City of Champions

We meet again prairie town. A different town you were when last we spoke, smaller, a little less sure of yourself. Now you grown stronger by the day. People speak of you with reverence, respect, and a little bit of fear. They make boasts in your name, claiming outrages wages and benefits bestowed upon your Subway employees, homeless using job offers as rolling papers, and oil that flows like wine. But I remember you from a simpler time when your name meant little more than urban sprawl, bleak winters, transplanted Torontonians, and Ukrainians jokes.
Soon I will return, different as well, and after we dispense with insincere pleasantries my work will resume, this time in earnest. We'll see who conquers whom.

Ginormous Hugantic Distance!

Like watching that fat man get hit with a bowling ball, it's hypnotic the way you can't stop watching.

Update 2.0

I'm not going to lie to you. A LOT of people read my blog. Lots of them. Who? Um, Steve. And Wanda. And that guy who's always doing that voice thing. Because of the millions (and millions!) of Darth Forehand's fans, I duly note that I have not posted much lately. Many of you feel that I'm being lazy or neglecting, but I'm not. Instead, Neglecting the Blog, or "Bloglecting," was a hot new trend I was pushing for a while. Since other people started doing it too it's not cool anymore, so the new hot trend is Posting on the Blog, or "Postogging."

It's actually been an eventful time. Finished all my term papers on intelligence agencies and government, a cinematic analysis of Chicago and Syriana, and the benefits of glutamine supplementation (apparently, there is some). Now it's cruise control until next Wednesday's first final, then another five day break before three in a row. Then a few days later the long-distance relationship comes to an end. So things are definately looking up, and with more free time on the horizon I thought it best to use that time wisely and really try to benefit from it spiritually and emotionally. So I activated my High-Definition cable box and hooked it up to the big screen. If HD-TV is the way of the future, and the government says it will be, the future looks awesome. I watched a whole football game last night and I don't even like football. In fact, that's what I'm going to do now! No time to finish this sen

Random Blog Update

I've now switched to New Awesome Blogger 2.0 or 10.5 or 4.20 or whatever the new one is. Perhaps my spelllllling and grammared will be bester.

FOX Sports

Unfortunately for the REST of FOX's divisions, FOX News has made it difficult for them to remain credible. It's too bad, because foxsports.com is the best sports network website out there for one reason: Dudes. Regular joes, pals, compadres. Exactly the kind of sports website I would want to work for. Nowhere is this more evident than in their close connection with the Best Damn Sports Show Period, which, for you non-sports watching nerds, is not. But the spirit is pure dudality (reality through dude's eyes) plus a stunning amount of background knowledge that somehow comes out of physiques more closely resembling greasy bowlers than whitewashed, pale-faced sports commentators. Keep up the good work lads, keep showing that when you devote your entire life to sports, you become a sort of Portrait of Dorian Grey: The greater and wiser you become on the inside, the fatter and more belligerent you become on the outside.

As a side note, I wish blogspot would spell and grammar check on the fly like Word. I get used to my fumbling fingers being promptly corrected and when I guess on a word's spelling and no telltale red line jumps up, I won't lie to you, I lean back in my chair, breath out, and put out the Jack Nicholson self-satisfied grin. Later, when I realize I could've spelled whatever the word was using a "6", a "#", and a ":)", I've lost interest. When contents of this blog are found a thousand years from now by apes, they'll dismiss all the deep thoughts and think "man [ha!], what a asshole. Can't even spell." Not unlike those who read it now, come to think of it.

Tennis at the top of the world

I posted a pic from this a long time ago, I think, but stumbled across the video. Don't dive backwards boys!

New ride for this cowboy

Would've posted a pic earlier but there was just too much snow to give it justice. Out with the old and in with the much less old.

Seinfeld on Personal Space

It's Naaaass!

Clip from the Night of Overbooked Stars.

To The Millions (and MILLIONS)....

Like many little boys who are now mildly embarassed, I followed wrestling in levels ranging from casual to wildly entertained. For my money, nothing was more entertaining than watching The Rock rant away like he was on an IV of Red Bull Concentrate, mocking his opponent, the interviewer and anybody else while playing the crowd like he had them paid off. Here's some more highlights of the Great One.

Paris Hilton was Punched in the Face

I'm only posting this because the title for the article was the greatest thing I've ever read, not counting "Dick Cheney Shot an 80 year old man in the face."

