2017 Ate All The Dicks

2017 ate dicks!

All of them. It was literally the worst fucking year of my life. It could be said that most years have been pretty great so that maybe 2017 isn’t all that bad. While the former is true. That latter isn’t. 2017 was terrible. 2017 sucked shit through a silly straw. Hey, 2017, I loathe you. I will look back at 2017 like the festering speed bump made gawhd god-knows-what organic matter – I swear I see severed limbs and a horse’s head sticking out of it – that it was.

There was a prologue to 2017 called 2016. As far as years go, it was kind of fucky. Until 2017 blew the doors off this muth and showed people what a terrible year looks like. From a statistical standpoint, the quality of years seem to be in a downward trend. Good news is, I’m not alone. Ever since that human toilet fire showed up on a debate stage, almost everyone’s quality of life has been trending down. Even if their head’s up are shoved up their racist uncle’s ass. It won’t grant them immunity as it isn’t the ring of protection the nerds are prattling on about. Now having their head up their rich as fuck racists uncle’s ass, well, that’s a different story.

It’s not just the politics though. It’s not the fact that I can’t go on social media without stumbling upon some trash heap post that’s somewhere between smoldering and five-alarm. Whether it’s from a friend or some troll bot 5000, it doesn’t matter. It’s sucked the fun out of social media. There’s a bit of anxiety. It’s like walking around downtown and happening upon a greasy back alley handy-j while someone is yelling “This is my opinion, my opinion is fact!” Let’s say, I’ve muted a lot of people this year.

Take A Break.

I’m sorry, that last bit was kind of gross. On a personal level though, I’ve been obliterated. Bad shit occurred. The kind of terrible real shit that we all eventually deal with and though many have, there’s no good way to deal with it. It’s rough, different. Lives have been forced to change and it can never be undone. That’s why, once again, I’ve vanished for a while. I wish it were because I was working on my novel for nanowrimo, but that has about one days worth of writing against it. In general, I just haven’t felt like sitting in front of the PC and tippy-tappin’ out the words. I’m basically forcing myself to do this right now.

Thankfully, I’m fuelled by rage and the need a laugh. Laughing hasn’t been as prevalent during the last few weeks. Which is too bad because I’m a fairly funny person. Although, since it’s taken me the better part of two months to write this, more laughs have occured. I like to laugh and enjoy making others laugh.

Back to the laughing.

2017 and to that end, life, are like a horse. But not just any horse. One of the big black evil bastards that bites everybody and kicked one of his trainers into a well. Of course that was when he was young and in a good mood. Now he is more days behind him than he does in front of him. The racing days are over due to arthritis. That’s why he started taking PCP*. And to support his cool habit of taking hard to come by drugs he had to get a job. So he hauls trash carts behind him. Basically, that brings him full circle on the hipster scale. Old drug, old job, old technology, in general being a drip with a penchant for black.

At any time did I mention that the trash cart is on fire? No? Doesn’t seem like I did. Well, it goes without saying that fire freaks horses the fuck out and makes them run in the opposite direction. That’s just a regular horse. Not a horse on PCP, hauling a trash cart that is perpetually on fire and four feet behind the asshole, both literally and figuratively.

In closing, 2017 sucked. Drive an oak stake through its heart. Chop off its head. Salt it. Burn it. Bye Felicia.

Can’t wait to see how fucky 2018 is!

Before the Chicken Soup for the Soul demographic get after me, there are plenty of things I’m grateful for. I’m just, pissy.

*PCP ( ) is a horse tranquilizer that was taken off the market in 1965. People took would become dissociative and feel nothing. Case in point, in the original Terminator movie, the police thought that the Terminator was on PCP. Turns out he was a time travelling killer cyborg from Austria.

If It Isn’t Trump, It’s The Introverts


Holy freakin’ smokes! Has anyone else hit their limit of political posts they can see within a day? That’s basically all facebook is now, just post after post of the leftist doom and gloom or the victorious chortles of righties. Thankfully, twitter is still full of erotic authors trying to sell me their bigfoot on alien action, but that isn’t enough. Not the bigfoot on alien action, the respite from politics.

