bad poet's society

- Happy Poem -

shave and engrave
enslave me with rabies
my hands are the plague
one foot in the gravy


- Angry Poem -

fuck this
fuck that
fuck you
fuck us
fucky fucky fucky
at the back of the fuck bus


- Sad Non-Rhymey Poem -

my birch bark soul
awake
to watch myself sleep
in a waking dream,
your hangnail
lucid
smells like coffee
and pine,
the bottom of the sea
a thousand starving fax machines
woah
love ain't no stranger


- Sexy Poem -

if you’re horny, let’s do it
ride it, my pony
my saddle’s waitin’
come and jump on it*

*[i actually stole this one from Ginuwine. what the hell happened to Ginuwine? he's probably on some island with Skee-Lo and Lou Bega.]

my summer fetish

i'm sorry.
i just have a thing with the summertime.
i truly believe it's magical.
here's a rundown of some of the magical things that have happened during the summers of my life. (note: summer's 80 through 92 were all exactly the same; Def Leppard and family vacations.)

1993
-lit a lot of grass fires
-hello pubic hair

1994
-more grass fires (we called them "nasties")
-listened to 'Sabotage' like a billion times
-hello drugs

1995
-last summer before High School
-our little neighborhood plays host to an orgiastic landslide of underage drinking and sexy makeout parties
-two arrests (shoplifing and window smashing)
-i had long ass blonde hair

1996
-hello driver's licence
-the nightly Police patrols that were instated because of last summer's rampant hooliganism force us to build cabins in the woods. people come from all around. the Age of Cabins has begun
-our little group finally gets a proper name, (CVT - Cantley Village Threat), bestowed upon us by the right honorable Dale Fahey
-smoked hash everyday

1997
-don't remember much
-Johnny had a convertible
-i think we went swimming
-wrecked the Accord (looking at babes, not road)

1998
-hello having a job
-Hello Nasty
-sit on a stoop on Bentic Street every night and drink
-also the summer that "drinking" finally matured into "full-on alcoholism"

1999
-my last summer as a cigarette smoker
-lake and feild parties abound

2000
-spent about half my summer taking acid
-got kicked out of the community of Baddeck
-Johnny and i go see the Foo Fighters
-i move to Halifax

2001
-i operate a hot dog stand on Skin Garden Road
-i burn the bejesus out of my hand
-i learn of Daryl's fear of spores

2002
-again with the hot dogs
-regular plow sessions with a hot but insane wine-blooded redhead who happens to have a large, angry-type boyfriend
-got tear gassed by riot cops

2003
-we live in a mansion
-we destroy mansion by having massive 80 to 100 people parties with live bands in the living room every other weekend
-lawsuits ensue
-survived the Evolve festival somehow

2004
-took a train across the country with Kathryn
-grew a beard
-saw Slayer, got Slayer'd
-watched two bisexual strippers fuck each other for money
-still drinking

2005
-hey Meredith, you should have a party

welcome to Cafe Pretentious

i recommend the irony.
it's delicious.

severe

what the F?
what kind of night was that?
could i have crammed anything else in there?
probably not.
i was stinko before i even got to Stage Nine, where i was hijacked by legions of Jager-imbibing minions.
the Lighthouse Choir and Burdocks rocked me in all the right ways... yeah.. like that ...that's how they rocked me.
i got way too excited, accidentally smashing a shot glass in my hand, followed by a crash course in Drunken First Aid.
(i was later informed that our little group finished every last drop of Jager in the bar. sweet, time bending, memory eroding Jager.)
then there was a shift in time/space and i was in another bar watching a different band altogether.
(don't ask questions, roll with it.)
then bluurrrry. then i'm at a party somehow.
still drinking somehow.
then i blinked and i was in yet another apartment.
drinking wine (i think?)
then all of a sudden the sun came up (thank god for that because i wouldn't have made it very far in the dark in such an advanced stage of intoxication.)
i ran into one of my Tobacco Customers at the end of my street and talked about the merits of the first four Black Sabbath albums until my eyes crossed and my knees buckled and the Giant Magnet dragged my ass back to my apartment.
to crumple on the floor and reflect.
i couldn't remember much, but i had that feeling in my my spine that every conversation i had that night was quite possibly the most important conversation i'd ever have.
i take a sick kind of comfort in not remembering exactly how everything went down, it lends the evening a sort of mythic quality.
on one hand, i wish every night could be a night like that.
on the other hand, that would kill a man.

