Bohemian Businesskid

Practicing Patience

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Sat, 12 Dec 2009 16:28:00 +0000

My grandmother and grandfather are sweet people, really. To the best of my memory, they've never missed a single one of my band performances, drama plays, choir sing-songs, or awards ceremonies. Ever. And somehow they always manage to get first row seating at whatever venue I'm performing at [but they're German, so who knows what violent tactics or red armbands they show to the poor souls who might naively ask "are those seats saved?"].

You see, at 14 my grandpa escaped -- on foot -- from WWII over to Canada. He witnessed bombing, blasting, gutting, interrogating, and all sorts of other unmentionable episodes to eventually wind up in Saskatchewan and marry my grandma (whose nickname, ironically, is 'Little Hitler'). Combined, the two of them have built a life on the farm from nothing. Beyond the depression and war, they witnessed field fires, a miscarriage, and my grandma's breast cancer. Luckily for me, grandpa can douse an acreage blaze just as fast as Little Hitler whomps any metastasizing tumor thrown her way. The two of them deserve their goddamn handicapped parking and first row seats at high school Christmas concerts.

Now that you know gram and gramps, listen to this. When the new performance center in Swift Current opened up, the company just drew names to see where ticket holders would have to sit for a certain series of concerts. Grandma and Grandpa drew row thirty-something.

There was no talking to them for a week.

No matter how early they showed up (which is often between 1-2 hours ahead) they were stuck in ridiculous row thirty-something. "Curses!" they shouted. "Blaspheme!" "Lächerliche!"

That was back in summer. When I asked them just a couple weeks ago how the situation turned out, their reactions caught me off guard. They were surprisingly... calm.

"Aren't you still in row thirty-something?" I asked.
"Row 28 now, dear," grandma replied with a smooth smile. "Hopefully 26 by the end of the month."
"But how? I thought your seats were permanent?"
"Well... let's just say after seventy years, we're good at practicing patience."

I didn't really make sense of that whole conversation until I asked my mom and dad about it. They chuckled and explained, quite matter-of-factly, that grandma and grandpa were moving up by taking the seats of other old people in the audience who were slowly dying off.

...

Wow, now that's survival of the fittest. German style.

Got the shot

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 22:47:00 +0000

Just checked, still a boy.

H1N1ghtmare

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 05:56:00 +0000

So with all the H1N1 pandemonium floating around lately, its apparently leaked into my subconscious. I officially just had my first swine flu nightmare (more like a napmare, though, since it was in-between winks on my uncomfortable couch).

Anyway, get this.

Important Fact: the H1N1 vaccine (and most vaccines, for that matter) contains "inactivated viral antigens". Basically, it's like giving yourself a small einstein-tampered dose of the disease so that your immune system can drop kick the real thing in the future.

If there are still dosages left at the university tomorrow morning, I'm planning on getting one (...so what, call me a paranoid douche. there's a time and place for hot & sweaty, and it's definitely not during finals or my Merry Effing Christmas).

Important sidenote: Jurassic Park is amazing
Important Relevance: Don't watch it before getting vaccinated.

How the hell does this all tie together? Welllll it just so happens I watched the entire Jurassic Park trilogy last week; and my horrifying napmare went a little something like this...

A couple *cough troglodyte cough* U of S Archaeology students somehow diddled with the H1N1 vaccine by filling the "inactivated viral antigens" with frog DNA, like the scientists did with dinosaurs in Jurassic Park. Somehow I realized this just as the needle penetrated my pores, a second too late. Now can anyone remember what happened to the dinos in JP because of this mixed frog DNA?

That's right. They were ambisexual (could change sex like frogs).

So suddenly, as if it made 100% sense, I grew blonde hair, long nails, and a bra (not breasts, just a bra *sigh*). The archaeology assholes then proceeded to chase me around campus -- what they planned to do with me once they caught up, God knows -- and it was t-e-r-r-i-f-y-i-n-g. Somehow I sprouted high heels around Place Riel, but then fell down the stairs and was totally paralyzed. As I looked up, archaeology boys descending with drooling smiles, I SCREAMED and then

Woke up.

No bra, no blonde hair.

Phew.

If Freud and Joseph were right and dreams are just coded messages about our real lives, I'm not quite sure what this one was trying to say. Don't get the H1N1 shot? Don't fall for an archaeology kid? Don't dress in drag?

Well damn, I can't promise I won't do any of those.

Seriously, though, I understand that everything that happened in this dream is utterly impossible from one tiny flu shot (I'd need at least a good surgeon and $50 La Senza gift card for that), but yet I can't help keep hearing that famous Jurassic Park quote: "nature will find a way..."

P.S. if some crazy Jurassic Park-like science thing does go down, please film it and then kill me before anyone else gets the chance to make two shitty sequels. thank you.

bureaucraps

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 20:58:00 +0000

A french kiss for whoever can answer this riddle:

what is something that never smiles but always stares; something that flies but doesn't have wings; something almost everyone owns but is impossible to get?

...

answers? anyone? tongue's waiting...

give up?

it's a passport. a bloody fricken' passport.

detect my disdain? good. see, this morning my mom phoned to say that since we're going to Hawaii in February, we should renew our passports asap (they expire in March, and goverment warns against travelling with id that expires within six months of vacation or something). So after only a mild dose of complaining, I grab my passport and dart straight down to Wal-Mart to get my picture retaken.

Now I don't know about the rest of the world, but a passport isn't something I necessarily think about every day. Sure it's a life-line when travelling, but otherwise it never really crosses your mind -- until you start thinking about the expiry date, that is. So although I still have four months left, all of a sudden it seemed like those sixteen weeks wasn't very long at all. My brain, bored in traffic, started conjuring up worst case scenarios, mostly revolving around being late and subsequently missing out on Hawaii.

Cut to Wal-Mart. Fortunately this process was painless -- I'm in the chair immediately and out with my photo pack in ten minutes. Unfortunately, it was unjustly windy outside (my hair was a wreck), I hadn't shaved, and my clothes thought it funny to bunch up in awkward places. Translation: my pics could pass for Amy Winehouse. I contemplated requesting a re-shoot, but the visions were getting worse: if I didn't hurry up and renew, not only would I miss Hawaii, but I would be damned to stay stuck in Saskatoon for the rest of eternity! AaaAAhhh!

