The Ladies return today. (No, I'm no talking about Rob Crow's side-project with super-ritalin kid Zack Hill, I mean MY Ladies, the one who lets me kiss her sometimes and the other one what was made by all the kissin'. Sheesh.)
I still have pigs to shave, cows to slop, lawns to milk, hobos to chase and bodies to dispense of; the poker game in the basement's just about wrapped up, which is alright, but the group of old Chinese guys playing mah-jong in the garage just ignore my frantic knocks at the door (and that's where I keep the weed-whacker, which is what I need to fend off the wasps!), and those hookers gotta go, I don't care where, they just gotta GO.
Also: must find a way to trick Bryn into falling down the well. He's gettin' a mite uppitty, and I figger a couple days in the 'Glory Hole' might do him some good.
Anyway: busy day. Might talk later.
(This is all just my way of disguising the fact that I spent the entire weekend watching movies and playing Prince of Persia on the PS3.)
Monday, July 27, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Correction:
We are Men of Cowardly Action.
It's true; due to the fact the we are both averse to the slightest amount of pain (and that dealing with insects in any way is just icky), yesterday's battle plan was quickly abandoned; the territory known as 'the Backyard' has been ceded to the enemy, which is just peachy, as we are quite safe indoors, and we've decided that we're both okay using the front door only from now on.
Stuff:
1. Freakout Boy's brother asks him why he shoved a remote up his butt.
2. Okay, I give in: Lily Allen's as catchy as hell, and it really doesn't hurt that she's cute.
3. Man removes cherry pits from his anus with hammers. I shit you not.
Hey, wait, that was kind of a pun!
Now I must go water the tomatoes from a very safe distance, and then reward myself with celebratory chocolate.
It's true; due to the fact the we are both averse to the slightest amount of pain (and that dealing with insects in any way is just icky), yesterday's battle plan was quickly abandoned; the territory known as 'the Backyard' has been ceded to the enemy, which is just peachy, as we are quite safe indoors, and we've decided that we're both okay using the front door only from now on.
Stuff:
1. Freakout Boy's brother asks him why he shoved a remote up his butt.
2. Okay, I give in: Lily Allen's as catchy as hell, and it really doesn't hurt that she's cute.
3. Man removes cherry pits from his anus with hammers. I shit you not.
Hey, wait, that was kind of a pun!
Now I must go water the tomatoes from a very safe distance, and then reward myself with celebratory chocolate.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Know Yr Enemy
As we speak, we are going to war with the wasp nest.
Rachel pointed it out a few days ago, hanging underneath the garage's eave, about the size of a small cantaloupe. She had a plan involving waiting until the wasps left and then replacing the nest with a paper bag in order to convince the wasps that they didn't live there anymore.
Rachel, however, is not here, and we are Men of Action.
Bryn is wearing a football helmet and has a baseball bat and the garden hose in his hands. I am wearing a catcher's mask and chest protector, armed with a can of hairspray and a lighter. We have escape plans and defenses set up, and we expect nothing short of Total Victory.
This is what happens when you leave us alone for the weekend.
Speaking of infestations that need to be eradicated: apparently we're coming up on the 10th Annual Gathering of The Juggalos. Helicopter Rides! People On Stilts! Cheeseburgers and gangrape in the woods!
I ask you: where's the government with their smallpox blankets when you really need 'em?
Rachel pointed it out a few days ago, hanging underneath the garage's eave, about the size of a small cantaloupe. She had a plan involving waiting until the wasps left and then replacing the nest with a paper bag in order to convince the wasps that they didn't live there anymore.
Rachel, however, is not here, and we are Men of Action.
Bryn is wearing a football helmet and has a baseball bat and the garden hose in his hands. I am wearing a catcher's mask and chest protector, armed with a can of hairspray and a lighter. We have escape plans and defenses set up, and we expect nothing short of Total Victory.
This is what happens when you leave us alone for the weekend.
Speaking of infestations that need to be eradicated: apparently we're coming up on the 10th Annual Gathering of The Juggalos. Helicopter Rides! People On Stilts! Cheeseburgers and gangrape in the woods!
I ask you: where's the government with their smallpox blankets when you really need 'em?
Bryn is currently playing with his belly button.
So, my daughter and I have this game we play, where she'll find a small toy (usually it's this tiny fluffy sparkly ball of I-don't-know-what) and bring it to me so that I can toss it across the room; she then chases after it in her toddling way, her chubby little legs threatening to trip up and send her careening to the floor, and then she'll pick it up and bring it back to me, so that I can just up and toss it across the room again.
