sure why. I met a few really bad ass female officers and they scared the pants off of me. But they went back to traffic. Regardless, the guys are usually a bit older, and although genuinely want to help people out are weary of having their time wasted by ungrateful weird people who complain about weird things. ‘Really? The guys down the hall from you stole the bathroom key you forgot in the bathroom?’ ... ‘Really? There’s a man standing in front of your store looking across the street?’ ... ‘Really? The car across the street has been there for two days you say? But now it’s gone?’... ‘And this happened... a week ago... I see.’. You would be amazed at what they have to hear and deal with. I used to hear from them all the time as a PI/Security guard. Less so in my current position although it does on occasion happen. I have dealt with many officers and have yet to meet one who was unpleasant and who wasn’t honestly trying to help. Again, except traffic cops. Fuck those guys.

Like the two cops who had to visit my parents house because a neighbour complained that he didn’t trust my dog because he ‘was too clever and opening car doors’. Now Sam the wonderdog did have a habit of trying to steal cars, but the cops initially were rightly irritated to have to show up for that. The third time they thought it was hysterical as Sam seemed to have drawn a crowd of onlookers applauding his ingenuity at escaping the yard and then getting into a locked car (you don’t become a movie stunt dog by being slow).

Today I heard an actual discussion about how it was disgraceful that a police officer was stabbed in action saving people from a knife wielding assailant who was shot while fleeing the attack. The people were angry that the cop killed the knife wielding man headed towards a crowd of people. It’s the same assholes that pick fights with cops and then pull out camera phones to record the results. The same assholes that throw things at cops when they’re in a crowd of a hundred and the cops are in a group of 10. The cops aren’t the decision makers. They are just men and women doing a thankless and difficult job. Except the traffic cops. Those guys can jump up their own asses and die. But I digress.

Sidenote, you do not 'own' your husband's semen.

Dear Diane,

When I say I’m thinking of starting a coke habit because it’s the cool grown-up drug, it’s a joke. You know I can’t afford a coke habit. When I say I want to use your husband’s sperm to create a half-bear, half-man hybrid, it’s an hilarious joke (and he has final say in regards to his semen usage). When I say I want to fight a bear, I’m dead serious. I want to fight a bear. No holds barred, fight till the end, visceral screaming and all that. And no it’s not cruel to the bear. It’s a fucking bear. That’s what they do normally. I wouldn’t kill the bear, I would force it to submit via the timely application of the sharp-shooter or figure four leg lock. I want the bear to live with the shame of knowing he was beaten and forced to tap out to a mere man. And again, the bear will start the fight, cause like I said, it’s a fucking bear.

Also I wish to thank you for giving me the opportunity to provide what I think is the best response to someone shouting ‘NO SEMEN!’ in my answer of ‘Then how else can i get a sentient bear to do coke with?!?!’ I also disagree with your proposed compromise of splicing a wolf and man using my genetic material... That seems too close to werewolf territory. I am already bad-ass enough. Can you imagine if I was half wolf? I would be so awesome that other awesome things would kill themselves. So uniquely handsome that men would hide their faces in shame whenever I was near. So Virile that with a wink I would be able to impregnate a woman and any four people surrounding her. It would be unfair to world.

So in conclusion, I will acquiesce to your request that no coke habit (or meth habit as was also frowned upon) will be began. Nor will I play God and try to create a half-bear, half-man army using your husband’s genetic material. I will get a motorcycle, and I will fight a bear though, but the bear will be in the wild, and will have picked the fight with me. And it will only be a one way death-match as my only goal will be the submission of the bear. Then I will ride off on my motorcycle, with nary a trace of coke (or meth) in either my system, nor the bear’s, most likely to the hospital where I will probably need stitches.

Sincerely,

Newsy Lalonde

Snake Vs. Spider

‘Diablo Blanco!’ screeched the perverted racist parrot at the break of dawn to let us know it was time to get up. As the darkness and the horrors hidden within retreated into the cracks in the ‘floor’ and ‘walls’, we dressed ourselves shaking our shoes thoroughly as we saw several eyes peering in expectantly, and I had a feeling they were hoping some creature had made our boots it’s home during the night. As the disappointed children (Or spiders contorting to look like children in order to consume villagers) scuttled away we emerged from our hut to greet the village for breakfast. As we observed in silent terror the mystery meat rotating slowly on the spit over the fire while the cackling old lady (who was probably like 30 as they do not carry age well in the jungle) muttered something and gestured at me, we decided without exchanging words that breakfast was unnecessary and let’s just get on with whatever was to finally kill us.

As our guide Pepe (I can’t recall his name as it sounded like something out of lord of the rings) hacked through the thick veil of vines, leaves and yes, spiders and their nests, my sister following so close behind me she tripped me on more than one occasion, I pointed to a pretty bird I saw up in the trees. My sister said ‘oh! That’s pretty!’ and the guide turned quizzically and said ‘que?’ to which my sister gestured to the bird and said ‘pajaro!’, and he laughed and said ‘no, una arana.’ This made no sense to us as clearly his Spanish was poor. This was no... OH MY GOD ITS FUCKING UNFURLING! Yes. It was a spider that curled up to look like a bird to eat birds.