Before you point your finger you should know that I'm the man

When it comes to academics and me, I have kept a positive attitude in the face of warning signs. I somehow achieved a minor in psychology despite a terrible track record because I kept telling myself not to create a self-fulfilling prophecy by admitting the truth: that I suck at it. After finishing the last requirement in the program, I finally admitted to myself what was so overwelming obvious for so long, and it felt good, warm, and safe. Like when you come back from the restaurant washroom and your food is waiting for you: everything seems right.
There have been so many times in the course of my "studies" where I wondered if I was in the right place: bad grades, blank stares from profs at questions and comments, bad grades, awful luck with university "technology," and bad grades. Today, the final hint came that I simply do not belong in academics, and I will heed this warning with no more optimistic denial.
I was accused of plagarizing my latest essay. Short paper, five pages, did Iraq have weapons of mass destruction or not. I was asked into my prof's office where he told me that he had given me zero on the paper but was going to be lenient and not file a report that, were he to do so, would go on my permanent record and could be grounds for immediate dismissal. So what did I do? Did I steal an essay off the internet? Did I steal information from someone smarter and pass it off as my own? Did I not give proper citations and mislead the reader? This is what I did: On three occasions I quoted a source, cited it in line with the Chicago Manual of Style, put the source in my Works Cited list at the end, but failed to put those quotes in quotation marks. The reason I didn't was because I had to tweak the wording to fit it into the sentence, the way I had been taught in numerous other classes.
By doing that, I gave the reader reason to believe that the ideas were my own when they were not. That's plagarism, fair enough. Yet I would have thought that my clever little ruse would seem not so clever when I LISTED THE SOURCE AND PAGE NUMBER FROM WHERE THE INFORMATION CAME FROM. Stupidly I thought that by giving credit to the source I was actually giving credit to the source. After this final semester is done, I'll never go back.

"You can DO that?"

My favorite class this final semester o' mine is International Security. This class is great. Each class begins with a very dry-looking layout of what topics will be covered. Except they ARE covered but not THE WAY YOU MIGHT THINK. Spies are everywhere. They could be behind you RIGHT NOW. But probably not because you're all by yourself and nobody likes you. But they could be behind somebody cooler, more important and with files on their computer far less depraved and illegal that you possess. And that is why this class is great. Every few minutes of the lecture consists of our great proffessor finishing off a dry, memorizable, exammable fact before stopping, smiling a bit, and saying "There's actually a very interesting story behind that" before regailing us with a look at some brilliantly simple way of sending coded messages or evading KGB or averting nuclear war. Last class we went into the cafeteria, devided into groups and attempted to pass information from an information officer (me, in this case) to an agent without arousing the suspicion of (pick your desired enemy= Communists/Fascists/Democrats). We weren't caught.

"Couldn't it also mean this?"

English 104, Film Studies, is held Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 1:30 in one of the designated first year lectures. This class is great. First, I contemplate not going. It usually goes downhill from there since usually I go. I hate first year students so bad I can't even sentence properly write even or grammar use good. My impression of first year English students at UNBC are that while some are intelligent, mature students who chose English because they couldn't afford to travel and/or just wanted to make their parents happy, the rest are drama students who weren't smart enough to get out of Prince George and instead chose the next best subject.
First, a characterization of a Drama Student, also known as a Theatre Arts Person or Artist (if they describe themselves as a "singer-songwriter" you are legally required to smash their acoustic guitar over their head so that it comes out the hole). A Drama Student, not currently considered a medical disability though expected to change in the next DSM, suffers from high anxiety, mood swings, melodramatic tendencies, self-centeredness, constant need of validation from others, faux arrogance/confidence/superiority, rapid vocal pattern (often rising in pitch towards the end of a sentence), and tend to find solace from the rational, objective criticism they encounter from society in theatre, pretentious songwriting, poetry and in unfortunate cases, my English classes. Note that this is merely a description of a personality type and does not mean that anyone involved in the above interests is necessarily a theatre person, simply that these vocations attract these personality types. That should leave anybody who reads this confused as to whether or not they've been insulted :)
What these people fail to realize is that having an idea does not mean you get to say it out loud. First year classes are about understanding basic concepts, memorizing them, and being able to use them in an example on a midterm. You don't get to solve the world's problems in a first year lecture, don't bother, nobody cares what you think, stop trying to get yourself and your feelings validated. I had this beaten out of me in first year and as such the only appropriate manner in which to conduct oneself is with a weary, ironic take on the subject matter that results in class being dismissed on time with the requisite rote learning completed.

"I have a question!!!"

Back in school for my last semester. To fill elective requirements, I've rounded out my sched with Comparative Religion and Film Studies to match my remaining requirements, Security and Intelligence and Chemistry For the Reality Impaired. The only class that isn't a first year class is Security but because we spent all this week looking at covert and special ops it counts as Awesome. So four classes, all Awesome, three because they are of personal interest and one because it is taught at my level of education , meaning Chemistry(see class title). This class is great. Like all core requirements, it's chosen based on being the complete opposite of what anyone taking it is good or capable at. In fact in my class, it's becoming enough of a challenge for chubby first year arts majors to get through a class without spewing idiocy all over their extra large hoodies and pajama pants. Of course, idiocy is contagious so once spewn it spreads to a few people, who spread it themselves and so forth, resulting in the unenviable task of controlling emotional, irrational questions and presumptions being asked in higher and higher pitches, brows more and more furrowed, and lips more and more disgusted with a Ph.D's inability to recognize their creativity and subsequently validate them. As any good yet ulcered fourth year student knows, the only way to halt the spread of infection is with a vaccination of objective, decisive "No, that's wrong. Here's a deliberately boring and convoluted explaination, without examples, designed not to clarify but to cut off any hope of fostering abstract connections necessary to continue this asinine line of questioning." As one would expect, four weeks into the semester has seen attendence thankfully drop.

