Nivea, for MANLY men.

Men, you now have moisturising products tailored to meet your needs – as long as you don’t have pansy ass needs.

The Dog is Fucked…

…Royally.

Not just sideways, either – more like upsidedown and backwards with a tickle of a feather.

WTF does that mean, you ask?

Excellent question.

Anyways, so I took a day off work (recall, I took a full time job on in the last four months of my thesis) to have a Thesis Long Weekend Extravanganza Party of Awesomeness! (I called it that so it would sound more fun and awesome) which has thus far proved to be busted.

Today for example, I have done…

2 waves of dishes $0.30 (in soap)

swepped $1.00 (for swiffer thingme)

mopped $0.80 (in soap)

scrubbed the tub $0.80 (in soap)

watched two hours of Mythbusters $3.00 (in hummus)

So, if my life was a mastercard commercial I think the sum total of my daily activities thus far would be something to this effect…

Ability to fuck the dog despite fact thesis is due April 1st = Priceless

(…I think “sum total” may have been redundant.)

We’re on to you, Global Warming.

Winter pretty much started in January in Ontario, and Vancouver has been getting fucked since like August. Well, maybe not since August, I am originally from the general vicinity of Toronto so clearly I am ignorant of what is going on the rest of Canada.

Let’s say Augustish, then.

One of those stereotypes about Canadians that is probably true is we are perpetually concerned with the weather. This is not especially surprising as we have diverse and extreme weather patterns – we know what both -40 and +35 feel like, how to dress for it, and what the weather will probably be like tomorrow.

So when I don’t have to wear my long johns and a toque in January, I know something is wrong with the world. Most other Canadians realize something is off, too.

Now, Harper on the other hand, is probably a robot. So he would have had to get a memo about the obvious temperature-related aberrations Canada is experiencing.

It seems he did.

Seems is the key word there.

The environment is now part of the government’s revised fifth priority.

(Hippies, don’t light up your joints and claim victory yet.)

(If you beatniks in the corner could also put down the maryjane, it would be appreciated.)

Something we Canadians talk about less than the weather is politics.

We are perpetually concerned about the weather –

We are also constantly on the verge of an election.

Yup, any day now there MAY be election.

Any day.

(I’m not in poli sci or anything but I suspect it has something to do about the fact they we have enjoyed minority governments for the last few years.)

So does this new concern with the weather stem from a paucity of toque sales this winter? Or, is it part of the endless conservative election campaign? I suspect the latter. Backing out of Kyoto and the bullshit Clean Air Act ruffled a few feathers when they happened. But now the effects of Global Warming are glaringly obvious to pretty much anyone in Canada who isn’t a robot and therefore impervious to temperature changes. (This assumes, of course, that the Harperbot doesn’t have some sort of temperature recording device.) Do you know what doesn’t facilitate good policy decision-making – particularly with respect to the environment? Short-term election-campaign-type policy planning. And if we do actually, finally have an election, any new Bills will be dropped.

We’re on to you, Global Warming.

But we’re not going to do anything useful to stop you, or slow you down. After all, the weather in Ontario is better than ever!

“Shagging the Shetland Sheepdog” or “I see your Middle-Age Crisis, and Raise You (Insert Appropriate Term Here)”

I applied to graduate this week. Subsequently, the pooch needed to ice for a solid 20 minutes.

Actually, it didn’t quite happen in that order. It was more like…

1. I applied to graduate.

2. A fit of optimism (or at least hopeful pessimism) struck me and I worked on my thesis even after a long day of serving justice and whatnot.

THEN,
3. The unfortunate pooch had some business to attend to. (In the vein of over-sleeping – no exciting laundry tails* to tell this time.)

<If I didn’t probably have ADD, transition would likely have appeared around here>

Do you know what’s fucked?

That old people, and by that I mean middle-aged people, get their own special term for their all-important existential angst:

The Middle-Age Crisis.

We’ve all heard about it, seen sitcoms relevant to this theme, or entire movies devoted to addressing this profound moment in life (some good ones too, American Beauty comes to mind).

And what term do we 20-somethings have to commemorate our plight to figure out who we are what we are going to do with our lives?

Sidebar:

Whenever I went home during my undergrad and faced old friends and foes from high school and hometown I would get asked the same three questions:

1. Where did you end up at school?

2. What are you taking? (To which EVERYBODY WHO EVER FUCKING ASKED ME THIS REPLIED: “Oh, that’s interesting.” IS it? Is it interesting? What do you find interesting about it, exactly? And why, why, why, does everyone who inevitably asks me this question reply with the same fucking answer? JUST HOW INTERESTING IS IT, SALLY?)

THEN,
3. “So, <the following bolded bit should be read in a sinister tone> what are you going to do with the rest of your life?” (Or alternatively, “And, what can you do with that degree?“. “That” was always said in a really condescending fashion. I don’t know way.

Who the fuck asks that?
I mean, we’re supposed to be having small-talk and you whip out THAT?!
Really?
Fuck.

Exeunt Sidebar.

Nothing. We have no word or phrase or even a cliché that encapsulates 20-something existential angst. (20-something existential angst is clearly too long and pretentious.)

Nothing that speaks to the brutal shit that everyone goes through.

Apparently, for us, it’s not a crisis – it’s “just part of growing up”.

You know what, middle-aged people? Your little “crisis” isn’t so bad. Oooooooooh what? Are you too comfortable with all of your money, job security, your family, your house, your car? Are you SO comfortable that you’re like…feeling way, way too comfortable? So comfortable that you need to like…spend all your money on a convertible, or like hook up with someone way, way younger and more attractive than you?