Pepe then handed us some plant stems. We looked at them and snapped one open and dumped the contents into his mouth and motioned for us to do the same. After the breakfast from my deepest nightmare, we insisted he show us what was in his and OH MY GOD ITS A FUCKING NEST OF TINY ANTS! Lemon ants they’re called. They’re called that cause they taste like lemons. My sister refused any part of it, but my brother in law and myself figured we would soon have to run from, or fight, a puma... or a fucking giant spider contorted to look like a puma... to eat pumas... So we said cheers, and frankly, they tasted like lemons. Wasn’t bad. Didn’t like them crawling back up. Like they didn’t want to be eaten. Hanging out in a plant stem being all lemony. They were asking for it.

While enjoying another stem of ants, I noticed a line of red ants walking across a log (or a spider contorted to look like a log...to eat logs) as I bent down and said ‘hello ants. I am eating your friends.’ A giant ant... and I mean a fucking giant ant, walking over top the others stopped dead and OH MY GOD ITS TURNING ITS HEAD AND LOOKING RIGHT AT ME! I called over to the others and said ‘Hey guys look at this weird giant ant!’ The guide walked over, shrieked (could have been a manly yell where he’s from he was really small and it’s hard to gauge) grabbed me by the shoulders and threw me towards the jungle and bolted full speed yelling for the others to do the same. We did and I looked back at the spot as it became blackened by a swarm of ants. Or a Spider sonteorted to look like a swarm of ants. To eat a swarm of ants.

When we could run no further, we found ourselves at the mouth of a cave in giant cliff face. At this point, the fact that the cliff face was literally covered with thousands of spider nests and crawly things all over it didn’t even phase us. The guide explained as best he could that the only way back now was to climb the cave to the mouth at the top. As we had nothing with us except terror we looked confused as he placed his hands on one side, then pressed his legs on the other and began crab-crawling his way up. “What the hell we’re going to die today anyway. I’d rather it be from a fall.” My brother in law said as we all started doing the same. About 20 meters up, we hear screeching and a lot of thumping. I shout ‘Mike! You ok?’ ...silence... my sister yells ‘MIKE!’... then his reply ‘BATS!... LOTS OF BATS’. Or spiders contorted to look like flying bats. To eat flying bats. As a bat slammed right into my face, my leg and right arm slipped and I was sure that was the end of me. Newsy, dead at 23... Beloved by several, hated by many. I barely had time to shout ‘MIKE! Tell Mom I love her, and I the neck pouch was USELESS!’ as a tiny but freaky strong hand darted out of nowhere and hoisted me back into position... Pepe, now doing the russian splits had saved my life while angrily saying ‘NO! Muy Morte!’ to which i tried to explain as i crawled out of the mouth of the cave trying not to look directly at my brother in law who looked like a swarm of bats had just anger banged every part of him that I didn’t try to fall to my death.

As we trudged back to ‘camp’ the monkeys came out. I know they were real monkeys as they were goddamned fearless and came right up to us and I swear to God tried to stare us down. One of them was always snapping (I don’t even know if they have thumbs, I’m not a monkeyologist) but they were fucking snapping while dangling behind a larger monkey eating what looked like an eyeball so menacingly it will haunt my dreams forever. The guide I think told us not to make eye contact and hurried out of the area as the screeching began. I presume the monkeys were all immediately devoured by some monkey impersonating spider. As we stumbled hurriedly out of the monkey territory the guide threw his hands out stopping us all dead as an albino snake sat in a clearing staring at us. The guide looked like he was about to cry and beg it for mercy as a shadow fell over it. Our eyes fell to the dark spot behind it as OH MY GOD ITS A GIANT FUCKING TARANTULA. How many people can say they say a snake fight a spider and LOSE? I can. That spider walked up to that snake, pinned it’s tail to the ground and IT WAS ON! I couldn’t watch the fight all the way, but i saw the spider bight the head of the snake and the snake go limp. Then we were too far running for our lives. I envisioned the spider looking up at the sky triumphantly over his kill and roaring like the T-Rex at the end of Jurassic park.

Approaching the village we tiredly passed a tree with crazy roots and what i can only describe as some sort of jungle conch shell. I asked the guide what was the purpose of the shell and he half told and half mimed a scenario where if we were being attacked by a puma, we were to crawl in there as they were too big to fit and blow on the shell and the villagers would come help. I tried my best to explain that that may be well and good for him at a towering 3’11, but I, a handsome 6’3 would surely die as if i could fit, a puma almost certainly could fit, and likely be infinitely better at manoeuvring within. ‘Que?’ he responded, and I just replied ‘You know what Pepe? Fuck you, I’ll just fight the fucking Puma.’

Part three next time. ‘Don’t pee in the water’.

Amazon Part 1: You can't hide shame in a neck pouch

                I haven’t written a post in a while, and for that I am truly sorry... to the one person reading... you know who you are. So allow me to make up for it now by posting an extra long entry. I shall spin you a yarn my friend, so long and strong you’re life will be forever changed. And by that I mean I’m just going tell you about some spiders and stuff. But big ones. Like creepy big.