Sorry

This story is boring me. There was a planned middle and end but I don't feel like taking up my whole blog with it. I'll finish it on my own and if anyone's curious they're welcome to check it out. Back to regularly scheduled sarcasm.

The weight of the night

The number mighta been fake, but there was nothing fake about the night's rainfall. Between the downpour and the darkness, anyone walking down the street tonight had a good reason, otherwise they'd be inside by the fire. Except my reason wasn't clear, coulda been good or bad. I pulled up the collar of my trench, pulled down my hat and headed towards the subway station.
I thought about the broad and nothing about that meeting made any sense. Fake phone number could mean anything, but I took it as a warning not to look for her. At least for now, since I had no reason to concern myself with finding her, it was information I needed. Information that I could trade for payment, and I was looking for a good exchange rate.
I reached the stairs at the subway station and things suddenly felt different. Harder, colder and unforgiving. And louder, damn, like a ringing. Hours later, when I woke up, the night had taken on a much darker tone.

A Numbers Game

718-555-4357.
Here's the thing about being a snoop. As long as you keep your head buried in information, for whatever purpose, you're bound to find a bunch of things that don't matter at the time. You dismiss it but your memory doesn't let you. The number she gave me had a Metro Town area code, but the city had changed the area code when it incorporated two other districts earlier this month. Last job I had was looking up a city councellor who'd been getting threatening letters but didn't want to go public 'cause of the bad press. He was pushing for incorporation, a popular position at the time, but evidently someone didn't like it.
The number was useless but this dame was hiding more facts than a rainy Saturday night. I pocketed the note, grabbed my coat, and left the office.

Fate's Rabbit Hole

Sometimes real life, as much as you try to avoid it, sneaks up on you when you least expect it. Not to mention when you don't want it. Sitting in my office tonight, rain pouring down like it was setting a score with someone who owed it money, lights off, nobody even knowing I was here, made me foolishly think I might avoid the persistant sense of humor of Fate. Can't escape your destiny, no matter how hard you try. Mine was to get involved in something I knew, without being told any details or given any instructions, wouldn't be solved in a few hours.
The body of Abraham Marley, full of bullet holes, sat on my desk daring me to ask about it. I didn't bite, preferring the picture to tell its own tale. It didn't bite either.
"I found it on his coffee table," the dame finally said.
"Talk."
"I'm Vanessa Marley, his daughter. I came home and found this picture."
"Any broken windows, locks? Anything else lying around that shouldn'ta been?"
"Just the picture."
She suspected her father's partner, that much was clear. I'd had enough run-in's with the local P.D.s to know that solving murders was their turf, and it was a stadium I didn't have home field advantage on. They'd already be looking for Rothschild too, assuming they even knew yet.
"Did you call the police?"
"No."
"Why not."
"I just didn't."
"Gonna need a few more details hon."
"That's all you get, you're the P.I., you figure it out. I'll be in touch."
She reached into her pocket, pulled out a piece of paper and tossed it on the desk. All it had was a phone number. She stood up and left the office. As I heard her footsteps grow softer, I reached over and grabbed the phone number she left. Except it wasn't a phone number.

Red Lips

"Your walls need painting," she said.
I looked at her from behind my desk. Tall broad, but not too tall. Black hair, brown eyes, real looker. She wore red lipstick, not too much, but it stood out like it was the only color in the room. Nice trenchcoat too, a Danilli from the looks of it. Fine lookin' dame, but she didn't rile me nothing. She shook out her soaked umbrella and came inside.
"Have a seat," I said.
She didn't say anything as she sat down. Pulled out a cig, lit it, inhaled and breathed out slowly.
"Want one?" she asked.
"I quit."
"Too bad."
She took another puff and looked out the window behind me then put out the smoke in my ashtray. I waited for her to speak up, tell me what was more important than the blackening night.
"I need you to find someone" she said finally, "and I want him found soon."
"Finding ain't hard. Soon will cost you."
"Money is no concern."
She held my stare evenly, but I could see the beginnings of emotions inside her welling up. Whether they'd come to the surface or not I'd hafta wait.
"Who ya need found."
"Donald Rothschild III."
"CEO of Rothschild & Marley Inc. Didn't know he was missing, papers woulda been all over that."
"He's not missing."
"But you need him found."
"That's right."
She hadn't looked away from me during the whole exchange. I sat back in my chair and thought. Rothschild was a big name in town, head of the biggest chemical testing plant in the state. Well-liked, good reputation from his charitable donations, but most of his donations were the political kind. Had a freeway, a hospital wing and a football field named after him. Finding him wouldn't be a problem, avoiding his name is the real trick.
"Look him up in the phonebook, always works for me."
This wasn't a case, it was a waste of time. I started turning around to face the window, signaling our conversation was over when she stood up, reached into her purse, and slapped something on my desk. I was a polaroid. I picked it up. I recognize the body right away.

