The One Where I Define

There are crimes we all commit. We transgress without even realizing it. These violations, however, will not get you in trouble with the law, as this particular division of the police force was abandoned due to budget cuts during late eighties.
These are crimes of the tongue; linguistic forgery, if you will. Colloquialisms, dialect, idioms, parole, slang, jargon, vernacular, lingo, parlance, gobbledygook...we're all guilty, including your noble narrator.
Below you will find words and phrases that I tend to favour in my day to day. Feel free to adopt them as your own, as some of them have already been adopted from others:

• Ass Hat- literally someone who wears an ass, usually their own, as a hat. These are people who have their head so far up their asses that they're consequently wearing their ass as a hat. This expression has it's roots in Shakeapeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream.
  
• Steege- the act of smoking a joint. Usually expressed with multiple "e"s depending on the level of enthusiasm.
• Plata Salata- a large platter containing assorted Mediterranean salads and spreads, typically prepared and served by a balding Israeli man with the overwhelming urge to feed.
• Whiskers- apparent facial hair found on women, particular those who ride the 161 bus.
• Puberty Stick- an instrument used to beat an adolescent, usually a male aged eleven to fifteen, who has yet to enjoy a visit from the Puberty Bunny. Tell-tale signs of those who necessitate a lashing are high, squeaky voices, the absence of preliminary facial hair, shortness and cheeks that are just begging to be pinched.
• Puberty Bunny- the bearer of the Puberty Stick (similar to "Fluffy Bunny" and "Fuzzy Bunny" from the Simpsons episode where Milhouse falls in love with the girls with braces). He visits children to attack them with his weapon, resulting in Adam's apples, chin pubes and partially descended testicles.
• Birkenstocks- German footwear worn by angry lesbians. They are usually sold alongside blocks of tofu, Subaru vehicles and k.d. lang's Christmas album.
  
• Old- anyone over 30.
• Balls- an exclamative. Used to describe distress, anger, malaise, dissapointment, exhaustion or frustration.
• Crazy Balls- another exclamative, a step higher then "balls", usually reserved for instense moments of "balls".
• I Wouldn't Fuck her with a Stolen Dick- this one speaks for itself.
  
  

My muse was initially enraged that because of her whiskers I would not fuck her with a stolen dick. Regardless, it turns out she has three pairs of birkenstocks.

"I was nauseous and tingly all over. I was either in love or I had smallpox."
-Woody Allen

The One With the Dinner Party

Instead of doing final revisions for my pending exam, I decided to spend the last bit of time chatting online with Mandrake. After discussing the arts, the royals and various cured meats, the conversation turned to whom I would want to have to my dream dinner party. In composing my list, I chose to only invite the living, as the dead are far worse at conversation.

Here we go:

• Peter O'Toole- the famous British drunk/actor.
• Tina Fey- because Sarah Palin wouldn't dine with a Jew.
• Bob Dylan- my idol.
• Doris Lessing- fits both the Nobel laureate and Rhodesian quotas.
• Harold Bloom- the token curmudgeon.
• Roseanne- why the hell not?
• Jon Stewart- as the ringmaster.
• Michelle Obama- girlfriend got it goin' on!
• David Suzuki- for Canadian content.
• Scarlett Johansson- no explanation required.

...and of course my Muse, given that she has invaluable experience in telling the help what to do.

I feel that this is a relatively balanced group of people, all of whom I would love to meet. Sushi shall be served.

Please post your own dream dinner party guests, as it's quite the amusing exercise to put one's self through instead of studying.

"I wouldn't mind being a lord"
-Peter O'Toole

The One Lacking Human Decency

I once had Stuart Little-like innocence. I once subscribed to the fantasy that we did, in fact, live in a society. I believed that we were a community of human beings governed by the rules of decency and mutual respect: Any youthful notions of this ideal have been stolen from me.

Those of you who know me well are aware that I'm essentially a good person, without bad intentions or prejudices (except towards cat people and my non-belief in the West Island...). I'm accepting, kind and have near impeccable personal hygiene. I help my friends find apartments, drive my great-grandmother to the dentist and take exhausting measures to be eco-friendly to the point of nausea. Just yesterday I bought my simple-minded muse a plush cow named Betsey.I'm an average kid with basic pleasures, like used books, Indiana Jones films and the sporadic smoothie. As long as there's fresh coffee and a Hab's game, I'm as happy as a pig in shit.

A mere three days ago I was getting ready to go tutor elementary school children when my vacation in the realm of child-like idealism ended abruptly:

I'd spent my Wednesday studying until I left the house at two o'clock to give my sister a ride and pick up a sandwich. The last I'd checked, picking one's kin up from school and purchasing a large ham sub on whole wheat was highly socially acceptable, though of some religious violation, but for that to take effect I would have to acknowledge the voodoo-like omnipresence of the Judeo-Christian deity which requires at least a four drink minimum (five after a heavy meal). I returned home at a quarter to three, ate my lunch, and continued my studies. My mother rang the doorbell just past five and rushed me downstairs to where I'd parked Miss Vickie, my beloved car. I'll spare you the appropriately barbaric words initialy used, but there was a humongous dent in the rear driver's side door. It was a hit and run.

Here's the kicker: I took Miss Vickie to the auto-body shop yesterday and the owner had some troubling news for me. He stated that in his experience, a dent like the one in my car was not the result of a collision with another vehicle. Worse: it was damaged by a person. Someone had to have kicked, hip-checked or been pushed into my car door for the damage to have been caused.

Are the ass hats who damaged my car better able to afford the damage then I am?
Probably so.
Was it the fault of over-indulged suburbanite teenagers with too much time and too little to do? Probably so.
Do bad things happen to good people?
Undoubtedly.

Sadly, people suck. And I've learned the hard way.

Hopefully the next episode I share will be less troubling.

"Then yield thee, coward, and live to be the show and gaze o' the time"
-MacDuff, from MacBeth V:VIII

The One Where I Preface

Firstly, I would like to welcome (both of) my readers to this, the first installment of my blog. Long past my death, after I gain notoriety, respectability and praise, these installments shall be found in the annals of the Internet, eventually to be placed in my collected works. I would like to thank Prof. Elissa M. Gurman-Radcliffe of the University of Edinburgh, in advance, for editing the edition and directing all royalties towards The B.D. Gerald Memorial Fund for Children with Inconveniently Wide Feet.

Secondly, I must take issue with the notion of "theme". I find "themes", like shoes, to be a restriction put forth by the ruling elite to suppress the intellectual development of the proletariat. These episodes of my life shall not bow to the limits set forth by the wealthy few, but will be (as the title suggests) the nonsensical ravings of an over-educated, misanthropic young adult who will do just about anything to avoid studying for exams and writing his paper.

I've inadvertently developed a ginger coloured growth on my face; this is a common consequence of exam period. A vow was also made to wear nothing but sweatpants and hoodies until the much anticipated evening of the 16th day of December. That evening, after I present my mastery of the Victorians and their literatures, I hope to remove the growth and reenter the world, battle scared and spent.

My muse, Clarissa, heard that I was putting character to web page this evening and insisted she be mentioned.

What should you expect as you log on eagerly each day to see if I've updated my meditations? Shall there be wisdom? enlightenment? advice? Well my friends, the answer is no. The more you anticipate and hope to gain from my writings, the less likely you are to continue reading. Contrary to popular belief, I am not the Barack Obama of blogging, but more appropriately, the Peter O'Toole.

As shall be customary, I leave you with a quote.

"Don't be humble, you're not that great"
- Golda Meir