That's right: I've taught my daughter how to play Fetch. Don't judge me.
After five or six cycles of this, she eventually gets tired of the game, taking the ball of fluff and retiring to the extra carseat we have by the front closet, where she just sits and enjoys the view of the neighbourhood through the screen door, every now and then shoving something foreign and probably toxic into her mouth because in her world EVERYTHING GOES IN HER MOUTH; it's funny, because this is exactly what our dog Chewie would do whenever I tried to play Fetch with him: go through the motions a few times, and then run off to the far corner of the yard where he'd proceed to chew up whatever item we'd been playing with, which is why our back yard was strewn with the deflated corpses of basketballs and soccer balls, as well as tiny leather scraps of baseballs and tennis balls.
I am in NO WAY saying that playing with my daughter is like owning a puppy. That would be wrong and irresponsible of me. It would make me a Bad Parent, and I am a Damned Fine Parent, and anyone who tells you different is a liar and probably a communist.
Anyway: I won't be playing this game this weekend, as the Ladyfriend has taken the Little Miss with her to Saskatoon, joining Miss Amy and her brood of feral children as they go all Thelma & Louise on the Canadian Prairies. Honestly, I expect to that the next time I see my family unit will be on the news, surrounded by police cars as they hole themselves up in some roadside gas station they've decided to 'knock over'. That Miss Amy's a baaaaaaad influence...
...of course, what this all means is that I am all by my lonesome this weekend (except for Bryn, but he doesn't count, as he spends the majority of his time lurking in the basement, ascending the stairs only at night to hunt the alleyways for stray cats and wayward hobo-flesh); I expect that this will result in a brief return to the days of my bachelorhood, when I would play video games until the sun came up, sleep for about four hours, waking only to dine on chocolate bars and ginger ale and the odd slab of meat.
It's true: I am what is commonly referred to as a Sad Individual.
At least I have fun doin' it.
Oh! Congratulations are in order to the handsome Bruce Anderson and his lovely lady Robin Pritchard, as they gave birth to an even handsomer baby boy last Sunday! Forrester Kaden Anderson-Pritchard weighed in at 8 lbs 1 oz, and already sports a fine head of hair. Good luck, you two! I will NOT babysit for you, as I spend all my time teaching my daughter to NOT put the dryer lint in her mouth, but I wish all three of you the best.
Now I must go do nerdy things. Be good. Or else.
That's right: I've taught my daughter how to play Fetch. Don't judge me.
After five or six cycles of this, she eventually gets tired of the game, taking the ball of fluff and retiring to the extra carseat we have by the front closet, where she just sits and enjoys the view of the neighbourhood through the screen door, every now and then shoving something foreign and probably toxic into her mouth because in her world EVERYTHING GOES IN HER MOUTH; it's funny, because this is exactly what our dog Chewie would do whenever I tried to play Fetch with him: go through the motions a few times, and then run off to the far corner of the yard where he'd proceed to chew up whatever item we'd been playing with, which is why our back yard was strewn with the deflated corpses of basketballs and soccer balls, as well as tiny leather scraps of baseballs and tennis balls.
I am in NO WAY saying that playing with my daughter is like owning a puppy. That would be wrong and irresponsible of me. It would make me a Bad Parent, and I am a Damned Fine Parent, and anyone who tells you different is a liar and probably a communist.
Anyway: I won't be playing this game this weekend, as the Ladyfriend has taken the Little Miss with her to Saskatoon, joining Miss Amy and her brood of feral children as they go all Thelma & Louise on the Canadian Prairies. Honestly, I expect to that the next time I see my family unit will be on the news, surrounded by police cars as they hole themselves up in some roadside gas station they've decided to 'knock over'. That Miss Amy's a baaaaaaad influence...
...of course, what this all means is that I am all by my lonesome this weekend (except for Bryn, but he doesn't count, as he spends the majority of his time lurking in the basement, ascending the stairs only at night to hunt the alleyways for stray cats and wayward hobo-flesh); I expect that this will result in a brief return to the days of my bachelorhood, when I would play video games until the sun came up, sleep for about four hours, waking only to dine on chocolate bars and ginger ale and the odd slab of meat.
It's true: I am what is commonly referred to as a Sad Individual.
At least I have fun doin' it.
Oh! Congratulations are in order to the handsome Bruce Anderson and his lovely lady Robin Pritchard, as they gave birth to an even handsomer baby boy last Sunday! Forrester Kaden Anderson-Pritchard weighed in at 8 lbs 1 oz, and already sports a fine head of hair. Good luck, you two! I will NOT babysit for you, as I spend all my time teaching my daughter to NOT put the dryer lint in her mouth, but I wish all three of you the best.
