Ok. Ok. So I’m just a *BIT* delinquent when it comes to keeping up with this thing…dunno maybe working harder and getting engaged have something to do with it, or maybe it’s the fact that from time to time I become a lazy son-of-a-bitch, or from other time to other time I just plain don’t care–there’s too much other crap falling from the sky that I need to dodge…

Right, so this is the abridged version of my vaction that I’m posting. I’d love to say that it was horrible, but I really did enjoy it. We had a lot of fun amidst the puking. Lets face it, when you’re chowing down on fresh lobster and crab on a daily basis, really what can go wrong, right?


Due to overwhelming response I will post an unabridged version of this story with pictures sometime when I get a break between working on my upcoming wedding and work. Thanks for your e-mails (lovers) and flames (bastards)…


My Trip (Abridged)

By Sandeep Panesar

Friday = drive to Quebec City, it’s FREEZING! sleep in damp hard bed.

Saturday = arrival in New Brunswick, rain, party at relative’s for 45th wedding anniversary, and sleep in wet bed with 1 broken spring.

Sunday = rain, fester about the chalet (chalet is new brunswickan for trailer home), visit relatives, and sleep in wet tent.

Monday = rain, lobsters (yum yum), sleep in wet bed with 2 broken springs.

Tuesday = rain, sunshine, clam digging in the—unbeknownst to me—sewage stricken lake, eat said clams, trip to magnetic hill, vomiting, trip to moncton, vomiting, trip to chapters, vomiting, vomiting, vomiting, vomiting, vomiting, ad nausea (literally), sleep in wet bed with 5 broken springs.

Wednesday = sunshine, Trip to PEI, miscarriage, babysat sister-out-law’s kid outside of hospital for 12 hours, drive home, sleep in wet bed with 10 broken springs with sad heavy heart.

Thursday = sunshine, Kelley beach, tanning, home, dinner with relatives (lobster yay!), slept in wet bed with 20 broken springs.

Friday = Early rise (4:30AM) lobster fishing in the atlantic with REAL fishermen (ala perfect storm), return to shore, dinner with friends, drinking at their place, square dancing for Acadian festival, return to their place for hot tub party, drinking more, return to hot tub, slip, hit head on the side of hot tub 3:30AM, emergency room trip 45 min away, no doctor on duty! Return home at 5AM wait sleep on couch with head raised so I don’t die until 7AM…

Saturday = 7AM go to the ER 45 min away, stitches, return to chalet around (see above) 11AM, sleep until 3PM in wet bed with ALL broken springs, get up, pack, drive like a motherfucker and turn a 12 hr drive into a 9.5 hr drive. Have breakfast at picasso’s on st.jacques (1st meal of the day). Go home. Sleep in MY DRY and comfortable bed.

Sunday = sleep off the vacation. Good to be home.

Very very good indeed.


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Over the past few years I’ve had what–until recently–I thought was a cyst burrowing its way toward my brain just above my right eye. It was mostly in the right eye lid, as opposed to in my eye. This little bastard–we nicknamed the manatee–really got me good. Painfully so, it would taunt me on a daily basis getting bigger and bigger and bigger…why was it there? I’ve got no clue, how did it get there? I found out the other day.

I honestly feel that my body set itself to work as some deranged oyster would, to produce this THING, only later to have it removed from my system. And really was it worth all that much? Was it a pearl of wisdom, or something of value? No, it was some frayed and ratty piece of crap that was growing out of the roots of my eyebrow hair. Ewww is right.

What the hell is that?

I certainly don’t know.

The human body tends to do odd things when pushed, or more often than not, when it feels like it. We’re all relatively fragile creatures with a mystical nature to our complex make up. Why things actually happen in our body, we only vaguely understand…sure modern medicine may seem up to snuff, but do we really know what the cells are doing and saying to each other? What form or arcane esperanto do they speak? Is it the blood music that I hear? Or is it just my heart beating in my ear, assuring me that I’m still alive inspite of my hopes, and aspirations?

I don’t know. I’m confused, annoyed, pissed off, and now I’m marred by the surgeon’s scalpel. His tool of excision. The sharp blade and skilled hand that removed this thing from my head is clearly also that which is used to enlarge women’s breasts. Thank god I don’t have a nipple sticking out of my eyelid. That wouldn’t do me any good at all.

As people found out about the surgery I became increasingly more light with my tale. Oh yes, I’m having my eye replaced with a bionic one so that I might see through women’s clothing. Wouldn’t that be ripe if it were true. Something I’m sure the hoards lonely php geeks who’re still crying over the fact that COMDEX has been shut down, would want to get in on. Alas, poor yorick. Woe is you, for the truth be not had in this idea. Not yet anyway.

The surgery was fun and entertaining. I had been frozen, or so I’d thought. The surgeon numbed half my face and part of my neck by injecting me nearly half a dozen times directly into my orbit. One would assume the shear volume of novocaine running through me would be enough to cool even the most heated debate, but then you would be wrong, and I’d probably call you an asshole like I called him every time I felt him cutting through the fatty tissue beneath my eyebrow.

*Oh yes*, I intend to be graphic. This is not for the feint of heart, feeble of mind, nor dull of wit.

If you ever have the misfortune of not being able to perform the surgery yourself, then you’d expect the surgeon be he plastic, rubber, or otherwise, to use pre and operative words such as: routine, standard, no problem, likely, and positive. The last thing you want the surgeon to do in the middle of the operation is to say things like: Hmmm(n)…, what?, Pass me a…no the whatchamacallit, what’s that?, and that can’t be good. It’s a great confidence builder.

Needless to say my “routine” 20 minute surgical procedure was extended to a 1 hour butchery session. Butch butch butch. With a tiny sharp knife, no less. Each slice, and each dice, I felt. When I raised my leg he asked “Do you feel that?” I responded with “Asshole,” and he shot me up full of novocaine again. It felt very good, and once again he was free to hack his way through my face. Leaving me in lala land for a while.

Finally it was out. He plopped it into a dish and told me that he’d never seen anything quite like that in his life. That made me feel good–always an encouraging remark. Always indeed.

But thankfully I’m now home in the comfort of my office / bed / life, away from the hospital. Quite pleased that I didn’t have to die there–and trust me you don’t want to die in th hospital, but that’s clearly a tale for another time–and quite happy I got to go home.

We’ll see what the mutant piece of me was…what deranged possibility it could have been, and why it felt the need to befriend my eye. We’ll see…


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In the time remaining we look back at the events of this year, and perhaps the last century. We are now truly moving into new and uncharted territory. The new year moves us squarely into the new century. There are no words to describe where we’ve come from, and there are fewer thoughts to describe where we’re headed.