So I threw my cash at the photographer and sprinted out with passport and pictures clutched in my knuckles. Irrationality was taking over -- I swear I heard a greeter shout: "welcome to Wal-Mart, may I see your passport?"

Next up was the government building. These places terrify me; I always feel extremely out of place and unwelcome. Or like I'm doing something illegal. And not to criticize the system or anything, but, well, why the hell do they need policemen stationed at every door? True, they're the oldies who probably catch more gum disease than criminals, but really? And maybe I wouldn't make fun of these old people if they were a tad nicer, but come on. They're grumpy. I mean, ever wonder why majority of adults are angry and frustrated but most grandparents are endlessly nice and sweet and kind? It's because you just don't see the angry old grumps as much -- they're busy trolling these tall brick government buildings.

Anyway, I took the elevator up to the passport office and waited in line. When it got to my turn, Officer Agnid asked what my business was. "Renewing my passport," I replied. The rest is a whirlwind of bureaucratic bullshit. I'm first told to fill out a specific form for easy renewal, but then find out that I can't because my previous passport was issued when I was under 16. Therefore, I have to essentially restart from scratch because they need all original id, guarantor's signatures, government issued id, $100, a vial of blood, and my first born child.

And you know what I said back to that load of bureaucrap?

Ok.

Honestly, besides blog-venting there's nothing I can do to ease the passport pain. Guess I'll just have to fill everything out properly, bide my time, and do the whole thing over again six years down the road. Getting angry or staying grumpy doesn't solve anything. It just guarantees you a job with the government.

Say it ain't so

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 17:37:00 +0000

To dump even more salt on my celebrity wounds, Ivanka Trump married Jared Kushner yesterday afternoon.

October 25th.

My birthday.

It was a lavish affair, held at Trump National Golf Course. Five hundred celebrity guests, immaculate weather, and a wedding dress designed by Vera Wang topped off the spectacular scene. Registry items ranged from $200 - $500, as well as a reported $1350 sterling bowl.

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, I was eating KFC after opening my own presents. One of them, believe it or not, was Ivanka's new bestselling book "The Trump Card".

Tragic? Painfully so.

Milf Simpson

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 06:48:00 +0000

It's pretty old news by now but, in case you haven't heard, Marge Simpson will be on the cover of the next Playboy issue. Nothing says sexy like a naked mom with old yellow skin and blue pubes.

Seriously, are cartoons arousing? I'd pay to see a formal debate about this. On one hand, it's the ultimate fantasy -- cartoons can do anything, so let those imaginations fly -- but on the other hand it's unforgivable. Most of us grew up on a healthy diet of Simpsons with Marge as our surrogate mother, so it seems almost incestual to flip open that centrefold (not to mention hurtful to Homer).

I wonder if all cartoon artists are perverts. Of course, this starts up controversy over Disney's history of subliminal messaging:

The priest was a little too excited in the orignal VHS version of Little Mermaid -- had to calm him down for the remastered edition.

Again, someone on Little Mermaid thought they were sneaky.

Nothing says "I'm thinking about you" like a big cloud of SEX.

This one wasn't even hidden. Come on Disney, you're getting sloppy.

Back to the main point, though. You can tell we're in a recession when even cartoons whore themselves out. Guys, opinions? Girls? Personally, I'm on the fence. Usually my mantra with nakedness is "you ain't got nothing I haven't seen." But seriously, I'm sure Marge has a lot no one's seen... so... just saying.

Defying Chemotherapy

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 07:02:00 +0000

Of all the coked-out, binge-drinking, super-slut celebrities in the world, why do the few good ones get screwed the worst?

That was precisely my thought when I discovered thirty seconds ago that Dame Maggie Smith is battling breast cancer. THE Maggie Smith. McGonagall. Mother Superior. Wendy Darling.

Damn you, cruel world! What did Maggie ever do besides spread childhood magic and movie love? True, she's 74, but that's a tween compared to Angela Lansbury. Maggie's a paragon for dignified actresses everywhere -- pure class! But alas, turns out she's been battling cancer since 2007, yet continues to promise to "stagger through" the last Harry Potter films.

"The cancer was hideous," she said. "It takes the wind out of your sails and I don’t know what the future holds, if anything. You feel so ghastly, you wouldn’t mind dying a lot of the time."

AHH! Stop the quotes, Devon, we've heard enough!

BUT WAIT -- there's a happy highlight! According to wikipedia (the most trusted source for reliable information on the planet), she has "made a full recovery". It appears that although the chemotherapy has left her temporarily weak, her spirit and passion is stronger. "I’m beginning to feel like a person now," she says. "My energy is coming back. Shit happens. I ought to pull myself together a bit.”

So Maggie's making a comeback. She's battling the horrible effects of cancer treatment, recouperating from intense radiology, and rising above impossible challenges.

Translation: she's defying chemotherapy!

Nobody in all of Oz (erm Hogwarts), no cancer that there is or was, is ever gonna bring me down! Aaaah!

Vive la Revolution!

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 07:06:00 +0000

Hear that?

...

It's silence. Too much, in fact, and it's all my fault. Letterman's admitted to shtooping his staff, Oprah's gained twenty four pounds, and Beyonce's been at the centre of a Kanye-versial explosion. And where was I? In the shower. Doing laundry. Buying seedless grapes only to find out that they weren't seedless and throwing a tantrum. Bum stalking, lately.

Enough.

The water's cold, the laundry's clean, the grapes are gone, and the bum's dead*. Welcome back, bloggies. I missed you.

*Dead in the Darth Vader sense, wherein the homelessness has been defeated and a new man exists.

The Bum

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 05:43:00 +0000

I'm amazed by something I saw today -- truly amazed! While on campus running to and from business meetings, group gatherings, and back to back classes, I caught sight of something that shook me to my metaphorical core.

A bum.

Not a buttocks, but a bum. The homeless kind. [Disclaimer: I'm not saying that bums' bums bum me out, but rather most bums, even attractive bums, are irrelevant to this bumnalysis].

Going on... so I saw this bum, right? I recognized him from his sleeping on busses, his begging for change, and his scant winter clothing. But here's the thing...

HE WASN'T A BUM ANYMORE.

He'd transformed into a genuine Sears-clad, laptop toting, cap wearing college student. Like Serena morphed into Sailor Moon... minus everything sexy and plus everything normal.

