[Peter warning: This one just kind of stumbled out of my fingers. I had no idea where it was going when I started. Be brave. Actually, I hate this post. Don't read it. Okay, fine. You think you know better? Go ahead. But, don't say I didn't warn you.]

Out of the blue, someone will ask, "Why aren't you married yet?"

Now, I know that women get this question on an almost daily basis. I understand that. However, I think that better prepares them for the next time it is asked. Men get the question too. But, I don't think that we have any clue how to deal with it. We instinctively say, "Just lucky, I guess." Then we quickly take a drink of whatever we are holding and walk away.

I've done that. But, it always makes me wonder why the person is asking the question. Is it because...

1) I am so charming and adorable that it is shocking that some woman hasn't snatched me up yet.

or

B) I am getting a little older and uglier every single day.

And it could really be either, depending on the person asking.

I suppose that if I really stopped and gave a sensible answer (as unlikely as that scenario is) it would be that...

I haven't found the right person, in the right place, at the right time.

It sounds simplistic, I know. But, if you meet a great person, nearby, but the timing is off, you are screwed. If the timing is good, the person is awesome, but you can't get it together geographically, then you are on your way to a period of long-distance suffering... and then you are screwed.

If the timing is perfect, the location works awesomely well, but deep in your bones you know the person isn't right... Yup, you guess it. Screwed. The worst part about this one is that you'll try to convince yourself otherwise. "She/He is such a good person." "She/she cares for me sooooo much." "Maybe I am being picky and should just marry her/him." (I am using "She/He" so it fits both sexes, and not because there is a tranny involved in any way. However, if that blows your skirt up, go ahead and fill your boots.) And with this one you can end up married BEFORE you find out that you are screwed.

I don't want to get divorced. No, no. It's true! For me, I think it's worth being super picky now, even if it only decreases the chances of an eventual divorce a tiny bit. Because, let's face it, I'm a bit of a pain in the ass. I'm stubborn. I'm spiteful. And my almost psychotic loyalty demands the same in others. Plus, I can't fall asleep without a tv on. This chick is going to have to be paaaaatient.

In a previous blog post, on a previous blog, I once outlined the things I look for in a woman. I am way too lazy to try to find it. But, it was mostly tongue-in-cheek, and one of the top things on my list was that she had to wear "cute girl" glasses. If I made a list today, I suspect I might have different priorities.

I think I would sum it up by saying that, "I want someone who just gets me."

If I get home after a craptastic day and just plunk down on the couch, pass me the remote, then crash out on the couch with your noggin on my lap and read a magazine. I'll instinctively start playing with your hair. You'll like it.

If my favourite team loses in the playoffs - or even if my favourite reality show contestant gets the boot - just give me a kiss on the forehead and then avoid me like the plague for a few hours.

If I develop an unreasonable and inexplicable hate for someone or something, hate it with me. Come on. It's a lot of fun.

Never ask me about my business, Kate.

And, for the good of humanity, never, ever try to "teach me a lesson." It is not going to turn out as you hoped. You remember that spite thing a few paragraphs up?

Plus, you know, you really could wear cute girl glasses. If you wanted.

Oh, I just remembered something else from my "list." I wanted her to be willing to dress as Wonder Woman for me.

Thankfully I am older and wiser now. That request just seems silly.

Obviously Princess Leia's gold bikini would work too.

Yesterday evening, I saw the biggest pigeon that I have ever seen.

It was also the pigeon with the brightest coloured neck. It was a gorgeous, shiny green. It glimmered in the ever-pinkening twilight hour.

I know almost nothing about the mating habits of pigeons, but I would put down money that Mr. Pigeon gets way more than his fair share of pigeon tail.

If you were wondering, that is not him pictured above. He didn't look like the kind of pigeon that would appreciate a fuss being made over him. He was clearly the strong, silent type. I didn't want to insult him by snapping a photo. I've also heard that some tribes of South American pigeons believe that flash photography steals the souls of pigeons. (And gives them pigeon migraines.)

This pigeon had a swagger. It was if he was saying, "Sure I'm nothing but a rat with wings, but dammit, I am the KING of rats with wings. Bitch."

I believed him.

He really did carry himself as if he were royalty. You know, if royalty frequently ate little seeds off the ground using only their mouths.

And to make sure that there were ample seeds on the ground, he did something quite ingenius. He flew up to the edge of the birdfeeder - which he was way too big to sit comfortably on - and used his beak to sweep seeds down to the ground. Then he flew gracefully back down to earth and ate leisurely.

He ate all by himself. Typically there are any number of birds having a feast at these feeders, but nary a bird dared to invade his space. (No cars drove by either, but I am choosing to chalk that up as fluke.)

At one point, while eating, he stopped and looked up and saw me watching him in the window. Our eyes met. I can't be sure of how long our moment lasted, but for that brief period of time, I was seeing the lawn through his eyes. And he knew it. He seemed to smile a little. It was as if he had momentarily considered having a staring contest with me, to show his dominance of the front yard. A battle where no quarter would be asked or given. I smiled back at him. There would be no need to be adversaries on this day. He did not fear me.

His stomach full, he flew up to a branch that was hanging over the feeder. He stared out at the yard, and those of my neighbours. It was as if he was surveying all that was his. He spread his giant wings, in one of the most majectic displays I have ever witnessed.

Then he took a giant crap on the top of the bird feeder.

I am busy today and wasn't going to take the time to post anything. But, you look so darn cute when you read my site.

No, not you. And put some damn pants on.

I am talking to YOU.

I'd like to tell you all that I am super busy working on writing projects that could potentially earn me some cash. And that is true. But, there is something else that is occupying my thoughts and monopolizing my time. (I mean besides the voting snafu on "Rockstar: Supernova" last night that could potentially negatively impact my boy Lukas.)

I am completely bogged down with preparations for...

My fantasy basketball league.

I'm not kidding.

I have put more effort into this than I put into:
1) picking a university
2) studying at said university
3) most relationships
4) any job
5) blog posts.

*gasp*

Well, maybe not #5. But, I have been working hard.

This is not an ordinary fantasy league that you would do in your office, or with your college buddies. This is hardcore.

It is a "keeper league." We'll be using real NBA salaries. There'll be a two-tier salary cap system. We'll have 3 drafts to start the league. (Creation, 2006 Entry & Amnesty.)

I know that the eyes of the non-sports fans have already started glossing over. I won't feel bad if you go to another site now. Well, not TOO bad. *sniffle*

I am working on various lists for each postion. I have to factor in ages, injury histories and their contracts. And I am one of the least intense guys in the league. Some dudes have created formulas to crunch player stats to come up with their draft lists. A couple of of them even got help from actual statisticians. I shit you not.

Why are we doing this? Mostly because we've all wanted to run sports franchises. And a lot of these dudes probably could. I mean, we'd all do a fuck of a lot better job than Isiah Thomas with the (evil) Knicks.

Currently I have the #2 pick in the main creation draft. That's the big one. I could stay where I am and grab Dwyane Wade. I could. Or I could trade back a little, get a good player and maybe grab another pick in the second or third rounds. I have interest in Chris Bosh and Chris Paul later in the first round.