Now I must go do nerdy things. Be good. Or else.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Tim & Eric Swap Underwear & Everyone Applauds.
Bryn just tried to trick me into watching a new episode of Tim & Eric Circlejerk On Camera & Everyone Calls It Art.
This is why I put Hazel's used diapers in his pillowcase: because he is evil. A necessary evil, to be sure, as this house don't come cheap, but evil nonetheless. I am also considering feeding him roofies and then nailing his bedroom door shut while he's passed out inside; I will then construct a small chute that connects the kitchen with his bedroom, through which I shall funnel all of our compost, as well as large furry spiders and the odd stray cat, and then I shall hold my belly and laugh and laugh and laugh. Then my daughter and I will go get ice cream, while Bryn cries himself to sleep in his fetid new surroundings.
And this is why Bryn always threatens to burn the house down.
Stuff:
1. Winnebago Man! How could I forget to show you guys this? Watch a grown man melt down as he tries to shoot commercials for his RV business. It's fun, really.
2. Scenic Swedish Postcards Invaded By Science Fiction!
3. So, it turns out that the video I linked to about that kid freaking out (and jamming a remote up his ass) was fake. Which, y'know, blows. And is also kinda strange, because the last thing I'd do if I knew a camera was on me would be to shove a piece of electronics up my butt. Anyway: the good people at Videogum are hosting a Greatest Freakout Ever Contest, which should prove at the very least to be entertaining.
4. Clint Anderson: was this you ten years ago? Don't lie. (As adorable as he is, I think this guy comes into my shop and sits quietly in the corner while blacking out the eyes of any pictures of women he might find in the paper.)
That's it for now. I need to go lie down and let my daughter kick me in the head for the next eight hours.
This is why I put Hazel's used diapers in his pillowcase: because he is evil. A necessary evil, to be sure, as this house don't come cheap, but evil nonetheless. I am also considering feeding him roofies and then nailing his bedroom door shut while he's passed out inside; I will then construct a small chute that connects the kitchen with his bedroom, through which I shall funnel all of our compost, as well as large furry spiders and the odd stray cat, and then I shall hold my belly and laugh and laugh and laugh. Then my daughter and I will go get ice cream, while Bryn cries himself to sleep in his fetid new surroundings.
And this is why Bryn always threatens to burn the house down.
Stuff:
1. Winnebago Man! How could I forget to show you guys this? Watch a grown man melt down as he tries to shoot commercials for his RV business. It's fun, really.
2. Scenic Swedish Postcards Invaded By Science Fiction!
3. So, it turns out that the video I linked to about that kid freaking out (and jamming a remote up his ass) was fake. Which, y'know, blows. And is also kinda strange, because the last thing I'd do if I knew a camera was on me would be to shove a piece of electronics up my butt. Anyway: the good people at Videogum are hosting a Greatest Freakout Ever Contest, which should prove at the very least to be entertaining.
4. Clint Anderson: was this you ten years ago? Don't lie. (As adorable as he is, I think this guy comes into my shop and sits quietly in the corner while blacking out the eyes of any pictures of women he might find in the paper.)
That's it for now. I need to go lie down and let my daughter kick me in the head for the next eight hours.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Insert Clever Title Here.
Well, that’s a great start, huh? Two entries and then nuthin’. I RULE.
My apologies for the absence of internettery this past week; I nearly perished from Asian Swine Bird Flu. Again. I swear, it’s like I traded in my immune system for a big vat of Phlegmy Sickness the moment my daughter arrived…
…I’m feeling much better now, thank you.
Anyway: stuff:
1. Remember Ducktales? Not like this, you don’t.
2. Sean MacAlister reviews stuff in Halifax, just not the stuff you thought he’d review.
3. More Baman/Piderman brilliance.
4. Andrew W.K. on morality.
Oh, also: I finished The Milk Chicken Bomb, by local sweetheart and artisan Andrew Wedderburn! Even though I was really only able to read it while I was on the toilet (Hey, you grab yer chances when they pop up, y’know?), I gotta say, well done, sir. Think Fight Club as written for small children by Cormac McCarthy. If that helps.
Gotta go. Comics to read, video games to stare at, sleep to avoid. It’s fun, you should try it.