Gahhh! My world was flipped upside down! Was it for real? Had he escaped poverty?? If so, great for him! I feel... proud. That's right. Proud. My little tyke who I once had to glare at for peeing in the snow while drinking from some paper bag was now on his own in the real world.

Listen closely, college kids. Learn the lesson here:

This man was -- I hypothesize -- an alcoholic. He had little money, he ate poorly, he slept and peed in strange places, and he eyed up the opposite sex with sometimes frightening glances. And if that entire description isn't a paraphrase of 95% of college kids in the whole world, I dunno what is.

If this man can clean himself up, it's time the rest of us do too. Stop acting like university students. Be more like the bum.

Big City Women

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 22:11:00 +0000

I know, I know. Zero posts in August. Boo hoo.

Actually, my month long blog-hiatus was probably a good thing. Sometimes it's best for us writers to take a break and let our minds re-fuel with new ideas. I could have forced myself to puke out posts, but they probably would've been just as chunky, smelly, and unfunny as real vomit.

First of all, let's back-track. From Aug 25th - Sept 1st, I dived down to Chicago and New York City. Great places! But I'm not here to bore you with places; I'm here to entertain you with people. Women, in fact. Big City Women. So without further ado, let me introduce you to Jane, Mary, Stephanie, Joan, The Queen of Tuesdays, and Miss Frisk.

Jane, a 65ish woman I met on the plane from Saskatoon to Chicago, was either eccentric or lunatic. We sat beside each other for two hours without saying a single word. During our descent, however, she started asking questions about where I was from, where I was going, etcetera. Turns out she was from Chicago, and went on to warn me about certain neighbourhoods, shitty restaurants, and drive-by shootings. Two things about her interested me: one, she had a son in Big City advertising (my career goal), and two, she was wearing a large expensive ring (sign of wealth?). Somewhat shamingly, both those things led to me giving her my name and email address. I don't even think she knew what email was. Anyway Jane, if you're alive and listening, I'm sorry I led you on. Let's just be friends... but only if you're rich.

Next is Mary, another 65ish woman (the start of a depressing geriatric trend). She was a ticket-taker at the Indiana Beach rollercoaster themepark. The only thing she said as we entered the gate was: "Now I wanna hear you scream!". Umm, Mary? I want to hear you shut up -- you're rickety wooden rollercoasters make me nervous enough.

Now Stephanie was only 11. Tall, yes, but only 11. We had supper with her and her family one night, and her dad reminded us every five minutes of just how young Stephanie was. Did he think we were going to hit on her? Sorry, dad, but I only whore out to old ladies with expensive rings and city connections.

Joan the Docent [docent = volunteer] was our 65 year old guide through the Chicago architectural boat tour. She often went off topic to talk about her personal tastes in real estate. Joan was cool.

Now if I thought Jane (the old lady on my plane ride to Chicago) was entertaining, that was nothing compared to the one on the way back. A 65ish year old spinster sitting one row ahead was so cheery and giddy about life that we quickly named her "The Queen of Tuesdays". Why? Well, it was Tuesday and she was loving it. Plus, she seemed the type to orgasm over cheap movie nights and Toonie Tuesdays at KFC. She chortled violently every time the stewardess mispronounced "Saskatchewan", and gabbed tirelessly about things like Saskatoon berries and airport transfers. Trust me, if you never meet The Queen of Tuesdays, you're not missing much.

Finally, after claiming luggage back at our home airport and clearing customs, my two travel buddies were given permission to exit the airport and go home. I, however, was randomly selected for a random bag search. Argh. Now let me introduce you to Miss Frisk.

Miss Frisk was a pokey, proddy airline guard who loved opening my suitcase and asking embarassing questions. In fact, I'm not sure some of her questions were even official. Example:

Miss Frisk (holding laptop): "Any adult content on here, sir?"
Me: "Umm no--"
Miss Frisk: "ANY AT ALL, sir?"
Me: "Really, no--"
Miss Frisk: "Webcam pics? Girl on girl action? Double penetraish?"
Me: "NO! LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Anyways, despite this strange vacation overview, I had a blast. Of course there were wonderfully beautiful glamazons strutting 5th St., plus decked out models on michigan ave and gorgeous actresses with angelic voices... but for every million of those in NYC, there's a hundred frumpy airline guards, ten retired docents, and one Queen of Tuesdays.

Hands Up, Hats Off

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Fri, 31 Jul 2009 21:47:00 +0000

Hands up: who knows a hot high school teacher?

Alright, a few. Hands down.

Hands up: who knows a hot university professor?

...

Point made.

Actually, i've heard legends whisper of ones that do, in fact, exist. Oh yes! I know it's nigh unfathomable to believe, but ancient tales tell of such creatures. I have always refuted these myths with personal experience and photographic evidence, however recently something's popped up in my memory which might convince me otherwise.

Two years ago -- upon graduating -- I became a Greystone Scholar. Yes, I know, I know, but please, hold your applause. This meant that straight out of high school I was welcomed into the University of Saskatchewan's academic bosom, surrounded by fellow great minds (who, in fact, were nothing but other brown-nosing teenagers with easy [and perhaps hot] high school teachers). Point being, first year Greystones are always invited to the president's house for cocktails and schmoozing. This translates into shaking Peter MacKinnon's hand, scrounging delicious hors d'oeuvres, and standing to the side exclusively with the few people you already know.

Needless to say, it was horribly boring.

So my crew decided to go adventuring. We made it half way up the staircase before President Peter came bolting full speed down the crowded corridor.

"You-- you can't go up there!" he hollered softly (i still don't know how he hollered softly, but he definitely did).

He went on to explain some convoluted story about a guest who was supposedly staying upstairs, then escorted us firmly away while muttering some dumbledore-ish quote like "the third floor is strictly forbidden". Since then I accepted that I would never understand what Mr. MacKinnon was hiding upstairs...till now!

That's where he keeps the hot professors!

It makes perfect sense. Peter MacKinnon is the U of S's Hugh Hefner. He stays cooped up in that mansion of his, hosting parties and having fun, while the rest of us really don't care. A few of the braver girls he keeps locked up might sneak out sometimes to satisfy their blistering scholarly needs, but for the most part I believe they're confined to that upstairs bedroom where I was once forbidden to go.

And you know what? Hats off. Despite generations of testosterone-fuelled huskie jocks, sask hall rez-sluts, cool commerce men, smooth talking psych majors, buff kin kids, romantic music students, and thousands of other young, attractive alpha males, Peter MacKinnon is THE greatest college player of all time.