Either of those scenarios could happen.

BUT, when I'm this close to #1, I have to take a run at it.

I contacted the guy with the #1 pick about a potential deal. He said he was open to discussion. Then he mentioned a framework for a deal that would involve my 2007 first round pick. I don't like this idea. Next year could be a HUGE draft with Greg Oden potentially declaring from Ohio State.

So, I send back a counter-offer. I rushed it and completely low-balled him. Now, I knew I was low-balling him somewhat, but once I really thought about it, I knew he'd immediately turn it down. And he did. And he sounded a little annoyed.

Oooopsie.

So, I immediately wrote back with a deal that would be much more beneficial to him. We'd swap #2 for #1 and he'd get my 3rd round pick, while I got his 4th round pick.

It's been 24 hours and he hasn't replied. I am stressed.

It is very possible that he just hasn't been online. But, I am thinking, "Did I annoy him TOO much?" "Is he getting better offers?" "Is the colour of this t-shirt making me look pale?"

I really want to say "With the #1 overall pick, the Cape Breton Barbarians select..."

(That's right. I had to represent the Cape.)

I should mention that the object of my affections at #1 overall is LeBron James. Now, Dwyane Wade is no slouch. I suspect that he'd be the consensus #2 pick. But, he is 2 or 3 years older than LeBron. And he seems to be perpetually banged up. And with Shaq looking older and older by the day, he'll have to force the issue more. This could lead to higher scoring numbers, but the wear and tear on his body might be too much. Especially considering he played in the NBA Finals and is now playing in the World Championships.

I just have a bad feeling about Wade. And historically, the players I take in fantasy leagues tend to have career worst years... or they tear the living shit out of their knees in the first game of the season.

Hmmmm... Maybe I should draft all Knicks players.

So, I guess alls I can do is sit and wait.

Oh yeah... And do some actual work writing, I suppose.

Update: As I was posting this, a trade went down and another dude got the #1 overall pick. Much to my chagrin. It is one of the most convoluted deals in the history of sports. Like 12 draft picks, spread across the three different drafts, and a quick lefty handjob on draft day. (I am speculating about that last part.)

Last night, as I was getting into bed, I came to a very vivid realization...

I should be a rock star.

No, seriously.

I have a raging ego. I'm a glory whore. I have an issue with authority figures. I have a rock star's build. I have messy rock star hair. I just want to wear jeans and t-shirts all the time. I like staying in hotels. I have no problem with people waiting on me. I am awesome at pissing away cash. And I TOTALLY think that I deserve groupies.

Then it hit me...

I AM going to be a rock star.

Granted I can't sing at all, but really, when has talent ever played a role in such things?

So, yeah, I'm going to be a rock star. And you guys are the first to find out. Congrats.

I am starting a band. Right now. It is going to be called...

Macho Business Donkey Wrestler.

It is from an episode of the genius, and underappreciated, "NewsRadio." True fans will refer to us as "MBDW." You can too.

I will be the lead singer/visionary.

Even though I haven't picked my bandmates yet - to be considered, just comment here - I've decided that I want us to be a large group. Six or seven members. Think Arcade Fire, but more rockish. We also will have two female members. One will be a super cute keyboardist. Very girl next doory. The other will be a dark and mysterious background singer/tambourinest.

I've already started writing songs for the first album, which will be called "Balls."

Here is the track list:

1) F*ck F*cking, Let's Make Love
2) Kramerica Inc.
3) I Don't Recall Your Name, But The Penicillin Feels The Same
4) Butterfly Kisses
5) I Hate Butterflies
6) F*ck Making Love, Let's F*ck.
7) I Like Your Bum (Where You From?)
8) I Hated This Song's Title
9) Anne Hathaway of Turning Me On
10) Rhinestone Cowboy* (BONUS)

* Every one of our albums will feature a bonus track where we cover some classic song. And this Glen Campbell song rules. Don't argue with me.

*Tangent warning*

The year Glen Campbell's "Wichita Lineman" was released, my father became a lineman. If Mr. Campbell had written a song called "Real Estate Tycoon" or "Violent Dictator of a Small Island Nation," I could be typing this to you on a much bigger computer. Possibly completely surrounded by ivory backscratchers.

*End tanget warning*

Wow. I just used a lot of asterisks.

Anyway, here is the cover for "Balls." (Please note: no balls were harmed in the photographing of this cover.)


And here is our first official t-shirt:







Sexy, no? Feel free to order one.

I assume that our downfall will be a love triangle between myself and the two chicas in the band. Which will, of course, wreck my marriage to Anne Hathaway. But, before that we'll have quite a ride.

Platinum records. Sold out concerts. Weird Al will parody one of our songs. It'll be glorious.

And you can say that you were here for the very start of it all.

*sniffle*

For some odd reason, my traffic has more than tripled in the past month. I'm as surprised as you are.

I wanted to do something to help the newcomers catch up with the goings on so far. I know that many bloggers do a "100 things about me" post. I considered that, but despite the fact that I find myself immensely fascinating, I don't think that I have that kind of dedication. By #73 I'd just be making shit up. "Had threesome with Angie Dickenson and Elizabeth Montgomery."

So, I figured I'd link to some of my past posts that explain who I am, and what PDDC is all about.

Here goes...

My Adorably Cute Niece (aka "the ACN") is my pride and joy and favouritest person on earth. I think she likes me too.

She has sneaky stuffed animals. Who lead lives of their own.

I wrote her a kids' book.

I sometimes randomly launch into pieces of short fiction. Like this one. Oh yeah, this one too. Nearly forgot this little one.

I might have an ego problem. Possibly. Just a little. A smidge even.

It lead me to trying a vlog.

My little cousin is referred to as "the monkey." She is bossy. She loves the pool. She is very quotable.

I am much less quotable.

I have a background in... the theatre. (Please note that I typed that in a British accent.)

I am influenced by family. Not always a good thing. Sometimes it is.

I am clearly not a poet.

Not even when it comes to "you know who." I may be a bit addicted. I am fighting it... with mixed results.

I don't understand art. Or the middle east.

In university I lived in an apartment. I wrote a quadrilogy about it. Quadrology? Something. Part I, Part II, Part III & Part IV.

Man, I still miss that place.

I'm not afraid to tackle the serious issues.

I've read one book since starting this blog.

I used to love hockey.

Anne Hathaway is good.

So is rocking the vote.

This explains some things.

And sometimes I just write stuff to amuse myself. Another example of just that.

Oh, it's true.

Every blog needs a post about a dead hooker, right?

Right.

So, there is a recap of what has gone on so far at PDDC.

Hopefully I'll come up with something new and/or interesting for tomorrow.

I have never been one to be too concerned about the latest fads. He says as he practices the macarena whilst wearing a "frankie says relax" t-shirt. I typically find my way to these things long after they've jumped the shark. For example, using the phrase "jumped the shark."

The overwhelming urge to make a snarky comment has once again lead me to something years after everyone else discovered it...

I am now on MySpace.

(You can't comment on people's MySpaces unless you have one of your own. Bastards.)

It is entirely likely that I'll be amused by it for a few days and the ignore it completely. But, for now, it intrigues me.

