Short and Sweet

I have only time for this brief posting. I had a good line last night, good enough to remember. I will share it with you because I'm that kind of guy. You remember this when I need some money.

Last night a large group of women were at the bar. They were all in their mid 30's, and not one was attractive. Not even a little bit. They were all drunk however, and they began to grow more and more boisterous with every subsequent shot of Baja Rosa. At one point, the heavist of the group approached my friends and I. She was wearing a bridal veil, and she was carrying a clip-board and a permanent market. Clearly this was a bachelorette party.

Fat bride: "Hi, I'm having my bachelorette party. I need to get a guy's boxers before we go to the next bar."

Me: "There's going to be a wedding?"

Fat Bride: Yes, the wedding is in October.

Me: "Cool. So, are you the bride or the dowry?"

She stormed off; my friends and I collapsed in a fit of laughter.


Fat people still make me sick


Z-$

Bloody Sunday

As previously mentioned, a bar in town has Sunday night drink specials. Shots are $1.50. That means I can double fist double vodka sodas for $6 a pop. This is bad. Not just for me, but for anyone who comes in contact with me throughout the course of the evening. It is particularly bad for my roommates apparently.

I should mention that I have just moved into a new place, with two new roommates. A guy, we'll call him Roommate #1, and a girl, we'll call her Roommate #2. I knew the guy very well before we moved in, and so he obviously knew what he was getting into when he agreed to live with me. The girl I had only met once or twice. She's fairly attractive, very nice, but sort of boring. She's an accounting major and this speaks wonders about her personality. However, she certainly hasn't done anything to deserve a roommate like me. I am bad. I cannot emphasize this enough. Normally I'm just an asshole. A funny asshole, but eventually I will offend you. You know how some people can be hilarious and offensive at the same time, but they seem to have a very clear sense of where the line is and seldom cross it? Well, I urinate on that line and then mention how I did the same thing to both your sister and mother the evening before. Then I'll bring up your dead grandmother and what a whore she must have been to have pumped out your mom's entire side of the family.

See? Offensive, but funny. If you disagree, then you are wrong. I am funny, and you are not. But then alcohol comes along and ruins everything. People tell me I have two stages of drunkenness. After my first few drinks, I'm actually at my most friendly. People seem to actually enjoy talking to me, and for a while I seem to be a real pleasure to have around. Obviously, this is only temporary or I would be invited to more of my friends' family functions. But then, something happens. At some specific drink count, which I have yet to accurately measure, I lose complete control. I turn into Tie Cobb, and everyone in my immediate viewpoint suffers. Eventually, I will either end up taking home a girl (attractive or unattractive as the case may be), or I will do permanent physical damage to myself. Sometimes both.

Case and Point: Sunday night

I was hammered after somehow spending $35 on $1.50 drinks. A cute little blonde was hitting on me, and I'm pretty sure I was enjoying it. This must have gone on for an hour, until she introduced me to some douche bag with shit all over his face. I introduced myself politely not wanting to offend my slutty little companion. He seemed offended, and responded "I know you. We've met literally dozens of times. You do this every time you see me. At first I thought you were being funny, but now I think you're actually trying to offend me". The truth is, I still have no idea who this guy is, but I'll be sure to introduce myself and say "nice to meet you" the next time I see him. Anyhow, after about 30 seconds of useless small talk, I beckoned him to come closer, leaned forward, and began muttering into his ear, "Listen, this is great and all, but would you mind pissing off? I'm kind of in the middle of something, and I'm hoping there's going to be a happy ending". With this, I nodded my head towards the little blonde girl, and bid him adieu with a wave of my hand. He did not seem amused. "That's my girlfriend". She looked at me and shrugged her shoulders. I butted out my cigarette and walked away from both of them. The best part? It turns out that this guy is technically my secretary. He's the co-op student for the Commerce Society, and I'm an executive this year (yes, I'm a nerd. But my resume is spectacular). He picked the wrong guy to cockblock this time. I don't care if it was his girlfriend, that bitch wanted me and he had to go fuck it up. I have a feeling I'm going to need a lot copies made for the next few weeks, especially when his girlfriend is around. I think I'll throw coffee on him the next time he hands me a report and demand he redo it, regardless of whether or not it has any deficiencies.

Anyhow, after this I became a little discouraged. I got dragged onto the dance floor and groped a few times, but nothing seemed to be materializing out of the evening. I decided that I needed to get drunker. Then something would surely happen. I began drinking triples at 1:30. The last my friends saw me, they tell me I was trying to pick up a bartender by telling her I owned the place. She continued to inform me that the owner was both her employer and her uncle, and that I was neither. I then fired her on the spot and moved on to the next bartender.

The next thing I know it's 8:37am and Roommate #2 is banging on my door frantically.

Roommate #2: "Jesus, are you ok?"

Me: "Wha?"

Roommate #2: "Are you hurt?"

Me: "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Roommate #2: "There's blood everywhere. All over the bathroom, all over the carpets. Look, it's all over your blanket!

Me: "It wasn't me"

Roommate #2: "There's a trail of blood from the bathroom directly to your bed, and there's a pool of blood on your sheets.

Me: "It must have been Roomate #1, that's just the kind of perverted shit he's into."

Roommate #2: "Are you sure you're not hurt?"

Me: "Yea.....No actually, I'm hurt real bad. Can you make me some french toast?"

Roommate #2: "Fuck you, clean this shit up. Now."

Me: "Fine fine. How about just two eggs and some toast?"

Roommate #2: "You're a fucking idiot"

Me: "If you want me to sleep with you, just say so."

I got up and checked the bathroom. She wasn't kidding. Between the bathroom floor, the carpet, and my bed, I had lost at least a pint of blood. I had a huge gash on my foot, and it hurt like hell. The best part? I obviously didn't notice it when I did it, because there is literally a trail of blood around my room. I can trace all of my actions from the time I came home to the time i went to sleep. I can see where I got undressed. I can see where I sat at my computer for at least 30 minutes looking at porn while the blood pooled at my feet, and I can see where I actually cut my toe. There was a chunk of my skin hanging off of the corner of my metal bed frame. But, being the drunken idiot I am, I didn't even notice and continued to frolick around my apartment while the blood oozed out of my foot and into our new carpets. Best roomate ever.