Has everything gone wrong, or has everything gone right for you? The answers lie in the hearts and souls of each of us. Pushing through the curtain…past the edge of the tunnel.

In the time remaining I sit and wonder, not lament about choices I could have made, and choices that I will make. I am on the cusp, I feel that new discoveries will be made and new options will present themselves.

What will you do in the final hours? Is it the end or the beginning. Are you working hard at what will earn you your dream, or are you celebrating the events that will finally close a long chapter in your life?

In the time remaining we look up at the collapsing towers, to the falling memories of love ones, cherished times, and our failed attempts at peace, unity, and understanding. What will you do now? Will you help rebuild, or will you move into the next year with only a vague idea of what you want to do.

In the time remaining will you share, give, love and care, or will you steal, borrow, hate, and show indifference.

Seconds now until the new year is upon us…what will you do? Where will you go? Whom will you touch? How will you do it?

A dying moment left for you to decided what you do, in the time remaining…

Originally penned
December 31, 2001


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It’s amazing how a year in a life can affect one person. The ups, the downs, the sideways, and the asymmetrical gyrations can leave one feeling rather topsy turvy not knowing in which direction to throw up. Compress that entire year into one single solitary instance where the big bang was starting to feel the turtlehead pop out of its ass and you’ll only begin to tread on how amazing that one year in a life can actually feel.

But then again you’ve lived that one year…and the one year before that, so really you should be on par with me. Unless of course, you’ve been gladly ignoring your feelings, yourself, your family, your work, and your increasing need to neglect everyone and everything around you–if this *IS* the case then you need help. For any of this to make sense I’ll just assume that you’re not the later…

Some of you may have noticed my lack of blog over the past 6 months, and if you are one of them then that’s probably a sad indication of your need within your own life…you couldn’t possibly enjoy these silly stupid, and nonesensical rants that I’ve been leaving…or can you?

I took somewhat of a hiatus–not because of lack of things about which I could write–because of a certain impersonability and detachment that I have shared with you, the reader. So I shed my old ways and try to get to the point of the matter without beating my meat for far too long. I am suddenly struck with an effervesent happiness that’s cooler than cool.

My live in girlfriend is (figuratively) exactly as she is written: one who lives in the apartment with me, shares a life with me, and a great powerful love. On a single blank page the words MY LIVE IN GIRLFRIEND are meaningless, and were I to let you know her you might be taken with her as I am…unfortunately for you I WILL NOT SHARE much about her…except that she is my girlfriend, my partner, and my mate.

She is real and brings calm sensible reality to my world, and most certainly she is a person worthy of much cherishing, much love, and much committment…

Yes I said it, and I meant it.

Having not blogged over time has given me grounds to read over the writing on the inside of my eyelids, the opportunity to pretend to have near death experiences in a jacuzzi, and sell my sports car, and become more responsible, committed, and devoted, to her–My girlfriend, the one whom *I* live with: J.

Ah, but that is all you get from me, for I dare not share more than the letter J. Could you imagine what would happen if I shared more? No. I suppose you couldn’t; a shame your wandering mind and eye can’t begin to fathom what I meant to say…or perhaps it’s just a shame I couldn’t write it. I really mean that privacy wins in the privacy vs. paparazzi debate in this case. Oh sure. I’m famous…

One year.

This is the time that has elapsed between my meeting J. and her absolutely transforming my life, pointing me in the safe and sound directions of purpose, insight, and self fulfilment. The self loathing, the self hatred, the self involvment, and sense of self righteousness, I once felt have all melted away leaving a truely new and vulnerable me.

Why? Because of J…because of our interactions, and because I’ve learned, and now I strive to be a better me, chip of the jagged edges of the me that was pulled from the casting die. Yes. A better me.

And what does this all really mean to you? Nothing. I and my life are but blips in the history of the human kind. I now know that I am to have a legacy, or at the very least the progeny I see in her eyes.

Sports car gone.

Money depleting.

Life stabilizing.

Happiness here.

In my pocket,

with you.

I am truly happy for the first time in my life.

She is deserving of a much better respect feeling, and representation than I have previously given. To eat my laid down writing is a compromise the size of eating the universe, so I release these electrons to assure–YOU–the reader that it won’t happen again.

The path of destiny is now illuminated by the glow of her heart.

With all love, and sincerity, J.


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When I was a younger, back in the days of my pre-pubescent prime, I had two great fears a) Changing in front of other pre-pubescent boys, and b) Gym class. Thankfully I somehow managed to successfully dodge gym class and concentrate on more illuminating subjects like typing and enriched math–that’s advanced math for those who took the remedial English classes.

I’d like to say that typing class was more than dodging gym, and simply brilliant foresight on my part–given my current career choice–but I just didn’t want to get naked with the other little boys–after all they had hair on their ding dings…and since I was much younger having skipped a few grades on the way up, I had none. In 1983 the only people who took typing classes were young girls who thought that they were supposed to become secretaries or assistants. Apparently the high school guidance counselors back then, let a lot of young girls down. Naturally I was razzed even more for being in a class with just girls (for me turning 13 in grade 9 I just wasn’t into them–the opposite sex you know). Besides I figure it might come in handy if I decided I wanted to be a secretary; my private schooling in Hounslow (England) had already taught me how to take dictation.

And enriched math? That didn’t do anything for me. I was piss bored with it because I’d seen it all before in my private school hence the original reason for me being placed in enriched math. The principal didn’t think it would be wise to throw me in with the dolts in the grade 10 math class. I suppose he was right since that would have most likely gotten me beaten up by more people than necessary, and I’d already been spending most of my lunches locked in lockers. Let’s face it, a grade 10 girl can punch harder than a grade 9 girl, and coming from a conservative all boys school where sex education was brushed off as something you could learn about behind the bush at the back of the schoolyard from Professor Sutcliffe (pronounced suth – cliffy…we used to call him suck – dicky, go figure,) I was afraid of both.

As the years went by I realized that changing in front of other guys wasn’t that big of a deal as long as you have nicely groomed pubes, and your dick was longer than theirs. Most guys in the changing room play this daft game of don’t look at my penis, but I’ll try to slyly cop a look at yours while you’re changing. This way they can mentally compare their units to each others, and privately snicker. It’s just dumb…I guess that’s part of the Alpha Male’s need for dominance. Throw a bunch of sweaty testosterone infested wankers into a change room, pull everyone’s pants down exposing their John Thomases in all their glory, and you’ve got your very own WWE grudge match.