On aardvark and swarmy night

It was cold out. Not cold in a chilly way, but in the kind of way that makes your senses sharp. Crisp, my ex-wife used to say. She walked out on me eight years ago. That night was cold the same way tonight is, only then I was sitting at home with a bottle of Jack. Now, I'm drinking it at the office, waiting for something to walk through the door. Pay the bills, you know. The name's Keaton, Roger Keaton. I'm a P.I. Tonight I'm investigating nothing more than how much longer the rain's gonna come down. The answers ain't there and I confess to not lookin' too hard. Rather than strain myself for answers, I keep looking out the window from my chair, back to my desk and the world inside. Looking's too strong a word, since the night's rainfall seems more like it's looking at me, but without anything to say. I stare back but between me, the bottle and the weather an agreement is made to mind our own business.

Then I hear them. Noises I haven't heard in a few days. Footsteps coming up the stairs. Moving slowly but taking each step lightly. Now they come down the hallway and stop at my door. I stay still, waiting for my guest to come to me with news of the outside world. A moment goes by and I wonder if they've lost their nerve. Two knocks, the first softer than the second. Late on a Sunday night, what would make them think anyone would be here?
"Come in."
I hear the door open but I don't turn around. What's the hurry, they've come all the way here, it must be important I ask myself ruefully. I turn around slowly from my window to face my guest. I look around but they're still standing in the hall, out of sight. The lights are off so I can't see them. Movement now from outside, the shadow of a jacket, or a dress, flicker against the old walls. Damn they need paint. One of these days. Around the doorframe she came in to my office, and I knew the night was going to pick up.

Zinedine Zidane

For those of you who don't know, Zinedine Zidane, one of the best "footballers" of his generation, stuck his head where it didn't belong and got himself ejected from the World Cup final against Italy, and subsequently cost his team a chance at a second title. The ubiquitous video clip of Zidane headbutting Marco Materazzi has been parodied all over the net, so follow this link to the best collection. You'll laugh, you'll cry, and you'll cry laughing some more. Funniest thing I've seen in a long time.

I Quit

That's all folks, thanks for the blog-fodder (blodder?). Three more weeks will complete my mandatory customer service tenure. When next I surface, I'll be denying you a mortage, setting up our country's newest C.A.'s, criticizing polititians in print or illegally detaining immigrants for National Security Purposes. I held my post for three years and two months and feel obligated to take time to reflect on a job that saw me go from credit ridicule to excellent, from Boy in Basement to Dude in Pad, from borrowing parents' car when it was convenient with them to using my own car when convenient with the Boss, from out of shape unemployed flameout to slightly less out of shape management type. Some good times, some bad, some sales records that won't be broken and some connections that hopefully will help the good cause.

It'll get ya drunk! Mmm mmm!

From the description:
"Originally based on a Swiss recipe this Absinthe has no artificial color or preservatives, and contains 111mg of the psychoactive thujone adored by some of the world’s most notorious artists and writers. Van Gogh, Picasso, Hemingway…Bob Dylan, Marilyn Manson and Eminem are just a few who used and drew inspiration from this original Absinthe and its effects.

Naturally green in color, the Premium Zele is 70% alcohol (150 proof) and is bottled with fresh herbs and wormwood that distill inside and enhance the taste and thujone content. All the ingredients are carefully selected to ensure its distinctive taste."

Here's a link to the video describing how to best utilize your experience.

For whatever reason, the video won't load in Firefox, but Internet Explorer works.

Metal Storm Solid

Eat your heart out, John Kruger.

Trade Notification

It's been a great year at Generic Student Employment Co. In my time at my Generic Student Job, I hold the record for most individual membership sales, highest (and second and third highest) cashouts in one day, have trained more new employees than anyone else (other than my old boss), and am currently counted on to help the company through a difficult and unique transition period. Because of this, the timing is perfect to announce that I am requesting a trade to a new city in the spirit of my new role model. I know, I know. I just signed a long-term contract and gave Generic Student Employment Co. every indication that they could proceed knowing my status was one certainty they could rely on as they focus on other matters, but gosh, I'm just not happy, you know?

All dubious sarcasm aside, Chris Pronger sucks harder, deeper, and longer than any other hockey player has ever sucked. Why sign a five year contract they ask to be traded because your wife doesn't like the city? DON'T SIGN THE CONTRACT THEN. You were within one backup-goalie fuck-up of winning the Stanley Cup in a city that kissed your ass all year and did nothing but tell you and anyone else unfortunate to be in the vicinity how great you are, the best defensemen in the NHL, would-be Conn Smythe winner, and certified Hall of Famer. Plus $6.25 million a year. Not good enough eh? Don't let Jason Smith's stick hit you across the head on your way out of town.

It's louder now...

