The Post in which more than one person is present.

Hello, Ladies and Gentlemen. I am writing this missive from my girlfriend’s house because I’m bored out of my mind and the Rumor Forum s boring me even more. Come on, men, make the Man Board mean something! Anyways, I digress.

Today’s post is authored by me and Jordan. Oh no wait, Calvin. Darnit, Caleb! Oh by the way, if you ever have children name them all really similarly so everyone will have trouble! Yeah that’s a good idea.

So today’s post will begin with me asking questions.

Dax: Do you like calendars?

Caleb: The only calendar I like is the one behind the toilet in the bathroom.

Dax: So, why that one?

Caleb: Probably because it’s the only one I ever look at… and it has good pictures.

Dax: do you have a dream car?

Caleb: Let’s say… let’s go for… a Ferarri Enzo.

Dax: Okay, how about a dream girl.

Caleb: No comment.

Dax: Oh come on. Everyone want to know.

Caleb: Let’s just say I don’t know her name yet.

Dax; is that because you’re afraid to talk to her?

Caleb: Nope. She’s wears masks because she’s so beautiful. That sounds gay.

Dax: Yes, yes it does. Does her name perhaps sound like how someone might write down a belch?

Caleb: Yeah, maybe sort of . A lot of her friends call her that, but um… probably not her friends.

Dax: So how about we talk about something else.

Caleb: Amen.

Dax: What’s it like not to have any hockey this year?

Caleb: It sucks like crap.

Dax: You’re a Leafs fan then?

Caleb: I depends what game’s on… who’s playing. I like Tampa Bay better.

Dax: You should go downtown and shout that out on a street corner. You’d get mauled.

Caleb: Yeah, but at least I was standing up for something I like.

Dax: I didn’t hear you standing up for that girl back there.

Caleb: But maybe she’s not the dream girl yet.

Dax: You mean she gets more dreamy every day until one day she’ll be the dream girl?

Caleb: Yeah, maybe.

Dax: Aren’t you a little young to be thinking about women?

Caleb: Um… um… yeah sure. That’s the first thing that comes to mind when you say “girl”.

Dax: “Um… yeah sure” is the first thing that comes to mind? Are you sure that’s a good thing?

Caleb: Probably not, but as long as my family supports me.

Dax: Yes, well, your alternative lifestyle might be a shock to them. Choosing to remain single, I mean.

Caleb: Who said I was staying single?

Dax: Well then I have no idea what we’re talking about. Let’s talk instead about, hey, nice to talk to you, but I’m afraid I have to go.

Caleb: Yes, you were a very polite interviewer… and I’ll sue you if you include anything I didn’t actually say. Also, I am disfunctional and basically a boob. That’s all I have to say and this interview is over forthwith!!!

Okay, I may have added a couple sentences there, but aren’t you glad? Didn’t it make things so much more interesting? I thought so too. Also, I’m writing this on a Mac, and I officially like the way Macs look and hate the way they function. Thank you.

Interview With a Pirate

I have been interested in pirates as long as I’ve been a child, which is pretty interesting considering I’m no longer a child. There’s a mystery there that I can’t quite understand, but that’s alright, because pretty much everything’s a mystery, including squirrels and pizza. Think about pizza for a second. Do you understand it? I didn’t think so. Who can ever know the motivations of a pizza, or fathom it’s dark sayings? What is the pizza trying to say when it brings forth a beautiful olive, or speaks in tomato sauce? Are there races of pizza that war against one another? Does a Hawaiian pizza come from Hawaii, and does a meat lover pizza come from a meat lover? Is there pizza on Venus? Is there pizza on my chin? Why, yes. Yes there is pizza on my chin. Note to self: shave off long flowing beard.

Speaking of beards, pirates have them. Remember the names of the many famous pirates that have terrorized the high seas and the MPAA: Blackbeard, Blueberrybeard, Flamingbeard, and the infamous Napsterbeard. Even the pirate Nobeard had a beard, although it was made from the hair of his unfortunate prey in the hills of Montana.

I’ve had opportunity to speak with a pirate, a real honest-to-badness pirate, a pirate by the name of Jimbeard. I sneaked aboard a pirate ship and was being flogged for stowing away when this exchange happened.