                With my sister and brother in law working in Colombia, I decided a little trip to go visit them was in order. I’d never been that far south, and it sounded like a party. So after losing an argument with my mother about what type of luggage I needed to bring (my choice of backpack was apparently not acceptable) I was off sporting a full set of proper luggage to the Amazon Rainforest. As part of the argument I lost included the use of a neck pouch. For those who are unfamiliar with such a thing (lucky people you are) it is a pouch worn around the neck to store your passport and money so as to ‘prevent pickpocketing’. Unfortunately, it also serves to inform everyone with the gift of vision that you have things worth stealing and are concealing in the bulbous pouch hanging around your neck. “Hey Carlos, did you see that idiot with the neck pouch?... Yeah, let’s stab him, take the convenient neck pouch which saves us the time of searching his corpse, and then stab him again while our amigos shoot wildly into the air while maintaining their angry stare and shouting...” Ecuador is a beautiful country, but stepping off the plane and immediately being swarmed by children trying to steal my shoes while fifteen men with rifles stared angrily at the jackass with all the luggage, I decided against the pouch. I think I made the correct decision. Mom was happy I wasn’t stabbed, but I think a little sad I did not use the neck pouch she was so proud of. But I digress.

                Let’s skip ahead. Looking at the Spanish language form I was signing, recognising only a few words (the Spanish words for ‘death’, ‘injury’, and ‘will not come find you’ were in bold and repeated several times) I thought ‘how colourful! This is adorable. They’re trying to scare us like the pirate ride at Disney world! We’re going to see some butterflies and shit. This luggage is heavy. Where can I buy a diet coke?’ (FYI Nowhere.) So I signed their cute little document in front of an old man laughing and a younger man looking crestfallen as he handed us galoshes and walked towards the ‘bus’.

                As the bus banged along the mountains, the trees becoming more and more dense and terrifying, a man at the front of the bus beer (I think? Could have been something else. The can had a picture of an Incan priest and he looked angry) in hand and drunkenly began yelling at my brother in law in a language known only to him. My brother in law being 6’2 and this man being at most 4’11 I was less concerned about the situation degrading... but then I remembered where we were and thought ‘he might pull out a knife and stab him!... Or throw a spider at him or something. That’s a thing right? Throwing spiders at people?’ and we asked the bus driver to handle it. In this case, ‘handle it’ meant literally Spartan kicking him through the door into the black jungle and driving off hours from any last seen civilization. That man most definitely died. The jungle swallowed him almost immediately. Come to think of it, I don’t recall him getting on the bus. I think he was just asleep on the bench when we left. I guess I’d be pissed waking up on a bus in the jungle hours away from where we started. Maybe we’re the villains in this story.

                The bus rattled to halt in the pitch black in front of a camp of what seemed to be a gaggle of 10-16 year old kids, who immediately ran to the bus, grabbed my luggage and literally ran, danced and swung into the trees with it. Now my first reaction was ‘well they were going to steal that godforsaken luggage eventually. Good riddance. I’m a jungle man now. Hand me a rock with which to fashion a loincloth (That’s how loincloths work right?)’ But the driver instructed us that they were just bringing the stuff to the camp. We stepped off the bus and it clanged away and a shadowy figure stepped out from behind a tree. I would call this person the ‘head boy’ as he seemed to be in charge. He looked at us with some type of contempt mixed with jungle-pity and motioned for us to follow. His Spanish wasn’t bad (I say boldly as an Irish Frenchman) and he gave us a tour of what I will call ‘the treehouse’. Different rooms, and huts in the trees, up against the mountain. It was rather impressive. There was a fire going in the main sitting area and ‘food’ was being served. I say ‘food’ as people were eating it, but that’s the only thing that would qualify it as such. We ate some as my sister asked what it was and the head boy replied that it was the tarantulas that reside under the huts. We looked over the near one and I shit you not, a giant fucking tarantula poking out from a hole under the wall was looking right at us... I think with malice. He then informed us that that was our hut, but not to worry, they don’t attack people. The terrified silence was broken by a freaky bird shriek by the village parrot who I swear was smiling eerily.

As I lay on top of the ‘bed’ listening to the horrors of hell crawling around under the largely gapped ‘floor boards’, thinking that there was no way we would survive the next day, I slept like a goddamned baby. First and only time in my life. Maybe it was the knowledge that I was surely to die in the immediate future, maybe it was the ability to dismiss all concerns and stresses of normal life due to the previously mentioned looming death, maybe it was that creepy parrot who liked to watch me sleep and lick its beak while groaning... I can’t say for sure. But my God did I sleep well. Like a real person. It was magical.

Part 2 (Have you ever seen a snake fight a spider and lose? I have.) Tomorrow.

a turtleneck does not make you 'deep'.

Occasionally, I may be guilty of ‘overreacting’. I’ve been called a ‘drama queen’... only by one person, but perhaps it rings true. It’s difficult for someone who flips tables and shouts ‘GET SOME’ at the drop of a hat to not be a little dramatic occasionally. I actually flipped two tables and kicked a cat while writing that sentence. Anyhoo, sometimes things get to me, like that looney tunes dog, or someone using the word ‘wuvable’, and justifiably I tend to react strongly in those moments.

