"Go away get closer!" you scream.
In your head.
You didn't expect or request it.
Yet there it is.
You don't know what to do with it.
Still... there it is.
You think you might, for the first time ever, understand, "out of your league."
You don't like it.
At all.
You wonder if it really exists.
In the way that you envision.
Maybe it doesn't matter.
Maybe there is inspiration to be found in the image.
Real or not.
Probably not.
Though the maybes can be fuel.
Simple thoughts to dreams.
But, also molehills to mountains.
Possibilities.
Is it all wishful thinking?
Too early to tell.
Too late not to be curious.
Fuck.

[This started as a little story about the college years. Then it got away from me. Then it got further away from me. Now it is insanely long. I think it makes me look bad, but I am too tired to go back and find out for sure. I also refuse to proof it. You've been warned.]

Last night I heard THAT Cypress Hill song and it reminded me of road trip in college. We went to visit our buddy that was going to a school a couple of hours away from ours. It was a fun weekend. And in the middle of one of the nights, we put that Cypress Hill song on repeat and let it play until his roomie threatened bodily harm.

Good times.

But, that is not the story that I am going to tell you today.

Though this one involves the same friend, same school and staying in the same house.

Let's call this friend "Jimmy."

Any road trip, party, bar outing, or church social involving Jimmy had the potential to land everyone in jail and/or end in complete hilarity.

One night, while my friends and I were "studying" in our university apartment, the phone rang. I answered.

"Do you accept a collect call from "JIMMY!!!!! WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!?"

I accepted.

Jimmy immediately launched into a story that involved some guys jumping out of a car and throwing him into a snowbank, where he proceeded to make snow angels and laugh until they left.

Then the story backtracked to the point where he had drank two bottles (boxes?) of wine and walked down the street kicking the taillights out of every car that he saw.

Eventually he got to his point.

"You boys should come down this weekend!!!"

Apparently, it was one of the thirty-two big party weekends at his school that year.

We agreed to go visit.

And THAT is the story I am going to tell today.

It was a warm summers evening, on a train bound for nowhere. I met up with the ga--

Wait. That's not right.

Oh yeah...

It was a nut-shrinkingly cold winters evening.

We dropped our belongings at Jimmy's house and hit the campus pub.

It was a fairly standard night out.

At some point during the evening, a girl I went to high school with asked me to walk her back to her dorm. She was pretty much soused. I was fairly bored, and she was in no shape to go anywhere alone, so I agreed.

She went to tell her friend, and the friend looked horrified. It didn't take a Doctor of Nightlifeology to know that the friend was the homely cranky sober friend of the group. (And oddly enough, Cranky was also kind of a trollop too. That rarely happens.)

So, Cranky-Trampy gave me a snotty look. To which I replied with a "Dude, if I wanted Tipsy I would have had her years ago" half-smirk.

She relented, mostly because she was a dirty hooker and had work to do.

So, I walked drunky home to her dorm. It only took a couple of minutes. She was telling me about her cheating boyfriend. I was replying with such useful gems as "Yeah, love is a kick in the nuts." I left her in the care of the chick working the front desk and I bailed.

When I returned to the pub, the friend gave me the stink eye. I gave her the "Fuck you, Slutty McWhoreburger" glare and went to find my buddies.

But, they were not there.

None of 'em.

This wasn't like war, where you never leave a man behind. It wasn't a big deal.

I actually met up with another friend from high school and some dude that he knew. I asked what they were up to. The Dude said that he was "Just feeling girls up." I was confused by this reply. I looked at my friend, and he sheepishly nodded. Then the dude demonstrated by pretending to stumble and then using my chest to help regain his balance.

I said, "That made me uncomfortable" and bid them adieu.

I ended up talking to some chick that was convinced she knew me from somewhere. I had never seen her in my life. When she asked if I had ever been on TV, I replied, "Yes." Mostly because I thought that it would amuse me.

It totally did.

A little while later, my friend and "David Cop a Feel," found me and told me that they were leaving. They offered to drive me out to Jimmy's place. I gladly accepted.

We got to Casa de Jimmy, which was lit-up. I assumed everyone was there and thanked the dudes for the drive and hopped out. When I got to the door, it was locked. I knocked on the door, but there wasn't a sound from inside.

Crap.

I turned to wave the guys down, but they were already peeling out of the driveway. Squealing tires on the half-icy street masked my yelling.

Double crap.