I can't really understand the popularity of it. Most pages are horrible to look at. The whole thing feels rather awkward. I'm guessing it's kind of like having sex with Paris Hilton. It wouldn't be your first choice, but it's free and everyone else is doing it. You almost feel like you are missing out by not trying it.

I'm also confused by the appeal of having tv shows and famous music groups add you as a friend. For the most part, you are just being friended by an intern from the mailroom that gets paid minimum wage and steals post-its by stuffing them in his underwear.

So, of course, I immediately added a tv show and some musical acts.

I do like the idea of having my own theme song. That is very cool. Granted, I've changed it 47 times in a few hours.

I've also realized that of the 375 people I've encountered over the past few years that are on MySpace, I can't remember a single one of them right now.

So, if you are a MySpacer, please add me as a friend.

I don't want to be left alone with that presumptuous prick "Tom."

I just made my first inside MySpace joke.

Holy crap I'm cool! He says as he listens to Lisa Loeb.

Many millions of years ago, there was a love connection.

A boy named "methane and nitrogen" ran into a girl named "a whole mess of rocks and junk." They didn't hit it off right away. She had been hurt before. He didn't want kids. But, a friendship blossomed. Finally, she agreed to let him drive her kids to Vancouver to meet up with her. Hilarity ensued and--

Wait, that may be the premise of ARE WE THERE YET? starring Ice Cube.

Well, "methane and nitrogen" and "a while mess of rocks and junk" actually did get together. They had a few cranberry vodkas and listened to some Al Green. She said that she had to work early the next morning. He told her that she could stay and that he'd take the couch. Then they kissed. And they both knew that nobody was sleeping on the couch.

A planet was formed. That planet is named Pluto.

I hope my backstory wasn't too scientific or graphic for you.

Jump ahead to 2006 and some "experts" have decided that Pluto isn't really a planet. It is now a "dwarf planet." Firstly, I think they prefer to be called "little planets." And secondly...

Are you kidding me??

Apparently "planetary purists" have long had a problem with Pluto. Planetary pursits. Yeah, that's a description that is going to get you laid.

I can't help but think of Walt Disney trying to wrap his half-frozen brain around this when they start thawing his ass out. And what about all the paper-maché and coat hanger 9 planet solar systems in classrooms around the world? Won't somebody please think of the children?!?

And what about Pluto's parents? You don't think that they are disappointed? Pluto's mother, Mrs. "a whole mess of rocks and junk" even has a bumper sticker on her car that says, "My son is the 9th planet!" Oddly enough she drives a Saturn, but still...

So, scientists find a new rock named "Xena" and begin rethinking the whole thing. Some geeks formulate a plan to bring Xena and a slutty lush friend of hers into the solar system. We have better technology now, so we can see further into space. And if we can see further, then we may find more planets. It makes sense. But, instead they decided to lop out Pluto. How is that progress?

Speaking of these scientists, don't they have better things to do with their time? For instance, what about using space-age polymers to create new bras that look cute, feel awesome to the wearer, as well as lift AND seperate? I think that is something we can all get behind.

Good bye, Pluto. We hardly knew ye.

So, you remember how I decided a while back that I was going to write a novel. Because, you know, that is the type of thing I wake up and decide one morning.

Well, I have written a number of chunks, but I have been growing more and more displeased with the big picture. Originally it was sort of a superhero/relationship comedy thing. A month later, the Uma Thurman movie came out.

*KAPOW*

This caused me to go to my fortress of solitude to think things over. I soon realized that I could still use the chunks I liked, just in a better, more original, story.

This is not the first time this has happened. Some of my other screenplays have started as one thing and eventually morphed into something completely different. A comedy/western becomes a straight western. A romantic-comedy, becomes more of a comedy/chase script. A lead character transforms from a guy into a chick. And, let's face it, without healthy doses of pre-op hormone treatments, that is not a smooth ride.

So, I had decided to change the story, but I had no idea what I would change it to. Until...

I was watching sports highlights.

That's right, suckas. Sports Center comes through again. Is there anything it CAN'T do?

I've long told girlfriends that I watch all this TV for "work purposes." Man, I love when shit like that turns out to be true.

I don't want to give away the premise, but suffice it to say that it is definitely scratching me where I itch more than the superhero thing was.

Now that I have a story I like, I should just shut up and write, right?

Right!

Well, sorta.

Here's the thing...

Is there even a genre for the type of stuff I write? "Silly male fiction?" Admittedly that was part of the appeal for me in the beginning. Women have "chick lit" so we should have something. "Dude lit." Of course, some wiseguy will refer to it as "dick lit." But, now I've beaten you to it, jerkass.

I don't read, like at all, so maybe there is such a genre out there. And perhaps it is thriving. But, I'm going to assume, for now, that there isn't. Do I want to be the one to try to create a genre? Ego-wise? Sure. But, I don't know anything about getting a novel published. Squat, Jack. Is this one of those cases where I should just keep blindly plugging away at it?

Maybe.

That's what I did with my first screenplay. I said, "Other morons are doing it, why can't I?" So, I did it.

And despite the fact that I have yet to achieve the breakthrough success that I was convinced was just around the corner, I've gotten better at it. And I've enjoyed the living crap out of it.

Maybe I should write this idea as a screenplay.

It would feel more familiar to me. I know what to do with a screenplay once completed. I know that I can get reads. I've done it before. And, quite frankly, the challenge of doing it again excites me.

I've been slacking on screenwriting because I've been thinking too much. I've been trying to anticipate what the reader would want before I even typed anything. It got exhausting. And it is a big part of why I started this site. I wanted to learn how to stop censoring myself. Just write, ya maroon. I do think blogging has helped. I'm not sure how much. But, perhaps it's time to find out.

I think that I just decided to make this "thing" a screenplay.

I am already happier with it.

One thing about trying to write a novel that I will miss is that I can have my "narrator" making funnies. Harder to do in a screenplay. Though I've chucked jokes in scene descriptions, directions... and slug lines. Readers may not love that.

One thing about writing a novel that I won't miss? What to write after a line of dialogue. The whole "He said" thing. "She replied." "Jasmine agreed." "Carrot Top chortled" It's fucking exhausting.

Now, I'm going to watch some sports highlights. It's hard work, but someone has to do it.

[Peter note: I had no idea where this was going when I sat down to start typing. And it likely shows.]


INT. HALLWAY - CRAPPY APARTMENT BUILDING - LATE NIGHT

A knocking on the door to apartment 219 echoes down the hallway. Jack, 30s, clad in typical jeans and t-shirt, is the man doing the rap rap rapping.

Marvin (from inside room): Who is it?

Jack: Who do you think it is? How many people did you call at 4 am??

Marvin (opening door): Sorry, dude. Had to be careful. Come in.

Marvin is roughly the same age and wearing the same type of attire. Except he is wearing a Hilary Duff concert t-shirt. It's best not to ask why.

Jack: What's going on?

INT. CRAPPY APARTMENT

The place is a complete mess. It looks like Tommy Lee has been in here partying with some... cheetahs. And not normal, every day cheetahs. The Tommy Lees of the cheetah world.