Getting my act together and into a gym was a long ordeal of motivating myself to do it. Until last year (when I met my live in girlfriend) my self motivation techniques were excessive self masturbation, so I stayed home a lot. The gym really wasn’t in the cards. She being quite the healthy woman loves the gym, breathes the gym, and eats the gym. I had known for quite sometime that my body had long ago become a shrine to beer, cigarettes, poor food, no sleep, wood shavings and cardboard. She helped me change all that, and in 3 short months I’m already seeing results. I’ve been hitting the gym quite a bit, and of late I’ve become even more steadfast about being there at least 3 times week! Can you imagine? The vices gone, and I’m…actually…craving the gym now? Eeeeeeeesh! I’ve become one of them…one of those men who now has to fight for alpha dominance in the gym.

My girlfriend and I don’t work out at a particularly brilliant gym. I’m still a beginner, and I’m still getting used to the idea that I enjoy working out and in general being healthy. There are so many YMCA‘s in Montreal, and they’re all in the process of being redone. Ours however, seems light-years from renovations…who knows. Naturally the gym is plentiful with Gym Sharks and Gym Wankers…these are usually the same people but for illustrative purposes I’ve separated the two groups.

GYM SHARK: You know the guys that are built a little better because they’ve been working out for the better part of a millennium, and like to stand around looking pretty. They hang in groups, and enjoy watching each other do 1 rep of twice what they can normally bench press. The second a pretty woman / girl walks into the gym, all eyes are upon her. They watch her like she’s a brand new food source that has until now remained “undiscovered.”

“Perhaps I can *discover* her,” says Alpha Male Wannabe 1

“I would like to discover her.” argues Alpha Male Wannabe 2

“I am the Alpha Male!”

“No, I am the Alpha Male!”

“Clearly you are not,” says Alpha Male Wannabe 1 as he rips off the testicles of Alpha Male Wannabe 2. He chews them for good measure.

Alpha Male Wannabe 2 is wounded and skulks over to the water fountain to bathe and lick his newly ripped pussy.

AMW1 continues to eye his prey. He makes eye contact, and she looks away (of course she does, he’s being aggressive and she’s being submissive–it must be the sweat!) This dance of stupidity goes on until she leaves her exercise machine and moves to another. At this point AMW1 moves in for the kill.

“Need some help? Someone to spot you?” he desperately says.

She looks up and for a fleeting moment carries the same look of bemusement on her face that a doe would carry just before it realizes the 8:27 AM train to Ottawa won’t be stopping just because she’s in its way. She timidly smiles.


And the dance continues.

First there’s some unintelligent banter “I haven’t seen you here before,” “You really know your stuff,” “Whatever you’re doing seems to be working…” “Would you like to try a different exercise?” “I’m going to be finishing up after this, wanna go for a salad…” bla bla bla motherfucker…bla bla bla.

He makes her at ease through laughter. Then there’s an arm touch or two. A hand on the back. He has to show her how to do the exercise by pushing up against her in a very manly man way…

GYM WANKER: This wanker is a very special kind of wanker. He exists solely to stand and look pretty. Is he really working out? We don’t think so, but he’s definitely intent on hogging as much equipment as possible. These are the guys who take 30 minutes to do a single set, and encourage me to stand around in the gym waiting for his holiness to get the FUCK off of the god damn fucking bench press machine. Shit! What kind of fucking asshole leaves the 900 lbs that he can’t lift on the bar while he goes to walk around the gym massaging his testicles acting like another Alpha Male Wannabe, trying to be a Gym Shark, and failing at both attempts.

I have a lot of contempt for these people because they slow down my work out, and ensure that I’m thoroughly annoyed by the time I actually get to a machine, but you know it’s all ok. I don’t complain. I eventually get my equipment and I eventually get out of the gym, and I can get back to my normal life, and not worry about these people.

That is until today.

After meetings with my client today I hightailed it the local YMCA for my après work workout with my live in girlfriend. She’s been giving me brilliant advice, great tips, and showing me how to exercise. Apart from the fact that I’m actually going to the gym and doing the exercise, I owe the rest of my physical condition to her goading, pushing, prompting, and help.

I get to the gym my live in girlfriend is already there, sitting on the mat stretching. As I walk in the AMW Gym Shark Gym Wanker is staring me down, with so much contempt I almost left to go home and bathe. This however has been a daily ritual, and every time I see him he stares at me. Perhaps it’s because I’m better looking than him? Perhaps it’s because he’s glimpsed my penis in the men’s changing room? Perhaps it’s because he’s a wanker? I don’t know at this point, and I don’t care. As always his empty AMW threat’s fall to the wayside, and most likely cause his dick to shrink that much more, and his balls to shrivel up a little more than the steroids do for him.

I go over to my live in girlfriend, and give her a quick peck on the lips. We chat for a few moments, as I haven’t seen her all day, and then I decide to being my workout. As I walk away from the stretching area the “Instructor” comes over to me and says,

“I’ve had reports about you, and I wanted to tell you to stop it before you even get started.” He then turns 180 and walks away.

As he’s saying this to me I’m thinking “You’ve obviously got me mistaken for someone else.” But being polite I ask him, “What did I do wrong? I’d like to know so that I don’t do it again.”

“I’ve had complaints about you playing around with girls on the mats.” He’s rude about the whole thing and then walks off…me? Playing around? Girls?

Then it clicks.

The AMW had passed a rather vocal comment when I’d last kissed my live in girlfriend in the gym some days before. “This is a weight room!” as we’re on our ways out to go home.

My live in girlfriend and I are appalled by the rudeness of the “Instructor”, and frankly I don’t feel like working out anymore after the whole thing. I wasn’t interested in starting something because my sister works at this particular gym too. The last time I stepped up to defend myself at a place where she worked was when the bouncer of a bar decided it would be fun to throw me into a car after a minor verbal disagreement on letting me in to talk to my sister on one of her shifts. Go figure. I complained to the manager, and she lost her waitressing job…that was a while back, and I still feel terrible about that. I wasn’t about to do the same thing again.

We go to our respective changing rooms, and meet at the front desk. When I get there my live in girlfriend is reporting the incident to one of the Y staffers with whom we’re both friendly. He’s appalled, and this is where it all comes together.

Apparently the guy who’d passed the comment some days before had previously made some aggressive Gym Shark style moves on my live in girlfriend. She made the AMW leave her alone, and he was jaded by his being ripped a pussy by the opposite sex in public. At some point his brain kicked in and he clued in on the fact that we were a couple, and the only thing that I can think of is that the rejection never hurt so bad for him. Clueless and crapped out he did the only thing that a testosterone addled freak could do…report me…what’s wrong with you man? Are you just another whiny bitched Gym Wanker?

Apparently he was.

As my live in girlfriend’s recounting this entire experience to the desk staff the “Instructor” from upstairs comes down and stands at the desk next to us. He starts snicker and making negative sounding noises every time she says something to the desk staffer. What the fuck is that? Are you an instructor? Or are you just another Gym Wanker who used to be a Gym Shark.