Some people get drunk in a liquor store parking lot, or cut themselves on a video blog, but not me. I mean who doesn’t love a good blog cutting amirite? But there are more productive ways to get the ‘drama’ out. For example, one could plan out the perfect bank robbery, or steal your own car (side note, doing this in a parking lot in broad daylight is hilarious... ski mask and murder gloves... got the whole nine. Watch the cops’ faces when you explain.) for example.

At this exact moment in time I am rather anxious. Pacing back and forth, carrying on hypothetical discussions out loud as I pace. Debating strongly whether or not to drink the last can of diet pepsi now, or save it for the morning, knowing that whatever decision I reach, I will be disappointed. You know I once knew a person who would actually suggest ‘open the can, drink half, put it in the fridge and drink the rest in the morning.’ To anyone who thinks that’s a good idea, stop reading this blog immediately. It’s not for you. You want the emo teen cutting himself blog.

Also, not directing this at anyone in particular... Diane... but burning oneself with cigars, and testing other common torturing methods on oneself is only emo if you’re doing it to be emo. If you’re goal is to train yourself to withstand torture, then it’s not emo. It’s Awesome... Also did you notice that the last three letters of awesome are emo backwards?... MIND BLOWN! And If you burn over the scars that are already there then I really don’t see the reason to get uppity. Besides, now I know I can at least withstand basic tortures. Burning, waterboarding, being forced to listen to Rebecca black on loop, and ofcourse being forced to read my own blog. That one is reserved for special monsters.

Then we will fight in the shade

So it turns out Spartan kicking your Persian assistant while shouting ‘THIS IS SPARTA!’ is frowned upon by HR. So now there is a new job opening at Awesome Inc. as a result of the settlement. The position of Executive Assistant has the following requirements:

1 – Must speak English, French, Ancient Hebrew, Latin, a little Greek and Russian. I don’t speak Russian, but some people do and I want to know what my comrades over in sadville USSR are up to.

2 – Must be able to take a kick to the sternum. Nancies need not apply.
3 – Must not ask questions.
4 – Must be familiar with all office related software.
5 – Must be able to keep secrets.
6 – Must be able to use search engines efficiently. (This means can google...don’t know why HR has that, but here we are.)
7 – Must be able to handle a straight razor. (I likes my office shaves)
8 – Must love dogs.
9 – Must hate cats.
10 – Must be willing to exchange the word ‘yes’ in every day usage to ‘I shall kill many Persians’.
Send your CVs along.

Some may question why I’ve gone through 15 assistants in the last 3 years. Some left to pursue other opportunities, some left with broken sternums. All I’m saying is that I am a great person to work for. Expect to learn something new every day. Yesterday I taught my assistant why silver is a holy metal. The day before that, I taught him why emo vampires are so popular with the ladies (It’s the dead eyes). I’m a veritable cornucopia of information. Also, I always smell super nice. Sort of my thing. Apply now!

I would wear anti-social on a T-shirt

Why is it considered unhealthy to be ant-social? Oddly the general view of society (the thing one is being anti-about) is that it’s so unhealthy that no sane person would actually accept any sort of anti-social leanings. I call shenanigans. First of all, f^&k society. If that’s anti-social, then so be it comrade Stalin. Sometimes (almost always) I don’t want to go to your tam tams and wine tastings. I want to sit in my apartment, in my chair, doing my work (killing zombies) and what is wrong with that? Maybe I want to anger walk around my neighbourhood? Maybe I want to play anger ball at the gym alone. Is that unhealthy? Maybe. But if it has no impact on my ability to socialise when needed, how unhealthy can it actually be?

For those that know me, I am an outgoing sociable fellow who is the life of the party and facilitates fun for everyone around him at social gatherings. For those that know me really well, I am a remarkably anti-social person who hates social gatherings and would rather be alone or with one person somewhere else, doing anything else. I think people should just be grateful I make the effort to at least act like a sociable person. Others are genuinely entertained by me, and everyone has a good time. Hurling the term anti-social at me (or ‘anti-soci’ as now two people have dubbed it) as a means of trying to ‘coax’ me out of my shell miss a crucial piece of the Newsy puzzle. My shell is there because I put it there. It took many years to construct and I love it. Love the shell.

That isn’t to be confused with not wanting to make a difference in people’s lives, or even interacting with people in a meaningful way. I love those things. Hell I’ve changed the world without anyone knowing it several times over (YOU’RE WELCOME). And people LOVE me. Whether it’s me or the version of me presented to the world on occasions they see me is irrelevant, as the love and impact is genuine.

For example, this morning on my way to work there was a nice older lady at the shop I buy breakfast at and she didn’t have the money to pay for her sandwich. I told the cashier to add to my tab, smiled at her and left without talking. WHY IS THAT NOT GOOD ENOUGH? I have to engage in a big long discussion about something? I’m pretty sure that made her day. She was super happy and grateful. Even if was some sort of elaborate sandwich scam, who cares? 3 bucks to make someone that happy is a good deal regardless of intent of the one being assisted.