Mebeard: So what’s it like being a pirate?

Jimbeard: Pretty good, and excellent cuisine, but the managerial aspects are mind boggling.

M: Managerial aspects?

J: Yes, totaling the goods we relieve their owners of, and filing false insurance claims. I also have to keep track of something close to six hundred thousand songs I’ve gotten from the good ship Internet.

M: That must be tough. Do you do any swashbuckling and shouting, “Avast me mateys! Board yonder vessel!”

J: No, though you just did. Mostly, I’m ordering people around, telling them to do things like “Swap that poop deck, and make it shine.”

M: That must stink.

J: Not really. I have a very nice office chair. Ergonomic, you know.

M: I mean actually swabbing the poop deck.

J: There’re worse jobs.

M: I’ve always wondered about poop decks, though.

J: [shrugs] Not much to them, really. Just a bunch of boards.

M: But don’t you have washrooms and such?

J: Yes. Very sanitary. Below decks.

M: So why have a poop deck?

J: It’s just the way they design ships, I think.

M: Are pirates too lazy to use the washrooms, then?

J: I’ve found most pirates to be quite neat. Very tidy bunks. Fresh laundry, that sort of thing.

M: Is it called the poop deck because of birds maybe?

J: Birds?

M: In the rigging. You know, the guano?

J: Sorry, I don’t speak Hindustani.

M: Well, the poop must get there somehow.

J: There’s no poop on the poop deck.

M: Then why the name?

J: Sadistic engineers, I imagine.

M: Speaking of sadism, why have your fellow pirates swab the deck? That must take a long time.

J: I like it to shine just so. It’s the way we’ve always done it.

M: Do you carry a large cargo of Q-tips?

J: No.

M: So you get the swabs by raiding other ships?

J: I’ve never raided a swab before. The commodity market for swabs is really low-margin.

M: So then how do they swab the poop deck?

J: With a mop, usually.

M: So you’re telling me that when you say, “Swab the poop deck,” the only thing in that sentence that actually exists is the deck bit?
J: I suppose, if you look at it that way. I guess it was a marketing move to make the whole thing look more “wicked” for the kids. A gross-out factor is always cool.

M: That makes absolutely no sense.

J: Neither have any of your questions.

M: You’re not really what I imagined of a pirate.

J: That’s because we’ve been actively spreading disinformation about pirates to discourage all but the most hardy of skateboarders and extreme sportsmen from entering for a position.

M: I just can’t get over the fact that the poop deck has no poop on it.

J: And that we don’t use swabs at all.

M: And that you use a Mac.

J: You got problems with Apple?

M: The Ipod’s too expensive.

Apparently Jimbeard was a bit of an iPod zealot, and took offense to the way I spelled it with the capitalization all backwards and whatnot, because he added another twenty lashes after he was done, and made me walk the plank to be devoured by sharks. Thankfully we had just entered Lake Ontario and there were no sharks to eat me. However, I did catch a bad case of flesh-eating disease, and can cook my own food by touching it thanks to the fact that I’m ever so slightly radioactive. Also I glow in the dark.

I think the moral in all of this is that I’m not cut out to be a pirate, even though I’m now in full possession of a wooden leg, a wooden pelvis, wooden kidney, and wooden eye patch. Thankfully, I’ve started breeding termites to relieve the boredom of being partially immobile, which I think is a smart thing to do.
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Quotes found around the shop like litter.

Lisa: When you’re on a diet, eating crap is a good thing to do.

Becka: I love tubing.
Me: That’s why we pay you the big bucks.
Becka: I’ll get out of this hole one day.
Me: We all say that.
Becka: I’m going to travel the world and stuff.
Me: Ironic. The person that’s paying you to work in this hole is probably going to pay for your trips around the world.
Becka: It’s just because I’m a good daughter.
Me: Trust you and Kristin to turn being a good daughter into a business.

Anonymous: Don’t get in my way, or I’ll give you a tapeworm… mouth to mouth.

Steve: Jerry hasn’t done the coffee run yet, has he.
Me: No. These are desperate times.
Steve: Desperate times indeed.
Me: So what are you going to do about it?
Steve: Stand around and whine.
Me: How very post-modern of you.