Can you think of anything more disgusting than waking up and going to take a shower and instead coming across a half pint of blood smeared all over your bathroom floor? No, me neither. I think it may be too early for Roomate#2 to have to deal with this kind of thing. On one hand I feel bad, but on the other hand, my foot really hurts. It evens out, right?

It could have been worse, I could have shit in her bed.

Z-$

Clarification

After re-reading that last post, it occurs to me that I may have come off as some type of bigot, or hate-monger. While it's true I do hate fat people and attractive women that are obviously sluts and yet won't sleep with me, I am certainly not a racist. As one of only 8 Irish Jews alive in the world today (my brothers being 5 of the others) I am part of the world's smallest minority. My Irish-Jewish genetics make me both cheap, and an alcoholic. My destiny is to come home drunk from court (all Jews are practicing lawyers or accountants) every night, beat my wife, and then raid the couch for loose change.

So, to clarify, I am not a racist. I hate everyone, regardless of skin color or beliefs. In fact, I hate you. Yes, you. You, staring at your computer screen, reading this very sentence. I hate you. Why? Because life is so much easier if I don't have to feign interest in anything anyone has to say unless it somehow concerns me or will get me sex or free alcohol. I'm a simple man who enjoys simple pleasures. I'm glad we could clear this up.

I've told you I hate you twice, and yet you'll keep coming back

Z-$

School sucks ass

I hate this shit. I've been back at school for a week, and already I'm swamped with work. Do professors not understand where my priorities as a student lie? $1.50 drink specials Sunday night and slutty girls in tennis skirts do not make class attendance on Mondays conceivable.

I'm taking a second year MBA class this semester (don't ask me why they're letting me do this) and everyone in the class is a complete and utter moron. My 3 years of undergraduate experience to date have somehow made me infinitely more knowledgeable than these pencil pushers. Not only that, but I am one of 3 white people in the class. I was assigned into a case group with, I shit you not, three different guys named Mohammed. Wasn't he their one and only prophet? Shouldn't his name be some type of sacred deal? When was the last time you had a class with three guys named Jesus, or Yahweh, or Shiva, or Buddha? I'm going to name my first child God, and see how people react to that.

Anyhow, I apologize about my lack of postings, but as you can tell I'm busy trying to teach three Lebanese guys to speak English. I haven't written the fucking GMATs, I didn’t' apply to grad school, I haven't even finished my undergrad degree, and yet somehow I'm doing all the work for this stupid case in a second year MBA course. One group member, whose name I can't pronounce, simply calls himself "Dave"; this I like. If you have a name that I can't pronounce, then you should be required to change it to its North American Version. Sundaravadivelan becomes "Dave", Mohammed Achmed Samir Mohammed becomes "Jake". See? Isn't that easy? It just rolls off of your tongue. Now if you could just start wearing deodorant, maybe I wouldn't have breathe through my mouth for 3 hours straight during group sessions.

Don't get me wrong; this course is hard. It's accounting based, but it involves a lot of strategic and financial analysis, and to be honest, I think it's a little over my head. However, these fuckers have had a whole first year to develop some type of knowledge base or even simple english skills. Based on the emails they send me, I'm surprised they managed to find the Management building. Here is an example of an email I received:

Mohammed wrote:

Since both of Zachary and Sundar has to leave by 1 Pm let meet us little early what about 10 AM on Sunday...that would give us more

By the way , I write dave address with a "-" and is should be "_" I hope time is fine with dave as well.

That's right; I'm delivering a 25 minute case presentation on a strategic financial statement analysis with someone who communicates in English like that. This is exactly how he speaks, only throw in a "hey buddy" before every sentence. Only the "h" in "hey" is that harsh Middle Eastern throat sound. You know what I'm talking about, every word in Arabic and Hebrew has it somewhere.

I'm not racist or anything, I just don't understand what they're saying.


Also, if you notice typos in this posting, yes, I realize the irony. You're not clever, and your parents don't love you.

Z-$

Peppers

I apologize. I'm moving into a new place, and I'm still drunk from 4 days ago. I start class on Thursday, and I fear the only thing that will sober me up before then is my lack of funds. Feel free to donate to a hopeless, helpless, alcoholic, womanizer like me.


I will try and repost something more entertaining in the next few days. However, feel free to comment about how great I am before I come up with something good. I'll give you a quick story between now and the next worthwhile posting:

I was in Montreal at a strip club just less than a week ago (at frosh week at Mcgill no less), and apparently in Montreal they stress "contact dancing". I should clarify that the stripper I was with was hideous. My buddy's brother was too scared to get a lap dance alone, and so we agreed to take the first two strippers we saw. He made out great; I made out with a single mom who clearly would have made a better career at the world fair - in the tents that only the drunken idiots, or possibly nihilists, would venture into.

Anyhow, about 3 minutes into my "private lap dance", the circus freak informed me that I could touch her "anyhwheres" (that's the best I can impersonate a Quebecois accent in prose), to which I responded, "I'd rather die, you filthy pepper". Apparently, she didn't get the hint. She forced my hands onto her banana-shaped breasts, at which point I began to pray to every god I could think of: Allah, Shiva, Buddha, Bob Saget, fuck - even Jesus. But it was to no avail. She continued to dance, song after song, at which point I think I may have given into the vodka sodas and possibly groped her.

It was at the 10 minute mark, or so I had calculated with my astute vodka brain, that she turned to me and told me that I owed her $50. I assured her that I, in fact, had done her a service to even look at her, and if anyone was owed anything, she owed me a vodka soda and a new pair of eyes. That filthy slut. She was not amused.