Yes, occasionally my anti-social tendencies shine through in slightly more aggressive ways, such as firing someone for opening my door without knocking first, or the time I tried to suffocate patrick with a plastic bag for breathing too loudly (he was shirtless at the time as he had ‘sweated through his shirt’ walking to work that day). But all in all, I think it’s the right level of just not caring about nonsense.

Also is it me. Or are girls about 50 times chattier than guys? I might be behind the times on this observation (usually the case being locked away in my anti-scocial cave) but seriously. Have you ever actually listened to some girls talk? They can literally go on for hours, without saying one actual thing. It’s actually fascinating. I know there are some guys who can do that too, but guys are easier to deal with. ‘Hey dickbag, you’re talking but not saying anything. Stop it. Also your collar seems to have popped itself. Fix it.’ And they grumble and unpop their collar and bam problem solved. Can’t do that with girls.

Maybe it’s because I instinctively sort of stare people down when they try to talk to me and I’m uninterested. Even when i am interested. I just like staring through people. Always unsettles them. Maybe I'm not anti-social at all. Maybe I'm just a dick. Or maybe (most likely) I'm just awesome.

I hear the train a coming.

Who doesn’t like trains? I don’t. And I’ll tell you why. Yes steam engines and the romantic idea of the train is lovely. Capturing the imagination and being reflective of a time past, where adventure was to be had riding the rails to adventure and all that... but today we are left with Via rail (Canada’s Amtrak for our American imaginary readers) and they make me want to just die. I could have gone super colourful and detail exactly how they make me want to die, but having had to deal with them at all makes me just so weary to the bones, I just want to lie down on the track and let the train run me over (as it would be a via train though, odds are that the train would be late, on the wrong track, and derail if there was a slight breeze that day). Hey look at that, I did have enough in me to describe a colourful dramatic death scene. Celebratory shots of office whiskey all around!

So we get a call from Via Rail. They want our services. Awesome. They want a big campaign. Awesome. They want to start right away. Awesome. They have no money to pay. Awesome. They want to pay in via dollars. Awesome. Free travel using via anywhere!...Awesome. Right? As this occurred in August and I was planning on lots of trips to and from Toronto and/or Ottawa, a couple of grand in free travel vouchers seemed helpful, so agreed to it I did. Like the gifted fella I am, I thought ‘it’s Via! Free travel would be super helpful! The world is great and I am awesome. Look at that dog! Hooray for everyone.’ but as it stands now, they are just slightly better than useless, and I’m pretty sure making the deal in the first place has resulted in my coworkers losing the little respect they had left for me (which at this office means weakness is detected and leaves someone open to challenge you for dominance, claiming your job and heart (consuming it for strength) as their own).

We don’t physically get the vouchers, we get a credit. We have to call ahead and schedule the trip with them and confirm all the details and the total amount of the cost of the trip will be deducted from the total balance. The total balance being divided among the providers of the campaign, us being only a part. And we have to adhere to the restrictions of usage for the vouchers. And we have to give percentages to people despite it not actually being money, but carrying a value. Long story short, Via... seriously? It’s like you want me to claw my own eyes out. So your business model includes marketing plans that revolve around paying your vendors in coupons and then not honouring said coupons in any reasonable way... thereby ensuring no further contracts being accepted by those same vendors... It’s like you hate yourself and are trying to actively see your own destruction.

Well, the silver lining is that I don’t actually have to go to Ottawa or Toronto. I hate both cities quite a bit. (I can hear the collective ‘HEY! ... Toronto’s... not that bad...’ from the dozen residents who actually care enough about their city to defend it’s honour... sort of) One more than the other, but that’s neither here nor there (subject of a future post certainly), and certainly doesn’t detract from Via’s complete waste of my time and energy. Just clawing at a W wherever one is able to be found.

As I sit here gnawing on the heart of the office Indian (why the quiet one would choose to challenge me I have no idea), feeling his strength flow through me, I realise that I may need to just not talk to clients anymore. I love too much. That’s my problem.

Random Musings on a cold octorber night.

Sometimes the world hates you. You can either run from it, or stare it down and tell it to go f%&k itself. Now the latter option is my preferred way to go as running and burying your head in the sand is for cowards and Kenyans. The go f%&k itself option has several branches, however and one must be careful not to choose the wrong one. Game of chess it is. If chess involved table flipping and fires. Which it does when played properly... ‘grandpa’... There’s the standard stand your ground, don’t give an inch and stare them down. There’s the softer give a little, remain true but some compromise is warranted if their intentions are reasonable, and so on and so forth. My favourite, and ‘go to’ option however is the rather unpopular disproportionate escalation.

I say unpopular in that others aren’t fans of this type of conflict resolution. The idea of making the repercussions for any infraction so unbelievably horrifying that no one would dare cross you ever may seem initially appealing and fun for all, but in reality it takes a lot out of you. Patrick for example made a silly comment about a cousin of mine and in response I nearly collapsed his trachea and made him apologise to her and her family before removing my foot from his neck. ‘That seems like a reasonable response’. And you would be correct pokaroo, but that wasn’t the resolution. That was simply the immediate response. (he still claims to be unable to swallow properly) The actual response came somewhat later when his protein powder was cut with estrogen and ecstasy... His iron pumping sessions at the gym degraded into crying humpfests with Technicolor dragons pretty quick... Anywhoo, that was just a playful response to a simple comment. Had he actually had malicious intent and not just made a thoughtless comment, he’d be a lady right now, on the sex offender’s registry, waking up without eyelids in a room filled with coke and strangers blood to the sounds of approaching sirens and all the doors and windows locked.