Cure for HPV

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 03:41:00 +0000

No, not the human papillomavirus. Geesh get your head out of STI Alley...and Double Entendre Avenue, if you please ;)

Anyways, my lowbrow bloggies, i thought i'd open up with something sincere today. no britney spears mad gabs. no beyonce. no pokemon. no placenta. a few pornstars, maybe, but no bathroom peeper.

as most of you know, I'm a writer keen on pursuing the entertainment world. Mostly I write screenplays in hopes of making a sale (having currently completed five feature specs) or at least clenching an option. It is an unfortunate fact, however, that Hollywood is as impenetrable as The Virgin Mary. More unknown writers wilt and die than wannabe actors, directors, and gaffers combined.

I, however, know how to beat the system.

A few months ago I stumbled upon a revelating fact. Los Angeles does not only have one billion dollar entertainment industry; it has three:

H - ollywood
P - ornography
V - ideo games

HPV. At least if my top choice falls through, I have two interesting backups. Better odds, right? Wrong. Why waste my time on one of these stupid ventures only to fail and have to start back at square (or frame or bed or pixel) one?

So what's better than scaling to the top of the hollywood world? or pornography planet? or video game universe? How about climbing all three -- the whole galaxy of entertainment?! Oh yes, bloggies, take notes. Donald Trump once said: "Be ruthless to ruthless people you meet on your way up if you don't intend on coming back down". The entertainment industries are infested with these people, these sharks. The only way to deal with them is fight. The only way to win is to have power. And the only way to get power? Combine all available resources.

Eureka!

Film pornstars playing videogames.

It's ingenious. I can think of at least four people off the top of my head who would want to Mario Party with Pam Anderson and Jackie Ginger.

...

Now isn't that the most AWFUL, gut-wrenching, jaw-grinding idea ever thought up?

Good. Those ideas seem to sell.

But I'm not actually being serious, am I? Well no. The main point of this post is to probe one scary question: what's your selling-out point? At what price can the Hollywood sharks skewer the meat strips off your bones? If you answered "I would never sell myself out!", you're either a fool or a liar. If you answered "$10 or under", please get tested.

Temptation lures the best of us. We have a tendency to romanticize instead of rationalize (whether it's "i'll wait tables till i land that broadway lead", or "once i'm done school, i'll start work and meet the man of my dreams"). As you know, these circumstances don't "just happen", and it leads to everyone developing their own unique case of HPV: fallbacks to brace yourselves if you don't accomplish what you really want. Life's truthful answer is that almost anything you set your mind to is possible. The painful question is what cost will it come at? I could throw out a million examples involving surgery, sacrifice, sexual favors, monetary transactions, and/or illegal acts, but you already have a pretty good idea what those entail. This is not to say you should never take risks; rather, what i'm getting at, is that you must take smart risks.

think about JK Rowling -- a classic rags to riches story. she was a giant failure right up until adulthood, having suffered an exteremely short lived marriage and was practically homeless. In her recent address to a graduating class at Harvard university, she said:

Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had been realised, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.

JK's cure for HPV was hitting rock bottom. She had no other option, so literally she had to succeed or fail. thankfully most of us will never know such extreme hardship, but that is not to say we won't be aquainted with common failure.

i'm not going to hollywood because i wish i were a screenwriter. i'm going because i've put thousands of hours into writing screenplays and i believe, with more work, i can make it. groundwork's required -- confidence's foundation is aptitude, not arrogance.

So the cure for HPV is simple. Be prepared. Fling harpoons at the sharks instead of throwing yourselves. I'm not guaranteeing you'll survive the waters, but at least you'll have gone out fighting. Bravery's always admired, cowardice never.

...wow metaphors. if you didn't understand half of it, don't worry -- i'll be back with toilet humor and trashing celebrities in no time. till then, thanks for the intellecutal (albeit rare) chitchat. if laughter's the best medicine, thinking's the best nutrition. healthy blogs need both :)

Trumped

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 16:37:00 +0000

Boo Jared Kushner.

For those who don't know, Jared recently got engaged to the stunning, chic, sweet, smart, articulate, wealthy, elegant, savvy, chest-endowed Ivanka Trump. GOD ALMIGHTY! what does he have that I don't?!?!

Well...harvard schooling, an mba, a newspaper company, a law degree, new york connections, and multimillionaire status. Psshh I say he's compensating.

But deep down everyone knows that they'll never end up with their celebrity crush, right? Actually, it's not even that deep down -- it's pretty much a surface floating fact. Doesn't mean we can't dream, though. After all, if everyone really believed in dreams or put stock in them, what would that say about our capacity to recognize true love and follow our hearts? That's why whoever wrote "A dream is a wish your heart makes" was either hopelessly romantic or asexual. Reality? A dream is a wish your crotch makes. If our hearts churned out dreams, we would be broken-hearted every day. How depressing. Instead, look around. People are generally happy with their state in the world. So here's my advice: if one of your dreams is ever shattered, remember that it has nothing to do with your heart; nothing to do with what's inside of you, alright? Your affection and passion and motivation can't be smashed by a few broken dreams, so protect your heart and let your crotch take the beating...ok that came out wrong.

So guess what? I'm going to keep dreaming. If Ivanka emulates her daddy's divorce rate, I'll have many MANY opportunities with her in the future. But for now, best wishes to Ivanka and Jared. May your marriage be filled with happiness and, if one day it isn't, may all my dreams come true.

AHHHH

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 22:45:00 +0000

Oh no! I left my second entry of the month right till the very last second!

So...what's new, bloggies? Nothing on my end. Every day I literally wake up, write for six hours, run on the treadmill and then veg before going to sleep and repeating the cycle. Seriously, I'm like a period: all I do is run, stick to a schedule, and run some more.

Here's the thing about exercising, though. I'm an ectomorph. Tall, high metabolism, low muscle mass. This makes it extremely hard to actually accomplish anything by exercising. If I run, I burn off the only calories I have to build muscle, and since there's nothing on my bones to begin with I can't even get built in the first place. It's frustrating! My body has officially announced 'screw you'. The only thing to do is eat and eat and eat. And here's the worst part...nothing I eat does anything! I can have fourteen pieces of cheesecake and nothing happens.

Isn't that the absolute worst thing that has possibly ever happened in the history of human existance???