I just can’t do it anymore! I’m not calling it quits on politics forever, but there are only so many posts one can read that solidify their viewpoint to the consistency of cookies made from concrete. That’s why I’ve decided to quit reading anything that has a whiff of the political. Whether it be from the U.S., Canada, or anywhere in the world. Kelly Leitch’s odd video was the last, for the time being. I thought it was a good place to stop.

A New Day

It was with this new found resolve, that I waded back into the primordial pool that is facebook. I had my bullshit waders on and one big water wing around my entire head. I sounded like Darth Vader passing gas, couldn’t see shit, and felt happy. That was, until I scrolled headlong into, at least, three posts about being introverted. I don’t know what they said because, before politics, introvert posts were the thing I swore off of.

For a group of humble people who don’t want to draw attention to themselves, introverts sure do love sharing articles on how to tell if you’re one of them, how to talk to them and how great it is to be one. There are so many of these dang posts that people can’t help but click on them. If curiosity kills cats, then cats must be an endangered species*.

Poets and Penis Wrinkles

There are only so many times I’m going to fall for the possibility that I could be an introvert that slipped through the cracks. I’m not one, I know that and so does everyone who knows me. Although, I do like to hang out by myself and sip scotch while reading a book on a Saturday night more than my extroverted ass should. That doesn’t mean that I am an introvert and that is the problem with these posts.

They have convinced hundreds of thousands of extroverts that they are introverts. Just because they like to be quiet sometimes. Furthermore, the articles typically make introversion sound far more appealing than extroversion. Quiet, hard working, organized. Forms fiercely loyal friendships with a small number of people. Good ghawd, what isn’t to like? That sounds so much better than the implied loud, brash, fist bumping, macro brewed rice lager chugging, slutty social butterfly venture capitalist who’s too busy talking or being a choad blaster to look at their calendar and make note of one of their acquaintance’s birthdays.

It’s no wonder that extroverts think they are introverts, that they wish they were introverts. Who wouldn’t want to be hip, cool, and reserved instead of, I don’t know, socially sweaty? But enough’s enough, if it isn’t Trump, it’s the introverts and neither is on my “Want to read” list. For now.


I’m going to go read!


*Not that that matters any longer, because Trump

2016 Is Dead!

     Long Live 2017!

Don’t let the door hit ya where the good lord split ya 2016. You were a terrible fucking year and I will loathe you until my dying breath. Surrounded by loved ones and machines keeping me alive, with a raspy and gaspy voice I will say, “I love you all, fuck 2016.”

Let me be clear that this is not just because of all the great artists, musicians, actors you took. Nor the fact that a quarter of the U.S. is cool with Trump being president and the remainder is pissed about something. Excluding the increased fighting in Syria, the ramped up tensions with Russia and all that alludes to. Screw it, I want to be self-centered!

For me, 2016’s  never-ending supply of sack taps began in October of the previous year. Which set the stage for what would come to be an all around terrible year. I usually don’t write off an entire year and it’s not like some good things happened in 2016. Sure we had some laughs and Oliver moved in with us, but as a whole 2016 deserves to be buried and forgotten. Scratch that, decapitate it, bury an oak stake in its chest, salt it, and burn it.

     Time For A Resolution

I’ve made the same New Year’s resolution for the last six or seven years now. I’ve never failed at it. Mostly because one can only fail at it once unless one partied with Motley Crue back in the 80’s. That resolution is, “Don’t Die.” Sure, it’s dry and grim, but it’s a resolution I will stick to. There won’t be a time where I say, “Ah, I think I will skip not dying today.”

I implore you all to make this resolution because…


     Kill 2017 Before It Kills You!

Let’s face it 2016 sucked, but it also laid the groundwork for some truly trying times to follow. Tensions aren’t going to settle down because it’s a new year. More celebrities are going to pass away and none of them will be tied to the Kardashians. So just believe it okay. You’ve experienced the shit 2016 flung at you. No more surprises! The blindfold and the gloves are off. I not going to begin 2017 with “Happy New Year.” Compliance and blissful ignorance nets us nothing. Instead I will say, “It’s going to be a long year butthead, I’ll see you on the other side.”