So, I flipped up my collar and started walking.

Can I just say how friggin' how cold it was?

SO cold.

I had only been walking for a few minutes -- yet was already frozen -- when a car came tearing out of a side street and slammed on it's breaks. A guy rolled down his window and offered me a drive. The whole thing had an aura of sketchy about it, so I said, "No thanks, man."

But, he climbed almost completely out of the window and said, "Anywhere you want to go!"

I said, "I am just walking to the pay phone at the store up the street. I'm good."

THEN he put the car in park, hopped out and ran towards me, his eyes were jumping out of his head, saying, "Come on buddy, let me give you a drive."

I turned and growled, "Will you FUCK OFF!?!"

He stopped and quickly retreated to his car.

[It is so much easier to be macho when you are a good foot taller than a dude.]

He left and I walked the rest of the way to the store. It was closed. The pay phone was working, so I called a cab. I asked the person on the phone how long it would be. There was a good ten seconds of silence. Followed by an "Uhm... soon."

This didn't exactly fill me with confidence.

So, I started walking back in towards town. I'm not sure exactly how long I walked before the cab arrived. But, if I had to ballpark it, I'd say.... FOREVER!!!!!

I was so relieved to finally get in the cab. My chat with cabbie went a little something like this.

Frozen Peter: Sir, is there any chance that you can crank the heat?

Cabbie: No.

Frozen Peter: Fair enough.

Cabbie: Where to?

Frozen Peter: Can we just drive for a bit?

Cabbie: No.

Frozen Peter: I am probably not going to give you a big tip.

Cabbie took a long drag on his cigarette.

Frozen Peter: Fine, take me to [let's call it "Giggles."]

[Why am I changing the name of a bar??]

I arrived at Giggles and quickly ran into the place to try to warm up.

I made my way towards the dance floor, hoping to find my friends. Which, admittedly, seemed likely since there were two bars in the town.

But, there was no sign of any of them.

So, I just stood there. Enjoying heat like I have never done before.

Then a girl walks up to me. She smiles and says, "Would you like to dance?"

Now, I'm not sure if I said or just thought, "Hey, you're little and cute."

Since the night was winding down, the DJ was playing a slow song. The idea of body heat sounded delightful, so I said, "Sure."

We danced a song or two. I don't remember saying a word. I was just trying to suck every bit of heat out of her that I could.

The lights came on and everyone started leaving.

She looked at me and asked, "Do you want to get out of here?"

My first thought was, "I'm not looking forward to going out in the cold again--" But, then I realized that she meant with her. Did I mention that I was battling hypothermia?

I said, "Yeah, sure. Why not?"

SUCH a smooth talker.

She went to talk to her friend. They were giggling about something. That's when I noticed Jimmy over by the bar. I walked over to him.

Peter: Hey.

Jimmy: Pete! Whoooooooooooooooo!

Peter: Where are the boys?

Jimmy: Fuck knows.

Peter: So, I'm going to be getting out of here. (I nodded over my shoulder at the chick.) Do you have... anything on you?

Jimmy: What? Like protection?

Peter: Just like that.

Jimmy looked over my shoulder and smiled.

Jimmy: I know that girl. She's in my [something or other] class. She's cute!

Peter: That's great. So, do you have anything?

Jimmy: Oh, don't worry about. I know her. She's a nice girl.

Peter: What was that?

Jimmy: She's a nice girl. You're good.

Now, since Jimmy was studying science, and I was only studying business, I had no idea that nice girls couldn't get pregnant.

I realized that Jimmy wasn't going to be much good to me. I told him I'd see him later. He Whoooooo!'d.

I guess it's time that I come clean about another part of the story. I was holding off as long as I could. But, at this point I realized that I couldn't remember her name. Which is strange for me, since I have a freakish memory. I still remember the phone numbers of girls I dated in high school. She told me her name when we were dancing, but it left my mind quickly.

I am reasonably sure that it was either Juanita or Yolanda.

I think.

Either way, Yonita said that we should grab a cab. I agreed.

[Holy crap. I should have made this a two-parter.]

As we were getting into the cab, a group of complete outlaws were climbing in the door on the other side. Now, being from Cape Breton, I can spot me an outlaw. So, I said, "We'll get the next one."

The outlaws would hear no such thing and demanded that we all share it. I figured that if the universe was conspiring to get me beaten and my wallet stolen this night, who was I to fight it. I climbed in and Juanlonda jumped on my lap.