She continued to demand her money, to which my response was, "Listen sweetheart, if I wanted to see the sea lion show, I would have gone to Marine Land." She was still not amused. At this point, the biggest, blackest, frenchest bouncer grabbed me by the collar and demanded my credit car. I told him I was Mormon, and as such, credit cards and black people were both the devil. This did not amuse him as much as it did me. He dragged me to the table where the rest of my friends were.

Like the wonderful friends I have, they all denied that they had ever met me.

Friend 1: "That guy? I think I saw him lighting butts from the ashtray five minutes ago."

Friend 2: "Dude, he asked me for change two blocks back and I told him I was saving it for the cooch. I guess he followed....

Friend 3: "He has at least $50 in his pocket, and another $700 in the bank. Just check his wallet. His father is the King of Prussia.

At this point, I threw my drink at friend 3, and bolted for the exit. One of the black bouncers got in my way, but I pulled a Willie Mayes and slid right between his legs. I made it down the stairs and was free. I should have played baseball – I can chew tobacco and grope my testicles with the best of them.

Although this story doesn't seem that entertaining or funny, I urge you to try and walk away from a lap dance without paying the bill. I've since been assured that had I been caught, the police would not have been contacted. Now I speak French, but there is no direct translation for Lewisville slugger. All I heard was ," Coup a coque”. This actually means a "kick in the rooster", but I don’t think that’s what they meant.


Fucking peppers.

-Z-$

End of an era

Ladies and gentleman, the day has finally come. This is my last day of work, and I’m still drunk from last night’s festivities. I have climbed my way out of the gutter below the corporate ladder. No longer am I a pencil pusher, a desk jockey, a corporate monkey.
(On a side note, Red Bull and vodka is the devil, despite any promises that Tucker Max may make about its delicious nature. Avoid it at all costs. I was flopping and twitching all night like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd Laser show).

Today I will be flying home for debriefing and homemade lasagna, and then I will be returning to school. What’s that you say? Why am I telling you this? You want to hear more about fat people and slutty girls? Well too bad. This is my blog and I’ll write about whatever I want, asshole. In fact, just for questioning me, I’m going to write about sedimentary mineral compositions in the Triassic era and how they relate to igneous formations found in the Nevada desert. Maybe next time you’ll keep your filthy pie hole shut.

Fine, you called my bluff. I don’t even know what those words mean. Sounded pretty fancy though, didn’t it?

I’ve learned a lot during my four months with this company, and I’ve decided to share some of the most important lessons with you. Hopefully, you can use them to become the model employee that I have become during this work placement.

1) I’ve learned that if you delete all your temporary Internet files and cookies twice a day, you can watch porn at work.

2) I’ve learned that no matter where I go or what company I work for; I will always be smarter, funnier, more attractive, and just generally better than any of my coworkers. I have also learned that I will always hate my coworkers, because they are stupid, ugly, and far too friendly.

3) I’ve learned that if your boss gives you a project to complete by the end of the week, the best possible course of action is to wait until Friday at 4:55pm, walk into his office, shrug your shoulders and say “I don’t get it”. Alternatively, you can just stop going to work until after the deadline. When your boss asks where the project is, tell him you gave it to him last week, and that maybe he’s been working too hard and should think about taking a vacation. When he’s not looking, wipe a booger on his desk.

4) I’ve learned that by not taking a lunch break, you can show up 2 hours late and leave 3 hours early everyday. If anyone ever questions this, you can always reply “I didn’t take a lunch break today”. If they continue to question it, wipe a booger on their mouse.

5) I’ve learned that you can entertain yourself all day by throwing wet paper towel into a group of cubicles and then blaming it on the Indian guy.

6) I’ve learned that if you show up at 1pm reeking of whiskey and insisting that you were away at meetings all morning, you should at least wash the bar stamp off of your hand before trying to explain yourself

7) I’ve learned that if you stand up every 5 minutes and peer down at the person in the next cubicle and then duck down behind the wall just as he notices you staring at him, that person will stop asking you if you have plans for lunch.

8) I’ve learned that if you stopped showing up to work, there is exactly a 7% chance that anyone would notice. And if they did notice, there would only be a 3% chance that they would care. Alternatively, if you leave work early, there is a 473% chance that the asshole in the next cubicle will remark "Early day today, huh?". There is a 673% chance that I will reply "I have to catch your kids before they get home from school"

9) I’ve learned that if you print out all the Internet sites you enjoy reading on company printers using company paper, you can spend the whole day reading it in the handicap washroom.

10) I’ve learned that if you put a banana, a bologna sandwich, and a nutrigrain bar in the staff microwave, set it on high for 20 minutes and then run away, you can ruin lunch for exactly 13 people. If the food items are not yours, you can bring the total up to 14.

That's about it. Best 4 months of my life.



Corporate Monkey #4467
Z-$

The Greatest Novel of All Time

This blog isn't as entertaining as I had previously thought. No one is posting comments, and not one single girl has recognized me in a bar and begged me to sign her cleavage (well, not for the success of this blog anyhow…). I was promised instant fame, riches, groupies, and not single, not double, but triple-ply toilet paper. The good shit. I'm losing interest in this, partly because of my ADD I'm sure, but mostly because of.....wanna go ride bikes?

So, I've decided to try a new format. Instead of ranting about fat people and alcohol-induced hijynx, I'm going to start writing a novel instead. How hard can it be? And not just any kind of novel, mine's going to be an epic sci-fi romance non-fiction autobiographical political tragic love story thriller.

It’s the true story of a young disabled boy and his pet unicorn as they travel across the United States in search of the boy’s estranged gypsy father who was kidnapped by aliens guising as politicians. The road they will travel is one filled with self-discovery, startling revelations, and hookers.

Meanwhile, a terrorist has hi-jacked a shipment of thermo-nuclear weapons and is holding the world ransom. Only a down on his luck,conservative, caucasian ex-cop and his quirky African-American partner can save the day. But will their hilarious antics caused by racial tension be enough to find the terrorists and defuse the bombs before the next lunar eclipse?