Jack: What did you use to tidy this place up? A hand grenade?

Marvin: I have something to show you in the bathroom.

Jack: I already don't like where this is going.

Marvin swings a door open wide and Jack just stares in.

Jack: Hmmmm.

Marvin: I know.

Jack: So, you have a dead hooker in your bathroom.

Marvin: Well, a dead highclass call girl, yes.

Jack: Is this really the time for semantics?

Marvin: People have the right to dictate how others refer to their professions!!

Jack: Simmer down.

Marvin: Well, she preferred to be called a highclass call girl.

Jack: She also probably would have preferred not to be rolled up in a rug on the floor of your crapper.

Marvin: Well, you know, if given the choice...

Jack: How did this happen?

Marvin: It's a long story.

Jack: Give me the main points.

Marvin (lighting a cigarette): Well, we were opening a bottle of champagne.

Jack: To celebrate what?

Marvin: You probably don't want to know.

Jack: Fair enough.

Marvin: And the cork came shooting out of the bottle--

Jack: You killed her with a fucking cork?

Marvin: No. The cork hit the cat in the ass.

Jack: When did you get a cat?

Marvin: I'm not entirely sure. So, the cat jumped up on the curtains. Next thing you know, the curtain rod is coming crashing down.

Jack: That killed her?

Marvin: Nope, but that swung up and knocked my bowling trophy off the top shelf.

Jack: The one you bought at a yard sale? With the hollowed out bottom for storing weed?

Marvin: Yes, fine.

Jack: So the trophy killed her?

Marvin: Not exactly. The trophy landed on one end of the coffee table.

Jack: Glass killed her?

Marvin: The other end of the coffee table shot up, sending an ashtray flying through the air.

Jack: The ash tray did it?

Marvin (shaking his head): The ash tray hit the ceiling fan, causing one of it's blades to break off and go hurtling through the air.

Jack gives a hopeful look.

Marvin: Then it stuck right into the wall. However, it was very close to an electrical socket and somehow caused a small fire.

Jack: Please tell me that the fire killed her.

Marvin: Nope.

Jack: Dude... What in the hell killed her?!?

Marvin: Oh, I shot her for trying to steal my wallet.

Jack is speechless, for what seems like minutes.

Jack: How much money was in your wallet.

Marvin: It's the principle of the thing.

Jack: How much?

Marvin: Eleven bucks.

Jack: I had to get out of bed, to help you de-dead hooker your home for eleven bucks?

Marvin: And my coffee club card was in there too. I buy one more espresso and I get, well, a free espresso.

Jack: Well, as long as it was something important. Let's go.

INT. APARTMENT STAIRWAY

Marvin and Jack carry the rug-wrapped body down the stairs. Judging by the protruding stiletto heels, Jack has the feet.

Jack: Is that an adam's apple?

Marvin: Eeeep.

Marvin drops the head, which hits the railing with a loud metallic *thunk.*

Both men cringe.

Marvin: Wow. That did not sound at all like on WEEKEND AT BERNIE'S.

Jack: Did you "Eeeep?"

Marvin: No.

EXT. BACK PARKING LOT

The guys toss the body in the trunk and quickly close it.

INT. JACK'S CAR

Jack starts the car as Marvin lights a cigarette.

Marvin: What is this? A book on tape?

Jack: Put it down. It's, uhm, my sister's.

Marvin: Come on.

Jack: Did I not just get out of bed at 4 am to save your ass?

Marvin: "Bridges of Madison County!" Hahahaha. As read by Roseanne Barr? I gotta hear this.

INT. JACK'S CAR - 5 MINUTES LATER

The guys stare ahead, completely transfixed.

Roseanne Barr: "He wished for the thousandth time in his life that he had a dog, a golden retriever, maybe, for travels like this and to keep him company at home. But he was frequently away, overseas much of the time, and it would not be fair to the animal. Still, he thought about it anyway. In a few years he would be getting too old for the hard fieldwork. "I might get a dog then," he said to the coniferous green rolling by his truck window. " (Beat.) Dude, get a dog... don't get a dog. Just shut the fuck up.

Marvin (entranced): Wow.

Jack: I know.

EXT. SWAMP - DAWN

Marvin and Jack take turns digging with a single shovel.

Marvin: Two shovels would have made this go faster.

Jack: So would not shooting whores.

Marvin: Valid point.

INT. IHOP - MORNING

The guys walk in, dirty and sweaty. However, the smell of breakfast cooking seems to rejuvinate them. They take a seat nearest to the door.

Marvin (looking at menu): I don't think I want the crepes. Don't think I can stomach anything wrapped up at the moment.

Jack: Yeah.

Marvin: What are you in the mood for?

Jack: French toast. Definitely.

Marvin: Good choice. Me too, I think.

Jack: Cool. I'll get the waitress.

Marvin: Server.

Jack: I'm sorry, what?

Marvin: They'd prefer to be called "servers."

Jack: Who cares?

Marvin: People have the right to dictate how others refer to their professions!!

Samuel Johnson once said that, "It is generally known, that he who expects much will be often disappointed; yet disappointment seldom cures us of expectation..."

I suspect that he was speaking of having to use early 18th century toilet paper, but I think the quote is applicable to other things too.

For example, it is very disappointing that a lovely and talented actress (who can't be discussed here) has been snubbed once again by the Emmys. I wasn't going to even mention it, but a certain commenter brought it up first.

We've all had disappointments in our lives. You hire a hooker, it turns out to be a dude. If I had a nickel... You try to make the best of a bad situation, but some days you just can't drum up the moral flexibility to love that he-she like the woman he/she wants to be.

But, the fact that this nameless actress is snubbed year after year is an absolute outrage. Like the price of gas. Like people voting for Bush... twice! And like when Lauren took Jason back on "The Hills."

It's madness, I tells ya.

Sometimes a person must just stand up and --

Oh, I can't keep up this charade.

There has been another disappointment.

I backslid.

I know that I said that I wouldn't blog about you know who, but I also decided not to read anything about her or watch anything involving her. You know, just to make sure that I wasn't tempted.

Yesterday - a mere 19 days after I declared an embargo - I was watching video clips of her.

Screw it... Her name is Lauren Graham, dammit!

Yesterday, as I was making constructive use of YouTube - checking out 80s music videos and grainy videos of celebrity nipple slips - I had an idea. "There must be some video clips of Lauren Graham," I thought to myself. Myself was a bit hesitant to look for any, knowing full well of my addiction. Then I threatened to slap the "living bejeezus" out of myself. Myself wasn't having any of that and replied with, "Fuck you. I'll take your 'missed a spot shaving' ass outside and show you what it's REALLY like."

Thankfully cooler heads prevailed, and it was decided that only a couple videos would be watched.

Surely just watching a small number of videos wouldn't launch me into full-blown addiction, right? I can control it. I can quit any time I want.

Hours later...

My eyes are bloodshot. My computer desk is a mess. There are dirty dishes all over the kitchen. I have a full beard and --

Fine, none of that happened. My eyes may have been strained a bit? I'm trying to set a mood here, people!