It's funny how a warm cab and a cute girl on your lap makes the very real threat of getting mugged fade away. And the outlaws took a liking to me. The one female outlaw said, "You're a funny fucker." And the guy outlaw closest to me had his arm around me for most of the trip. I don't think that outlaw #3 spoke.

The cab dropped them off first. We were at some trailer park that I had no idea existed in this town. I insisted on paying for the cab. The outlaws loved that and it earned me some hugs. I don't think that outlaw #3 hugged.

So, the cabbie asked Juanlonita where to take us. I didn't pay attention to her reply -- again, girl on my lap.

We didn't drive very long before we pulled up in front of a motel. Without thinking, I said, "Yeah... I'm not paying for this."

As soon as it came out, I wondered if she'd find it funny. She did.

I was as surprised as you.

She explained that she lived there. In the motel. I asked, "Like Dylan on Beverly Hills 90210?"

She stared at me blankly for a few seconds and then opened her door. I paid the cabbie and followed her.

Her room looked like... well, a motel room with college books spread around. I don't know. This isn't "Trading Spaces," people.

So, we start doing whatever 19 year olds do.

Suddenly she said, "I never do this."

I replied, "Oh yeah? How many friggin' buttons does one shirt need?"

*kiss kiss fondle fondle whatever*

A few moments later, she said, "I've never picked a guy up in a bar and taken him home before."

I said, "Yeah, me neither."

*clothes flying a bit*

A little while later...

"I am not this kind of girl. I'm really not." And she seemed geniunely upset.

At this point I look at her. I think for a moment.

I am not the smoothest guy in the world, but I am fairly confident that I could charm this train back onto the tracks.

But, then I decided that I just didn't want to.

1) I'm poop tired.

B) She seemed to be going through some deep internal debate. Questioning her belief system and whatnot. I didn't want to be the one to shake her to her very core, you know, especially since I couldn't remember her name.

(I suspected that she had just came out of a long-term relationship and was trying to figure things out.)

So, I said, "You know what? It's cool. But, you should skootch over a little. We are having a slumber party."

She seemed confused, but moved over.

There was no way I was venturing back out into the cold.

I got under the covers.

"Would you mind if I shut off the lamp?" I asked.

"No... that would be fine."

"Beauty."

I shut off the lamp, got comfy and fell asleep. And it was the sleep of the year.

I figured that while she might be crazy, she wasn't dangerously crazy. Besides, if I woke up tied to the bed and covered in sheep's blood, it would probably feel like progress at that point.

So, the next morning I woke up -- refreshed. I gave her a kiss on the forehead and ventured out into the morning sun.

I made my way to the front desk in the lobby and got dude to call a cab for me. He smiled as if recognizing a walk of shame. Except there was no shame. It was more of a strut of moderate indifference, I suppose.

Cab came and took me back to Jimmy's.

I opened the door, walked in and came face to face with a stunning brunette.

"Who the fuck are you?" she asked.

I said, "I'm [let's go with Peter, since it's my name and shit.]"

She replied, "Oh... you're the one that scooped the chick at the bar."

"I guess so."

"Nice work!" the delicate flower said as she punched me in the shoulder.

[I found out later that day that she was openly bisexual, which, to a group of college guys, did nothing to hurt her word-class hotness.]

I flopped on a couch next to where Jimmy was sitting on the floor -- wrapped in a blanket and having already commenced drinking for the day at 9 am. In what could best be described as a stage whisper, he asked me to recap the night. I did. He laughed through his shakes right up until the end. Then he got mad.

"You NEVER turn down a lay."

I asked what had happened that night with them. And, as luck would have it, they had a fun story as well.

Apparently some dude had ended up there with a chick that wasn't his girlfriend. And the missing girlfriend was a good friend of the hot bisexual. So, she was going to put a beatin' on dude. Though I'm not sure if this was before or after dude shit in a bed.

Yes, you read that right.

And I don't mean that he shit his pants and it got on the bed.

He shit. Directly. On the bed.

Apparently it went down when he was in the bedroom with girl that wasn't his girlfriend.

Now, I don't know every type of foreplay, but if shitting on the bed is requested as part of it, I am thinking that girl just isn't for me.