Everyone in the gym seems to treat the instructor like he’s made of gold. Sure he’s in great shape…the guy’s 70 and he use to compete professionally for Mr. Universe or Mr. Olympia or Mr. Bitch Tits, but give me a fucking break! Rudeness anyone?

So natch my live in girlfriend and I cancel our memberships, and we’re moving to a bodybuilding gym that we’d considered joining before the Y.

Why am I not fighting this whole thing out?

Casualties. My sister for one. I’m not making that mistake twice. I’m also not going to spend the energy it would take to fight this out, get the instructor reprimanded and get the AMW bounced from the gym. Sure I could do it. That’s not a difficult task, but that leaves me with a bad rap at the gym, and firmly in the sites of the other AMWs.

Choose your battles young grasshopper. Put your foot only in the asses of people you know you can, with minimal loses. Besides, people like that pay for their actions by the lives they lead.

I would have thought that childish behaviour like that would be absent at my age, but it seems that the old adage of putting two hard cocks in a blender is still true:

Two hard cocks in a blend is good for a fight.

Two in your hands is good for lots of cum.


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I made it back in one piece. Yes! Those of you who have been following my snow quest need no synopsis, so you can just skip ahead. Those who need a synopsis should really read my fucking blog on a regular basis–skim down and get to it, but don’t waste my fucking time or bandwidth. Still too lazy? Ok I went skiing on Sunday…bitch.

The alarm woke me at 6:15 AM. The ski hill was some 2 hours away, and we needed to get up early, grab those showers, and get ready to go. I looked upon this waking ritual as more of a comparision to one who’d be getting electrocuted later during the day.

A Shave.

A Shower.

And then my last supper.

This particular morning’s shave was exquisite; the shower was refreshing–after all 6AM is just too early to be up in the morning. I don’t quite understand how regular folk get their asses out of bed, but I’ve zero motivation to do that on any day, let alone the day that I’m going to hit the slopes for the first time, in years; and my last supper was really my last breakfast, and fuck it was good.

I’ve been quite motivated to start working out and get back into the regime of health and all that nonsense that I tended to ignore during the earlier parts of my life…as a result of this “spontaneous” health kick I’ve been eating shitloads (i.e. a lot you ignorant freak,) and I’ve spent much of my time dreaming about food and the next meal I’m going to eat. Well the night before my trip was no different.

I went to bed early (around 3AM) and dreamed of 2 fried eggs sunny side up, beans, steamed tomatoes, cooked ham, cooked calabrese, and sauteed potatoes. I nearly woke up in the middle of my sleep to just make it…fuck I’m getting hungry now too…The morning after my shave and shower I was in the kitchen cooking up a storm–yes, in the nude. One might think that this would be enjoyable for my live in girlfriend, but she’s usually not impressed when I do this, however she did find it amusing when I burned myself cooking bacon. My last breakfast was going to be the all and it of everything that ever was…I was not disappointed–after all I’m a pretty fucking good cook, I haven’t killed anyone I know.

I got dressed and waited with my live in girlfriend for our ride. He was very nice, and very on time–so I gave him the prize of very bad coffee. Hey, I can cook, but coffee–forget about it.

We loaded up the Golf with 2 snowboards, 1 pair of skis, 4 people and my lunch, and we were off. We stuffed the women in the back with the equipment and both the driver and I sat up front, in different seats mind you. I was in charge of the tapes this time, there would be none of Gordon’s shenanigans fucking around with the cassette player while driving and nearly killing us.

We ended up leaving around 8Am

(Insert Batman like transition here)

2 hours later we’re in Tremblant, but Gray Rocks is no where to be found…oh sure, we can see it in the near just beyond some pine trees, but we just can’t seem to get there. The directions these assholes gave us are completely false, or fraudulent. What gives with that? Way to treat your customers…mind you with Mont Tremblant looming not 10 minutes away you’d wonder why anyone was going to head to Gray Rocks at all.

We finally get there, and pile outta the car, and I’ve gotta piss like a mad-cow diseased race horse that collapses just two feet from the finish line in a puddle of it’s on urine, completely soaking its rider. The chalet’s just too damn far, and I’m too bundled up for the long walk over there. I choose to piss on the ground next to the car…the driver shoo’s me to behind the mock stable in front of which we parked. I have to trudge through 3 feet of snow to get to my pissing ground. Relief was all mine…my piss took so long it was almost shameful that I didn’t have any i’s or t’s in my name. Whenever I go through abnormally long periods of time without taking a piss I tend to time it and that one was a doozey taking nearly 26 seconds in all!

This piss timing was started by a long ago friend, long ago. We–that is the geekiest of geeks–all huddled over at my friend Chris’s place to watch movies. We’d had quite the festival of flicks, mostly of the Evil Dead / Day of the Dead genre slasher trasher flicks…nothing too splatterpunk. The night was long, and movies, chips and Coke were plentiful. We were wired all night. Naturally many of us took pisses along the way, but not one man. He was destined to set the record, and forever have me timing my piss. He was Shane–named after the movie, since his parents enjoyed it so much. Anyway when Shane got up to take a leak he was barely able to contain himself. He cautiously stepped to the bathroom and pissed the piss that would set the standard for all future pisses to be had by just about anyone. He was clocked at 1 minute 6 seconds. My dream is to be that good at something…but then I suppose I’d have to get out of my freakin’ igloo and buy a heater to thaw out my brain.

Piss done, zipper done up, and my penis free from zipper damage I headed to the chalet / lodge carrying equipment with the rest of them. So we go in to register, but first we have to chop through the fucking thicket of madness that is the YMCA registration process. Hint: Ski with the YMCA for their prices, NOT for their organizational skills.

YMCA registration process = free for all, bring a machette.

That finally done, I have to wait for the bus to take me to the rental shop. That wasn’t much of an ordeal unless you consider the whiny-never-before-skied-bitch-i’d-like-to-kick-you-in-the-mouth with her three whorlet children, mouthing off at the rental people, pushing around her 300+ lbs. Fuck you. I wanted to take a pin and see if there really is nothing inside the pupil of our eyes…so she leaves…yay for me. I get my skis, and my boots. Since when I’d last skied I woke in the hospital I’d been wisely cautioned to take a pair of shorter skis than I thought I would need. Back in the day I started skiing on 170’s and ended on 185’s…so I took 150’s.

And then it was back on the bus. Just to be an anus I sat all the way that the back and farted really loudly. We get back to the hill, and I’m just in time to see my girlfriend. We both opt out of the YMCA’s 1 hr ski clinic, which would have wasted even more time. It was 11AM by this time, I’d been up since 6, and the only thing I’d achieved was eating a great breakfast, eating a salami sandwich, and pissing behind a makeshift barn; it was essentially now or never.