But seriously, if all I eat is crap and don't do cardio my heart starts choking like Jabba the Hut. I've tried creatine, weight lifting, and protein supplements. Nadda. I will say, however, that my abs are decent. Perfect. A six pack and spaghetti arms -- what a combo!

...

Geez, now I'm craving beer and spaghetti. I think I'll have some! It's just too bad that I know no matter how much I eat and drink, it won't make one hell of a difference. Oh well, looks like I'll just have to suffer ;)

Hey Asshole, want some butter?

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 06:03:00 +0000

Ever wonder why I'm like an old, bitter, cranky troll on this blog but a smart, suave, and all around muscular/keep-it-cool kinda guy in real life? Well here's my secret. In grade nine I started working at my hometown's one and only movie theatre. Being naturally skilled at popcorn scooping, I quickly advanced in the ranks to a box office position and, three years later, attained the highest accolade achievable by mortal cinema staff: projectionist. Throughout those four tender adolescent years my every emotion was molded by that theatre. Anger, joy, jealousy, arousal, and utter contempt. Mood swings came and went with the movies -- comedies brought joy; dramas induced sadness; and anything Halle Berry raised embarassing questions. A strong part of my personality that formed was patience. People may not know it, but theatre workers are extremely tenacious. Let me elaborate with a recent example.

SCENE:

The theatre lobby is bustling with crowds rushing to see the latest Beyonce thriller, "Obsessed". An OLD BALDING BASTARD approaches the concession counter.

OLD BALDING BASTARD: Gimme four cokes and popcorns! And a kids thing with blue sucker and slushie whatsit.

CIVILIZED DEVON: Which sizes of popcorns, sir? And I'm sorry but we don't have blue suckers, although I'd be happy to give your child a green one and compliment it with a tasty raspberry slush.

The Old Balding Bastard doesn't even respond. Civilized Devon does the order without losing his cool. The man pays and leaves.

END SCENE

Everyone knows that popcorn sizes and sucker flavors aren't the end of the world, right? I've learned to not get worked up over these ignorant, obnoxious people. But how would the scene go if I were cranky Blog Devon?

SCENE:

The lobby is bustling with crowds rushing to see the latest Beyonce thriller, "Obsessed". An OLD BALDING BASTARD approaches the concession counter.

OLD BALDING BASTARD: Gimme four cokes and popcorns! And a kids thing with blue sucker and slushie whatsit.

BLOG DEVON: What sizes of popcorns?

OLD BALDING BASTARD: I dunno. Medium. Make it large. No, medium.

BLOG DEVON (getting angrier): Did you want butter?

No answer.

BLOG DEVON: Butter?!

Still no answer.

BLOG DEVON: Hey Assole! You want some butter?

The entire lobby turns to see the commotion.

OLD BALDING BASTARD: Uhh sure, whatever.

BLOG DEVON: No! It's not whatever. It's my job, alright? I ask if you want butter and you say, since you weigh 400lbs, "yes, fourteen layers please". And while we're at it, it's not called a 'slush whatsit'. It's a slush puppy, bitch. Get it through your fat meat head that we have blue slush puppies, not blue suckers. And speaking of drinks, we sell pepsi not coke. Honestly, douche, what masterpiece movie are you in such a rush to see that you can't give me these tiny details?

OLD BALDING BASTARD (gulp): Obsessed.

BLOG DEVON: Obsessed? Obsessed?! With Beyonce??? Alright, all the single ladies put your hands up!

All of the single women in the lobby tentatively raise their hands, confused.

BLOG DEVON: GOD! GET REAL BLOODY LIVES!!

Blog Devon jumps on the counter and starts spitting at the single ladies with his weird drool-jet tongue squirts. He kicks over the popcorn equipment (crushing three children) and yanks the butter machine out of the wall, pounding the knob and firing streams of hot scalding butter into the panicking crowds.

BLOG DEVON: YOU WANT BUTTER WITH THAT? HUH?! MORE BUTTER???

SCENE.

Moral of the story: If you have trouble remaining calm around idiots, remember that they aren't worth an ounce of your time or energy. Seek professional help before attempting anything drastic. And if you can't afford therapy, try writing blogs.

Pop It, Lock It, Polka Dot It

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Sat, 23 May 2009 20:27:00 +0000

That title's my pathetic attempt to attract millions of Hannah Montana fans to this blog. Exploitation, you say? I'll tell you what's exploitation. Exploitation is throwing underage-slash-overproduced Miley Cyrus on Cineplex screens and charging me $6.50 to watch her "act".

That will be all.

Actually you know what? That won't be all. I also saw Night at the Museum 2 (so what, you wanna fight about it?). Don't even get me STARTED on that movie.

It was great. Wonderful. Light, playful, and perfect. Go see it.

...What? I'm not an angry, heartless bastard all the time ;)

Frustrating Fantasy

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Fri, 08 May 2009 20:21:00 +0000

Last night I fell asleep to Britney Spears' If U Seek Amy. You think that sounds absolutely ridiculous? It was, but I dare you to try it. Why? Because -- I kid you not -- Britney entered my dreams.

It took place in a strange Las Vegas-ish resort. Top floor, executive suite. There was a GIANT red mattress (equal in size to five kings pushed together), and a jacuzzi that smelled like cotton-candy bubblegum...

The next thing I remember is Britney coming out of a door, completely decked out in her Circus costume.

"Our hue red he fourth hiss?" she whispered.

ummm...wtf?

She didn't say anything else. She simply hopped on the mattress and started giving me the most spine-tingling, toe-twirling massage you can ever imagine. That's right. I was rubbed up, down and all around by Britney Spears. And it was good.

"House sit feal ink?" she suddenly whispered again.

I twitched. "House sit feal ink?" hmm...house-sit-feal-ink...house-it-feel-ink..house-it-feeling...

How's it feeling!?

Good god, I suddenly understood. She was speaking in Mad Gabs.

"If eel soup her," I responded without thinking.

GASP! And I was too!!

"Real hacks," she said as I sprung for the exit, "Isle prom hiss two day gets low." She wrapped her arms around my pounding chest once more, getting closer, and murmured softer, "Butt eye em sofa king whore knee."

...

Now hold on a bloody second. Normally I'd say that if Britney Spears appeared in my dream, I wouldn't hold one muscle back. But these dirty mad gabs of hers were driving me up the freaking wall. So I turned to her, focusing all my mindpower on speaking normally, and said, "See here, Britney. I know it's hard but please, for the love of God, stop talking like that. No one thinks it's sexy, alright? Just...try better."