At the same time, young Monique is growing up in the 18th century French countryside with her family of peasants. Her’s is a story of hardship, as she has to tend to her dying parents while at the same time looking after her retarded half-brother and 17 sisters. We follow her as she grows from a young peasant girl forced to do the bidding of her Bourgeois masters, to a beautiful, young woman who longs to escape and join the Parisian circus. It is a heartwarming story of love and sacrifice, sacrifice and love, and tuberculosis and herpes; this is the unforgettable story of one girl’s journey to womanhood.

While all this is happening, Inga is feeling hot. She invites the hot pool boy in from the hotness of outside for a glass of lemonade to try and cool his hotness. God he is hot, thinks Inga. The pool boy takes Inga in his hot muscular pool boy arms and their red-hotness threatens to engulf the entire house in hot flames of passion. “Pool Boy, you are so hot” gasps Inga as she is engulfed in the red-hotness of his embrace. “No Inga, it is you who is hot”, the pool boy replies, almost unable to force the words through the hotness of their red-hot passion. Inga’s hot husband is set to arrive home at any minute, and the chance of getting caught is making her even hotter. Will the red-hot couple increase the hotness even more by retiring to the boudoir for hot love-making, or will Inga’s hot husband catch them in the red-hot act?

They may as well just give me the Pulitzer right now and save all the other “writers” the embarrassment. This shit is going to be awesome.

Pre-order today!

Z-$

They both die?

You've just read the ending to the movie "Open Water". Now there's no reason for you to go see it. You can thank me by sending me a cheque for the $7 you would have spent on the movie.

"Open Water" is that movie about the husband and wife that go on vacation to some Caribbean island and then decide to go on a scuba diving tour. While they're underwater molesting seahorses, the boat leaves. Apparently the tour boat operator miscounted how many people were on this particular tour. Oh no! They're lost at sea! In shark infested waters! Maybe next time they won't trust an illiterate coconut farmer to be in charge of attendance! Or maybe they would just identify themselves to the tour operator before jumping into the ocean...

Anyhow, they're stuck in the middle of the ocean with sharks literally circling below them for like 12 hours, all the while the wife is bitching and throwing up and blaming her husband for the whole thing. That bitch. The worst part is, she doesn't even put out on their first night on the island. She tells her husband that she's "not in the mood". Is that right, bitch? Well, I've got $5,000 I just spent on this stupid fucking trip to the third world that says you are in the mood. In fact, you're taking it in the ass. Twice. Bitch. I would have slapped her then and there and made her sleep outside in the dirt. But this pussy just tells his wife that it's ok, and goes to sleep. It wasn’t ok! What kind of wife crawls into bed naked, and then says she’s not in the mood? She showed the whole audience her tits! She was definitely a slut.

So they're stuck in the middle of the ocean for like 12 hours, and then the husband gets bitten by a shark. On the leg. A little tiny bite. He starts crying like a little bitch. “Ooooh, my leg hurts. Oooh, I’m dying”. What a pussy. I would have burned the wound closed Rambo-style, dove underwater, and kicked that fucker’s teeth in. Then I would have eaten its children and sold its wife to some Chinese tourists. But this guy just takes it like a winy little girl. I would have been eating shark-fin soup and selling shark-tooth necklaces out of trunk of my car within an hour.

He could have avoided this whole shark problem too. He had a little pocketknife with him that he planned on using to fend off any sharks that came near. That seemed to really work out for him. Moron. He had it all wrong. What he should have done was cut his wife good and deep, and then swim in the opposite direction. Her blood would have attracted all the sharks and they would have eaten her instead, leaving him free to frollick all the way back to land. The minute she started complaining, he should have stabbed her in the thigh and pushed her underwater. He would have been safe from the sharks, and free to purchase a hotter, less bitchy wife upon his return to the third world island.

Does he take my advice? No. He bleeds to death in his wife's arms. Then his wife just lets his body go! She pushes it away, and the sharks eat it. What a bitch. At least she could have held on for more than 30 seconds. She doesn’t even check for a pulse. For all she knows the husband is just sleeping. If it was me, I’d be pretending to sleep so I didn’t have to listen to this bitch complain for 12 hours. Then she dives underwater and the movie ends. I'm guessing she saw a $5 bill on the ocean floor or something, that greedy slut. She dies too.

That's the whole movie. It wasn't half bad actually. Except for the end. And the beginning. And all of the middle part.


Sharks make me nervous

Z-$

Maddox Would Be Proud

I took an ugly vegetarian home the other night. It wasn’t my fault; it was all my roommate’s doing.

We were taking advantage of happy hour at the dirtiest bar in town, double-fisting $3.00 double rye and gingers, and laughing at the fat girl parade on the dance floor. One of them, I shit you not, had a t-shirt on that said “If this bus is a rockin’, don’t come a knockin’”. Her off-balance gyrations to the sounds of R. Kelly, did in fact, ensure that this bus, was indeed, a rockin’. It was hypnotizing. Her belly, which wasn’t completely concealed by her 4-sizes too small t-shirt, was jiggling at a pace slightly slower than the rest of body, making it seem like she was not one, but two people on the dance floor. This was not a bus; it was a fucking train - the fatty-express to gravy-ville. I certainly wasn’t about to come a knockin’.

Happy hour only lasts from 11-12, and then drinks go from $1.50 up to $4.00. In that one hour, I managed to spend $35. Excluding $5 for tips, that’s ten doubles. That’s twenty shots of whiskey in an hour. That’s not good. Have you ever looked at a girl and thought to yourself. “I wonder how much I would have to drink to make her look attractive”. The answer is 20 shots of whiskey. It doesn’t’ matter who the girl is. It doesn’t matter what type of lighting you’re in. You drink 20 shots of whiskey and she’ll be the hottest thing you’ve ever set eyes on.