We grabbed the first ski lift up. Ever have sex in a ski lift?

Neither have I. Just the thought of it turns me on. The mechanics however, are somewhat difficult to work out, but the danger points are there for sure.

At the top I realize that the mountain is way higher than I’d like it to be, and it’s way steeper than I want it to be. Clearly there is a gap larger than the top of the mountain to it’s base in my mind, keeping me from starting.

I had flashed to my first time skiing at Mont Habitant. That was unnerving too, but I managed to do it, and I was 16 at the time. All I needed to do was think positive. Think of something that would move me forward and then suddenly my ski began to move…or maybe it was just me…moving forward slowly at first then crawling then faster and faster and faster, and I’m thinking shit, I’m one dead motherfucker.

The only think I could think of was that I needed to break out of my funk and edge before I hit something and then Gloria Gaynor appeared from the trees, arms outstretched wearing nothing but an orange thong…

What the fuck is that cocaine adled freak doing doing here? I thought to myself, and then I was somewhere I’d never been before, seeing things I never needed to see before, knowing that I was going to accelerate and most likely die. I guess I just needed something to hold on to…


At first I was afraid, I was petrified

Kept thinkin’ I could never ski without poles by my side

Because I spent so many nights thinkin’ how I hit that tree

And I grew strong and I learned how to see ahead o’ me

And so I’m back from my igloo

I just dropped in to find out if I’m man enough to hit this space

I should have kept the front door locked, I should have never rented skis

If I’d have known for just one second I’d have to dodge some trees

(1) Go on now, go ski some more

Just edge that corner slowly ‘cause you’re not the shit anymore

Weren’t you the one who tried to land a daffy

Did you think I’d stumble, did you think I’d break my neck and die

(2) Oh, no, not I-I will survive

Oh, as long as I know how to edge I know I’ll stay alive

I’ve got all my life to live and I’ve got all my love to give

And I’ll survive, I will survive, hey, hey

shoosh (edging noises), shoosh (edging noises)

It took all the strength I had not to fall apart

Kept tryin’ hard to mend the pieces of my broken head

And I spent, oh, so many nights just feeling sorry for myself

I used to cry, but now I hold my head up high

And you see me, somebody new

I’m not that chained up little person afraid to ski on you

And so you see me droppin’ in and just expect me to ski

Now I’m savin’ all my edgin’ for a mount e’er worthy o’ me

[Repeat 1 , 2]

[Repeat 1 , 2]

[Repeat 1 , 2]


I edged! Narrowly missing the tree from behind which Gloria came. And I zipped off. I was in control. I turned back to wave thanks to Gloria just in time to see someone coming around the corner with a little too much air performing a helicopter, that took her head off.

Eyes forward.

I was in control.

The rest of the day was spent going completely whack-o on the hill. I had an incredible time. Probably hit about 18 runs, and I was even adventurous enough to go mogul bashing…mmm now that was fun. I still need a little more work on my form, but considering that I haven’t really skied in 12 or so years I think it’ll come with a bit more practice. The form is near, and I’ve definitely got my ski legs back.

So much so that I’m going to Mont Tremblant this coming Saturday armed with confidence and the support of my live in girlfriend.

I survived.

Thanks Ms. Gaynor…now get the fuck out of my head.



Skier carving a turn off piste
Image via Wikipedia

So the snow is finally getting it’s act together and getting the fuck outta town. I’m quite thrilled by this, really. I get to go skiing this weekend and hurl myself along the edge of some precipice at high velocity all while trying to make sure I don’t hit a mogul, go flying into the air and come down with a broken neck or a concussion–this is how my last ski trip ended years ago, save the broken neck–while everyone whose anything but Irish will be downtown getting pissed with everyone who is Irish. Maybe we’ll have green snow on the mountain…

What would that be like? At this hour my mind can only conjure up gooey, snotty pictures in which the toothpicks I’m strapped to get mired down in that green muck. I naturally flip foward an dunk my head deep into the goo, and come out looking like something my cat might puke out of its nose when it has a sinus infection–if I had a cat…alas, poor Yorick (my cat) was eaten by the neighbouring (yes, yes, it’s the U thingy again, live with it) old woman who smells like embalming fluid. Honest, she does.

So why am I going skiing this weekend if I smashed myself silly last time? I’m trying to get over a deep rooted problem I have with sport in general. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy sports, and even some team sports, but I have this tendency to stop playing particular ones after they’ve resulted in some kind of physical injury (loss of arm–skiing, leg fracture–skiing, broken neck–tennis, eye puncture–lawn darts) or death–the tax game. Now while I realize that throwing scissors at each other like one would throw lawn darts doesn’t actually qualify as lawn darts, but I considered it a sport at the time…after all it’s neither fun nor a game until someone loses an eye.

The last time I went skiing I seem to recall being around the time that I was in CEGEP. We’d driven up with a bunch of people, and were condemned to travel to Mont Sutton in Gordon’s car (which was about the size of a football field and comfortably slept 10). Gordon being quite the lunatic that he was enjoyed his favorite driving pastime of looking for the cassette that had fallen underneath the dash (his car was so old you could actually do that). Driving there, the most terrifying thing I experienced was Gordon saying “Someone take the wheel,” as he dove beneath the dashboard while travelling at 150 kilometres an hour…this might have been vaguely amusing had not everyone dove for the steering wheel. The longboat swerved off the highway and into the ditch between our “outbound” highway and the “inbound” highway. Being 8 of us in the car, the 7 poor sods who weren’t driving were made to push the car out of the ditch and back onto highway; it was at this juncture that Gordon decided it would be fun to drive to the next rest area and wait for us to show up and beat the tar out of him. Thankfully the rest of the journey up to Mont Sutton was peaceful because I fell into a deep slumber. This–I figured–was the only real way to ensure I’d get to the mountain without having a heart attack…it was either that or at least I’d die asleep, and I could live with that.

The day of skiing was brilliant. Most enjoyable, back in the day, I was a pretty ok, but not brilliantly sexy skier. Good enough that I didn’t hurt myself, but hardly great enough to teach anything other than hitting the person skiing next to you with your ski pole. Brilliant that is–


And by WE I mean a guy named AL who peer-pressured the shit out of me to join in the fun with the 7 expert skiers on the trip. How could I say no? It was a run at death I could hardly refuse…hardly refuse–what the fuck was I thinking? My anus had clenched itself to the point where I was going to be constipated until the millennium (thank god for that–I can freely shit again…and let me tell you it’s just so very lovely…consistency is good, flavour unique, smell robust…but I digress.) Already as we were on the ski lift my bowels had calcified the shit in my lower colon…nothing was getting out so if there had been little gnomes looking for an exit down there, they were going to have had searched elsewhere.