I mean butthead in the most loving way possible. Please share. 

Left or Right

 While readers may think that this post is going to be dealing with the a difference between left wing and right wing politics, they would be only half right. Because first of all, what is the difference – oh zing! – and second of all what other lefts and rights are there?

 This week is one of those magical weeks when we are once again reminded that politicians are far cooler than we’ll ever be. That they have powers, resources, and networking skills that many of us can only dream of. It is the day when depending on what side of the fence you are on, Hillary is free from the zillion dollar GoP witch hunt or a criminal has been let go.

 Personally, I don’t really like to be on one side of the fence anymore. Instead I like to position myself right in the center and enjoy the painful wedgie. Yep, nothing better than getting a wedgie from rational, well balanced thought. Sure I have a tendency to lean to the left, but you try to sit there with your boxers held up in box canyon for hours at a time, all the while listening to ninnies and harpies go on at each other. Defending candidates that couldn’t care less about them.

 Come on everyone step closer to the fence. Lean on up against it. I implore you! I beg you! If this were a ship, and every four years we had a vote to pick who was going to steer the ship – by that I don’t mean the captain, I mean the person that is going to physically touch the steering wheel of the ship and spin the wheel – would we want someone who is going to crank the wheel far to the left, followed by someone who is going to spin it far to the right? Hell no we wouldn’t! We would want someone to keep it dead freakin’ center, unless we were turning. We may also want someone who uses punctuation, but I am not on trial here. In fact, no one is.

 To fully interpret and appreciate the correct meaning of the title of today’s post, one must look at themselves in the mirror and ask themselves one question. “Do I want to be shot in the left knee or the right knee?” According to what I heard when I watched Reservoir Dogs five years ago, the knee is one the most painful places to be shot. Which, seems on par with getting a bad leader.

 When both of these candidates seem to be coated in the teflon. When both act almost as childish and tasteless as the other. When many articles and tweets concede that one’s party-of-choice candidate is bad, but not as bad as the other one. Then we are truly being given the choice of two equally painful places to be shot.

 It doesn’t make any sense to me. There are other viable choices from the Libertarian and Green Parties. Why don’t we start a write in campaign for Bernie. Damnit, he shouldn’t have ran as a democrat! It’s 2016 and this is where we are at? Come November 8th, maybe don’t be so gung ho to pick your favorite of the big two. Don’t be afraid to “throw away” your vote on a candidate not affiliated with the major two. Don’t roll up your pant legs and take one for the team. Because there really isn’t much of a team anymore. Just two parties that have divided the shit out of this nation, but they haven’t conquered us yet.  


The Fruity and Cocoa Pebbles Platform

Election season is bearing down on us in Canada. The NDP and Liberals are neck and neck. The Conservatives, unfortunately, have not fallen behind by a safe enough distance to allow any breathing room. We have an abundance of progressive parties and one stuck in the mud party. Anything could happen!

There are a lot of campaign promises coming from each and every party. Promises that we are all too aware, will not be kept. That isn’t what I am here to talk about. I am here to offer something to the Conservatives. Something, if they read this blog, they would be surprised by.

Yes Tories, I have seen many of your commercials and heard many of your promises. I heard about the Netflix tax that you will save Canadians from. Most recently I heard about how, if elected you will donate a shit load of money to the Terry Fox Foundation. A foundation, who after catching wind of what you said, kindly stood up and said, “Please don’t.” I know you haven’t been the most popular lately and have been saying you would do all sorts of stuff. Stuff the other parties won’t do.

I have heard your begging and well, I am going to offer something to you. My vote! However, you have to do something for me. It is not an easy task. This is huge and something I have been wanting for a long, long time. Get me Fruity and Cocoa Pebbles in Canada.

I mean a real deal steady supply. None of this only at the now defunct Target Canada. I don’t mean at Superstore, for a limited time. So limited that I only ever see one box of one flavor. I mean I want them as steady and easily obtainable as Frosted Flakes, Trix and Golden Grahams. As in, any time I want them, I can get them.