capturing inflection

i've come to two definite conclusions.
A) life is way too short.
B) everything sounds better if you say it in an Evil Wizard accent.
i have one. why don't you?
work on it.
try saying these natural, everyday phrases to yourself in an Evil Wizard tone of voice. sometimes it helps to picture an Evil Wizard while you are saying them. soon you'll be talking like an Evil Wizard all the time. and of course you'll reach a point, like i have, when anything you say in your regular voice will sound silly and uninteresting in comparison.
let's begin.

"Get off my lawn you wretched children."

"I'll have the Thai chicken pita with a garden salad, please."

"J'ai tetee les tetons de ta tante Therese."

"Who is your daddy?"

"A soul! A soul inflamed with a yearning more powerful than a billion newborn suns!"

"It's Wayne's World. Wayne's World. Party time. Excellent."

"Let's get more comfortable. Try some of my elixer."

faux pas no.71

i'm one of those people who enjoys scaring pigeons.
if there's one trotting around the ground nearby, i like to stomp my foot or yell, causing it to clumisly fly away.
best not to do this on a crowded sidewalk, as i learned today when i used the 'stomp/scare' technique and our icky little grey friend panicked and flew directly into a womans' face, causing her to scream hysterically.
which in turn caused everyone within earshot to gawk and stare at this frantic, pigeon-faced woman.
which caused me to laugh and spill my large organically grown fair trade dark roast coffee, and that shit's expensive.

getting all emotional

in all the spectrum of human emotion, there is no feeling more warm, pure and satisfying than that feeling you get right after saving a drowning puppy from an icy river.

especially if it's a two-headed puppy.

who vomits molten gold.

alerte au telephone sexy

it's finally happened.
i've joined the Cell Phone Nation.
but not because i wanted to.
it was an act of desperation.
these are the Ides of Summer.
certainly not a good time to lose continuous contact with one's peeps, posse, crew or bitches.
i was wary of the technology at first.
but it's slowly growing on me.
three words.
Bad Religion ringtone.
(so if you call and i don't answer right away it's not because i hate you for drinking all of my delicious imported beer, it's because i'm rocking out to 'American Jesus.')
text wit me.

ejection seat (of love?)

unlucky in love?
need to abandon ship?
these ten phrases will instantaneously gaurantee that your first date will be your last date.

•"yeah, my new job is ok i guess. but still, i really miss my old job. at Neverland Ranch."

•"hey! remember that time i fingered your mom at the circus?"

•"no, i don't smoke weed. i'm only into huffing solvents."

•"vote Republican."

•"why thank you, but this is actually a wig. i'm completly hairless. everywhere. ask me why."

•"i don't have a car. or a penis."

•"gee, i'm not sure if i can meet you tomorrow or not. i'll have to ask the Almighty Leader when i return to the Fortified Compound of True Believers."

•don't say anything. just grind your teeth and glare. wait for her to comment on that homemade 'Satan for Hire' tatoo that you've recently carved across your face.

•"did you just fucking fart?"

