Our dirt bikes bring all the boys to the yard. Damn right, they're better than yours.

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Hey! See that dark shape? It's Georges Laraque!

And I mean that in the least racist way possible.



I was on my lunch break today and saw a bunch of people lined up outside the CityTV/91.7 The Bounce building (soon to become the BellTV/91.7 Globemedia building), most of whom were wearing Georges Laraque jerseys, and I thought to myself, "Hey, I bet Georges Laraque is going to be here later."

And sure enough, on my way back to work, there he was, le beau homme d'hockey. Then I took this shitty photo with my camera phone. Neat, huh?

Then, on a totally unrelated note, I overheard this conversation on the bus, and I thought that maybe I shouldn't be sad about leaving Edmonton:

BROHAM #1: Okay, I got a good one. What would you do if, like, it was your birthday, okay? And your friends took you to a gay bar and then locked you in there for the whole night.

BROHAM #2: I would fucking shoot myself!

BROHAM #1: No man, you wouldn't have a gun.

BROHAM #2: Would I have a knife so I could stab myself?

BROHAM #1: No. No knives, no drugs to overdose on. You couldn't kill yourself. Oh, and, AND, you'd have to, like, grind with a bunch of guys who weren't wearing shirts!!

BROHAM #2: AWWWWW! THAT'S SO FUCKING SICK! OH MY GOD! HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!!!!!!!

Also: hey, how's it going? I think this is the first post I've written in, like, eight months. BECAUSE I HAVE A LIFE. THAT MOSTLY INVOLVES WATCING CANADA'S NEXT TOP MODEL.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

My Jaunt to the Boredom Factory

In a faceless building in a sprawling industrial park there is a place that is the source of all boredom in the world. Its walls are eggshell white, and its windows have large bars. Row after row of soulless middle-aged women, made lifeless or obese by a chutzpah-draining power impossible to explain by modern science, type into millions and millions of keyboards.
Will they ever write the great literary masterpiece we're all waiting on from those damn typing monkeys?
I can't say. I signed a confidentiality agreement.
But I will tell you this: As surely as every child would have laughed at the idea of the Bum-Poop Factory, every grown adult, unfortunate enough to have lost his way on the road to Career City, would cry in terror if he knew what lay within Boring, Inc.'s facility.
With a start time of 6:00 a.m., your body is already off-guard. Boredom seeps into your pores as you stand emptily next to a machine that opens envelopes very quickly. But you are not allowed to touch this machine. No. Your job is to make sure a string of numbers printed on the front of millions of envelopes are right-side up. For all eternity, you turn envelopes over. Sometimes, if you're lucky, the envelope is also facing the wrong way. Joy! A turn and a flip!
Your coworkers, Joan, Jane, and John (seriously) work diligently and far too quickly on their letter opening machines, as you look at the pile of envelopes before you. It's neither high, nor small. It's the most boring amount of envelopes possible. Behind and around you, more and more envelopes are being delivered. Touch them. Feel their loneliness. Suffer. Forever.