So quick, go change the law that prohibits popular cartoon characters from selling products, such as, but not limited to, cereals in Canada. Let’s fix these damn character licensing and copyright issues. Why are they only in stores for a random and limited time? Are there any other reasons holding them back from being in Canada? Anything I don’t know about and haven’t mentioned? One more thing, I mean the American Pebbles, not that weird crap I have only heard about from the eighties. No Canadian Pebbles from the past.

Fix it! And I will do my part to make all of your wildest – social program killing, oil sand fracking, anti-terrorism bill writing, safe injection site shutting down, CBC obliterating, billion dollar surplus running, pissing in coffee mugs videotaping, recession causing, worst economic growth since the depression celebrating, Keystone XL pleading, old ass fighter jet purchasing, senator slush fund scandaling, second class citizen legislating – dreams come true!

Actually, on second thought, I don’t like any of those things I just mentioned. I will just drive down to the states and get my Fruity and Cocoa Pebbles fix. Then I will vote for someone else. Sorry to get your hopes up.

Minimum Wage Three: A Brief Pause For Expostion

(Continued From)

“Ross Perot and super bionic cybernetic exoskeleton suit wearing Ralph Nader?” I ask with a heavy helping of astonishment.

“Yes! You hadn’t talked in so long that I was beginning to think that a side-effect of time travel was losing your voice.” Ross answers.

“If only that were true!” Nader says with a glance at Ross Perot. “And that is super bionic, cybernetic exoskeleton, bio-fuel powered, paradox proof, time travelling suit wearing, Ralph Nader to you. However you can call me Ralph.”

“R-r-r-a-l-ph.” I drawlingly growl. “You’re right, I can!”

“Fine. You may call me Ralph.”

I nod my head in agreeance with Mr. Nader. I then wonder if I should remind Ross that I spoke no less than five minutes prior. Then I decide that it is probably just a waste of time. “Why do you call him Hank?”

“He had a real issue with always saying ‘I’m Ross the Boss or Ross, rhymes with Boss,’ and other things to that extent.” Nader leans in close to me and finishes in whispery whisper. “Not only is his first name Henry, but Hank, rhymes with wank.” He smiles and shrugs as he prepares himself for criticism on his joke.

While Ross takes some more pie charts over to Machismo and young Bill Clinton, Nader explains a few things to me. Like how his suit is paradox proof. That before any leap, it is able to calculate travellers intentions and project them along a path of what has already happened. If at anytime a traveler begins to alter the course in a sweeping manner, the suit will emit a warning. If things become dire, it will immediately send them back from the time they came from. This includes everyone touching the suit as the suit can handle multiple external travellers. Also, it runs on bio fuels and if not, it has a plastic reclamation and oil purifier system.

“So basically, it is full proof, can’t get stuck, and doesn’t cause plot holes?” I inquire in summation.


“And if there seems to be a plot hole? Because time travelling stories always seem to have holes.”

“It was supposed to happen, just as the suit predicted.”

“That is great to hear!”


Minimum Wage: Aftermath of A Kick to the Cha-Cha’s

(Continued From)

So there I am, lying on the porch, the pain in slowly dissipating. While the severity of the situation grows on me. Stranded in 1960 Washington, D.C. With an asian guy from Canada, Machismo Wainwright, and a really young Bill Clinton, he has to be about twelve. He is also hungry as he has just reminded me for the second time in five minutes, that he would like to get a sandwich or some wings. I didn’t even know they had wings in the sixties.

“We just got kicked in the junk by a young Pat Buchanan, who stole our time machine and has gone into the future to assume the identity of Ted Cruz! Do you really think now is the time to worry about food?” I scold the once and future president.

“I’m sorry. I just always have fought time traveling conservatives better on a full stomach.” he says with a doughy faced grin.

“Is that your attempt at ironic appropriationalist internet humor?”

“What’s the internet?”

“Don’t worry, your best friend will say he invented it, get ribbed for saying he invented it, then become the sex symbol of the environmentalist world.”

“Way to go Bobby!” young Bill Clinton says with a glance to the sky.

I just look at the kid in disbelief. When I was his age and weight, he was running the country. Now – since we figured it was safest to get a younger and less wild version of young Bill Clinton – I could be brought up on kidnapping charges.