I've been looking for a way to wrap this thing up... for a thousand words or so. I think I'll go with this lesson I learned that night:

Just because you were the only one of your group to leave the bar with an attractive woman, doesn't mean that you had the best night. Sometimes that decision will mean that you'll miss out on hanging with a violently hot bisexual chick and that you also won't get to show up months later in a series of photos starring your friends in various poses around a pile of shit in a bed.

I hope you all learned a little something here.

Labels: so friggin' long

This is the second greatest thing EVER on an Idol show. (Katharine McPhee's yellow dress is still #1.)

Cape Breton's own Tyler Mullendore.



I freakin' love this.

The dancing...

I am not going to lie to you people... I voted for him 15 times.

Labels: Canadian Idol, Tyler Mullendore

It always amazes me how a couple of chords from a song can transport you back to a very specific time and place. And how the faintest sniff of a delicious and familiar aroma wafting through the air can cause your mouth to water and your stomach to growl.

But, not all sensory memories are pleasant.

Years ago I watched a woman I knew -- though not well -- being pushed in a wheelchair. I won't go into what put her in the chair, other than to say that it greatly impacted her both physically and mentally.

And then I saw the hat she was wearing.

And for reasons that were completely unclear to me at the time, it broke my heart.

It was a mesh-backed trucker hat. (And this was long before Ashton Kutcher made them "hip" and then completely objectionable again.)

I was absolutely fixated on the hat.

It wasn't that this formally vibrant woman was now unable to care for herself. It wasn't that this young woman had her life changed in such a huge way.

Though I recognized how deeply tragic these things were.

Later, it hit me...

It was the lack of control she now had.

I fully realize that her caregivers were trying to keep the sun off her face and out of her eyes. I do.

I just didn't feel that she would have worn that hat normally.

And that bothered me.

A lot.

It comes back to me when someone places a hat on the ACN (Adorably Cute Niece) that I don't think the world's cutest 6 year old should be wearing.

It bothers me.

Early on, the ACN's mommy told us that it was good to give the ACN options. I REALLY ran with that. So much so that the mommy now tells me that I give too many options.

Pfffffft to that.

If the ACN tells me that she wants to go to the bathroom every five minutes for an hour... Well, then we go to the bathroom every five minutes for an hour.

If the ACN wants to spend 90 minutes deciding which pair of jammies she wants to wear, then we spend 90 minutes picking jammies.

And I am completely aware that she is only doing it because she loves my fake grrrrrrrrs when she changes her mind.

But, if the ACN wants something and I am able to do it, then she gets it. It's really that simple to me.

I adore the little squirt. And she is still the toughest little chick that I know.

And there are, and will continue to be, things in her life that she won't be able to control.

But, I'll be fucked if a choice of hats is one of them.

Labels: ACN

"There is something special in that bond between two men that played a sport together. It is like the bond you get from getting rid of a dead hooker. But, NOT the same kind of bond you get from accidentally crossing swords. I can't stress that enough people."

Just so I can say that I posted something today.

Labels: hookers with noodles

Some stranger requested an add on msn messenger a few minutes ago. I figured maybe it was one of you folks, so I accepted.

It wasn't any of you.

Some spam crap.

A "woman" named monica. With a user pic scanned out of a J Crew catalogue apparently -- which made me want to buy a short-sleeve original-fit repp pique polo for some reason.

Anyway, this is an excerpt from my chat with "monica."

monica says: i read like ur profile and the way you describe urself so i will like to know you better

Peter says:
i don't have anything written in my profile

monica says:
but i do like the way you brief about urself and also the way u look

monica says:
u look so cute i bet u are good looking man

Peter says:
i REALLY am

monica says:
yeah babe

monica says:
so ur name is pete right?

Peter says:
gotta run. my wife is home!!!!!

monica says:
okay

monica says:
when will you be back online then?

Peter says:
she's got a knife!!!

monica says:
okay take care of urself

Labels: this actually happened

Well, I did.

I wrote it for the ACN as a Christmas gift a couple years ago.

Of course, she won't let me read it to her. And when I ask her if she likes it, she shakes her head "No" and starts laughing.

Then I drop my lip and make sadface and she laughs even harder.

Though the little sneak lets other family members read it to her if I'm not around.

I've resisted pimping it on here (too much) because Lulu.com's shipping rates (especially to Canada) were craaaaaazy.

But, it looks like they have improved.

So, I think you should all buy a copy.

In fact, buy two, they're small.

The book was illustrated by leggy supermodel Kevin LeBlanc.