Now Patrick is afraid to even take a French fry when offered. His response is ‘I’m going to take a bite and you’re going to r$%^ my mother’ to which I respond ‘I would r%#$ your father. Just to prove a point. You could live with it if it was your mother, with counselling and all that, but your father, you’d have to see him everyday and look into his dead eyes... imagine it Patrick...’ And he does and he gets a little misty. Bless his little heart. What can I say? Hobbies are fun. And God knows if and when I settle down, there won’t be as much time for this type of thing, so I should really get this stuff out of my system now.

I know what you’re thinking; ‘Newsy, a big important awesomeologist working for a middling media company like you must have swarms of ladies all over you all the time... surely that settling down time is rapidly approaching?’ Good question pokaroo. Well I’ll tell you, I like to employ the sharp stick strategy. ‘Wait... the sharp.. what?’ that’s right pokaroo. You’ve no doubt heard the saying ‘he’ll have to beat them off of him with a pointy stick!’, well i’ve taken it to heart. Some call it a broken broom handle I’ve whittled into a point, but after a few sharp jabs in the ribs, they call it whatever I want. And what I want it called is pickles. ‘...you named your giant shiv pickles?...’ That’s right pokaroo. And pickles is goddamned magic. Sharpstickery is a wonderful word you should all get used to several readers as I make up words a lot and they’re all awesome.

I am a wordsmith. Also other types of ‘---smith’ but wordsmith is definitely at the top. Maybe only surpassed in fame by my status as a ‘revengesmith’ after ‘incident orange’ (to be discussed at a later date), but that’s neither here nor there. Often, I find that the English language is limited in its emotional range and have to draw upon other languages to find the appropriate word. For love, naturally I drift to French. For anger, Klingon. However there are times where no language possesses the words which adequately describe whatever I’m feeling at that particular moment and I am forced to create a new word. Frustrangerful was a fun one. But sometimes, better than creating new words is cramming two existing words together. Portmanteau’ing’ as it were. They are awesome. They are portmanteawesome. Recently, as I’ve been spending a great deal of time with our lawyer Ralph (who happens to be black. And aggressively so) I’ve taken quite the shine to portmanteauing ‘black’ and whatever other word I’m using. Usually descriptive words of Ralph himself. For example: angry, lawyer, awesome, attractive, aggressive become: ‘blangry’, ‘blawyer’, ‘blawesome’, ‘blattractive’, and ‘blaggressive’. I would go on and on (and i certainly do at the office), but as my nonsensical ramblings are best kept from the world it’s best I wrap up and bury them in a place no one will ever hear them... this blog. So keep it to yourself pokaroo. Our little secret... or blecret... cause pokaroo is black. If you thought he was white (or a big green giraffe sort of thing) then you’re the racist. Look at yourself in the mirror before throwing stones glass house.

I would like to take this opportunity (cause that’s totally what it is) to send my congratulations to my friend and coworker Eric and his new wife Diane, as this past Saturday, they tied the knot and are now happily married. Woooooo!

Dear other people i hate today

Dear Client Company representative. I received your email regarding us taking hours and hours out of our week to compile a progress report for you on a system we developed for you that we STILL do not have a finalised contract for. I am amazed that you are able to make it into work each morning pushing your MASSIVE BALLS in front you in what I can only presume is some type of wheelbarrow. It’s liberating to know that we have the type of relationship that you can feel so free to talk to me about anything and that you aren’t the least bit embarrassed by your institution’s gross incompetence and negligence of their responsibilities at all so as to inhibit you from making demands such as progress reports on what up until now can only be described as our benevolence and extreme good will towards you. It fills me with happiness. Not at all murderous rage that will see me videotape *** EDITED OUT FOR EXTREME CONTENT****..............................................................................................................****EVEN MORE EXTREME*****.........................................................................................****GOOD GOD THIS IS MESSED UP****..................................................................cut off so you CANNOT STOP WATCHING. Perhaps we should go to lunch to discuss this ‘progress report’? You need it by when? Aren’t you just precious.

Dear every employee I have. I know what you’re thinking. ‘Myproblems are sooooooo important and the welfare of the whoooooole company is on the line and everyone should be helping me handle these things or else everyone’s fuuuuucked!!!!’ and in a way you’re right. All your problems are important. And yes, any one of you drops the ball and we’re all just a wee bit fucked. Stop, take a deep breath and hold it... Keep holding.... Keeeeeeeeeeep hoooooooolding....keep holding... I hope you’ve died. Problem solved for everyone. If one more of you comes into my office thinking your problem is bigger than any of the other 50 problems that require immediate attention I may leap over my desk and beat you to death with my lovely bronze statue of Sir Gallahad, oddly enough there to remind me not to beat people to death. 