My roommate and I continued to watch the dance floor, both appalled and mesmerized by what we saw. As I began to shout obscenities, we started to get dirty looks from some of the other cellulitely-abled girls standing near us in the bar area. I of course, was completely oblivious to the clan of sneering hamburglars. Whiskey coursed through my veins, and once it mixed with nicotine in my bloodstream, I was completely invincible. Here are some of the better lines that I can remember from the night.

Roommate: “Hey honey, is your blood-type Ragu?”

Me: (talking to a Japanese exchange students as a fat chick walked by): “Ahhhhh! It’s God-Zirra! Run! Run!”

Me: (to girls at the bar ordering shots): “Ladies, it doesn’t make you look more attractive if YOU drink the shots.”

Roommate: (To two fat girls wearing tube tops they had no business wearing): “Oh my god, my sister and her friend were wearing these exact same shirts! Wait a minute, those are their shirts! You ate my sister!”

We were shit-housed. Most of the other people in the bar, unless they were fat, were loving it. These three guys were egging us on, pointing out ugly girls and asking us what we thought. Most of the other girls in the bar were laughing hysterically. Unfortunately, most of the girls in the bar were a few notches short of attractive. It’s a good thing I had 20 shots of whiskey punch-bagging my liver, otherwise I wouldn’t have looked twice at these gremlins.

My roommate started to talk to these two girls in the corner as I went to the bar and got another drink. I kept looking over at their table, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out if these two girls were attractive, unattractive, fat, thin, men - I had no fucking clue. At first I thought it was the lighting, but I'm certain it was the whiskey-fueled retardedness. "Fuck it", I thought, "Daddy needs some action". As soon as I sat down, the girls ordered a round of shots.
After the second round, it didn't matter what they looked like. I could barely hold my head up. One of the girls started telling me about her trip to Europe. I immediately decided that she was an idiot, and so dismissed every place she mentioned as a tourist trap.

Indiscernible: I really loved Florence and Naples. They were so beautiful.

Me: Are you fucking kidding me? I'm assuming you just sat in a Mcdonalds, drank Starbucks coffee, and talked about MTV?

Indiscernible: Greece was really amazing. I loved Crete.

Me: Crete? Did you stay in the Holiday Inn or the Hojo's? Did you goto IHOP for breakfast?

Indiscernible: I was also in the Balkans for a while. Belgrade was beautiful.

Me: Did you go to the waterpark or did you just stick to the roller coasters?

In retrospect, none of this made any sense. But it was funny to me. I assumed she would simply stop speaking to me and leave the table, taking her drunk friend with her. Quite the opposite; she was loving me. I must have called her a harlot and a floozy at least 4 times, and she couldn't get enough of me. At this point, my roomate excused himself and pulled me over to the bar.

Roommate: Dude, these chicks want it.

Me: I know. But can you tell what they look like? I mean, are we talking Betty Crocker or Aunt Jemima?

Roommate: No man, these chicks are hot. They want it.

Me: Listen, there are a lot of identifiably hot chicks in this bar. We can go find some.

Roommate: Are you not hearing me? These chicks want IT dude. IT.

Me: I'm fucking hearing you. We just need to confirm that these two girls aren't shit bags.

Roommate: Ahhh fuck it. Let's just take them home. If they're real ugly, we can put bags on their head. We'll never tell anyone. These chicks want it.

Me: You're despicable.

Roommate: I call the hot one.

I didn't bother asking him to point out the so-called "hot-one". The next thing you know we're all back at my apartment. The two girls were talking about they're jobs at some shitty music store for ugly chicks or something. I was dangerously close to passing out. I mentioned that I was hungry, and that I wished we had stopped in for a Mcheartattack on the way home. All conversation stopped. They were both glaring at me like I had just farted on their grandmothers. Then they said it: they were both vegetarians. "For moral or health reasons?", I asked as I tried to prevent the monster inside me from bursting forth and tearing their faces off. "Both", they replied. My huge green muscles began to swell, tearing my button-down shirt and splitting my pants. I was Bruce Banner, and they had pissed me off.

Me: So, you think it's wrong to eat meat?

Hypocrite #1: Yeah, I don't think it's right. I think they have a right to live just like us.

Me: Is that a leather belt you're wearing?

Hypocrite #2: What? Oh, ummm, yeah....

Me: So, you don't actually mind that the animals are being slaughtered. You'd rather just keep the skin and throw the rest away?

Hypocrite #1: Well, actually, I eat Tuna. So I'm not a complete vegetarian.

Me: You mean dolphin. You're eating cute and cuddly dolphin. You're eating the most intelligent and one of the cutest animals there is.

Hypocrite #2: What? No we're not, are we?

Me: Yeah, but don't worry. Dolphin is actually healthier than Tuna because they're not bottom feeders. They have less mercury contamination. Who cares if they're endangered, they taste good. Am I right?

Hypocrite #1: Yeah, but Tuna is farmed, so it's OK.

Me: You have to be the dumbest vegetarians I have ever met. You think it's better if the animal is farmed? You'd rather that they're all kept in a box, unable to move, so that they can't develop muscles that would make their meat stringy? You think it's fair that they wait in line with their brothers and sisters waiting their turn to get cut up into little pieces so you can use their skin to keep your pants up?

Hypocrite #2: Why are you saying this stuff, stop it. Tuna are ugly anyhow.

Me: Oh I see, so the ugly animals all deserve to die. The cute animals should live. Makes a lot of sense. Do you eat rat? They're ugly. Snake? Dung beetle? Who are you to decide which animals have the right to live and which don't?

Hypocrite #2: You're such a fucking asshole.

Me: You guys have it all backwards anyhow. The cuter the animal, the better it tastes. Beef is good, but veal is better. Mutton is alright, but lamb is delicious. Rabbit, succulent. Duck, to die for. Baby seal, out of this world. In fact, from now on I'm not eating any animal that wasn't in Bambi.