I sit up and check on Machismo. He says he is fine, but I know that he is beating himself up for leaving the keys in the car. “Don’t worry man, we are going to be just fine. We’re gonna do great!”

Machismo opens his mouth to speak. Before he can say a sound, he is interrupted by a new voice as someone rounds the house. “Finally! I was getting tired of waiting on you to say something like that so we could make our grand entrance. Mr. Flare for the drama, probably voted for Obama, over here wouldn’t have it any other way.” The voice is fast, with that nasally southern drawl. It sounds familiar, but I can’t place where. My view is intercepted by a pie chart as a turn to find the speaker.

“See here, this is how much the space time continuum has veered from your reality since you bunch of panty-waists let Patsy steal the time machine.”

A blur of color fills my binocular vision. I can’t make out anything other than blurred colors where my vision overlaps. My brain screams at the paradox of only seeing yellow in my left eye, blue in my right, and green in the center. In attempt to better make out what the holder would like me to see, I lean back, putting distance between the pie chart and myself. Whoever is holding it though just keeps it against the tip of my nose. Pushing it to keep it at the current distance.

“I can’t read your damn pie chart!” I roar as I rip from the grip of the holder and send it flying like a broke ass frisby. The continuation of my rant falls short. In fact, I don’t think it would be a good idea to berate any further. One in a business suit, the other is some futuristic mechanized battle suit thing. Names swim in my head and I find them almost instantly. However, they don’t leave my lips as their conversation continues and I sit awestruck.

“I don’t believe you can call them panty-waists.” Mr. Roboto responds. His voice is slower, deep and bouncy. Well thought out by comparison.

“It is 1960 Washington, D.C. I can do whatever I want! Wanna get a hooker? Fine! Wanna go do blow with absolutely any politician? Fine! Wanna call a couple of losers and a fat kid panty-waists because they practically gave a time machine to my good friend Patsy, who honestly has no business having a time machine, because he can’t help himself? Why don’t you just go ahead and give a bottle to a baby or something!”

“That isn’t a very apt metaphor, Hank. You see, people generally give babies,” The chastisement is cut short.

“Quit bustin’ me in the bean bag for god sakes Ralphy! This is why we never hang out!”

“That isn’t the only reason.” he responds with a smirk.


Minimum Wage Increase: Waiting For The Meteor

Yesterday I had a friend, Machismo Wainwright, strike up a conversation with me about the raising of minimum wage. It was in response to me sharing some “Republicans suck and voted down raising the minimum wage.” post on facebook. He asked me if I was really in favor of it and mentioned a few of the negative points. Such as the possibility of having to fire people in order to pay other’s higher wages. What if everyone becomes too expensive? To the point that automation has a more appealing price point to shareholders and lots of people lose jobs.

I agree with him on the points he brought up. My reply was that something has to be done and that I am in favor of doing something. Sure that something could something that sounds impossible like Getting the money out of politics! or The government regulating shit out of things that are too expensive for people to afford on the current minimum wage. Which by the way is pretty much fucking everything! Another something could simply be Waiting for a meteor to wipe us out of existence.

Instead, I began to fall back to my defensive dry humor and said something far more plausible “We can fix it! Although I have no idea where we are going to get a time machine and go stop Reagan, Nixon, Pat Buchanan and everyone else responsible for this mess. This time travel reference was not of the Terminator paradigm, but more of the Bill and Ted/Back to the Future variety.

An asian guy and a guy with a red beard in a time travelling smart car pull up in front of each and every respective offenders house. From there we cram them in the nearly non-existent back seat – apologizing profusely for the cramped space while pointing out that in the future we don’t have the money to buy huge vehicles. Also, that thing called global warming turned out to be real and is now called climate change. Without more a do we take them to the future and show the scummy clog they have created.

We make them watch women give birth and go back to work in under two weeks. We make them watch hard working people not make ends meet. We make them watch as young people go to college and incur crippling debt only to get unpaid internships. We make them watch as people die due to terrible medical coverage.