Of course I was sitting next to Al on the chairlift. Why? Because he was a wanker and purely enjoyed taunting me (as I was smaller) and getting off on the fact that he’d let me know if the jumps were safe for me. Wanker…WANKER WANKER CANTANKEROUS WANKING WANKER OF EVIL SMELLING LOVE JUICE…he’s still the same, but I don’t spend much time with him. In the last 5 years I think I’ve seen him 6 or 9 times…not bad…he still invites me to things every now and again, but I usually fake injury or death. I think he’s becoming suspicious since he now believes that everyone in my family is dead, poisoning the atmosphere with the ashes and smoke from their funeral pyres…

Finally we make it to the top…an agonizing ride up, mute of intellectual stimulation (Al was babbling on). I know the heat is on because I’m sweating; I know I’m terrified because I’m trying to shit myself on purpose; and I know I’ve gotta get a move on because I can feel Al’s foot in my ass.

We start.

The first jump is pretty slick. Al does a nice daffy and lands perfectly. He instructs me as well as anyone can instruct me on doing ski jumps from 30 feet away, and I’m off. Now don’t get me wrong, I can ski (or at least used to be able to) and I was impressed with the way I handled myself on that first jump; it was clean, it was precise, it was total fluke.

Bang I landed very safely on the ground; for some reason it was at that time that alternate lyrics for Men Without Hats’ Safety Dance something along the lines of this:

The Skiing Stance

We can ski if we want to, we can land on our behinds

We can twist our knees, and break our skis

But we don’t mind

We can ski, everything’s outta control

We can ski, hey look out for that pole…

We can ski

Oh we can ski

Oh we can ski

(Ad Nauseum–Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera for those who are intellectually challenged [i.e. fucking idiots for those of you who are…erm…fucking idiots])

Jeez just listening to the original Saftey Dance freaks me out a bit. Not be cause it’s bad, that’s not really it’s fault, the song is terminally 80’s and so was everything else back then. I really feel bad for the strippers who were peeling to this tune…I mean the one that haven’t o.d.’d on something by now must be thinking that their lives are pretty good. What could be worse than stripping to this song? No really, think about that and let me know.

The only thing I can think of is my vagina being on fire. But really…

So I’m thinking that I’m pretty hot shit and I’m starting to get cocky enough to get the hand of daffy’s and other assorted stupid aerial tricks that I shouldn’t be doing.

Al drags us all of donw a particularly icey area and one by one they all fly off the jumps and land perfectly making me feel like a star, because of course I can ski EXACTLY like them..NOT! Yep I hit the jump go into a daffy, it goes all wrong.

That was one of those moments that while I was in the air I contemplated life, the universe and everything, had flashes of Right, Said Fred pass between my ears–I’m too sexy for this life, too sexy for this life. Life’s gonna leave me–and knew whole heartedly that the landing was going to be bad. What was even worse was the fact that I knew from the second that my left foot lagged back on the jump that I was going DOWN.

The end result was less vertically motivated than it was horizontally motivated, and let me tell you that tree hurt like a motherfucker. That is still one of the most painful impacts that I’ve ever experienced…and I can say this because I’ve experienced many.

I lost my left ski and my left pole, and managed to strand myself some 10 feet above the snow. How the fuck did that happen? I don’t know. Al the wanker that he is/was (not ’tiswas for all you people how were condemend to the sodomy of growing up in England with me) laughed until I started to bleed. Some how I came down from the tree (most likely fell) and then lightly skied my ass to the chalet where I would sit looking slightly less retarded and dejected than I actually was, waiting for the 7 ski masters to haul me off to the car.

When they showed up I was convinced by Al to get back on the hill for the final run. The Chinese Downhill. Now as rude and offensive as the nomenclature sounds this was something that we stole from the Hot Dog…The Movie…stupid stupid shit…but as classic and necessary as the entire Porky’s and Police Academyserieses, or Snowboard Academy–I was indirectly involved with this film…not sure I should be badmouthing it, but I wasn’t actually a paid member of crew and / or staff…

So up I went again, and I really wasn’t feeling all that well. When we got to the top however, I felt that the brisk air had cured what ailed me. I was ready to bomb down the hill and make it out unscathed.

For those who have not seen Hot Dog…The Movie

The chinese downhill–rude and offensive as the title is–consists of as many people as possible throwing themselves down the hill as fast as possible. The winner is the person who makes it to the bottom. Anyone who fall is disqualified, and anyone who gets killed is also disqualified. Naturally as part of the rules there are no set rules…and that means pushing, shoving throwing, punching, biting, licking, sucking, coaxing, fucking, and rubbing are definintely allowed.

Well I got pushed, shoved, throw, punched, bitten, licked, sucked, coaxed, fucked, and rubbed right into the ski lift, and that was the moment when I should have said “Charlie?” but I was too unconscious for that.


I wake up at Al’s apartment because they were too wankerish to take me to a hospital because they wanted to get back to his place so they could drink heavily. I wake on the floor in a pile, and not feeling all to well…three beers later and I’m puking on everything: Al’s TV, Al’s girlfirend, Al’s toilet, Al’s brand new carpet, in Al’s bathtup, in Al’s sink, on Al’s 360k Apple Unidrive, and when I was able to control and direct my vomit, in Al’s spaghetti sauce pot….ok I did that one on purpose….

My father was eventually summoned, I was hauled off to the local hospital where they stripped me, deloused me, probed my anus for crack, and told me I had a light concussion and that I should be more careful whe skiing…no shit woman.

Hospital card collection +1…

The rest of the evening was spent entirely in bed, and face down in my own puke. God what a trip that was…

And it’s been since then that I’ve strapped a pair of toothpicks to my feet. My live in girlfriend and I found a great $ deal on skiing this weekend with the YMCA nearby, and we’re going to go. She’s an avid skier, and hasn’t been skiing this winter most likely due to my apathy over the whole skiing thing. So I hope you all get it now…

So that’s it.

I’m committed.

That’s where I’m headed.

She must be one hell of a woman to get me back on skis.

That accident happend in 1988. I’m still having flashbacks, and nightmares about all things with rotating knives.

Damn, she *is* one hell of a woman.

We’re gonna have fun!



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Well maybe not, but who would really knows anyway. I’m probably going to go to Christian Hellwhen I die for title-ing this article the way I did, but fuck him, or her. Since the religion imposed upon me by birth doesn’t buy into heaven and hell and all other religions (and Megadeth) are telling everyone to Go To Hell for playing ball in the wrong court, who really cares anyway?