Hypocrite #2: That's awful!

Me: Shut up. Just admit that you two are idiots. You're trying to be vegetarians because you saw it on MTV. Enrique, Nelly, and Usher were having a tofu party, and you thought that if you did the same thing it might make you cool. You guys aren't in it for health or moral reasons. You're in it for image. But listen, it's not working. You guys don't have one independent or original thought between the two of you. You're both idiots. You make me sick. Get out.

At this point, my roommate grabbed one of the girls and dragged her upstairs before she could respond. I looked at the other one, then the clock. I told her I was going to bed, and that she should wait down here for her friend. I insisted that she wasn't allowed to touch anything, especially the TV. She was to wait downstairs for her friend in silence, as punishment for being such a worthless sack of crap. "And I don’t' want you sleeping in here" I insisted. "If I catch you sleeping I'll pee all over you and throw you down the stairs."

I went upstairs and brushed my teeth. When I went into my room, Hypocrite #1, or maybe it was #2, was in my bed. Even after I had told her that she makes me sick, even after I insisted she wait downstairs for her friend in silence, she still wanted to sleep with me. What did I do? I wish I could say I tossed her out. I wish I could say I force-fed her three raw chicken breasts then hurled her through my living room window. No, I had sex with her. I had sex with an ugly vegetarian. I don't remember if it was good, I don't remember what it was like. But I tea-bagged my roommate the next morning just in case those girls really were ugly. My roommate is retarded.

Vegetarians smell like feet.

Z-$

Depressing Conclusion

After the debacle with the hot blonde, I decided to leave the bar alone. Instead of taking a cab, I would make the long and lonely walk home in order to punish myself for allowing someone who has never seen her own feet to get between her hot friend and my penis.

It should be noted that earlier in the evening, my ex-girlfriend managed to corner me and started grilling me about the summer, how I was doing, how it was good to see me, why I hadn't called her....you know, crazy ex-girlfriend bullshit. She was shamelessly throwing herself at me, laughing at everything I said - ironically, just like the hot blonde would be later that night. Her hair was all disheveled, and it looked pretty funny. It kind of reminded me of Rick James. This isn’t' to say she looks like Rick James. She is hot; this was just a bad night for her hair. I told her that the 70's called and they want their hair back. I was hoping to offend her so that she would stop speaking; she thought it was hilarious and started to throw herself at me even more shamelessly. So, I took the best course of action possible given the dire circumstances that I was in. I poured half of my drink on her shirt, apologized for being so “clumsy”, and offered to run to the bathroom to get some paper towel. Obviously I never went back. Yes, I am an asshole…but a sneaky asshole.

My year and a half long relationship with her taught me that I am not and never will be, relationship material. I cannot feign interest in what a woman is saying, I cannot pretend to have feelings or any sort of insight into them, and I cannot pretend that I don't think I’m more intelligent, more attractive, and pretty much better than you in every possible way. Seriously, I'm so full of myself that it's hard to believe my neck can support my over-sized head - both figuratively and literally. The real problem is that chicks go for this type of thing. Women love an asshole, and I am more than happy to indulge them. So really, it's not my fault that I'm like this, it's their fault. If they would only admonish me for the things I say and do, I would be a much better person. But instead I'm forced to point out their shortcomings and the short coming of all their friends, sleep with them, and then never speak to them again.

Anyhow, I was about halfway through the lonely walk of a man who knows he's going home alone to masturbate to the Paris Hilton video, when a cab pulled up beside me. The back window slowly rolls down - it's the ex-girlfriend, and she's telling to me to get in. Never mind the fact that I had never gotten her the paper towel. Never mind the fact that she had watched me hit on this blonde all night. Never mind the fact that the night I broke up with her, after a year and a half, I told her that if she didn't stop fucking crying she was going to have to leave. Then I called her pathetic and made her leave anyway.

She opened the cab door and told me to hurry up. Normally I would have laughed at her, told her how pathetic she was, and continued to stumble home. But, I was totally shit-housed, and so naturally my dick was responsible for any decision-making activities that evening. So, I got in the cab, went to her place, and we hooked up. It wasn't even good. In fact, it kind of sucked. I remembered why I had broken up with her in the first place. And afterwards, she tried "talking". You know, "are you happy?", “what are you thinking about?” and gay shit like that. So, I obviously got dressed and ran home. I didn't even give her the standard 10 minute buffer time when you pretend that you actually care what they have to say, and have an interest in ever seeing them again. All in all, it was a shitty night. Alcohol fucked me again, and yet I know I'll keep going back to it. I’m Tina, Crown Royal is Ike. It hurts me because it loves me.


I'm pathetic, and chicks like it.

Z-$

Fuck the "We Gotta Go" Girl

It happens to the best of us. It happens to the worst of us. It happens when we’re wasted, when we’re trying to get wasted, even when we’re sober. It happens when all we want to do is take home the first girl that will even look over in our direction.

It will all start innocently enough. You’re at the bar making small talk with a tall blonde. Things are going well, so you offer to buy her a drink (or just give her the money). Your witty drunken banter is more than enough to impress this graduate of the Toronto School of Aesthetics, and she is loving you. She is your biggest fan. Nothing you say can go wrong. She is clinging to you like a fat-person clinging to the last Krispy Kreme. She’s laughing at all of your jokes, and squeezing your forearm as she does. She’s displaying all the subtle "fuck-me" signs that a slick womanizer like you is so adept at picking up. She’s playing with her hair, twirling her straw in her drink, touching your penis, making direct eye contact – this girl wants it and she wants it bad. You buy her a few more drinks just to make sure that if the word “no” is uttered later in the evening, you can use her “indecipherable slurred speech” as a defense in court. Not one hour later, she’s all but signed, sealed, and delivered.

She’s gonna get it, and she’s gonna get it bad, am I right? This bitch has no idea what she’s in for, does she? She won’t be walking right for a couple of days, will she? You’re going to shit on her chest and pee in her mouth while reading Haiku, aren’t you? You sick fuck.