As much as I my taste in music is gradually becoming more subtle, more refined and a little more exploratory, deep down there lingers a desire for raw, unnecessary pure power. Eight ago I was playing in a tennis tournament in Vernon and my doubles partner, whom I'd met down there, was driving the two of us around town to our match locations. He had his big sub pumping out some phat b-boy tracks, and I asked him why he dug such dope beats, fo-shizzle. He said he didn't really like rap but that it made the sub pound. At the time I thought it odd that the message be dictated by the medium, rather than the other way around. Shouldn't one first like a certain type of music and then buy the right speakers, receivers and source? Seemed to make sense. Then a couple years ago a friend of mine introduced me to the world of high-end analogue audio. He was listening to jazz, female vocals, and classic tunes which were a far cry from the shrieking metal he preferred in high school. Once again, the idea was that the medium chose the message because it sounded better. I'm moving along the same path with my home theatre setup dictating louder, dumber, awesomer movies because they maximize (and justify?) the system (and the cost). Here's the latest addition to the Team.

Thanks for a great ride

In the last two months, the Oilers became the first eighth seen to make it to the Finals, the third team to beat the President's trophy winner in the first round, the third team ever to force a game seven after being down 3-1 in a final and the first Oiler team in sixteen years to make it to the last series. They also overcame a 2-0 deficit for the first time in team history, the loss of the hottest goalie in the playoffs, and a flu virus that hit half the players in the third round. Some people say they failed. I say that it was the most rewarding spring I've ever had, and thanks to a great team for an inspiring run. See you next year!

Gotta love sports.

MacT will save us!

Size matters not. Look at me. Judge me by my size, do you? Hmm? Hmm. And well you should not, for my ally is the Force, and a powerful ally it is. Life creates it, makes it grow. Its energy surrounds us and binds us. Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter. You must feel the Force around you; between you, me, the tree, the rock, everywhere. Yes, even between the land and the ship.

Down 3-1, going back to Carolina. I believe.

I have never seen anything so gay in my entire life

And by gay, I don't mean that it's wrong or vile or soon-to-be-illegal-when-grouped-in-legal-twosomes. I just mean gay. Stay tuned everyone!

I Pity the Fool

In the year 2006, a crack cosmetics unit was sent out to sell a product by a corporation they don't understand. These women promptly escaped from all arguments promotting reason and common sense to the Prince George underground. Today, still wanted by their husbands, they survive as National Vice President of fortune. If you have a sun-parched skin, if no one else can help you exfoliate, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire: The A(rbonne)-Team.

The Galactic Empire

These days it's tiresomely fashionable to criticize the United States for pretty much everything. Actually, since this is always fashionable, it's more accurate to say it's enormously fashionable right now to attack the Bush administration for 9/11 conspiracy theories, failures in Iraq, illegal domestic surveillance, Hurricane Katrina, economic problems, massive conflicts of interests or the overtly Christian influence on foreign policy. Whew. I say tiresome because for Canadians it's an enjoyable passtime to throw darts of condescension towards the U.S., uninformedly mocking their culture and government. Canadians pat themselves on the back when we appear to have morally superceded the Americans in any way, as recently witnessed by Canadian sports reporters applauding Edmonton Oilers fans who cheered the Star Spangled Banner two nights after fans in San Jose booed O Canada two nights previous. While certainly worthy of praise for genuinely applaudable actions, it garnered far more attention than when fans in Vancouver booed the U.S. anthem in January at the World Junior tournament (while cheering on the Russians instead in their semi-final match). It seems Canadians are perfectly willing to criticize themselves in a vacuum, but clamp right up when examining our country's political and social flaws when comparing them to the United States.
So while I sometimes post on the United States and their descent into totalitarianism, I think that such observations should be made with an eye towards our own government, whose current residences should be monitored closely.

Western Conference Champions!!!!!!!

Careful now

Update on U.S. National Security, C.I.A. nominee Michael Hayden.

Boy, I sure am glad I don't want to BOMB the WHITE HOUSE. The President is someone I would never BOMB or wish ill upon. Not being part of AL-QUAEDA or any other TERRORIST ORGANIZATION, WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION are of no interest to me.

Mike Peca ends every series with "It's not me, it's you"

On to the third round! The boys are now one of four teams left in the battle for Lord Stanley's grail. Conference Final Game One goes tomorrow night in Anaheim. 'Tis a time of happiness in Darth Forehand's abode, if also a time to monopolize all conversations with uninterested parties. I include my readers in this category.

Jocks in their natural habitat

Just to show I'm not against making fun of my own kind, here's a more balanced look. Of course, both lists have inherent nerdlian ingredients: Anger and hostility towards others, and video games.

Top Ten Angriest Athletes
Top Twenty-Five Cyber Athletes

Masters of my universe

Interesting article on the depressing effects of watching old cartoons whose quality and relevence was kept alive only by one's nostalgic delusions. I was a bit young to really dig He-man, but I found the same problem when returning to my own source of youth cartoon morality, Transformers. This might shatter some illusions out there so don't read on if you want to preserve your childlike innocence, but that show sucks. While a reliable source with equally plentiful time on his "hans" assures me the Japanese versions were really good, I still find it bothersome how time has eroded a perfectly good TV show whose sole purpose to exists was to sell toys. That's not meant to be cynical. Those toys were fucking sweet. And still available, luckily.

Nerds in their natural habitat

See how they act when they think nobody's watching!

SHOOT THE PUCK!!!!!!