In my defense, I found some realllllly cute stuff. Like these two from the Ellen show:

Valentine's Day

Playing piano

Come on? I'm supposed to be able to resist that?

It's not easy.

But, I am going to try. Really. I'm starting all over again. I just gave back my 19 day chip. I am going to keep plugging away at it. I won't give in to addiction.

Samuel Johnson also said," Great works are performed, not by strength, but by perseverance..."

Know-it-all prick.

I feel like General Douglas MacArthur.

I've arrived here at Leyte Island in the Philippines a mere seven months since I left. I told them that I would return.

Future parents and grandparents of mail-order brides, super cute Miss Universe contestants and one of my favourite blog commenters toil around me here on the familiar archipelago. The smell of jeep diesel wafts through the air. It just feels like home. I turn to my driver and say,

"I'm back, baby. I'm back!"

The ACN went home on Saturday after a kick-ass 16 day visit. This has left me a little :(

However, it does feel good to be typing in blogger again. And blogger likes it. Don't let her fool you. She plays hard to get, but behind closed doors...

That was going to a weird place.

A few things I learned from the ACN:

1) I get more kissies on the cheek if I shave every day.
2) In the little game we play with putting letters in a board dealie, she giggles most at "X for Xzibit from Pimp My Ride."
3) She LOVES it when I refer to bunnies as "those fuzzy-tailed little bastards."

My sister was very appreciative of all my help with the wrangling. (It allowed my sister to go to Montana with her husband for a friend's wedding.) That started me thinking about how well my sister and I get along as adults. And how very, very poorly we got along as children.

For real.

My cousin was complaining recently that her two kids (aged, like, 9 and 11 maybe) fight constantly. My father just laughed. He told her that when my sister and I were that age, he was sure that we'd grow up and never speak to one another. And I can totally see where he was coming from.

We fought. A LOT.

To this day, we have never finished a game of Monopoly that we were both playing in. 90% of the games we were part of, ended before the first rounding of the board was completed. We rarely ever passed Go and collected our 200 bones.

I can remember one game when we were kids that ended before the first roll of the dice. We tried to play a two-person game and got into a brawl while deciding who would be banker. No, really. I'm not sure if it was the glory, or the high pay, of the position, but neither of us was going to let the other one do it.

My mother - after a long week of work - heard screaming and slowly came walking down the stairs. She came face to face with a coffee table tipped over, massive amounts of Monopoly money slowly falling to the floor - seemingly from the sky, and me in mid whack of my sister's head with the Monopoly board.

She mumbled something about her plans to "burn that fucking game" and went back upstairs.

On a similar tangent, I just remembered a story that my sister was telling The Monkey a few days ago. They were comparing scars and my sister said, "This is where Peter hit me in the head with a baseball bat." The Monkey and her Monkeysitter both gasped and looked at me. And I did a "Ohhh yeah. I did that, didn't I?"

Now, before you all start swooning, fanning yourselves and saying, "Well, I never!" Let me tell you how it actually went down.

I was like 6. And she was 4, I think. I was playing on our lawn. I'd toss a ball up, then hit it with my little wooden bat. I'd go pick up the ball, then turn around and hit it back in the other direction. (This may have been a twenty foot round trip.) At some point, my sister wandered out to play on the lawn too. It's a big lawn so there should have been room enough for the both of us. I continued my game for a while. From what I can piece together, my sister kept wandering closer and closer. And one time I tossed the ball up, swung the bat back and --

*clunk*

It was a fairly sickening sound. Then there was a lot of blood. Some will tell you that I ran and hid behind a rocking chair in the living room, crying about not wanting to get in trouble. Personally, I suspect that I was just looking for a quiet place to pray for my sister's speedy recovery.

Thankfully my sister doesn't visit this site, otherwise she'd likely continue trying to tell it as "Peter hit me with a bat for no reason!" When you can now clearly see that it was entirely her fault. Right? Right.

We are probably lucky that most of our neighbors were relatives and a courthouse/little office complex. Some of our fights spilled outside. Some began as water balloon fights and ended with death threats.

My sister actually held a knife to my back in our kitchen one day. Did I do my best to calm her down and defuse the situation? Naw. I yelled at her and called her a "wuss."

It was a BIG knife.

Early on, my sister learned a valuable trick. Crying when nobody was around to punish me is wasted tears. So, if I hit her at 10:30 in the morning, she'd suddenly be overcome with the pain at 4:30 in the afternoon. Talk about your delayed reactions. And when I pleaded my case, my parents would reply with, "Well, why did you hit her this morning?"

Which, even then, I had to admit was a good point.

My sister also cried the exact same amount of tears if I sprayed her with a water gun, or punched her square in the face. Maybe she was rationing them? Speaking of water guns, I went through 5000 of these things as a child. I'd get a brand new one. I'd own it for 30 minutes before spraying my sister in the face. She would cry. My father would break the gun over his knee. My sister would make a face at me behind his back. Three days later, I'd con a relative into buying me another water gun. To this day, the sight of a water gun reminds me of the sound of breaking plastic.

My father was also an absolute genius at removing "noise makers" from any toy we got as children. As a result we'd be at friends' houses, see toys that looked like our own, start to play with them and nearly deafen ourselves.

As we got older, my sister and I fought less... or ignored each other more.

Occasionally, I'd still piss her off though. Like when I was in university and would come home for a weekend when my parents were away. A party would occur. The front of the dishwasher would get kicked in. Beer bottle rings would be banged into the wooden dining room table. Some drunk would "scrub" the kitchen floor with a mop and bucket (mostly full of stale beer) while listening to AC/DC's "Thunderstruck" at 7:00 am on a Sunday morning.

And then I'd high-tail it back to university, a good 4 hours away.

This especially enraged my sister because 1) my mother will vent at whoever is nearby and B) everyone at the party was a friend of mine.

However, in recent years we've gotten along awesomely. The birth of The ACN has made my entire family much closer, of course. We had stopped fighting before that, but now we talk all the time.

Of course, we still don't dare take out the Monopoly game.

Labels: ACN

She: "Would you cry if I told you right now that I never wanted to speak to you again?"

He: "I'd probably cry if you told me that... and then kicked me in the nuts."

(Edit: These are the kinds of things that amuse me when I'm feverish.)

I am still in the midst of ACN-wrangling, so this is another drive-by posting. Plus, I have the flu.

Peter with the flu is no good for anyone. I quickly turn from a nice guy who'll help old ladies across the street, into a vile creature full of nothing but hate and organic corn flakes. If I ever get some kind of terminal disease, my family would be well advised to set me adrift on an ice flow someplace.

They've probably already considered it.

Before I sat down, I had like a half dozen fun things to mention. Now I can't think of a single one. Bastards.


I'm totally still hooked on "Rockstar: Supernova." Mostly because I have a Canadian to cheer for.

You know, I like Tommy Lee. He seems like he'd be a cool guy to hang with. Granted, I've never seen his sex videos, so I haven't seen him steer a boat with his penis. I really don't think there is any coming back from that.


In other news, I am half-convinced that the Anglican church near my house is playing "Three Blind Mice" each evening at 6 pm on it's bells.