If you have kids, know any kids, or were a kid yourself at some point, you are guaranteed to loooooove it.

Labels: ACN

They have been sitting in the doctor's waiting room for what seems like hours.

Gary doesn't even notice himself drumming on the arm rest.

Shari does.

She grabs his hand and gives him a look.

"We've been sitting here forever," he whines.

"It hasn't been that long," she replies, reading her magazine.

"You didn't make me wait this long to get you into bed when we first started dating."

"Are you calling me a whore?" she asks, now looking at him.

"Noooo. Of course not."

Gary turns to the elderly gentleman -- who is 75 if he is a day -- sitting next to him and gives him the "a little bit" sign with his thumb and forefinger while mouthing the words.

Gary starts whistling, but catches himself. He picks up the clipboard that is sitting in front of Shari.

"Last time I filled one of these out, I couldn't find a spot to tell them about that pain in my ovaries," he whispers. "You know the one?"

Shari takes the clipboard out of his hand and puts it back on the table.

"Dude, how old are these magazines?" Gary asks, scanning the available reading material.

"They aren't THAT old," she almost hisses.

"Wow. Check this out," he says excitedly. "Alec Baldwin and Kim Basinger are showing us their Y2K shelter. Man, I hope those two crazy kids can make it work."

Gary crosses his fingers and smiles at Shari. She doesn't even look up.

Gary looks around the room. He gets a strange look on his face.

"Hey Shari."

"Hey what?"

"That elevator music they are piping in here... I think it's Motley Crue."

"What?," she asks.

"Motley Crue. The Crue!"

She listens for a few moments.

"That's Brahms."

"Brahms? Did he play bass for The Crue?"

"I'm going to need you to stop talking," she says forcefully as she goes back to her magazine.

"It's 'Dr. Feelgood.' They are playing 'Dr. Feelgood."

Shari ignores.

Gary starts singing, and not even nearly along with the music.

"Rat-tailed Jimmy is a second hand hood. He deals out in Hollywood."

"Stop." she says.

"Got a '65 Chevy, primered flames. Traded for some powdered goods," he continues, holding an invisible mic.

"Stop it."

"Jigsaw Jimmy, he's runnin' a gang. But, I hear he's doin' OK."

Gary holds the invisible mic out to the elderly gentleman, who doesn't miss a beat.

"Got a cozy little job, sells the Mexican mob packages of candycaine."

Gary is floored.

"That was awesome, old dude."

Shari grabs Gary's mic hand and pulls it down. She glares at him.

"Did you see that?," he asks incredulously.

"Be-have!"

"I'm sorry. Hey, where do you think this doctor went to school?"

"I don't know," she replies. "Why do you want to know?"

"I just don't think we should take the word of some dude who went to someplace like... Arizona State."

"Really?"

"Absolutely. No Sun Devils, I say! Their football team blows."

"You want to pick a doctor based on the strength of the football team where they went to school?" she asks.

"You don't like?"

"You are driving me crazy."

A nurse arrives on the scene.

"Folks, the doctor will see you in a few moments, " she says with a smile, as she picks up the clipboard from the table.

"Can spouses go in too?" Shari asks.

"Of course," the nurse replies and starts to walk away.

Then she turns around and adds, "The Doctor went to John's Hopkins. But, his son goes to Ohio State if that makes you feel any better."

"Hmm," Gary replies, relatively satisfied.

Suddenly the reality of the situation hits Shari. Her faces goes white. She turns to Gary and he is already looking at her. He gives her a wink and then a smile.

A simple wink.

A simple smile.

And she can't help but smile back.

She knows what he's been doing. While he does hate waiting, this little show has been for her benefit. He's done everything short of striptease to keep her mind off of what was about to happen. He is a giant pain in the ass goofball. But, he is her giant pain in the ass goofball, and she loves the crap out of him.

He leans over and kisses her on the top of the head.

"I still think it's The Crue."

She giggles and a little snort escapes.

The nurse returns.

"The doctor will see you now."

Gary and Shari are lead down a dark hallway to the doctor's inner office. Gary allows Shari to enter first. Gary notices a finger print smudge on the gold door plate that says "Dr. David Chase."

They each take a seat in the empty office.

Gary takes Shari's hand. She manages a weak smile.

He leans in.

"I love you."

"I love you too," she replies, her voice choked with emotion.