My apologies for the absence of internettery this past week; I nearly perished from Asian Swine Bird Flu. Again. I swear, it’s like I traded in my immune system for a big vat of Phlegmy Sickness the moment my daughter arrived…
…I’m feeling much better now, thank you.
Anyway: stuff:
1. Remember Ducktales? Not like this, you don’t.
2. Sean MacAlister reviews stuff in Halifax, just not the stuff you thought he’d review.
3. More Baman/Piderman brilliance.
4. Andrew W.K. on morality.
Oh, also: I finished The Milk Chicken Bomb, by local sweetheart and artisan Andrew Wedderburn! Even though I was really only able to read it while I was on the toilet (Hey, you grab yer chances when they pop up, y’know?), I gotta say, well done, sir. Think Fight Club as written for small children by Cormac McCarthy. If that helps.
Gotta go. Comics to read, video games to stare at, sleep to avoid. It’s fun, you should try it.
Monday, July 13, 2009
The Straw That Broke The Camel In The Eye Of The Needle In The Haystack (Three Times Backwards In Front Of The Mirror)
I should take this moment to point out this new-fangled link I gots me on the sidebar over there; if you click it, Special Internet Magics happen, and you'll find yourself at The Straw, home of such ragged Calgarian luminaries as Barsky (of whom I've spoken before), as well as Mr. Jared Larsen (photographer extraordinaire and flaxen-haired socialite) and Sir Sean MacAlister (multimedia savant and all-around nice guy). The Straw is basically a creative outlet for these three gentlemen (there was a fourth involved in The Straw's creation, although he's seen fit to withdraw from their quorum, so while I'll respect his wishes for anonymity, I can't help but see him as The Straw's Fifth Beatle, so to speak. Even though there's only three of them, as opposed to the Beatles' four, er, wait. Five? I'm confused now. Shit...).
Where was I? Oh, yes: these fine young men have allowed me to showcase some of my own rabid scratchings on their site, which allows me to say that, yes, I suppose I can consider myself a Writer Of Things, a title which I'll be adding to my already impressive resume, a document that boasts such career highlights as Curmudgeonly Internetter, Server of Swill, Fancypants Light Bulb Changer For Holt Renfrew and Purveyor Of Second-Hand Porn.
These men have PLANS. They have SCHEMES, and the WILLPOWER to see them through. Go check it out.
Where was I? Oh, yes: these fine young men have allowed me to showcase some of my own rabid scratchings on their site, which allows me to say that, yes, I suppose I can consider myself a Writer Of Things, a title which I'll be adding to my already impressive resume, a document that boasts such career highlights as Curmudgeonly Internetter, Server of Swill, Fancypants Light Bulb Changer For Holt Renfrew and Purveyor Of Second-Hand Porn.
These men have PLANS. They have SCHEMES, and the WILLPOWER to see them through. Go check it out.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Um, What?
So, um, we're gonna try this again: welcome to the new home of Christopher Drew's Internet Wisdom and Random Venting Regarding Everything I Hate Including You.
Why? Because blogs r fun. And: I get bored waiting for my energy to refill while playing Mafia Wars on Facebook (shut up you WISH your life was as exciting as mine), so I figured I might as well do something constructive with that time, like rant online about how popstars all look like thoroughbred horses these days, or why simply contemplating the mere idea of Male Bangs constitutes a Crime Against Decency that is punishable by repeated blows to the back of the head with a brickbat.
(Seriously, guys: cut yr friggin' hair, already.)
So without any further ado, I hereby declare this blog to be in full swing, and promise to update it any time I am not busy keeping my child from putting poisonous things in her mouth whilst showing off her privates to the nieghbours. Which is all the time, but there ya go. To commemorate, here's a video that's sure to produce countless hours of therapy for its protaganist in the years to come:
Don't say I don't love you.
Why? Because blogs r fun. And: I get bored waiting for my energy to refill while playing Mafia Wars on Facebook (shut up you WISH your life was as exciting as mine), so I figured I might as well do something constructive with that time, like rant online about how popstars all look like thoroughbred horses these days, or why simply contemplating the mere idea of Male Bangs constitutes a Crime Against Decency that is punishable by repeated blows to the back of the head with a brickbat.
(Seriously, guys: cut yr friggin' hair, already.)
So without any further ado, I hereby declare this blog to be in full swing, and promise to update it any time I am not busy keeping my child from putting poisonous things in her mouth whilst showing off her privates to the nieghbours. Which is all the time, but there ya go. To commemorate, here's a video that's sure to produce countless hours of therapy for its protaganist in the years to come:
Don't say I don't love you.
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