She looked up, disappointed, and replied "Sore he, deaf in."

My eyes snapped open, staring back up at my ordinary condo ceiling. The monster size bed, the bubblegum jacuzzi, and Britney Spears had all vanished.

Looking back on it, I think I did the right thing. Someone seriously has to sit Britney down and tell her that her lyrics border severely retarded. As for myself, I'm hoping that she'll revisit my subconscious sometime soon. Between me and you, Gimme More is going on repeat tonight.

Past Blast Part 2

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Fri, 01 May 2009 02:24:00 +0000

OK bloggies, I'm back for round 2. Be sure to read the blog before this one to know what's going on (basically I've gone back to the 90s with hopes of debunking once awesome anime shows). Yesterday I had my way with Sailor Moon, and now it's time to move on to a whole other league. That's right. You haven't heard nothin' yet.

Now, admittedly, I could go off on every shitty cartoon concept ever created in the last decade -- Samurai Pizza Cats, Shark Attacks, Captain Planet -- but honestly, it's not worth my time. Why? Because, well, no one cares about most of them. And notice that I didn't bring up Care Bears. Any kid who watched Care Bears has been made fun of enough. Just leave them alone.

Think bigger -- I'm talking HISTORICAL. Listen closely. Twice every hundred years the Japanese unleash something that threatens North American homeland security. The first major attack of the 20th century happened on December 7th, 1941.

It was Pearl Harbor.

The second attack aired September 8th, 1998. It was much more subtle. It was much more evil. It was much more deadly.

It was Pokemon.

DO NOT LAUGH! Pokemon has destroyed many more souls than atomic bombs or nuclear warfare ever will. Don't believe me? Let me show you the truth.

Everyone was bloody obssessed with the show when it came out. Fair enough -- it boasted cool fights for boys and cutesy creatures for girls. Unlike Trailerpark Moon, the characters had dignity and the plot-line was decent...

Pokemon, however, was a virus. All of a sudden there were gameboy games. And action figures. And books, and movies, and stuffed animals. But you know what, none of that really mattered because of one key component: trading cards.

They BRAINWASHED us. "Gotta catch 'em all," the voices whispered. "Buy more packs, steal the shineys-- do whatever it goddamn takes!"

Gulp. And did we ever.

I lost my Pokevirginity to a cute girl at church. One Sunday School morning she slipped an Abra in my palm like it was some sacred holy communion wafer -- and in God The Father's holy household, of all places! Can anyone say 'False Idol'? But I didn't care; hell, it was free! A gift! Satan's own starterpack ;)

But that was just the beginning. This stuff was meth on school playgrounds. I can still see the shady transactions underneath the steel slides. Twitchy kids, scratching at imaginary itches while they pawn their Pikachus and get high off holographic pokeporn. There were dealers and burnouts, beggars and bitches. Status was defined by HP, and "he's huge" referred to deck size.

Truly terrifying times.

Looking back on the 90s, I can honestly say that I'm surprised any kid could survive through that TV-show-shit. It was madness, and for what? Our card collections are worthless today. Of course, maybe they'll hold high values waaaaay down the road, but I am not gonna sit around scratching my pokeballs waiting for that to happen.

So there you have it, my blast from the past -- hope you enjoyed the journey as much as I have! I'll admit there may have been some turbulence, but nothing's ever as fun without the bumpy bits. Stay tuned, stay in touch, and stay beautiful, my bloggies. As always.

Past Blast Part 1

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Wed, 29 Apr 2009 15:45:00 +0000

I sincerely apologize for this blog becoming a bad one night stand lately. I think it happens with all blogs -- the writer riles you up at the start, you both have a little fun, maybe a LOT of fun, and then suddenly the bastard jets off without warning. Yep, the SOB just jumps out the window right when you're getting used to them, damnit.

Well, good news: Susan Blip's too fat to fit through the window. This blog is here to stay, no matter how inconsistant or flakey or rude it comes off as. I'm not ready for big blog commitments, but just because we souldn't get attached doesn't mean we still can't have fun ;)

So let's cut this foreplay and get to the good stuff!

This is part one of a two-parter blog entry entitled "Past Blast". I'm going back in time to rediscover a particular fad from the 90s. A fad, you ask? Which one?

Pogs? Nope.

Hammerpants? Try again.

The Running Man? The Macarena? Carleton's dance from Fresh Prince? Pff, yeah right.

Still can't guess? Well buckle your blog-belts because...drumroll...shitty anime shows are making their comeback!

Let's kickstart this time-travel with two simple words:

Sailor. Moon.

Hands up -- who loved Sailor Moon? Come on guys, don't be ashamed. I admit my love 100%! Honestly, she was global porn for preteen boys. Popular but humble, strong but girly. And what a kickass theme song!

Fighting evil by moonlight,
Winning love by daylight,
Never running from a real fight,
She is the one named Sailor Moon.

But that was then, this is now. Through a startling revelation, I've come to realize that Sailor Moon was merely a horrible trap for children. Let me elaborate.

Girls, take a look at Miss Moon. Is she a good role model? Far from it! Oftentimes she can't even beat the enemy without relying on other people. And don't get me started on that transformation sequence. Listen carefully, Sailor Moon: closing your eyes and twirling around in colorful patterns only to wake-up in different clothes does not mean you're a superhero, alright? It means you've been roofied. Like three times per episode.

And boys? Don't fall for this TV trash. A relationship with Sailor Moon will not work. She's fighting evil by moonlight and winning love by daylight; between the two she can't even find time to book a goddamn haircut -- what makes you think she'll have time for you? And don't give me that "hot skirt" excuse. "But, but, b-but..." you protest? But nothing. Do you really want a relationship with some skank in spandex whose pants are less than two inches long? Trust me, everyone is sneeking peeks at Sailor Poon. You can do better.

Stay tuned for more 'Past Blast' tomorrow! I would keep writing, but I have a final in less than two hours. Plus I'm still in pajamas.

...But wait! If I try spinning around with my eyes shut maybe I'll magically change clothes like Sailor Moon!

[insert long pause while Devon tries twirling in feminine patterns]

...

Nope. Definitely need crack for that.