Me: Exciting… you’re officially in charge of making that part round and smaller — at the same time.
Stu: It’s nice; it gives me time to think.
Me: Let me see, what would I think about if I were you? … Food.
Stu: Woman.
Me: Nope, definitely food.
Stu: Cars.
Me: Definitely food.
Stu: Boolean mathematics.
Me: Calculus!
Stu: [does some rapid calculations with his finger] Eureka!
Me: I’ve solved the universe! The answer is… 9.

Steve: I guess you’ve never heard of George Michael, then.
Me: I’ve heard of him, I’ve just never heard him. Aren’t his songs all about sex?
Steve: All of them except the song “I Want Your Sex”. That wasn’t about sex.
Me: It must have been about furniture.
Steve: I think so.

Me: I heard this saying: “Not all who are of Italy are of Italy.” But I like to think of it as, “Not all who are not of Italy are not not of Italy.”
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Fresh Disaster

This was going to be a post for tomorrow on DxBxPx, but it’s too good to waste over there where no one will see it. I wrote this this evening.

I am fresh of the graveless waterfront
as a groundkeeper for this beach,
at least till I am swallowed by the moon.

I am freshly alive with life not my own,
with maggots that spill from eyesockets
and insects burrowing, jaw to bone.

But I am a fresh convert to the process:
yesterday I was born a ghost,
and today I till and furrow for the flies.

I am fresh, also, of a thousand places
all equally regal, all flushed with life,
all carefully tended;

these freshly cultivated twin sisters and brothers –
I have become a thousand teeming islands,
a million writhing worlds,

a universe freshly strewn with self-consuming stars.
Here, you will grow your corn.
You will press its flesh between your teeth,
and it will not taste like disaster.

This is how people drive in Mississauga.

Every time it snows, no matter how little or how much, whether a dusting or a dumping, people in Mississauga forget how to drive. I swear, they have a memory blockage, and there’s nothing you can do to shake them of it. This is why I want to have small missiles mounted on the top of my car; then I can blow these annoyances aside and drive like a normal person on the perfectly clear roads. Not 40k/h. Thank you.

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Interview With a Herbivore

There are many benefits to being a herbivore. Not least of these is that once dead, your heart will still continue beating into the next century. This has something to do with eating fibre, though no one’s quite that clear on the whole thing. Another benefit is when everyone has strands of celery hanging from their teeth, no one really cares about it. In fact, herbivorous society as a whole cares less about hygiene than your average human, excepting of course information technology fanboys, who regard celery strands hanging from the teeth rather par for course. But I digress again.

Today I will be conducting an Interview With a Herbivore, one of what will I hope be a series of interviews with famous people, animals, and plants, not to mention society groups, that will continue long after my heart has stopped beating. To conduct this interview I sneaked into the middle of a group of herbivores using the pseudonym “Bob”, a newswriter for the Outdoor Life Network.

Bob: So what’s it like being a herbivore?

Herb: For the most part, tasty, though not without its side effects.

B: Side effects? Such as?

H: Methane, mostly. Different coloured stool, that sort of thing.

B: I don’t understand. Stool? Do you eat stools or something?

H: That’s disgusting. You could catch a disease doing that.

B: I know, so many people sitting on them.

H: Most people don’t sit on their stool.

B: What else would it be for? I sit on my stool. That’s why I bought it.

H: You bought a stool? Why didn’t you just go gather some from a field? Way easier.

B: Because I’ve never seen a stool grow in a field.

H: Of course not. It’s left there by animals.

B: Animals don’t have stools.

H: Any credible biologist would tell you animals have stools.

B: What would an animal use it for? It’s not like they need a stool or anything.

H: I’m pretty sure most animals don’t actually use the stool for anything. They just leave it behind in a field or something.

B: But why have stools in the first place if they’re just going to leave them in a field?

H: Because that’s the way animal biology works. They have stools, they leave them in the field. If they didn’t, they’d get bloated and explode.

B: So the stool is inside of them?

H: Of course, until they leave it in a field.

B: Why is there a stool inside of an animal? What does it look like?

H: It’s because of what they eat. And that last question is disgusting, okay? You obviously don’t know shit.