As you start to lead her out of the bar, it suddenly happens, just like it has so many times before. Her fat friend, who has never been laid by anyone but the Burger King, comes out of nowhere. You’ve seen her dozens of times before because somehow, this fat girl is best friends with every hot drunken slut in the entire city. She’s the Moriarti to your Holmes, the Skeletor to your He-man, the Gargamel to your smurfs. She is man-slut kryptonite.

Now Roseanne is the only thing standing between you and filthy drunken sex with a liquored- up blonde, and you know that the only way through is with a large stuffed-crust pizza and a side-order of gravy. You get butterflies in your stomach. You know what’s about to happen, but you’re still in denial. You remember that you still have a mini snickers bar in your pocket. By throwing it one way and then grabbing the blonde and bolting the other way, you think that you may be able to escape with the big-breasted jezebel. But, before you can act, the three most awful words in the English language are uttered:

“I’ve been looking all over for you. Who’s this? Oh my god, you’re so drunk. We gotta go”

Just like that, the whole night comes crashing down. The blonde will try and fight it for a split second before she realizes that she’s only a welterweight and certainly not qualified to challenge the heavyweight champion. She’ll turn and wave goodbye as her fat friend drags her through the crowd and ultimately towards the golden arches. You just got fucked again. Or rather, un-fucked.

In case you’re wondering, yes, that was me last night - wasted, horny, and about to hook up with a hot blonde. Then the fat bitch shows up. It’s not enough that she’s driven all the good buffets in town out of business, now she’s preventing me from ruining her friend for any other man that may come after me.

The only solution I see to this problem is making friends with a squirrelly guy who has a magic: the gathering card collection and no absolutely self-esteem. This way, I can pre-scout the “we gotta go girl” when I get to the bar, get the squirrelly kid drunk, and then make him hit on the fat bitch until he is either forced to sleep with her, or she devours him. Either way, I’ll be free to make my escape with the hot slutty friend.

So, I’m looking for a new recruit. The pay is shit, the job is humiliating, but let’s face it, what else do you have going for you? That’s what I thought.



I put the hate in “I hate fat people”

Z-$

There's no such thing as "Spare Change"

I was walking downtown yesterday to go shopping at Banana Republic (I’m white after all), when something strange happened. There was a filthy, bearded man sitting down on the sidewalk with a Detroit Tigers hat in his lap, and as I passed by he looked up at me. Normally, this act alone would be enough for me to kick his teeth in and pee in his filthy homeless hat, but today I was curious.

Invalid: “Spare some change sir?”

I had to think about this intriguing proposal. My usual response is to mutter, “don’t touch me” and continue walking whenever anyone approaches me on the street. This is a versatile strategy and can be used for any manner of time-burglar:

Tourist: “Excuse me, do you know how to get to the parliament buildings?”
Me: “Don’t touch me”

Crying Child: “Mister help me, I’m, I’m…lost. I c-c-can’t find my parents.”
Me: “Don’t touch me”

Policeman: “Hey buddy, did I just see you kick that little kid?”
Me: “Don’t touch me”

If you walk fast enough and don’t make any eye contact, you can usually avoid having to do anything even half-decent during the course of a day. But this guy was different. I was truly puzzled by his request. I stopped and looked down at him.

Invalid: “Hey man, you got some change?”
Me: “Change? In exchange for what?”
Invalid: Come on buddy. Help a brother out.”
Me: “Brother? Last time I checked, I wasn’t born in a dumpster.”
Invalid: “Come on man, don’ be like dat.”
Me: “Be like what? If I give you money, you’re just going to spend it on crack. Why don’t I just cut out the middleman and give my money directly to the crack dealer? At least he’ll give me something in exchange.”
Invalid: “Fuck you man. I need some money, I’m fucking hungry.”
Me: “Yeah, hungry for crack.
Invalid: No man, I ain’t like dat no more.”
Me: “That’s touching. I’ll tell you what; I’ll give you $5 if you can spell the word impecunious.”
Invalid: “Fuck you”
Me: “OK, how about destitute?
Invalid: “Are you gonna give me some money?”
Me: “I think I’ve made it pretty obvious that I’m not.”



Apparently my glue-sniffing friend here didn’t understand the basic principals of capitalism. I informed him that no one, save Mark Knopfler, gets money for nothing (and chicks for free). I work 9 hours a day just to get by. Fine, so I don’t actually work, but I’m still in the office every day, and that fucker is just sitting on the corner watching his lice-ridden hat fill up with coins. Does anyone else see anything wrong with this? He’s not even dancing or acting all crazy! I have no problems with the so-called“skilled” hobos. Far be it from me to judge a man who can play guitar and harmonica at the same time. There’s this one that hangs outside the liquor store wearing an eye patch and yelling “Arrrrrrrrrrrrrr” like a pirate. He also mumbles other random drunken gibberish and falls down from time to time. I’ll gladly give him some spare change because he’s providing entertainment and making my life seem infinitely better in comparison to his. But this asshole today, he was sitting, nay, he was lounging on the sidewalk basking in the glory of the summer sun while the masses of mentally cataleptic sheep tossed coins into his lap as they passed. He was living it up. As far as I’m concerned, his job is infinitely better than mine. He gets to work outside, he makes his own hours, he can smoke on the job, there’s no dress code, and his only boss is his addiction to crystal meth. Does it get any better that? I say no, it doesn't.

And now young people are doing it too. You know exactly what I’m talking about. The ones with all the shit in their face - rings sticking out of their cheeks, noses, eyebrows, tongues, lips – and dressed in torn army fatigues with studded black Doc Martin boots. Some have an anarchy symbol drawn on their t-shirts; others have those hollow round earrings that some African tribes use to stretch their earlobes. You know, the ones that involve creating an enormous hole in your earlobe that never grows back. This actually makes sense though, because African tribesmen and the Canadian street kids have a lot in common. Well, just one thing I guess: hunger. These fucking kids travel in packs on street corners or in parks and generally just dirty the place up. Some of them actually have rich families and nice homes, but they choose to dress and act this way because it makes them “hard”. Some beg for change, some act as “squeegee kids”, and some just sit in a circle singing Nine Inch Nails songs and smoking cigarette butts.