He doesn't shoot when he's supposed to, he tries to deke through too many players, and he gives the puck away too much. Yet this season, Ales Hemsky has scored the Oilers' three biggest goals: the game-winner to clinch a playoff berth, and the tying and winning goals tonight to help Edmonton upset the best team in hockey in the first round of the NHL playoffs. Hockey is the Greatest Thing Ever again, after two periods where hockey Sucked. After spending last week in Edmonton and getting to enjoy some of the playoff atmosphere there, I can only imagine what it's like there right now.

re: prisoner/inmate status

Thank you for your message in regards to prisoner/inmate #230019976. We can assure you that his stay has been pleasant and that all reports of harsh security measures, uncomfortable cell size, and mass prisoner boredom have been greatly exaggerated by the liberal-biased media. Our tenants enjoy the highest quality facilities and are protected by the most advanced, humane security precautions available. In regards to your specific inquiry, we must respectfully decline your prisoner/inmate's request for transfer back to his former quarters in Prince George until his sentence has passed. In the meantime, we assure you that his care will be first rate and that all measures in regards to his condition, Irritable Fatigue Impatience Syndrom, will be taken. Thank you for your concern in this matter.

Sincerely,

Warden S.

You know I don't speak Spanish!

I was at a gym one time, a few towns over. Not as nice as this. They have weights and Hammer Strength, not quite as many as this, but close. I was sitting at one of the tables drinking a pina colada smoothie with glutamine (out of a clean glass) when in walked the Biggest Mexican I've Ever Seen. Big as shit, just walks in like he owns the place. He was dark too, not dark-skinned, no, this was different. It was as if he was moving in shadow. Every step he took toward the light, just when you thought his face was about to be revealed... it wasn't. It was as if the lights dimmed, just for him. He leaned across the counter and said something to the kid behind the desk. I couldn't hear, but that kid took in every word he said. Sounded like he was looking for someone. Robber, Romar, Roger... Yeah. ROGER. That's what he said. The kid looked around then slowly turned to face the man before him. He didn't speak. Calmly, he told the man that Roger was not here, but that he would be back Monday. The man didn't move. After a tense moment, the man told the kid that would be fine, it wasn't important, and thanked him for his help. When the man left, the kid turned to me, smiled, and said "The front counter staff never gets killed!" But just then, two mothers with five young screaming toddlers came through the doors inquiring about a tour and pricing options. No man, the front counter kid got it worse than anybody.

In case it was getting too easy to pick on President Bush....

"War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself."
-John Stuart Mill

You've got some attitude mister

It's been brought to my attention that I've been neglecting my duties as a blogger but don't worry! I've also been neglecting my duties as a student, employee, and llama salesman too! In the last two weeks I haven't studied enough, worked with any interest or respect or sold a single pair of llama skinned double breasted overcoats. As a result, I haven't been able to report on such interesting events as Judas=Jesus' best pal, teacher-student conferences, and the next ploy to raise oil prices.

I thought I had mono once. Turns out I was just really bored

Mononucleosis. That vicious virus, that sickening sickness, that debilitating disease. With the help of Wikipedia, a brief self-analysis and a little hypochondria, I have deduced that I am once again afflicted with mono (or as it's more commonly known, "Pfeiffer's disease"). I had mono once before in 8th grade, punctuated with several coolness-points-increasing bouts of public vomitting. Yes kids, the best way to make new friends, in a new school, in your new "city," is to heave all over the gym floor during a P.E. exam. I was once again diagnosed with mono about four years ago, but the timing wasn't right so I chose to neither show any symptoms nor pass it along. Still, I was assured by a medical "professional" that I absolutely DID have mono and I WAS sick. Come to think of it, I think that was the same guy who sold me my Monster Power Conditioner.
When I woke up today, I was experiencing symptoms of a REALLY sore throat, achiness, extreme fatigue, and this past week I'd noticed my neck had swollen lymph nodes. Those just happen to be the four main symptoms Wikipedia associated with mono. The cure for mono, as everyone knows, is a doctor's note to push back the three twelve-page papers I have due in the next three weeks.

One more sport to beat the Americans at!

After taking a bit of time to warm up and needing a few comebacks to beat South Africa, the boys beat tournament favorite U.S. 8-6 today. Biggest upset of the tournament and a win tomorrow gives us first place in our pool and a birth in the quarterfinals. The U.S., for those not following this very closely, was supposed to win this tournament pretty easily. So a big BOOYA for us!

Tax Update

Just so everyone is aware, the Canada Revenue Agency states that a dead individual is not entitled to a GST/HST rebate. If you die, you are to immediately return payment and inform the CRA of the date of your death. That is all.

Noallej?

In my experience, it is very important to distinguish a person who possess information from a person who has knowledge. If one is merely informed, they can only act as a conduit and must rely on other sources. For example, I can tell you that protein builds muscle and without enough protein in your diet, all those hours pounding weights at Average Joe's won't get you very far. How does protein work? How the hell should I know? If I were knowledgeable, I'd be able to explain how it works and take responsibility for the answer. This is why, with my recent foray into the world of the stock market, I can't brag or take much responsbility for the fact that shares I bought have nearly double in the last week. I bought Habanero Resources Inc. at a petulant .69/share, now they sit masculinely at a robust 1.23, as of this post. I don't know exactly why they've gone up, or why they might keep going up, but that won't stop me from telling everyone I know what I sharp guy I am, then changing the subject when they ask why.