B: Is that the name of the animal with the stool?

H: [leaves the interviewing area]

I have since concluded that herbivores eat a lot of hallucinogenic substances. The conversation above makes no sense, and I provide no warrantee that any of you will understand it the way it is. If, however, you are a herbivore, I urge you to write and tell me what this all means. Animals with stools inside them, bursting or leaving the stool in a field: claptrap!

But until next time, stay clean, eat meat, and don’t forget: stools are for sitting, not for leaving in fields.

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Laura Malloy is a cutie, and that’s all there is to it.

Let me let you in on a little secret: Laura Malloy is a cutie. Now, you may be thinking, “Well, yes, but so is my Scottish Terrier.” But Miss Malloy isn’t a cutie in the Dog sense, but in the Girl sense. That is to say, she has adorable tendencies to break out in fits of Cuteness in places you wouldn’t expect to find Cuteness, like a movie theatre parking lot, or Shoppers Drugmart.

You want me to explain? Alright. Laura Malloy likes to wear hip clothing of the GRRRRRLLLL POWER variety in public. We’ve all seen it, and it’s powerful. It’s the sort of clothing that makes the wearer invincible to things like Hugs and Affection. Sometimes Miss Malloy is seen wearing t-shirts with slogans on them like, “If you so much as touch me, you horrible man-demon, I will make sure you never have children for the rest of your life, and let me tell you, that’ll be doing mankind a huge favor.” These are not the slogans of a Cutie.

You, however, are seeing only one side of the dime that is Miss Malloy. You’re seeing the superhero denying spandex. What you don’t get to look at, hopefully, is the Cutie side. That’s right. When she gets home from work or Conquering the World, or whatever else it is that Miss Malloy does on a regular basis, she slips on her pink fuzzy bunny slippers, dabs green face masque on her face (duh), lights candles, and sits down with a good cup of herbal tea to read Nick Hornby novels. Sometimes she takes bubble baths — though this is mere rumour — with mountains of strawberry-smelling bubbles that spill over the side of the tub, where she relaxes reading Nick Hornby novels, or the occasional Harlequin romance novel.

Another thing about Miss Malloy’s Cutie side is that it likes flowers. Really. It likes white flowers that come in bundles that are given to her by boys. Now, this in and of itself is unremarkable, except for the “boys” bit. You know how it is in all those horrid romance movies I swear I’ve never watched: invincible superhero girl falls in love with geeky square-rimmed-glasses emo boy? It’s like that. Miss Malloy tries to deny it vigorously by posting images of Gay Hollywood Stars on her blog, but to no avail. Her geeky corduroy-wearing emo boy is somewhere in this world, ready to meet her under Nick Hornby-like circumstances.

There you have it. Irrefutable proof in the form of refutable slander that Miss Laura Malloy is indeed a Bonified Cutie. If you want to go somewhere to detect subtle hits of her Cutieness, read her blog, which you can get to by looking over at the sidebar to your left. Left is that way. —->

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Coffee and water.

Feel free not to care much about this if you will, but drinking coffee — though it’s a liquid — is a self-defeating proposition due to the fact that it somehow steals water from your body. So no matter how much you consume, there’s always a need for just as much if not more water, thereby increasing your liquid intake, no matter which way you slice it. If you’re like me and enjoy eating, this means that you are already full by the time you get to a meal, and that just steals all the joy away from it. On the other hand — give up coffee? What? That’s crazy talk. So, I suppose eating just has to go.

Goodbye, eating. I knew him, Iago.

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Here’s a little recipe for all you bean lovers.

This morning I had a little treat that reminded me of my Bean Crazy days of yore (and I’m sure a few of you remember the ozone hole that particular time in my life created). Stu gave me some Salt and Vinegar Chick Peas. Basically, the recipe goes like this:

Get a can of chick peas.
Open the can and drain it.
Rinse the peas and drain again.
Bake at 400deg until crispy.
Roll in vinegar and shake salt over, OR
Get some sort of s/v mix from your local grocery store.

There you have it, folks. A wonderfully healthy little recipe that doesn’t sacrifice taste for anything else.