In the past few months I've said each of the following:

"There is nothing sexier than a woman who gets a satellite dish just to watch sports."
"There is nothing sexier than a woman who plays fantasy football."
"There is nothing sexier than a cute chick with glasses."
"There is nothing sexier than a woman who drives a half-ton (truck.)" (Quoting my father.)
"There is nothing sexier than a woman climbing in through the window of a car." (I had just watched DUKES OF HAZZARD.)
"There is nothing sexier than Eva Avila... except for her wearing glasses."
"There is nothing sexier than mother-fucking snakes on a plane."

Hello.

I must say that you are looking awesome today.

Typically I would refer to you as cheveux dangereux, but something is different. Through some confluence of follicular aberrations, you have fallen nicely into place.

You normally save such an occurance for the day I am going to get my hair cut.

But, I am not one to look a gift horse in the... mane?

We've been through a lot. Remember the brush cut incident of '89? We learned a great lesson that day: when a buddy agrees that you both should shave your heads, and then tells you to go first, he is likely going to tell the barber, "Just a little off the sides" when it is his turn.

And you were completely right back in the day about shaving the lightning bolts and my basketball number into my head. Bad idea jeans. I saw a picture of it recently. I'll spare you the pain.

Oh, remember the crazy lady on Spring Garden Rd. during university? I told you that when she has a "Most Creative Hair Dresser" award on her counter that it is time to run away. But, you said we needed a trim. You weren't so cocky when she suddenly shaved our sideburns off above our ears. I still wake up at night with the chills. However, I know that it's not your fault that she had a fetish for army guys.

Still, the most important thing is that we were both right about the Billy Idol spiked 'do in junior high. That was fucking super! I wonder if I could pull that off now.

So, again, thanks for looking awesome today.

Love,
Peter
-ps Anything you can do to fight off the oncoming grey would be greatly appreciated.

When you tune in expecting to see a new episode of your favourite show and they show a rerun? Like you are expecting a "very special 'Blossom'" - maybe the one where Six gets the clap - and instead it is one you've already seen twice.

Infuriating, no?

Well, I hate to do it to you, but... Since I am busy being the world's greatest uncle/"new mommy" to the ACN until next week, I am going to run a "Best of Peter" now.

I'm sorry.

For your surfing pleasure, I bring to you a piece I wrote for MoviePoopShoot.com four years ago. The site is now QuickstopEntertainment.com and I don't visit it. But, back in the day it was something, I tells ya.

I hope you enjoy.

And there probably wasn't an episode of 'Blossom' where Six got the clap. but there should have been.

===============================

WHY I DIDN'T GET ANY SCREENWRITING DONE TODAY

By Peter DeWolf

As I drifted off to sleep last night, I had the best of intentions. Today I had no work, the place to myself, and that writing urge. Sounded like a perfect day for churning out lots of Grade-A script pages, didn't it?

6:57 a.m. - My eyes open.

8:38 a.m. - My eyes open again. I manage to crawl out of bed.

8:45 a.m. - I am pouring myself a bowl of health food store cereal. I sit in my boxer shorts wondering why they don't put treats or prizes in the stuff. Hell, even tofu marshmallows. Something. Pricks.

9:50 a.m. - I hit the treadmill. Stimulate the body to stimulate the mind. Yeah, that's the ticket.

10:01 a.m. - I find a channel playing hits from the 80s. This is good. I love the 80s. I find myself thinking, "Hey, if Eddie Grant "Don't Wanna Dance," then leave him the fuck alone.

10:31 a.m. - The 80s are apparently making my mind wander, and not to anything constructive. I sing every word to "Don't you Want Me, Baby."

"You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar"

11:05 a.m. - Finally reading the mail that has been gathering on my desk for days. Since I'm an hombre with my priorities straight, I immediately grab the Radio Shack flyer. Wow, those portable DVD players look pretty sweet. I begin thinking that writers/screenwriters/half-assed column writers should get free swag. Why should only celebs get swag? They can afford to buy their own shit. I mean, slapping a Nike hooded sweatshirt on Kevin James isn't sending me down to Foot Locker in a hurry. Funny guy, but I'm not buying that he is into any serious cross training.

Besides, actors are playing a character and reciting lines written by... that's right, a writer! We can sneak in mentions of stuff. Plus, we could rant away in columns -- as you are already painfully aware of right now. And most of us are starving and more than willing to sell-out. What's so bad about selling out anyway? It's got "selling" in it, and isn't that a good thing in this wacky commercialized world we live in?

So, if you work for Panasonic or Samsung or any other company that makes these sweet little jobbies, drop me a line. Hell, drop me a line if you gots any swag to share!

Sell-outs unite!!!

11:07 a.m. - I realize I am alone and ranting. Not good.

11:57 a.m. - Since these crazy "blog" things are all the rage with the kids, I come up with an idea for a fake one. I am going to write it as if I am Canadian Prime Minister Jean Chretien -- but in the tone of a 14-year-old girl. I can probably get the boys at Gordie.ca to post it. This could be my greatest idea since the time I wrote the fake complaint letter to Kool Aid and they answered!

Or it could be a colossal piece of crap. You never know with me.

12:00 p.m. - I grab some lunch and watch REAL WORLD: CHICAGO on MTV Canada. Why did Tonya even sign up for this show?!? She just makes me SO mad.

12:30 p.m. - Crud. REAL WORLD is on again. Keri and Kyle are having some kind of dispute. Too much drama. The chick can do better. He's a little [writer makes "cuckoo motions" here], ya know? I can't wait until they start running REAL WORLD: VEGAS up here. Apparently they all shtoop like monkeys. Good for them.

1:00 p.m. - DINNER FOR FIVE is starting on IFC Canada. It is only a half hour. Might as well watch it. Seeing fellow artists discuss their craft can only inspire me, right? Right�? It features the genius Ron Livingston, Kevin Pollack, Sarah Silverman, and the late, great Rod Steiger. It was a very cool episode. Everyone was being funny and/or interesting. The highlight was clearly when Sarah Silverman asked what everyone's first homosexual experience was. Mr. Steiger (an American icon) proceeded to tell a long story about how his friend "Harry" had suddenly kissed him one night in a theater. He went on to say how he told Harry that he wasn't mad, just disappointed, etc. And how their friendship would be forever changed. Mr. Steiger was clearly very emotional when he finished speaking and a hush fell over the room. Then Sarah Silverman asked, "Was it Harry Hamlin?" I cracked up. It was quite possibly the funniest thing ever on television.

1:31 p.m. - Harry Hamlin! Gold. I wonder if he and Mr. Steiger have ever appeared in anything together. I look it up on imdb.com. Lo and behold -- Tom Clancy's OP CENTER (1995). Now I am laughing even harder.

1:35 p.m. - I wonder how many degrees of separation Mr. Steiger & Mr. Hamlin are each from Kevin Bacon. (That VISA ad is on.) But, I talk myself out of looking it up. Only because it would take some work -- and not because it is a stupid idea.

1:42 p.m. - I stub my toe and yell "Sweet banana fuck!"