Don’t worry I’m about to neither plunge into the depths of a religious debate on whose theological belief set is the right now, nor am I about to delve into the “Which came first the chicken or the egg,” discussion. I just want to know Why the fuck it’s still snowing in March? I know a lot of the friendly and fried deep south Canadian types think that we all have heaters in our igloos, but what the christian hell are you thinking? Being Canadian you should know that your fellow Northern Canadians are a) Are poor ass bitches, b) Heat melts our igloos, and c) we have no Internet yet…erm.

I’m borrowing a laptop from my neighbour. They’re rich, and are condemed to live next to my igloo because there are no rich neighbourhoods in the North here, just freezing ones. We’re so sorry ass poor that our arrondissment ran out of money so they couldn’t print anymore “Do Not Eat Yellow Snow” signs, and some 8 year old went to the hospital and nearly died from eating snow that his husky had pissed on. Poor bastard. If only he’d been able to buy one of them fancy sleds that BMW or Mercedes sells…so if you come up to Montreal remember DO NOT EAT YELLOW SNOW, and bring a fucking warm coat because they’ve extended the hockey season until June this year–the huskies tore apart the groundhog this year–so that means that it’s going to be snow snow snow until well into the darkness that covers our country over the first half of the summer…

So why am I bitter? Can’t you guess? I live in a fucking igloo, my husky froze to death a few weeks ago, my car has tipped into endothermic shock, and I can only use my neighbour’s laptop so long as the LCD screen doesn’t start to crystalize…when that happens I need to save, shutdown and wait two hours for it to heat up again. Still it’s better than writing my name in the snow. I got quite board of that two months into winter–last September, when The Antarctic Film Festival started at least I was able to seek refuge in a nice warm air conditioned theatre.

I have dreams of Florida, you know. Heat. A day when I come home from ice fishing that I don’t have to worry about my toes being cubes of ice (but it is good for mixing drinks on the rocks.)

The ice fishing was the reason that I had my Toyota Celica imported up here. I actually went in on it halfsies (more like 20 – 80, because he’s rich…did I mention that? I’d blow him for a portable heater, but he already seems to be attached to some parasitic growth protruding from his left eye–kind hangs down like my sack, but it’s much hairier, and filled with pustules,) with my neighbour. We have had quite a bit of fun with it. And we make the most of our town. Montreal isn’t as cold as you might think. A nice brisk -40 C (C= Celcius, F= Fuck you and your Fahrenheit), and the women still walk around in leather skirts that their bucks made for them out of last week’s kill, barely covering their asses. You can always tell the weather by how pert the party goer’s breasts are, but because they’re faces are all bundled up it’s difficult to tell whose boobs are whose, but if you can get close enough a quick squeeze’ll let you know which family’s pillows you’re infringing upon.

So why is it snowing in March? To piss me the fuck off.

I hate snow. I see it, breath it, lick it, touch it, feel it, piss on it, and make love to it nearly 10 months out of every year. It NEVER snows in March. They told me that this white shit falling from the sky was over and done. But they lied. Now I’m at home, the temperature is freezing, I’ve got no heater, and all I have to keep me warm is a pair of ripped fishnet stockings and my left hand. Great, cumsicles again…

Nope there is no fun when winter presses on and the dream of summer eludes you and eludes you like that wonderful hardbodied woman–or man if that’s your gig–you see flowing throught he crowd lin a bar, like losing shifting sand in your hand. Mostly because you’ve tied a few too many on–you’re not quite bulletproof, but you’re definitely windproof–and decided to walk home falling down in the first ditch you can find. Face ripped by wind and ice, gut ripped by rot. Eyes barely floating like that half floater that can’t decide whether it’s a flushie or a floatie…bob…bob…bob…

And then for the first moment in the evening–which feels like the first moment of forever–it’s completely silent, you’re all alone with nothing but the blowing snow to cover you…erasing the tracks you made, erasing your yellow snow, buring your car, and ultimately burying you.

In the middle of March, in the middle of a snow clearing crisis it’s hard not to think of a better time when the wind will hold still, and the sun will come out and burn away the snow, the guilt, the vomit and the wankers of the day.

God, if you grant us the beauty of no more snow, then I won’t call you motherless anymore.




Yes yes, as you might have expect I’m going to bitch about the assinine snow clearing in my neighbourhood (this word DOES have a U in it thank you very much.) The snow fell AGAIN two days ago (5th of March), indicating that a) winter would not be letting up any time soon, b) my snow shoes were clearly no longer waterproof, c) it’s time to buy a new car, and d) people in my area (or arrondisments as they’re calling it now — wankers went and merged the whole city together for what? Unified services (i.e. no services) like snow clearing would be at their best) are wankers just like the people who control the snow clearing vehicles.

Ok, so it snowed not 4 days after they cleared the snow, and I’ve already gotten a ticket from the asswipes, so why can’t they just keep their engines warm and get on with it and move the snow away from my car. The only vehicles that were on the road were the sidewalk clearers, and while that’s very nice if enjoy watching the city’s money being pissed away clearing sidewalks that are already clean because they were too slow in the first place so everyone cleaned the sidewalks themselves, but I don’t. And they’re assholes too. I was turning a corner (on foot no less because my car was stuck in the fucking snow) and narrowly missed being flattened by one of these metal beasts moving at 50 km / hr (we’re metric here, so get over it and convert already. Your football fields will still be in yards…)

Yesterday there was no where to park because piles of snow blocked most of the regular parking spaces, in addition to that we couldn’t park on the left side of the road since we’d gone past due and it was then March 6. I parked in front of the restaurant again, making triple sure that there were no snow clearing signs…and there were none at all that I could see, but that didn’t stop them from trying to shove a ticket so far up my ass the ink reflected backward on my retinas, last time.

A quick search through the fridge this morning–after my morning shower and a good wank–revealed that there was nothing to eat except food that was producing its own penicillin…I momentarily pondered toasting the bread before my life flashed before my eyes.

It was a good one this time. I was being rolled through the triage of a hospital emergency ward frothing at the mouth–my eyes gently rolling back into my head, and then returning to their original positions–each corner they turned wreaked havoc on my stomach. I could feel the acid coming up my throat. And then the bile came spewing forth burning everything I could see: men, women, dogs, lights, doors. I stumbled off the gurney and ran outside still puking my guts out. Everywhere I turned and looked I could see the biles of my system, all colours and all flavours…would this end?

Of course I opted out of that scenario, but the temptation to add another hospital card to my collection kept me borderline for about 30 mintues as the open fridge door dried me off.


I get dressed and go down to the car for a quick breakfast outting, only to find that not only during the night have the sidewalk cleaners nearly entirely buried my car in snow, but some wanker has DOUBLE PARKED ME INTO THE SNOWBANK. There’s no fucking way out! What the hell am I supposed to do now? Wearing my very shitty snow shoes I trek to the car, open the trunk, find my shovel and start to dig. This is pure wankery of the 3rd kind (the 2nd and 1st are unimportant right now.)