Conspiracy Alert!

Lifted off Mad Scrolls's truly exceptional blog, this is another interesting look at conspiracy theories surrounding 9/11. I have a higher quality version, but it will cost you oven-baked pizza with an Arizona Cardinals jersey bottle cooler, a Coke Zero, and two open-minded Swedish nurses.

Oh well...

Certainly this is tardier than intended and no longer news, but Canada, in case you haven't heard, will not be gold-medal winners in men's hockey. I'll pause for a moment to let that sink in. Can't say I'm as bummed as I thought I'd be. They just didn't have it, no help from Nash-Thornton-Bertuzzi who were useless, and those damn women hogged all of Canada's scoring skillz for themselves. Not to worry hockey fans, in four years we all get to take out second and third mortgages to pay for tickets in Vancouver, where our team will be so ridiculously good that being poor for the next decade will be worth it.

Breaking News

The Vice President of the United States (or his real title, Emperor of the Imperial Senate) Dick Cheney was involved in a hunting accident over the weekend where he mistook his 78-year-old hunting companion for a quail, and SHOT HIM IN THE FACE. Harry Whittington, a lawyer, survived the "peppering" only to have a heart attack during his recovery. We can only hope that Mr. Whittington will avoid any more mishaps by secluding himself at the North Pole in an underground bomb shelter. In the basement closet. With his eyes closed and ears plugged. Hiding under his security blanket with his bear.

There's cold ones in the fridge!!!!

It was bound to happen eventually. Every weekend myself and my posse gather 'round to share fine discussion, enjoy finer athletics and the finest accompanying beverages. Sometimes this paradigm is uncomfortably affected, like when someone Ruins Poker Night (TM), the Oilers lose to "not Oilers" because once in the third period they didn't cover someone in front of the net, or some participant brings a stimulant just a bit too strong. Poker night has been going since September, so there's been many occasions where some or all parts of the evening have changed from the standard template, though lately blame rests with stimulant overdose. Poker night, like Kenny's death on South Park, gets "ruined" every week, though the fun is in the creativity. Last weekend, it was homemade wine. The idea of adding some class to the evening seemed like a good idea until we realized we're just not classy people, proven by the image of all of us at the table drinking straight from our own bottle. Strategy suffered. Before that, the growing presence of the "stickiest of the icky," or "snoochies," made it a challenge. The last straw, again from last week, was when yours truly went all in, was called by three others, then revealed The Greatest Poker Hand I'll ever get, a Jack-high straight flush. An exciting moment to be a part of, and my favorite way of ruining poker night.

It begins....

Four years ago, on a crisp Sunday afternoon, over ten million Canadians (that's without numbers from those in bars and restaurants) grouped themselves in front of the tv and watched the best team from the best country win the best tournament in the best sport. Whether you like hockey or not is irrelevent, because the next ten days will be more culturally all-encompassing than any other event. As was the case in Nagano, our national obsession will be confronted by the joys of a planet foolishly built round, meaning some games are damn early in the morning. I have a hard enough time rolling out of bed for a 10 a.m. class, let alone 4:00 in the morning to watch us stomp Italy. Here's the full schedual for the round-robin, all times Pacific:
Feb 15-4:00 am-Italy
Feb 16-11:00 am-Germany
Feb18-6:30 am-Switzlerland
Feb 19-12:00 pm-Finland
Feb 21-7:30 am-Czech Republic

I generally watch hockey from one of two places: as an analyst, who tries to understand why the game is unfolding the way it is and what is likely to happen in the future, or as a completely biased, irrational, screaming, beligerent fan. Fortunately, all my friends who'll be watching with me will also fall into the second category.

The Day the Music Died

This is bad news, but it seems to be getting better. First, Rick Tocchet got in trouble for being linked to an illegal gambling operation with a New Jersay cop. No big deal. Then reports came out that Janet Jones, The Great Wife (who won eternal acceptance for being happy when Canada beat the U.S. in Salt Lake, despite being American) was found to have been making bets through Tocchet's team. In the U.S., you can gamble all you want, just don't place bets for others or pass along money. So why is this an enormous deal? Not for anything that's happened, but the implications for professional athletes placing bets through illegal betting posts (this one perhaps having ties to Jersey mob types) is death, even if they aren't betting on their own sport, because of the possiblities for fixing games. If games are fixed, the sport is in deep trouble. Witness figure skating at the Olympics, or back to the 1919 World Series. Wayne was quoted saying he knew nothing about any gambling ring, but then reports came out of a tapped conversation he had with Tocchet where he wanted to make sure his wife wouldn't be implicated in anything. Oops. The most recent reports do support Wayne though, since the timing suggests that the conversation with Tocchet occured after he was informed by New Jersey police. So it looks like he's clear, but the distraction does not bode well for our fine lads in Torino.