Newscasts

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Tue, 07 Apr 2009 05:06:00 +0000

Since it's an indisputable fact that the news is boring, I've decided to periodically pluck out only the stories that I find interesting. Now you won't have to worry about being up to date with the world's goings-on because I'll have already briefed you on absolutely everything that's important. You're welcome.

Newcast #1:

"A new Canadian study has found that sexual behaviour in the workplace, such as flirting, jokes, propositions and innuendoes, has a negative effect on productivity — even those who said they enjoy it."
(http://www.vancouversun.com/Life/Sexual+banter+work+beneficial+study/1470524/story.html)
.
Jesus, finally a good explanation of why grades get worse the older we get.

Newscast #2:

"The mud flats surrounding a Kamloops lake in the B.C. Interior devoured a woman's pants and would have swallowed her too without help from firefighters. The woman was in a group of people on all terrain vehicles out near the lake on Saturday when several of the ATVs became stuck. Kamloops Fire Chief Duncan Harvey says the woman was buried up to her waist and her friends tried for an hour to free her before calling for help. "
(http://cnews.canoe.ca/CNEWS/WeirdNews/2009/04/05/9017236-cp.html)

Great, even Mother Nature's a pervert.

Newscast #3:

"Police in Detroit have ruffled some feathers after they cracked down on an organized pillow fight at a downtown park. The Detroit News newspaper reports police at Campus Martius Park prevented the feathery fight Saturday by disarming pillow-toting participants. Michael Davis says police confiscated the 32-year-old man's pillows but returned the cases. He says he was told he needed a permit."
(http://cnews.canoe.ca/CNEWS/WeirdNews/2009/04/04/9007361-ap.html)

Sooooo....Detroit's violent crime rate: 2289 (wiki). Detroit's pillow-offenders rate: 0.

------------------

And that's it. You're good to go until the next time I update the news.

Squirt

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Sun, 29 Mar 2009 19:26:00 +0000

I have a medical problem. I'm man enough to admit it. It's sort of embarassing, though...especially in certain circumstances...but here it is. Plain and simple.

I squirt.

Well, my mouth squirts. Like sometimes I'll open up to say something and, without warning, streams will just jet out. Actually, it kind of looks like Spiderman's webs...except it's slobbergoo flowing from my under-tongue.

eeEEeeeEeeEEwww, you say?

eeEEeeeEeeEEww indeed.

I first discovered this mutant ability at the dentist's office six years ago. He said "open up" and it simply came spritzing out. It was funny; we laughed. But it didn't stop. His assistants kept trying to go in with their Dr. Seuss instruments, but my mouth wouldn't let them. It just kept squirting and squirting and squirting! And let me tell you, it is NOT hilarious to have the fifty-five year old hygenist tell you "you're quite the squirter". yeesh.

I didn't think about it for a long time afterwards (I mean, how often do 'drool jets' come up in everyday convo?), until I saw the first X-MEN movie, that is. This quote got me thinking:

JEAN GREY: Ladies and gentlemen, we are now seeing the beginnings of another stage of human evolution. These mutations manifest at puberty, and are often triggered by periods of heightened emotional stress.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm....

I'm convinced!

But seriously, whether I had slobbergoo [starting to like that word] powers, or was just some weird kid, I didn't want anyone knowing. So I suppressed that talent.

Cut to last week: I was in my prof's office. We were going over an assignment when, from out of nowhere, I opened my mouth and squirted all over the papers.

The prof cocked an eyebrow. She straightened up, leaned forward, and whispered telepathically, "You have a gift!"

OK OK OK, so that last bit's a lie. But I did squirt her papers then try to wipe it up while she watched apathetically. Oh if only you could see that squinty look she gave me...pursed lips, raised eyebrows, semi-frown...it made me angry -- SO angry that I whipped open my mouth again and shot her right in the eyeball.

...ok so that's a lie too. but boy i wished i could.

i know this whole mouth squirting thing isn't actually that uncommon, but who knows? apparently it's called 'gleek'. maybe I just gleek more than most people. Besides, if that's the weirdest thing I've got going on, I'll take it!
.
So that's my story (2 blog posts in March -- I hit my target!). One more thing before I go, though. A warning, if you will:

If we ever meet in real life, please don't ask me to "squirt my slobbergoo". It's just awkward.

Post Patty's Day

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 19:46:00 +0000

Here's the thing...I haven't blogged for almost a month. I apologize, but please understand that I've been more busy than God was in the first week of creation -- PLUS I don't even get my own sabbath. So deal with it.

***********

Here's a St. Patrick's Day poem I wrote yesterday. Usually I don't post material online, but this one has an important message that everyone should hear. Enjoy!

The Shamrock Resignation

On Saint P’s Day of March ’09,
All leprechauns worldwide resigned.
To sum it up, they’d had enough --
The year was bad and times were rough.

See, stocks in gold hit bottom lows,
Then left and right their banks foreclosed.
On every channel, news was bleak
And spirits waned with every week.

So boarding up their woodland homes,
They waved goodbye to elves and gnomes;
They traded in their shoes for boots,
Their hats for caps and coats for suits.

Nevermore would any slide
Down rainbow ribbons in the sky,
Nor play their flutes or jig through mobs,
For all now needed steady jobs.

So off to interviews they went,
With no skills or experience,
And, big surprise, they failed at those,
Losing out to Average Joes.

For months and months things just got worse,
Like some 1930’s curse,
“But wait!” cried out the Irish midgets,
“That’s it! Let’s build up army widgets!
We’ll start a war, it fuels new jobs,
To help out all the unskilled slobs.”

So off to work the small men went,
Sweating to the full extent.
They built an army, strong hate brewin’,
Then waged a war...upon the humans!

The humans laughed, was this a joke?
These tiny things who once were broke
Now thought they’d stand up face to face
To battle out the human race?

But war was war – begun at noon
And, sad enough, was done by two.
The leprechauns, all now destroyed,
Were taken down like action toys.

It's hard to see the times ahead --
Some succeed, some wind up dead;
It's sad, I know, but learn the lesson:
Don’t start wars to fight recessions.

Fairytale Ending

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 16:46:00 +0000

For those of you who don't know, I'm back. Voila, ta-da -- poof! Returned in one piece. Yup, survived the Toronto airport again (stroke off goal #5), which no doubt you were restlessly worrying about, so thanks. Much appreciated.