1:51 p.m. - I flop down on my bed, with my pen and paper in hand. I figure if I stay away from the Internet and the T.V., I'll get something done. The sun is shining in the window. It is warm and my bed is all cushy-like. Surely, the words will begin coming now�

1:56 p.m. - I am sitting in the "O" of the Hollywood sign with Harvey Weinstein. No, not that "O." Not that one either. The other one! There ya go. We are discussing why the Knicks suck. Even in my dream it is disturbing to me that I am sitting in a "big O" with Mr. Weinstein. As I worry about what that says about my willingness to do anything to sell a screenplay, Big Harv morphs into Elisha Cuthbert.

I am less disturbed.

2:12 p.m. - As I try to understand the strange language Elisha is speaking to me, a ringing phone wakes me up. A woman asks me if I have ever considered switching long distance carriers. I tell her, "I'm sorry, I don't have a phone." Silence on the other end of the line. I hang up giggling. That is really funny when you just wake up. Honestly. I really punched the "have" -- just like Chandler on FRIENDS. It was good. Seriously. Shut up.

2:24 p.m. - I learn from T.V. that there is a "National Masturbation Week" in early May. Sooo many jokes go through my mind. Pee Wee Herman and scotch-guarded theater seats... Buying stocks in the company that makes Skin So Soft... The list goes on and on.

It also reminds me of something my friend Rotten Ron once said, I was actually going to save it for a funny short documentary I was going to make on masturbation -- sort of a wackumentary, if you will. (Strokeography?) Ah screw it, I'll share... Rotten told us that when he was in high school, he used to masturbate in the shower so much that the smell of certain soaps still to this day give him a chub. In the wackumentary another character was going to reply "So, you are sort of like a Pavlovian Horn Dog?" It would have killed. The character woulda Chandlered the "Horn" part. Trust me on this.

2:43 p.m. - Unrelated to the above, I decide to grab a shower. Get your minds out of the gutter. The shower is always one of my favourite places to do some thinking. As I am shampooing up, the random thoughts begin to come.

Is Ben Affleck's chin real?
Where is Ethan Suplee lately?
I've seen a million cob webs, but never a cob.
Where do butterflies go in the rain?

There only two things in life that make it worth livin',
It's guitar tuned good and firm feelin' women�

I'm not sure where this came from, or why I know all the words to Waylon Jennings "Luckenbach Texas," but I keep singing away.

2:56 p.m. - Maybe watching my OFFICE SPACE DVD will put me in a better mood for writing.

4:15 p.m. - I realize that I just "get" this movie. It is one of my favorites. The lead character is kind of like me as well. I hated office jobs... my name is Peter... Granted, he was involved with Jennifer Aniston for a bit longer than I was, but that's neither here nor there.

4:31 p.m. - I discover a website that computes the number of degrees celebs are from Kevin Bacon and find that Rod Steiger & Harry Hamlin are each only two degrees away.

The proof:

Rod Steiger was in NAKED FACE, THE (1984) with Jimmie F. Skaggs
Jimmie F. Skaggs was in HOLLOW MAN (2000) with Kevin Bacon

Harry Hamlin was in PERFUME (2001) with Kylie Bax
Kylie Bax was in WE MARRIED MARGO (2000) with Kevin Bacon

Assorted others:

Elisha Cuthbert - 2
Matthew Perry - 2
Paul Reubens - 2

Hmmm... should they be renaming it "2 Degrees�"

I gotta find someone who is more:

Ben Affleck � 2
Ethan Suplee � 2
Waylon Jennings � 2 (Honestly!)

This is getting weird.

Even Pat Mastroianni ("Joey Jeremiah" from DEGRASSI JUNIOR HIGH) is only 2 degrees.

I'�m bored now. (Try it yourself and let me know what you find. And no silent film stars or "Bollywood" regulars, ya big cheats!)

6:00 p.m. - I eat some dinner while watching SEINFELD. It is "The Contest" episode. What is the universe trying to tell me?

6:30 p.m. - I start back towards my PC, but hear the opening theme to KING OF THE HILL.

"Admiral. Admiral. Lady Admiral." Genius! Dale Gribble is my favourite character on TV. Or is it Rusty Shackleford? Hmmm�

7:01 p.m. - Back in front of the computer. I crack my knuckles and get ready to get down to work.

7:03 p.m. - I decide to sort through all the mail in my inbox.

7:05 p.m. - I realize that I get an awful lot of e-mail from dethroned heirs to foreign riches who just need someone to co-sign something or pony up a bit of cash for their legal defense/etc.

7:15 p.m. - Midget porn!! I immediately send this spam e-mail to my buddy, Coo Funk. Moments later he replies saying that he got exactly the same mail. We laugh and laugh. Nothing like seeing a sawed-off little bastard trying to climb up the back of a large woman to bond two dudes. We were making memories tonight.

7:30 p.m. - Judging from the rest of the junk mail I can apparently make $50,000 a year working from home while fixing my credit problems, getting my film developed for free, starting my own e-commerce site, saving the rain forest and achieving 3-day-long erections. Tempting...

8:00 p.m. - I read yet another mention of "Jumping the Shark." Of course that is a thing of the past, but what if I created a spin-off? Say for example the point in a move where it completely runs off the tracks. Like in TWISTER when there is a flying cow� Or in ID4 when the opening credits role. "Flying the cow�" Well, you get the idea.

Also, how about the point in an actor�s career when they totally fuck up with their choice of a role? HUDSON HAWKing? (Of course Bruce rebounded nicely.)

(I didn't come up with good examples... obviously. But, if you can, feel free to send them in. The best example of each will win one of the leftover portable DVD players I receive.)

10:00 p.m. - My insanely patient girlfriend calls and I proceed to tell her that I didn't get a chance to do a favor for her because I was too busy today.

11:59 p.m. - I begin drifting off to sleep as SPORTS CENTER plays on in the background. The Raptors won! "Maybe I'll get some screenwriting done tomorrow," I think. I have the day off again. And it's not like I am going to spend the entire day doing something silly -- like writing an unsolicited article for a website or anything.

The ACN told her mother that I am "the Mommy" now. "Old Mommy" is not impressed.

Here is ACN riding her new bike yesterday. That is her serious biking face. (Notice her co-pilot in the second one.)

She did so much biking that she got her first ever blister. And Uncle Pete/New Mommy had to rub her legs and little footsies for an hour before bed last night.

Labels: ACN

Remember me telling you about having to judge cannonball contests involving the monkey?

Here is what that looks like:



Notice the form. This was clearly not her first time. I tried to tell her that she would lose points for the nose block, but her reply of "Water would go up my nose, PETER!" quickly won her that argument.

I got there early to make sure that we got the best table. I wasn’t taking any chances. I wanted this date to be absolutely perfect.

Ten minutes later, Sarah walked in. She looked amazing. Not just hot, but Jami Gertz in THE LOST BOYS hot.

She looked a little flustered from work, but once she sat down and flashed me a smile, I knew it was going to be a night that I’d never forget.

“How was your day?” I asked.

“Hectic. But, looking forward to this really helped.”

“So, no pressure on me then?” I smiled.

“Relax.” She smiled again. Such a smile! “I have a good feeling about tonight.”