There’s nothing worse then walking home drunk from downtown and running into a group of these illiterate garbage eaters. It usually goes something like this:

Street Kid with Shit in His Face: Hey buddy, do you have an extra smoke?

I take out my pack of cigarettes, open it up, and examine the contents.

Me: Sorry, they didn’t put any extra ones in this pack.

Fat Girl with Vampire Fangs: You fucking fascist. You think you’re better than us?

Me: I think I’ll go get some FOOD and then walk to my HOME to sleep in my BED. You have yourselves a pleasant homeless evening.

Something must be done about these people, and I use the term loosely. I’m sick of being bothered by them. So, I’ve decided that the next time someone asks me for change, I’m going to politely bash his or her head in with a rock. Either that or just say, “don’t touch me”. Whatever I’m feeling like that day.


Homeless people revere me

Z-$

Something's wrong

BRITNEY SPEARS, MIDGETS, BONDAGE, FUCKING, TAIWANESE, SCAT, UNDERAGE, SORORITY, NAUGHTY, DONKEY, ANAL, GANG BANG, LINDSEY LOHAN, MTV, LESBIAN ACTION, POKEMON, HOT SEX, YUH GI OH, GOOGLE, YAHOO, VAGINA, MARY KATE AND ASHLEY

I'm thinking that will increase traffic to my blog. You fucking deviants.



Well, it's been 3 hours since I started a blog, and I'm not famous yet. This isn't how it's supposed to work at all. It says 4 people have looked at my profile, but I'm pretty sure 3 of them were just me. After all, I'm the funniest person I know.

It also doesn't list my recent postings in my profile. In fact, it says I don't have any. So, I think I may just abort this all together. I'm basically talking to myself here, aren't I?. You're so funny Z-money. Thanks, I know. You looked hot last night. Fucking right I did.

What the hell is a blog?

It's clear that I need better things to do at work. I'm not saying I want actual work to do; I don't get paid enough for that. I mean, I’ll take the paychecks, but that whole "responsibility" thing isn't for me. No, what I need is entertainment.

The company I work for has recently been acquired, and for anyone who has worked for a target company, you can understand the environment that I'm in. I'm signing farewell cards and eating farewell ice-cream cakes twice a week. I'm watching co-workers clean out their desks and pack their entire lives into a shoebox. I'm always terrified at the moment that a card arrives on my desk to be signed. You want me to sign this? That woman has worked here for the last 15 years. She has no other friends but her co-workers. She is a single mother and her family has no other source of income. I’m a fucking co-op student. I’ve been here for three months. What the hell do I sign on that card?

The trick is to make your message as unnoticeable as possible. You want it to fade away into the sea of insincere clichés that make up your standard office card. Half the people signing the card have never even spoken to this woman. I am one of these people. I look at some of the other messages written on the card in the hope for some inspiration.

"We'll miss you"- I sure fucking won't.

"Best of Luck" - yeah, that seems to be really working out for her. Oh wait...

"The office won't be the same without you"- hey, maybe that cheese smell will leave with her.

I decide to go in a different direction. I put "Congratulations!" in huge letters, writing over some of the other messages. I sign it "Adam", the guy in the next cubicle, for good measure. That fucker. Maybe they'll stop putting these cards on my desk.

I think it's time to get a piece of farewell cake and eat it in front of the dieting heffers down the hall. I'll take one bite and rub my tummy "mmmmmm, sooo good. sooooo full" as the ice cream drips down my chin. "Oh man, what are these, little pieces of skor bar? Did you guys know they could do that? Ladies, you gotta try this. The cake is literally having sex with my mouth". Then I'll start to lower it towards the garbage. This is when the heffers begin to sweat. And not just the normal fat person sweat they get when engaging in physical activities, like talking on the phone or trying to open a bag of m&m's. They sit on the edge of their chairs and watch the cake slide forward on the styrofoam plate. They're eyeing it like that blonde nazi chick from Indiana Jones 3 was eyeing the grail as it fell towards the huge crack and then Indy started eying it too and Sean Connery was all like "No Junior!", and Indy was all like "I can reach it Dad!", and Sean Connery was like "Let it go Indiana", oh man those movies were sweet, Indiana Jones kicks serious ass.

Usually only one of them breaks down and has a piece of cake. She tries to do it as nonchalantly as possible. She'll start a conversation about the new trailer that she and her toothless boyfriend moved into, or about how awesome the Bryan Adams concert is gonna be, as she cuts out half the cake and throws it onto the flimsy plate. She then wobbles back to her desk to gorge herself in front of her other cellulitely-abled friends, in the hope that they'll break down too, making her slightly less pathetic. Fat people are despicable. They make me sick, all of them. Usually her friends don't crack. But I'm sure they go home and gorge themselves on cake mix and ice-cream, because they're way too fucking lazy to actually bake a cake.

Wait, what was I talking about again? Oh yeah, I need more entertainment at work. I've decided to create theme days at work. No, not those gay "Hawaiian shirt days" or "bring your ugly child to work day". No, we need a new format.

So, I'm going to make every Monday "bring your hobo to work day". I think it's a promising idea. I'll simply hold a bottle of Listerine in front of one of the various vagrants downtown, and he'll follow me all the way to work like a mule following a carrot. I'll orchestrate it to take place the day after I sign another farewell card, so that he can have an empty desk to sit at while he drinks his anti-bacterial mouthwash. At lunchtime he can fight the other hobos everyone else brings in (I have a feeling other people are going to jump all over this idea, because I'm such a genius) for the bologna sandwich I threw out yesterday because I went to Quizno's instead. Quizno’s rules.