A side door opens and the doctor enters. He is in his 50s. Grey hair. Tall. Gives the impression of confidence and competence. He is wearing reading glasses and opening a file that he carries.

"Hello, " he says quickly.

He places the file on the desk and takes a seat.

He begins flipping through pages.

"So, I have the results right here," he says without looking up.

He seems to be double and triple checking.

The water cooler gurgles in the corner of the office. Shari jumps a little. Gary squeezes her hand.

A clock ticks loudly on the wall behind them

The doctor finally lifts his head and looks at them over the top of his reading glasses.

"OK. This is the situation..."

Labels: I liked it better in my head

Have you been wondering how I feel about gay marriage?

Of course you have.

Well, find out right here!

Many moons ago, I posted one of those "100 Things About Me" deals. (Part 1 and Part 2.)

I don't actually remember anything that I included on said list, but I am sure that it was just lousy with the awesome. And it probably contained some lies told for my own general amusement.

I'm like that.

But, if I was to re-do the list, I'd make it 101 things. And I would include a job that I recently realized that I would be so very ill-suited to have.

This will join a list of other jobs that I should probably never hold. A list that includes, but is not limited to, the following:

- plumber
- oil driller
- crazy cat lady (allergies AND an almost total lack of a vagina)
- land baron
- printing press operator
- escaped con that's been wrongly accused and is trying to clear his name
- blogger
- totem pole carver
- gun fighter
- porn industry fluffer
- honest lawyer
- Queen of the Netherlands
and many more!

The job that will be added to the list is...

Pimp.

I can tell by those gasps that you are very surprised. Or just caught your nipples in your sliding keyboard tray.

While my love of purple fedoras and bejeweled walking sticks is legendary, it has become clear to me that I was not meant for runnin' da bitches.

I have no actual experience in the area... that you know of. But, I just know, you know?

I think it will be easier for you to understand if I create a little scenario that could very well happen if I was, in fact, a full-time whore monger.

Setting: Peter's Pimp Pad
Time: 8:55 pm, any Friday

Peter sits in the living room with his three top earners, Roxy, Trixie and Blanche.

Roxy: I'm so tiiiiired tonight, big daddy.

Trixie: Me too. I don't think I'm up to it.

Pete the Pimp: Are you kidding me? It's Friday night. I need you out there.

Blanche: Come on.

Roxy: Pleeeeeease.

Trixie: We'll work twice as long tomorrow night.

Pete the Pimp: Oh, crap. OK. Fine. We'll ALL stay in and watch "NUMB3RS." Happy?

Roxy: You are the best!

Trixie: What a relief. I am soooo wore out down there and --

Pete the Pimp: Bup bup bup! None of that talk. I don't want to see behind the curtain.

Blanche: The meat curtain?

Pete the Pimp: Ewwwww. Come on. Show some class.

Blanche: We're WHORES.

Pete the Pimp: You don't have to act like one. Clearly someone didn't finish finishing school.

Blanche: Whatever.

Pete the Pimp: (Raising pimp hand) Don't make me go over there.

Blanche: You couldn't even spank me in bed the other night.

Roxy: Really? He spanked me last week like I stole something.

Trixie: You DID steal something.

Roxy: Oh yeah. *Tee hee*

Pete the Pimp: No talking. The show is starting.

Roxy: We'd rather watch "Close to Home."

Pete the Pimp: Yeah, no dice.

Roxy: Come on... We'll do crazy lesbian stuff during commercials.

Pete the Pimp: How crazy?

Trixie: Ca-Razy.

Pete the Pimp: Fiiiiiiiiiine.

Blanche: Can I hold the remote control?

Pete the Pimp: I'm going to pretend that you didn't just ask that.

Labels: 100 things, pimpin'

People ask me why I blog. Actually it frequently comes in one of these forms:

"A Blog. Seriously?"

"That's on the internet, right?"

"Is it because Barney has one on 'How I Met Your Mother'?"

"Can you use it to meet girls?

"Have you turned fruit?"

To which I reply: "Yes." "Yes." "I had one first." "I guess." "Not that I'm aware of."

(Man, I hope that I answered those in the right order.)

But, how did this magical mystery tour begin?

Well, when I was a little Pete, with the world at my feet, the wind at my back, a spring in my step and water on my knee, I realized that I liked to write.

I think it was in grade 3. We had to write a short story for Hallowe'en. I don't remember much about it, other than a few wise-cracking ghosts and a vampire with a heart of gold. I am sure that it was brilliant on a variety of levels.