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OMG WTF I’m addicted to the WEB LOL BBQ

Hello, my online name is Mr Poopypants, and I’m an internet addict. I’ve been webless for six months now, and the wonderful girl I married in the meantime is posting this message on the web for me. I still don’t trust myself to post it without being sucked into that world where OMG, WFT, LOL, and BBQ actually mean things, and some of them not quite good things. My tale is one of trial and hardship, but a tale also replete with the wonder of overcoming information addictions. To start off, a little history.

I began dabbling in the world of computing when I was a youngster, probably around the age of seven. The things fascinated me. I couldn’t get enough. When my father — bless his departed soul — bought me my first 3600 baud modem, I was in heaven. I quickly joined several local Bulletin Board Services, trading files, and downloading at will. So began my transition to a internet addict.

A friend of ours introduced us to the World Wide Web right before our awestruck eyes, promising that it was the new way to order a pizza, dude. We surfed, we linked, we learned HTML, we were Alice in Wonderland.

The sad path to my addiction became evident when I neglected all other worldly pursuits to surf the web. I would sit for hours, slackjawed in front of a screen, staring at the information I was
scrolling through. I didn’t urinate anymore: it took too much time. I didn’t sleep, for pretty much the same reason. I no longer tended my beautiful flower garden outside, but that was because I hated flowers, and also because I wasn’t gay.

After six months of this, my parents finally noticed that I was missing, and began a frantic search through the kitchen to find me. I wasn’t in the kitchen. They searched every single room until they finally found me and woke me from my trance-like information-induced semi-conscious state.

But it wasn’t enough: I stumbled through my waking life as if it were a dream, longing for nothing but the loving glow of my computer. I suppose they didn’t notice this a lot, except for the fact that my father kept screaming at me about how I was “addicted to computers” and such. Really, I just found them very interesting; I would always reply that he was addicted to his stupid job, which was most certainly true, but rarely appreciated. Computers and information technology dominated my life until the day I got a girlfriend. She was so interesting that for a few moments I tore myself away from my CRT screen to stare into her eyes. Eventually, I wondered if we could somehow get her some cybernetic eyes so I could stare and surf the web at the same time. Killing two birds with one stone, I think I called it.

But through this all, my internet addiction continued to increase to the point where there was no point hiding it any longer: I broke up with my girlfriend, taking solace in the hum of my hard drive. During this period, many exciting new technologies came into existence, such as the Universal Serial Bus, an operating system names Linux, and the evolution the DVD-ROM. Instead of sating my increasingly ravenous desire for new technologies, these advances merely exacerbated the problem, making me dependent on forever increasing my knowledge, constantly buying more electronics, and spending more time online in chat rooms with my Slashdot-reading geek friends, none of whose real names I actually knew.

Alas, it all came to an end in a “snow crash” of sorts, in the great electrical outage of 2003. I had no recourse but to escape the cloying recesses of my cave-like dwelling and surface for a taste of what mother nature had to offer. Little did I know that Mother Nature was more like a mafia hitman than a true mother, as I developed several nasty skin rashes, was sunburned, and found myself surrounded on a regular bases by man-eating insects of the blood-sucking variety.

It was exhilarating. Unlike online games I had been playing, the parameters were as wide as the imagination: I may have been a +3 geek, but I found my Outdoorsman and Survivalist skills sorely lacking.

I’ve never gone back. Oh the life! I’ve climbed mountains, walked the urban landscape, taking plane rides to exotic destinations, and had the time of my life, quite literally. And I’m never going back, either. Never. I will not touch the internet ever again. And I urge you to join me. Take your fat fleshy fingers off your mouse and keyboard and get back to Real Life. It doesn’t matter how you do it. Just remember the advice of my father:

“You’re a fat, internet-addicted slob! When I was your age, I had already learned how to fix 2 different models of cars! I nearly froze my fingers off one night fixing my car and I haven’t been able to feel them since! No on in our family has ever been fat! Why are you fat, you stupid slob? You could be doing so much with your life. Look at your sister. I know she’s callously manipulating me into giving her money, and that she really thinks I’m a misguided blowhard, but she’s getting All This Stuff Done! All you’ve ever done is waste your life on computers? Where did that ever get Bill Gates? Huh?”

Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.

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