My last few days in Orlando were wonderful, yet uneventful. Thursday was our shopping day, and let's just say my debit card was used and abused more than most prostitutes. Friday was Islands of Adventure where, excitingly enough, these were posted everywhere imaginable:

Alas, the Harry Potter themepark doesn't open for another whole year. *Bittersweet sigh*

I also went to a dinnershow called 'Arabian Nights' that revolved around stallions, unicorns and genies. These people were nuts -- they'd do flips off galloping steeds, race around in chariots at 60mph, and execute complex choreography on the backs of the animals. The best way I can describe it is 'So You Think You Can Dance', but with horses :S

By the time Saturday rolled around, I didn't want to say farewell to Florida. Sometimes you're ready for trips to end and sometimes you're not, you know? This was one of those latter times.

But, as we all know, good things must come to an end. I was actually thinking about that on the way up my last rollercoaster ride on Friday. I remember climbing The Hulk higher and higher and higher, looking around and seeing the whole themepark below. The spectacular Simpson ride off to the right; Disney somewhere in the distance; and seagulls divebombing innocent onlookers throughout the streets. The view pretty much summed up my whole trip, and what a gorgeous view it was...oh, until four women in the row ahead of us stuck up their arms just as our cart sailed over the peak.

Goal #4? Check.

Goal #1

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 02:19:00 +0000

Today was Magic Kingdom day -- the one and only day I had to hunt down some Cinderella lovin'!

We arrived at the park bright and early (knew it was going to be busy), and hit all the big rides right away. This park is our specialty. Space & Splash Mountians, Pirates of the Caribbean, Haunted Mansion, etc. -- all done by noon. See, my family has Disney down to a science. We know exactly when and where to go at which times, and how to get there by any array of super secret twists and turns. This is hardcore Disneying, people. If you can't keep up, get the hell out of our way because we have trampled children in the process. Plain and simple: survival of the fittest.

Anyways, I swear I tried and tried all day to find that sweet Cinderella. I watched two castle performances and scanned Fantasy Land, but alas -- no princess to be found. Sure I saw other princesses, but none of them would do. Snow White? No way, that slut has seven dwarf orgies. Ariel? No thanks (she probably tastes fishy). Jasmine? Anorexic. Pocahontas? Not technically a princess. Nala? Not into beastiality.

Gah. Then, at the end of the day, I was walking along Mainstreet and found this:

Notice my pouting phantom face lurking behind Cinderella on the left.

There she was, in robot form, dancing with that prissy Prince Charming. I was enraged. Why did all the other princesses show up to greet their fans? Was she too good for us? Too egotistical?

I marched back up to the castle, enraged, and went straight for her lousy fountain.

Me giving Cunterella statue a big, fat finger.

So, disappointly, I did not accomplish goal #1. I apologize. I did my best.

I do feel slightly sorry for Cinderella, though. I know Prince Charming is cheating on her -- all the other princesses have rooms in his castle too. After all, girls, can you imagine some suave guy asking you back to his place, then taking you home to this:

Every girl's dream

.
Seriously. Who wouldn't say yes?

Gobsmacked

d.h.bryce@hotmail.com (Devon) — Wed, 18 Feb 2009 04:06:00 +0000

Today was one helluva day. Wow. I think I may have even lost my faith in humanity because of something I witnessed. I am confused, flabbergasted and shocked to the core. Let me explain in detail.

Today was another day at Disney, this time at their Hollywood Studios park. This place is Wicked with a capital 'W'. Tower of Terror, Rockin' Rollercoaster, the American Idol experience -- its got some pretty sweet stuff. To our delight, a new Toy Story attraction just opened up and, in a time slump, we thought we'd check it out. Due to our intricate plan of carefully calculated Fastpasses (those of you who have been to Disney know what I'm talking about), we were all out of 'quick line' tickets and had to use the normal lineup.

There was an estimated wait time of 80 min. Not good, not horrible either. So we followed a family of four inside.

Now this Toy Story ride is a maze of unorganized bullshit, let me tell you. You squish inside these tiny lineups, stand around without moving a step for ten minutes, and when you do move, you're zigging and zagging in the stupidest ways while never even catching a glimpse of the loading point. I was getting impatient, nevermind the nine dozen ADHD brats bouncing off the walls. Argh. Just another line at Disney.

...or was it?

One of the kids in the family ahead of us was getting antsy only twenty minutes into the building. This boy loved attention. He wailed, and laughed and leaped up and down all over dad; teased his sister, made faces at the other kids -- just a grade A jackass.

Then he gets more riled up. Apparently, from the way he was crossing his legs, he had to go pee. Perfect. Mom and dad were at the end of their wits with him, ready to throw in the towel and go home, but they'd already waited a half hour in line and there was no end in sight.

I knew what was coming next. Dad would take the boy, push past all the people in line to get to a bathroom, then shove himself back by budding rudely in front of everyone again. Irritating and embarassing. But dad didn't like that idea.

He and mom exchanged a few words while their son screamed more, yelling for the bathroom. Mom's last words were "sometimes it's just what parents gotta do".

Gotta do what? I sighed and backed up against the rail, ready to let them inch behind me for the door.

But dad didn't move back; he kneeled down. He kneeled down and took out an empty water bottle, pulled down the kid's fly and popped the bottle on like some tank to a hose.

GOBSMACKED

I flung myself against the wall, trying not to laugh or scream, or scream with laughter.

That's not even all. When the boy was done (and quite satisfied, mind you) dad carried the used bottle around until we passed the next garbage can 10 minutes later. JUST CARRIED IT LIKE IT WAS FUCKING APPLE JUICE! No parent should ever "gotta do that"!

Please, everyone pray tonight. Christian or not, I don't care; throw your hands up and say "please, God, help humanity -- help the next genereation because this one's fucked up".

* * *

In happier, piss-free news, I scored another goal!!

After sending my family on an all-out witch hunt in Planet Hollywood, we tracked down exactly what I was looking for! Check out these:

I found her on the third floor staircase -- quite the beauty.

And after searching and searching and searching, then almost giving up, my mom erupted with excitement upon discovering...

Winifred's Spellbook!!! You cannot conceive how much I love this movie. Well...maybe James can.

Anyway, good night everyone. Farewell, February 17th, you weird day filled with karma, you. After all, was seeing a bratty ten year old piss in a bottle worth finding a spellbook bound in human skin?

Hmm...

Yup. Absolutely.