I remember loving the feeling of creating this little world. The characters did what I said. I OWNED them. Mwuhahahaha. Kidding. I wasn't that maniacal.

I hope.

But, I did really enjoy it. Even at that age, I felt like it could be my "thing."

Then the bell rang, I went to gym glass and got hit in the jiggers with a dodge ball and didn't think much about writing for a few years.

Jump ahead to the 7th grade. I once again decided that I was a writer. (I also decided that I was Billy Idol, but that is a story for another day.) I was doing school plays and decided that I could write a better play than the ones we were trying to choose from.

That didn't go overly well.

Still, I kept working on writing plays, skits and short stories in the comfort and privacy of my bedroom. (Probably not the only thing I did to take advantage of said privacy.)

Then the 9th grade happened.

(If this post had background music -- and it really should -- it would have changed with that line.)

You see, that was the point when students from three other junior highs started coming to my school. There were SO many more women.

Tight jeans... the smell of hairspray in the morning...

It was fucking beautiful, man.

*sniffle*

It was like the scene in GOODFELLAS when the mob world really opens up for Henry Hill. Everything had changed. I knew that I couldn't go back to a world before Grade 9. Like an average nobody... getting to live the rest of my life like a schnook.

But, this estrogenic influx meant the end of writing. My brain had one focus.

Well, two if you count playing basketball. Which, let's face it, in my head I saw as another arrow in my getting laid quiver.

Let's skip the rest of high school.

During my first year at university, I took an "Intro to English" class as an elective. My professor was the foremost North American expert on Dracula. Which has little to do with this post, but I thought it was kind of nifty.

At one point, while sitting in his class, I had a flash of actually doing a degree in English. Of reading all the greats. Of writing. Of dressing in black. Of looking all broody and forlorn for no apparent reason.

But, that flash left as quickly as it came.

The voices of family and neighbours echoed in my head. "What kind of job are you going to get with THAT degree?"

I'm not from a land of writers.

Growing up, it felt like you were either going to work at a fish plant, as a fisherman, as a teacher, or you were going to get the fuck out.

Telling people that you wanted to be a writer would, I assumed, have gotten you the same stares as telling people you wanted to be a goat sodomizer.

Sometime after university, I decided that I wanted to try writing again. Not sure how or why it happened. But, this crazy internet thing that all the kids were using, meant that I could foist my ramblings on unsuspecting strangers.

Suckers.

Jump ahead another couple years and a (now) ex-girlfriend, growing tired of receiving 2000 word e-mails from me about how the 1985 film SECRET ADMIRER, starring Kelly Preston, Lori Loughlin and C. Thomas Howell, is an underappreciated classic, said to me, "There's this thing called blogging..."

[This is sort of a reply to Amanda's Weekly Composition Challenge. Probably not exactly the type of thing that she was actually looking for. But, I'm not big on following instructions. Maybe if she wore tight jeans and used a lot of hairspray...]

I forgot to set the sleep timer on my TV last night and I woke up at some point to "Blind Date." A dude was coming on too strong, but thinking he was doing great, while a chick was shutting him down. Have you seen that one? That started me wondering what I would be like as a contestant on the show. And, you know, I think it would go a little something like this.

[A commercial for "UTI" medication ends...]

Roger Lodge: Welcome to Blind Date. I'm Roger Lodge.

[Roger turns to another camera.]

Roger Lodge: Our first date tonight is between Daphne, a former beauty queen and Peter, a ruggedly charming Canadian. Daphne's motto is "Sorority Sistas 4 Lyfe" and Peter doesn't like people very much. Let's see if the sparks fly.

[Cheesy music starts and cheap-ass graphics zip on and then off the screen.]

Peter walks up to Daphne's door and knocks. Daphne answers with a smile.

Daphne: Hi there! How are you?

Peter: I'm good, thanks. I'm Peter.

Daphne: I'm Daphne. But, spelled in a different way. Mine has an "E."

Peter: Doesn't Daphne usually have an E?

Daphne: Yes, but mine isn't where you'd expect.

Peter: What?

Daphne: Let's go. I'm hungrier than a hostage. But, at least I'm not all dirty like one. Ewww.

[Peter looks at his watch.]

[Peter and Daphne enter the restaurant.]

Daphne: Ohhh. Look at those lobsters in the tank. That's so sad. If you were a good date you would set them free for me.