“You gave me crabs!!!!” A vaguely familiar voice bellowed from behind me.

I slowly turned around to see an ex-girlfriend.

“Hi, Tanya.”

Her name was Tanya.

I had almost forgotten about how outspoken Tanya could be. She reminded me quickly. She launched into a tirade that compared me to Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini and Jennifer Lopez. I blanked out for a while, but I am relatively sure that she blamed me for being the cause of certain types of Cancer. And global warming.

I’m unsure how long the rant lasted, but every second it continued caused Sarah’s face to look more and more horrified. Just when I thought she had finished, Tanya shared a very graphic description of both the symptoms of crabs, as well as the treatment involved. Very graphic. If she had taught sex ed in school, there would have been far fewer teen pregnancies. Or erections. I considered getting up and pulling the fire alarm to end the madness. Beating myself unconscious with a candle stick seemed like it would take too long.

“… and to think that you are sitting here, getting ready to infect this poor girl! After what you did to me last summer and –“ Tanya continued.

“Whoa. Hang on a second.” I interjected. “Did you say last summer?”

“Yeah. So?!” Tanya was in no mood to end her rant.

“Well, we dated TWO summers ago,” I reminded her.

“Ooooooooooh. Oh. Oh. Oh. That’s right. It must have been RANDY who gave me the crabs. Ooopsie. Well, sorry about that. I hope you have a good date. You two make a lovely couple. Bye!”

She, not very discreetly, flashed me the universal sign for “call me”, and with that she was gone.

A terrified waiter slowly made his way over to our table. He quickly put menus down in front of us, before beating a hasty retreat.

I glanced at a still horrified Sarah while picking up my menu.

“I guess we should probably avoid the shellfish?” I offered.

You would think that the night would have to get better from there. You would think…

A little while later, I excused myself to use the washroom. Basically I needed to regroup. Regroup and make sure that my hair was still standing up a little, Ryan Seacrest-style.

It was actually standing up kd lang-style, so I tried to fix it up. The results were mixed.

So, I took a deep breath, straightened my shirt, and headed back out there.

Now, unbeknownst to me, Sarah had received a phone call while I was primping. Man, I really wish it had been knownst to me.

As I returned to the table, I noticed that Sarah looked a little down. She was picking at her salad.

“Who died?” I asked – something I had never said before in my life. Or since.

“My Aunt Bertilda,” she replied. “I just got the call.”

I took my seat. As I tried to think of ways to get my size twelve Adidas Gazelle out of my mouth, the violinist I had paid earlier was making his way over to the table. I tried everything to get his attention. No dice.

He was locked in on Sarah – who was now silently sobbing into her salad. He started playing Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After time.” He was rushing it a bit, but overall it wasn’t a bad rendition. I waved frantically to get him to stop. He didn’t notice. Sarah started sobbing louder. He kept playing.

*Thonk*

I drilled an overcooked dinner roll off of his noggin.

This finally did get his attention. He stopped playing and turned to look at me. I was shoo‘ing him away. He was confused, but went with it.

I told Sarah that maybe we should call it a night. Through a wall of tears and snot, she agreed. I motioned for the waiter to come over. I explained that we’d have to leave, and gave him my credit card. I continued trying to console Sarah, but she was extremely upset.

Moments later, the waiter came back.

“I’m sorry, sir. But, your credit card has been declined. I have to cut it up.”

Which he did. And a little too enthusiastically.

“But, that’s a brand new card. There hasn’t been a penny charged on it yet.”

“Sorry, sir.” He responded, without a hint of actually being sorry.

Sarah pulled out a credit card and passed it to the waiter. He smiled at her and gave me a “Remember when you had testicles? Those were the days,” look.

I considered dragging him out to the alley and beating the snark out of him, but I had to ignore the urge - and the feeling of being utterly mortified – and keep trying to console Sarah.

“I’m so sorry, Sarah. I’ll pay you back. You shouldn’t have had to… Not tonight. And –“

The waiter returned. He passed Sarah her credit card.

“Thank you so much. I really hope you’ll eat with us again.” Then he turned to me. “The credit card people called back, there was actually a computer glitch. Your card was fine. Have a good evening.”

Once again, my mind wandered to beating him with a trash can, Sonny Corleone-style. Instead, I took Sarah’s arm and led her to the door.

We walked out to the sidewalk.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Sarah. If there is anything I can do…”

“You’ve been very sweet,” she replied meekly. “I just want to go over to my parents’ apartment.”

“Of course.”

A man with a dog walked in front of us. The dog stopped to sniff Sarah’s leg. She looked down and managed a small smile. It was a very cute little dog.

Then the pooch, whose small size belied the Jimmy Choo leather-killing force soon to be unleashed, puked on Sarah's shoe. We stood silently for a few moments.

“Taxi!” I yelled.

There is this guy named Ralph Fuck.

He hates his last name. For obvious reasons.

It doesn't matter that it is Romanian. Or that, when pronounced correctly, it actually rhymes with "dusk."

Ralph knows that last names affect how people view you. His friend with the last name Schindler never, ever writes anything in point form. Think about it.

Ralph's favourite actor is Andy Dick and his favourite athlete is Rudy Gay. He figured that they could feel his pain.

Ralph never played organized sports. He thought that the name on the back of his jersey would be too much for the other players to resist.

And he already heard every possible insult: fuck face, fuck nuts, fuck knob, , fuck fuck, fuck fuck fuckernose, fuuuuuucker, pig fucker, johnny fucklips, fuck toes, fucky j. fuckington esq, fuck job, and Ray Romano.

He has a big nose.

Ralph pretty much gave up dating at some point in his teens. Even the ladies were ribbing on him. And he was sure he'd have to lead a solitary existence. Until he met her.

She was gorgeous. She was smart. And her great great grandfather, upon arriving at Ellis Island, changed their surname to the WORST possible short version of the original Cuntmigliacodisgiacomo.

She gets him.

Wanna read what the nice folks at the blog-reviewing site FrogMyBlog.com said about my site?


I swear that my mother didn't write the review - the lack of any mention of "the little bastard" was my first clue.

That wasn't supposed to rhyme. Though it happens all the time.

I'll stop now.

(This is my first post with my new sexy PC!)

"Sweetie, what is the problem?" she asked.

What is the problem?

You have the audacity to ask me that? Now?

Seriously, I've taken as much of your shit as I'm going to take. We've been together for two years, and I'm done.

Done.

But, you know, I'm sick of biting my tongue. I have things to get off of my chest.

Your "famous Chicken Kiev" for starters...

It tastes like a hobo's ass. And not one of those high-class squeegee-using hobos. The Lysol drinking kind. Speaking of, do you actually put Lysol in that recipe? Lemon Pledge?

Oh, and before I forget, saying, "Is it okay if I use a little teeth?" does not prepare one for the Tasmanian Devil on an ear of corn events that soon followed. It was harrowing. I just closed my eyes and thought of England.

And your legs... It's like spooning a cactus. Honestly. I now know where they get the stuff they make SOS pads with.

And, yes, your favourite pants DO make your ass look big. In fact, when you walk it looks like two bags of milk fighting on top of