Man. I hate when my diamond shoes are on too tight, too.

See that? That was sarcasm. At least during your “crises” you can choose to eat something other than Mr. Noodles.

You bastards.

I advocate that we create some sort of word or phrase or cliché of our own – something that speaks to the general shittiness of being poor, having to work 2-3 jobs without benefit, not knowing what you’re going to do with your life, living with douchey roommates, and only having 10-20 bucks for groceries. Something that gives credit to the good dates and bad, to the loss of your old friends and discovery of new ones, and just how terrifying things that are “just part of growing up” can be.

Suggestions?

*The use of this “tail” was purposeful. It was a tip of the hat to the screwing the pooch theme of late.
**This has been entry 5 of the Fucking the Dog series, and was written, for the most part, when I should have been working.

Pounding the Poodle

Totally screwed the pooch harder than ever yesterday. So hard I had to nap.

Actually, the pooch-screwing was done via a 3-hour nap. Why bother handing something in on time when you can have a 3-hour nap when you are already perfectly well rested?

Exactly.

You totally would have done the same thing. And loved every second of it.

It seems I do indeed love fucking myself sideways.

*Part 4 of the Fucking the Dog series.

“Making Sweet Sweet Love to the Manchester Terrier” or “I say weird things to strangers on the elevator when I’m high on caffeine”

The dog is probably getting a little sore by this point, but my propensity for procrastination seems relentless.

In addition to blogging, figuring out how my ipod actually works, and doing the dishes I have taken to doing the laundry this evening instead of bothering about my thesis, which means I have been riding the elevator…

Scenario 1, Going Down:

Some Douchebag spilled tic tacs all over the elevator floor, and then got off to go drinking and probably pick up someone inappropriate who she will regret waking up next to tomorrow morning especially when the itch kicks in.

Other people get on, mistakenly, and have to head down to the basement with me.

“Tic Tac?” I offer, pointing at the floor.

“What? No thanks.”

“Oh. Trying to quit picking things up off the floor in public places and eating them?”

“Heh. Yeah. I just can’t help myself.”

“It’s pretty addictive. Just like crack.”

*Silence*

*I get off the elevator*

Scenario 2, The Way Up:

Picked up someone on the first floor, literally, not in the I may get action eventually way – let’s not be ridiculous. He was breathing really hard.

“Have you been sprinting?” I posit.

“What? No. I am running late. I have some engagements I have to attend to this evening.” (Forserious, he talked like that).

*Silence*

*Elevator door opens*

“Don’t forget to stretch!”

*The above constitutes Part Three of the illustrious Fucking the Dog series.

**In case it wasn’t clear because it was a bad joke, I told him to remember to stretch because I accused him of sprinting. I don’t think he got it either.

“Buggering the Beagle” or “Lowest point reached surprisingly early in the evening”

I am listening to angsty Christian rock music.

I kind of hate myself for it, yet I can’t stop.

* This has been Part Deux of the Fucking the Dog series.

“Doing the Doberman” or “DPDA”

We’ve all heard of PDA (Public Displays of Affection) –

But what of DPDA?

I was walking home from work yesterday after a long day of serving Justice and whatnot, and this (ugly) man (probably with a mullet under his toque) walks up to this lady (with 80’s hair) and then goes for it – an act of DPDA.

He leans in for a kiss, and I’m thinking, fuck, I am walking home minding my own business and I am going to have to witness PDA.

Then – instead of kissing – they lean in and start like out-of-the-mouth-PORN-tonguing each other –

Taking care of their business in the business district of town.

Gross.

DPDA = Disgusting Public Displays of Affection.

* “Doing the Doberman” is this first of many entries in p4p’s “Fucking the Dog” series – Thematic blogging that will occur over the course of this weekend, as I have a thesis-related deadline Monday.

I Fuck Myself Sideways.

FUCK!

I have a literature review due tomorrow, and you know what I have been doing lately? Reading Eragon and, subsequently, Eldest until the wee hours of the morning between work shiftfs.

Ya – I took on a full time job in my last 4 months of grad school.

Word of advice – Don’t fucking do that.

Okay, that was like 4 words of advice.

And one was a contraction.

So it could have been considered 2 words, thus making it 5 words of advice.

But it wasn’t damnit. It was a contraction.

You know what? Fuck you. Stop counting my words, jerk.

I have also been putting more QT into blogging, obviously.

So, I am going to be up stupid late (early?) tonight (tomorrow morning) getting this shit written when I could have done it over the course of the last two weeks.

And the worst part? Eragon and Eldest both rock.

So it follows that I actually like fucking myself sideways.

FUCK!

—-

The symmetry of the opening and closing of this entry was inspired by Citizen Kane, a movie far classier than this blog.

Sumoology

Although the suffix “ology” tends to denote a field of study or academic discipline, “Sumoology” [pronounced. SSS – EW- MO – OLOGY] surprisingly does not just speak to the study of sumo wrestling in general – it also concerns a means of academic debate.

This week at work, we discussed having two academics from diametrically opposed disciplines come into the department to present and elucidate opposing sides to an ongoing argument: does deterrence work?

Unfortunately, the disciplines are at an impasse.

Fortunately, sumoology allows academics to push through the impasses – old school style – via a trial by ordeal.

As we are no longer allowed to test the viability of knowledge through the clash of steel upon steel (sword fights and what not) sumoology was developed to permit academics stuck at an impasse to decide who is, indeed, right.

Basically, each academic is placed in a giant sumo suit, and permitted to go at it until one is the clear victor, as per the rules of this ancient, and respected Japanese tradition.

 

Shout out to Channz who coined “Sumoology” on this auspicious day.