The message sinks in. I have a good feeling about Reagan and Nixon being overall good guys and seeing the errors of their ways. They are also incredibly interested at the wealth accumulation prospects of a time traveling smart car! Machismo will have to keep an eye on the keys. George H. “Walker Texas Ranger” Bush says he will do his part to make things right as he throws a box of magnums up on the counter at the 7-11. “If only we had’em in this size the first time ‘round.” He says as he tips up his cowboy hat with his thumb. “Now that’s what I call planned parenthood!”

We can’t fit everyone in the smart car at once, so we just have to keep taking them and then dropping them off. Things get a little weird when we pull up at Buchanan’s place. Doesn’t help that young Bill Clinton didn’t eat lunch before we left and he is a little hungry. However, when the door opens is when we officially step into the poo. I must have seen a photo of young Pat Buchanan recently. He seems so familiar.

“Aw, my cha-chas!” Bill Clinton roaringly mumbles as Pat kicks him square in the nards. Before Machismo and I can even react younger – and surprisingly spry – Pat Buchanan lunges forward, dropping to one knee and punches both of us in no-no’s. He sprints away from the battle, leaving us lying in crippled heaps.

While laying in the fetal position next to a panting young Bill Clinton, I realize why young Buchanan looks so familiar. “God damn you, Ted Cruz!” I yell with all the strength I can muster. Yelling through the pain throbbing in my stomach.

“That is a great name, I think I will use it when I establish a new political career for myself in the future.” He says as he opens the door to the smart car. He pauses and leans against the roof, resting his elbows. “Say where ya’ll from? Ya’ll seem like nice folk, you from Canada or something?”

“Yeah, we are from Calgary.” I whimper after a moment’s pause. I know full well what he is going to say next and it pleases me to no end that I have bested him, for now.

“Hey that sounds like a great place to live and call my birthplace!”

Eat shit young Pat Buchanan, enjoy Nickleback, winter, and your damn hockey team. I think to myself as I smile and double over in pain once more. I  hear the smart car drive away and hit a fuel efficient eighty-seven miles an hour as it begins its leap into the future. A whole mile sooner than the older model. I lie there and wait for the meteor to come.


Americans Not Assholeicans

If you haven’t already heard, Donald Trump seems to be leading other republicans in the polls. In some cases he has almost as twice as much as the next leader. As a sane person, I find this deeply troubling. I know that polls are not an exact reading, but they are something.

Some of the reasons seem to be that he is a breath of fresh air and tells it like it is. I understand the sentiment, but this is a huge misunderstanding. Getting up on stage and being a jerk isn’t telling it like it is. Saying America, we have some issues: bipartisan split, racism, education, healthcare and a crippling debt that makes Greece’s debt look like couch change. That is telling it like it is!

Speaking of the debt, I just can’t trust a guy who filed for bankruptcy and is now back on top of the world. Perhaps he would file the entire country for bankruptcy and get that whole debt thing taken care of at the cost of the entire world’s economy. Before you whip out your American flag and shotgun while screaming, “Wooooooo! Telling it like it is!” I have one question.

“How long has it been since you personally recovered from last economic crash?” Because this one would be much, much worse.

The next elephant in the room is his racism, where does it stop? As a country, we have a lot of issues when it comes to race and religion. We have a lot to work through and we haven’t made nearly as much progress as people want to think. Yet, here is a man that is less than accepting and wants to build some silly wall. Is he running on Pat Buchanan’s 1990 platform? Anyone watch Game of Thrones? The wall didn’t work so well did it! Also, of course Jon Snow isn’t dead!

Donald Trump seems to have a low opinion of everyone. Is that really the kind of guy you want in charge of you? He truly believes he is better than you and that you are stupid and a loser. Sure he hasn’t said as much, but based on everything he has said to everyone else lately, anyone should be able to draw the same conclusion. How could anyone want this man to deal with other countries as he has already pissed off the entire republican party?

When did American’s get this obnoxious chip on their shoulder and feel incessant need to be stubborn, loud, and tell it like it is? We are American’s not Assholeicans. I cannot respect anyone who thinks this man is a viable choice as president. Unless one simply wants to watch the world burn. In which case kudos on using your ballot as a weapon of mass destruction.