•"would you mind if i put this ball gag on you? just for a sec? i wanna see how it looks."

indefinite precision

before he could even open his eyes his gut was telling him "this is not a good place to be." his gut was also telling him "there is something very wrong in here, what did you do to me?"
time to bite the bullet and find out what's happening.
he opened his eyes to a widescreen contrast, half black, half... sky? yeah, that must be the sky. am i moving?
there was no still point of reference in his line of sight. just sky and black. his legs and arms tensed reflexively, be still, am i moving?
minutes passed.
an unreliable breeze came down, lazily pouring through his clothes and organs like he was an old screen door. or some ancient sponge.
ok, definently not moving. just the sky.
still unable to make out what the black half was.
his eyes weren't bringing back enough information.
touch will work.
he felt an eerie sensation as he slowly raised his arm, like a puppeteer with a severe fever who showed up for work anyway.
he noticed a series of different colored stamps on the back of his hand. a clue.
his shakey fingers brushed tentatively across the black.
it's plastic.
hard, black plastic.
he could actually feel that tiny brain piston sparking up, making the connection, stopping the wheels of confusion in his head the way a hockey stick stops a wobbly ceiling fan.
i'm in the back of a truck.
his gut: "yes... a truck!"
then reason stepped in. "halt. who do you know with a truck?"
good question.
he started cross-referencing the old mind-Rolodex but his thoughts mechanically jumped rails.
was this dawn? or dusk?
he stared at the sky again for several minutes.
very still. trying to get a reading. discerning.
straining to detect any minor fluctuation in light levels.
futile.
fuck it. i'll just wait.
if it's dawn i'll stay for a while, try to get a hold on things. if it gets any darker, i flee, quick and easy.
no questions, no answers.
reason: "what if som.."
shut up.
time to think about something else.

sidewalk records

i just scored five records from a garbage pile on the sidewalk by my apartment. i literally yanked them from the clutches of the trash collectors, whose truck was right behind me.
here's the bounty:

•Alan Mills and the 'Shanty Men' - Songs of the Sea (which includes the hits 'Blow The Man Down', 'The New Bedford Whalers' and 'Boney Was a Warrior.')

•a Hansel and Gretel children's record from 1960 (there's crude crayon markings covering the back of the sleeve, mostly illegible except for the word 'WAR' scrawled near the top.)

•Falco - Rock Me Amadeus (extended version!)

•KC and the Sunshine Band - in hindsight, i should've left this one on the sidewalk.

•Van Cliburn - Tchaikovsky Concerto No.1 (this one has a sticker on the front that says "Miracle Surface": this record contains the revolutionary new antistatic ingredient 317X, which helps keep the record dust free, helps prevent surface noise, helps insure faithful sound on Living Stereo records.)

anyone else ever heard of this 317X before?
didn't think so.
utter quackery.

optimistic prime

these Band-Aids keep the wounds closed but they're doing a shit job of keeping the BBQ sauce out.
everywhere i go science keeps happening.
went on a feild trip to Long Lake. we learned that 8-packs of beer float, that a frog is faster than a man and when you smush a leech with a stick, stuff comes out of him.
my shoulders are sunburned and my torso is peppered with insect bites (though i'm not sure if they're from the lake or that ratty mange-infected blanket i snoozed under the night before.)
splashing around and discovering a new species of floating Leaf Bug is a commendable thing to do.
eating five hot dogs in half an hour is not.
now if you'll excuse me.
i have to go microwave some lightbulbs.

huh?

no entiendo qué está sucediendo.

heritage moment

i love my country.
that's why i started drinking at 3pm.
because i have nothing but respect for Terry Fox. (who is probably the greatest Canadian who ever lived. Burton Cummings, Donald Sutherland, Wayne Gretzky and the guy who wrote that hockey game episode of The Racoons round out the Top Five.)
i love that i live in a country where girls aren't afraid to steal fireworks and conceal them under their sweaters.
(next to the boobies.)
yes, i thought to myself.
this is the way things ought to be.
and not just on Canada Day.
everyday.
(i'd also like to spearhead a campagin to make the day after Canada Day a national holiday as well. it's called Sleepy Day.)
p.s. - way to exist.