Dear landlord. I pay you rent, I don’t complain, we’re not loud, we don’t make life difficult for anyone. I even pay the stupid water tax that doesn’t seem legal as we have no faucet in the office, and the communal bathroom of ever office on the floor doesn’t seem to warrant 1500 dollars a year in water tax. When one of your idiot tenants who decides to do business with the door permanently opened next to the communal washroom tells you that the nice tenant down the hall has a lot of people in the office and they make noise when they go to the washroom, tell them to jump up their own ass and die. Problem solved. Asking an office full of people to keep quiet when going down the hall to go to the washroom is idiotic. Absolutely Sir, we like to go in teams so we can high-five and shout encouragement at each other while we pee. That’s how we roll. Didn’t know that was frowned upon. We’ll totally check it at the door.

Dear idiot tenant down the hall. You are a therapist. CLOSE YOUR DOOR when in session. Also, getting people to stand on your couch while yelling at a pillow isn’t therapy. Everything about you makes me embarrassed to be in the same building. So we make too much noise in the hallways on our way to the bathroom do we???? Well guess what dickbag? I’m going to do things to you now. Congrats.

Dear accountant. If the first 10000 times you ask me if i have the invoice for X resulted in me responding no, i gave you all the invoices I have... what the fuck makes you think this time I’ll respond differently? Oh why yes, I hung on to that particular invoice because I doodled something amusing in the corner and like to look at it whenever I’m blue. I GAVE YOU ALL THE INVOICES FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! Just wave your magic accounting wand and fix whatever needs fixing. I’ll make you a new fake invoice if you need it. We need to meet three times this week because it’s year end? Awesome. Sounds like a party. Mind if I bring a loaded revolver so we can play a game in between receipt explanations? And yes, I will keep writing hilarious things in the memo section of Patrick’s cheques (nipple reduction surgery) because it tickles me and that tickling is the only thing preventing me from actually becoming some sort of antichrist.

Dear 6 lawyers. Stop charging me thousands of dollars. What happened lawyers? Have you ever actually looked at the expression on my face in our meetings? I look like Patrick when you call him ‘pie’trick. But all the time forever. Also, I’m not an idiot, you don’t need to rephrase everything you say to put it in simpler terms. I guarantee I’m smarter than you. If I had to explain what digital signage is fifteen times to you, let’s not pretend that the concept of a shotgun clause will fly over my head.

Dear Dentist Office Receptionist

Dear Secretary of the shitty Dentist I used because I thought the idiot patients giving assessments of quality on the internet were sincere, or real people. To start, not every sentence needs an upward inflection at the end. Just wanted to throw that out there. Die. Also, don’t smile if you don’t mean it. Creepy dead eye smile is worse than not smiling at all. You know what’s worse than having to go to the dentist? Having to go to the dentist where the joker is the receptionist. The Joker if he were a middle-aged woman with dead eyes and no sense of humour. Die. Also don’t fucking hem and haw about how much the insurance will cover and if I need a payment plan. Just fucking say it, ‘this is how much you owe, how much will your insurance cover, how would you like to pay the balance?’ Done. See that? Problem solver. Who wants me on their corporate team? And when the bill comes out to 200 dollars don’t make the wincy face and whisper if I would like to pay it in three instalments. Yeah, I’m wearing a leather jacket and long-sleeve van halen shirt with a hole in it dangerously close to the nipple. What of it? That means I can’t afford a 200 dollar bill? Perhaps pulling out all 5 dollar bills and crumpling each one up and throwing them one after the other at your feet while listing off your physical flaws ranked by severity (leaky eye for one) was a bit over the top, but I wanted to remind you of your younger days on the corner of St. Cat’s and Pine. What’s that? You filed the insurance reimbursement form wrong and now I have to pay the balance of 900 dollars cause you’re retarded? AWESOME. Hey remember when I told you how to do it correctly, and you said you got it, and that you did it all the time and not to worry? I do. I remember it wicked well. Guess who’s going to have their identity revenge-stolen? You are! Hooray! Well done.

The internet is broken...and I killed it. part 2

So I call Bell (we have a complicated love/hate sort of relationship) and explain, that their modem has all of a sudden decided it wants to hurt me. They explain that I need a new modem. Awesome. They’ll send me one. Awesome. It should arrive tomorrow. Awesome. Problem solved right?

It is now a few days later, and there’s no modem. I called Bell, they said they sent it and here’s the tracking number. Awesome. I call Purolator, give them the tracking number and say ‘hey gifted, where the F-prompt is my modem?’ and the response; oh, we tried to deliver it but there was no suite number. Awesome. I say No problem, the suite is 105. They say they can only accept address changes from Bell. AWESOME. I call back Bell, I explain the situation and they say maybe you gave me the address wrong. I say really? REALLY? It’s funny cause you send me the bills to the correct address all the time. That’s cool though. MY BAD. Here it is again. Now can you please fax the address correction to Purolator? Apparently, no, they’re not allowed to do that. Nor can their supervisor speak with me as they’re ‘super busy’, but will totally call me back in 20 minutes... two hours ago... At least Bell isn’t Videotron.