Let us pray

Off IRC's greatest hits:

Our Father, who 0wnz heaven, j00 r0ck!
May all 0ur base someday be belong to you!
May j00 0wn earth just like j00 0wn heaven.
Give us this day our warez, mp3z, and pr0n through a phat pipe.
And cut us some slack when we act like n00b lamerz, just as we teach n00bz when they act lame on us.
Please don't give us root access on some poor d00d'z box when we're too pissed off to think about what's right and wrong, and if you could keep the fbi off our backs, we'd appreciate it.
For j00 0wn r00t on all our b0x3s 4ever and ever, 4m3n.

Man Report Card Week

Valentine's Day: The Super Bowl of Holidays (it's not so much the day, but the buildup that kills you) or The Annual Male Report Card (male test scores result in three choices for females: abort/retry/fail)?

Whilst at work last night, the topic of Valentine's Day came up. As is the case with most topics of conversation, it arose in the course of mocking a fellow employee. Both of us expressed the requisite disdain for the holiday (what's the point of celebrating the firing of Bobby Valentine? He brought the Mets to the World Series!), my reasons being the Sentiment at the Barrel of a Gun marketing style. There's still six more days of listening to endless "my boyfriend is going to do such wonderful/shitty things for me" diatribes, so with less than a week remaining, here's a shout-out to all you "men" out there: get your playtime in now before you get grounded.

Exciting news!

Don't worry everyone! It's going to be okay! This goddamm planet full of hippies really isn't that bad after all! Why you ask? We're only two points out of first place again!


Some of you might know me as a fan of the Edmonton Oilers. Count yourselves as people who do not know me very well. To say that I have a mild interest in their fortunes would be like saying my boss and White Goodman have a slight resemblance. Only last week I was writing a complaint about how we'd be lucky to grab the last playoff spot, our season was falling apart, and the earth would soon collapse into itself while singing Bjork. Essentially, all that could go wrong was going wrong. But now we're sweet again, and hockey is the Greatest Sport Ever again after being relegated to Worst Sport Ever (for a full account on Sport Specific Irrational Emotional Response Syndrome, click here), and after we beat Vancouver for the fifth time in a row, all is chedder again. Tonight we play Colorado and a win will be MOST GOOD. A loss will make me haul out my bitch-and-complain post that's saved for just such occasions.

Some tips on what to avoid

These are hilarious. If you come across this guy on your late night internet outings, do yourself a favor and play along.

This is the greatest thing anyone has ever done with anything ever

Crazy Japanese and all their technology!

Ha ha, cowboys!

Fabulous!

Currently, my life consists of living in a small apartment, sitting at my computer writing "pieces" that I hope make me rich and famous, shopping to ward off boredom, and adding to my growing collection of shoes. I got to thinking, in a city like Prince George, is it possible that my identity is not my own, but in fact of someone else? Yes it's true, my sports-shoe fetish is growing more powerful by the day, and soon my life will not be my own, but a collection of columns I dub Sexually Confused in the City.

Hot Shoe Action 1
Hot Shoe Action 2
Hot Shoe Action 3

The first one is a vintage 2003 Prince NSF Viper II, with the rare blue and black color scheme. This pair is currently the centerpiece of my home collection. The second and third, the 2005 Adidas ClimaCool Boom and the 2004 Prince NSF Viper III, I hope to add to my stable.

When does it end?

It has always been my contention that home theatre is the most unnecessary of all luxuries. If movies are entertainment and are designed to distract us from our regular lives, why is it that only the richest (and thus those that need the break the least) can afford it? It is that unfortunate, ironic paradigm that I have dedicated my life and most of my disposable income to defeat. My latest attempts to bolster my home theatre arsenal take the form of a quick strike and a pre-emptive calculation.

That big black box is the Monster Power HTS 3500 MKII. It cleans the dirty power that wrecks the quality of my sound and video on such an enormous level that I might actually notice, but only now that they've told me so. The Monster Power 3500 MKII is a big, fat, overpriced, underperforming powerbar. Naturally, I have to have one.

If you must ask what that big Blu thing is you are terribly uninformed. You're probably one of those people who thinks that 100 watts per channel is actually 100 watts per channel! Ha ha! Go read up on your peak and RMS, you n00b! THAT, my friend, is the Sony BDP-S1. It's exactly the same as your $30 Thompson interlaced DVD player you bought at Canadian Tire, except that if you put them in the same room together, the Sony BDP-S1 would disintegrate your Thompson by simply opening its tray. That's because this is Sony's first Blu-ray player, and Blu-ray will take over for DVD and stomp all over HD DVD. Blu-ray disks have massive storage capacity, a sweet anti-scratch coating, and will be obscenely expensive for what will amount to a small improvement. Naturally, I have to have one.

Bullets dodge Chuck Norris

Stumbled upon this the other day, it was late and I was tired. Naturally, I laughed myself silly. The more you read the funnier it gets.

Check out this article first if you want some background on the Chuck Norris obsession