Peter: Normally I would, but last week I tried to set some frozen apple strudels free from the grocery store and things went horribly awry.

Daphne: I don't understand...

Peter: Oh look. Our table is ready.

[Our daters are seated at their table and ordering from the waiter.]

Daphne: I'll have the small garden salad, and an Evian with a slice of lime in it.

Peter: Seriously? That's it.

Daphne: Everything else has meat in it. I am a staunch vegetarian. I can't even stand to see meat on a plate.

Peter: I understand. (To waiter.) I'll take a burger.

Daphne: OMG! I can't believe you just did that.

Peter: Did you just say "O-M-G?"

Daphne: Have you ever been to one of those cow slaughtering places?

Peter: Not yet, but if I keep wishing, maybe it'll happen.

Daphne: Do you know how the cows die?

Peter: I don't suppose the answer is old age?

Daphne: No!

Peter: Aren't you wearing leather boots?

Daphne: I am. Don't you just love how slim they make my legs look?

[Five minutes later.]

Daphne: Men find my beauty to be intimating.

Peter: Yeah. That sounds like a hell of a cross to bear.

[Pop-up bubble dealie says, "Peter is checking out the waitress' butt."]

Daphne: What are you doing?

Peter: Checking out the waitress' butt.

[Pop-up bubble dealie says, "See!?"]

Daphne: Don't you think that's a little rude?

Peter: Yeah, probably...

[Five minutes later.]

Daphne: I LOVE "Family Guy." Love it.

Peter: Do you love it though?

Daphne: I love it. What is your favourite episode?

Peter: I hate that show with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns.

Daphne: That's a lot of suns.

Peter: Some of them may have been counted more than once.

[Peter and Daphne are now standing on a basketball court.]

Daphne: Don't I look hot in these gym shorts?

Peter: Yes.

Daphne: So, you are going to let me win?

Peter: No.

[Montage of Peter blocking Daphne's shots repeatedly. After the last one...]

Peter: Keep that weak [expletive deleted] out of here. Whoooo!

[Montage of Peter raining jump shots over Daphne as she files her nails.]

[Now Peter and Daphne are back in their regular clothes and walking down the sidewalk.]

Daphne: This has been a great date. We should totally do it again?

Peter: Honestly?

Daphne: Sure! When I was in pageants, my talent was baton-twirling.

Peter: Mine too.

Daphne: So, where do you stand on the war? I don't believe that a president would ever take his country to war without a good reason.

[Peter just stares.]

[A montage of Daphne quotes begins...]

Daphne: I wrote a letter to Martha Stewart in prison.

Daphne: I ONLY listen to Jennifer Lopez' music.

Daphne: I think that 'Gilmore girls' sucked. And Lauren Graham isn't that cute.

Daphne: I think that poor people just aren't trying hard enough.

Daphne: Higher fence... fewer Mexicans. I'm just sayin'.

[They arrive at Daphne's front door. Peter looks all glossy-eyed and beat-down.]

Daphne: I wear size seven shoes, but only size six boots.

Peter: (Checking watch) You don't say.

Daphne: My cat is named "Biscuit."

Peter: Uh huh.

Daphne: I have absolutely no gag reflex.

[Silence for a few moments.]

Peter: You know, maybe we SHOULD have a second date.

Labels: blind date, roger lodge

Stan: You think that I'm going to let you get away with this? Are you out of your fucking mind? This is just the start of it, homey. I got thunder in my back pocket and lightning in my front. I can bring it ALL day long, son. You don't want this. (Pokes Larry in the chest.) I am gonna take you outside and show you what's what. That's how *I* do things. You're an asshole. You've had this coming for SO long. I am going to enjoy this. And when I am done with you, I am going to take your girlfriend. She wants me to, I see it in her eyes. You messed with the wrong bastard this time, fucko. I am going to slap the ugly right out of you -- and THAT is going to take some slapping. Are you ready for this? I mean, are you REALLY ready. 'Cause whooooohooo, baby. I am ready. You no good sack of shit, I am going to KICK. YOUR. ASS.

Larry: Fine. You can have the last slice of pizza.

Stan: Really? Thanks. I skipped lunch and--

Larry: Fuck off.

Stan: Fair enough.

As I mentioned a while back, I have been working on a group blog idea.

Now, I don't want to overhype it, but...

It is going to be the 4th greatest thing in the history of the internet!!!

Go check it out!