I have now decided this will be an internet free office. Anyone even using the word internet will be raped to death in the face. Perhaps an overreaction, but warranted I think.

The internet is broken...and I killed it.

When your internet fails at home it’s a problem. When the internet fails at the office, it’s a goddamned nightmare. While sitting in my office, I see a sight every office manager wishes to never see again in their lifetime... the little blue bubble icon that indicates internet service has disappeared. I moved the items on my desk over in anticipation of what was to follow. Within fifteen minutes every single person in the office came into my office to ask me the following things in this exact order:

“Hey Newsy, the internet is out eh?”

“I know”

“Do you know why?”

“No”

“Any idea for how long?”

“No”

“Cool... Cool... Alright well, let me know”

“Sure.”

After the seventh time you just start to want to stab people in the face. Don’t they talk to each other? Seriously, why walk all the way across the whole goddamned office and bother the one guy who can’t fix the goddamned thing to ‘let him know it’s broken’ when you can clearly see the train of people leaving having just asked the exact same idiotic questions as you’re about to. But no, you’re right, Better safe than sorry, better let him know that the internet is broken. Because maybe all those other people were leaving his office for other reasons. Maybe today’s his birthday or something, because the head awesomeologist is just so wicked popular.

The next asshole comes in:

“Hey Newsy, the internet’s out eh?”

“Really?”

“Do you know why?”

“No, why?”

“... uhhh, I don’t know.”

“That’s right. You don’t know.”

“... Alright... Let me know when it’s back up.”

“No. I was thinking I’d keep it a secret. More internets for me.”

“...”

And the asshole after that:

“Hey Newsy, the internet’s out eh?”

“No it’s not.”

“... Uhhh yeah i think it is.”

“No you’re just doing it wrong.”

“Doing what wrong?”

“The internet. You’re doing it wrong.”

“... what should I do then?”

“Count to three mississippis then tap ctrl+alt+del four times. That’ll fix the internet.”

“... Ok...”

And the asshole after that:

“Hey Newsy, Internet is broken eh?”

“I know, I broke it.”

“... Well... Wait what?”

“I broke it. I wanted it gone and now it is. I win.”

“... Why would you do that?”

“Do you know what the internet is Patrick?”

“uhhhh... computers?”

“... You know what? I was going to do a whole skynet taking over the world, and me being a hero from the future being sent back in time to save humanity by breaking the internet at this exact office at this exact time, but I think that whole joke would be wasted on you Patrick.”

“.... uhhhh.... Are you fixing it?”

“... ... ... yes.”

“cool.”

Other favourites include the shadow game, trying to force myself to throw up in my garbage can when someone enters, answering questions nobody asked, ignoring their questions altogether and just talk to my computer in front of them as you would to a cat you’re trying to coax out of a tree, and my all time favourite answering their idiotic questions as the internet. That’s right pretending to be the internet that is broken, and blaming them for me not wanting to be the internet anymore.

Bell and Whistle Part 2

So I’m driving with an associate, and I get a call. The ID reads a number I’m not familiar with. I answer the phone and I hear:

“Hello M. Lalonde?”

“Yes”

“OK I’m just going to ask you some personal questions to verify your identity... Is your mother’s maiden name –

“Nope”

“I’m sorry?”

“I forgive you.”

“What are you talking about Sir?”

“Normally when one calls someone, they introduce themselves, explain why they’re calling and then proceed to explain why they need to ask those types of questions prior to actually asking them, allowing the other participant to decide whether they wish to answer, or if they have objections.”

“...well Sir, I need to know that you are who you say you are.”

“So you got my name from Videotron yes? And you called the number assigned to my name yes? And then you asked me, who answered the phone, if I am the person to whom this number is assigned yes? That should be enough evidence in support of my identity to allow you to feel comfortable to tell me who you are and why you’re calling.”

“... Look you owe Videotron 230 dollars –

“Let me just stop you there Johnny Noname, I owe Videotron nothing. Let me guess... Shot in the dark... They said I had to return my modem to their store, said I never did and are charging me for the equipment, giving me no notice, and avoiding talking to me themselves, rather sending it to a collections agency to do their dirty work for them.”

“... well...”

“On the nose. Fantastic. Well here’s the deal Johnny, I’ll drop off the useless thing, get the receipt and then you can call me back tomorrow and I’ll give you the number so you can just check me off your list as paid in full alright?”

“... I don’t know...”

“Sure you do. It doesn’t matter anyways, cause I know. And from now on, be polite and courteous to people on the phone. Especially when calling on behalf of Videotron. They’re the worst company ever and I guarantee you they fucked over everyone on your list, not the other way around. So proper phone etiquette my man. Makes a world of difference.”

“...”

“Call me tomorrow for the receipt number.”

“...”

I never heard from Johnny again. I’d like to think of that little speech really getting to him you know? Like it awoke some deep seeded desire to do good in this world. Maybe I inspired him to go to law school to help those wronged by big corporations. Maybe he spends his time now helping orphans in India. But at the very least I hope that now, whenever he’s on the phone, he’s the most polite and courteous person you’ll ever hear. Who knows. No way to confirm or deny, but I’ll just pretend that it’s true.