My car was far from hidden it was in plain view. The roof was unmarred by snow or ice, and the hood and Toyota emblems were visible. So what gives? Why of all times now? I’m hungry, I need food. Shit. The only option I could see was to dig myself out from behind and back the car up into the adjacent street.

So I dig.

And dig.

And dig.

Some decrepit old woman who looks like she might turn to dust if the wind picked up appears and starts ragging on me for throwing snow on the sidewalk. I’m thinking Decrepit old woman, I’m hungry, I’m pissed off and you smell like Ben Gay, fucking leave me alone. Those bastard sidewalk cleaner’s should be around any second now.. She just turns and walks away yammering something about how the whole country was going to hell because of people like me, and that I should be lucky they let me in and what now…of course it was then that I realized I probably didn’t think the previous words so much as say them.

No matter, the ball of ice with which I nailed her in the back of her head, knocked her down and shut her the fuck up right away. I couldn’t take this snow shit any more.

Some thirty minutes later my car is dug out of the snow, but will it move? There’s about 10cm of snow underneath the car and my car is maybe 14 cm off the ground…not necessarily enough clearance in this weather. Who knows what gnomes are living underneath the car tying it to the ground. Still I foolishly get in and try to reverse out of the parking are without hitting the fucking bastard who’s double parked next to me.

I rock the car back and forth. I get out and push it from side to side. I get back in and continue to rock the car. The ice beneathe car starts to melt. Finally a good samaritan comes to help me out. I get in, he pushes, and another 30 minutes later the car breaks free, and I’m backed up into the street. Poor bastard is covered with snow, ice and whatever ground up little gnomes look like. As I’m getting ready to head to the grocery store for my breakfast supplies. The wanker that had been double parked shows up and gets in his car. Surely he noticed my car on, me in it, me ready to jump out and beat the tar out of his Honda Civic with the board with a nail in it I keep in the boot. Surely he noticed right?


He floored outta there like he had some mad diarrhea and there was no way he was letting loose the rivers of mud in public. He needed to be home, and I needed to follow him and beat his head in. Conveniently he headed in the direction of the grocery store. Stop light after stop light I edged up to him. At one point I got beside him, rolled down my window and managed to gob on his passenger side window.

He did pick up the speed, and I would have caught him too had my stomach not grumbled the impossible grumble, and started to eat my kidneys and my pancreas, forcing me to stop at the grocery store. I got out and cursed him out very loud, terrifying many of the grocery store patrons. I truely needed to vent. The yelling just wasn’t ventillation enough.

So I went to the breakfast cereal isle, punched a hole in a box of Lucky Charms, sat down on the floor and ate them until I was thrown out.

Unlucky for them.



I, like my father, am obsessed with technological gadetry of the 3rd, 4th, 5th and umpteenth kind, and as a result I was able to own one of the very first Sony Discmans (circa 1980)….you know the kind the ones that were about as thick as a book, couldn’t be subjected to any type of vibration, single laser, zero times oversampling, and the crappiest NiCad battery you’ve ever seen. Still for a piece of equipement that’s nearly a quarter century old, and probably should be in a museum, I’m pretty impressed that it even works. Lucky me, that’s my home stereo system–My live in girlfriend is very sweet and kind and makes no fun of my equipment, as it serves its purpose and gets the job done.

I’ve managed to accumulate nearly 700 audio CDs–I can’t belive you have to specify these days–over the past 23 years, the majority of which came into my possession through my affiliations with certian radio stations and record labels over the years. That being said not everything in my collection is good, though at some point in my life it all did seem to be just that. Today I tried to find something reasonable to which I could listen, but I was abandoned by every bastion of good taste that could be. Knowing full well that my CD collection once got me through university, exams, all night drinking binges, strip clubs, high speed car chases, breakups, depressions, getting back togethers, breaking ups again, the endless summer 1991, Daytona Beach 1992, all my buddies stags and weddings, and I was sure I’d find something. After all these were the sounds of my life….

I closed my eyes and randomly drew a CD. If it was good once then it should be good now, right? I put it in, and screamed “What the hell is this?” promptly took the CD out and dropped it on the floor. I looked at the case and it was some infernal band I used to enjoy called The House of LoveAlbum: Babe Rainbow…what was wrong with me…I remember thrashing about to such great hits as You Don’t Understand, and Philly Phile…but this was terrible…I’m not getting old yet am I? I like Eminem, Christina Aguilera, Michael Jackson…oh god I am getting old and into the mainstream that I used to hate so much…naaaaaaaaaah…I still hate ’em.

I picked another CD and hoped that at least it would have stood the test of time. Nope.

And another. Nope

And another. Nope.

Shit I owned 700 of these things what the hell am I going to do with them. There are only a few that actually still fit me well, but the rest need a serious asskicking. In the end I did something with a few of them that not only made me happy, but made me jump for joy like a man able to suck his own dick–or at least jump in a circle of snakes all eating each other’s wait that was my Benzene molecule dream–and that was to create my own home pyrotechnical display.



1 Microwave

1 CD with case and inserts separated, of your least favorite band


First ensure that the CD has been washed, and is free of dirt on the non silk screened side. Place CD silkscreened side face down in the centre (piss off I’m Canadian and that’s how we spell it). Close microwave. Set power to high. Set time to 3 seconds. NOTE: We have tried on many occasions to achieve different effects by adjusting the time, however the optimal duration in the microwave is NO MORE THAN 3 SECONDS–go under and nothing happens, go over and bad things happen. Press start (or begin if your microwave is one of those non microsoft ones.)

Stand back. Watch and enjoy the display.

At the home pyrotechnician’s discretion they may take the CD inserts and case, and set fire to both of them in the microwave once the pyrotechnical display has ended.

Serves: As many people as you can cram within the minimum safe distance from your microwave.

WE DO NOT RECOMMEND YOU TRY THISthat was for the wankers reading this who might actually want to try something stupid…you’ll burn down your house…this is just humour…I’m breaking up a lame story about my even lamer CD collection with it. Please don’t sue me for anything. It really can’t be my fault if you’re that dumb, it’s gotta be genetic.

Hmmm(n)…so what did I learn? My CD collection is crap, and I’ve got about 700 coasters in my entertainment room (which is the 2 foot by 2 foot space in front of my relic of a Discman.) I probably should get around to picking up some new ones, but that’s only going to happen if somone puts out an album worthy of a non-home pyrotechnical display.

And that’s not likely to happen any time soon.

So until then happy microwaving….Spear Britney…who the fuck likes her music anyway?