Saturday, October 27, 2007

My love for Kimi gives me strength during the Great Embargo on Strollers

Well, I made it through my first week at the new job, and though I am not accustomed to working with competent, intelligent, creative, cheerful and interesting people, I think could actually get used to it! I had no idea that such workplaces existed in the world, and had I known sooner, I wouldn't have been wasting the past 15 years of my life slaving for jerks.

My new responsibilities will unfortunately result in a lot less blogging (and reading your blogs), but locals are welcome to check out my new cable access program Are You Smarter Than a Balled-Up Kleenex? Sure, it sounds really easy, but you might be surprised how many people can't measure up against a snotrag.

Other headlines this week:


I never got around to celebrating the AMAZING championship victory of my favourite Formula 1 driver, Kimi Raikkonen of Ferrari, who blew the doors off the competition with a stunning upset at the Brazilian Grand Prix, overcoming a 17 point deficit to take the Driver's Championship by 1 point. Congrats baby, and I know you'll make that booty call to me as soon as you have a minute to settle down from all the excitement.

Nothing pleases me more than to witness the immense suffering of that cheating, crybaby rookie goldenboy Lewis Hamilton. This obnoxious jerk had everyone in the sport bending the rules in order to hand him a championship title on a silver platter, but he still came in second, despite such favouritism. I do love me some good old fashioned come-uppance. By the way, you look fucking awesome with a moustache and goatee.


The best thing about working from home was the pleasant absence of transit frustrations. I forgot how much I hated commuting, and though I don't have too far to travel, the good people of this city have not forgotten how to send me into a blind rage. It seems that during my hiatus, the Rude Commuters of Toronto have joined forces with the Rude Stroller Mamas of Toronto to build a formidable Army of Assholes that foil my every effort to get to work unscathed.

Are we having so many giant babies that we need to make these massive SUV strollers that take up 12 square feet of the planet's surface area?? Okay, I understand if you pop out 3 or 4 at once, you might need some seriously engineered prammage to get around, but how can one tiny kid possibly need a freakin hockey duffel bag for all its stuff? I'm an adult and I don't think I own that much shit, let alone carry it around with me. I'm seriously considering stealing a shopping cart to use purely in self-defense.

I mention this only because I suffered undue physical injury to my right ankle this week, when a rather aggressive mother rammed her fucking colossal stroller with the all-terrain wheels and anti-lock brakes into my leg as she was forcing her overladen Behemothbuggy onto a way-too-already-crowded subway train. And as I winced in pain and attempted to mop up the blood gushing from my ankle, she felt the need to lecture me (in the presence of 100 people) on the untold importance of getting the fuck outta her way.

Imagine if you will, the small burst of applause and smiles from witnesses after I shouted at her: "YOU MADE ME BLEED, YOU SELFISH BITCH!" Yes, T-shirts will be available from Rocketstudio in time for the holiday season. Pistols: with your bizarre and pathetic dating history, you've already earned yourself a free one.

Saturday, October 20, 2007

High 'ho: "It's off to work I go"

Well, my hiatus officially comes to an end on Monday, because I just got a new full-time job. That's right, it's a celebration, bitches! On Monday, I'll begin working as a project manager/producer for a small interactive media company. It seems like a really fantastic gig, and an opportunity to learn plenty of new things from some truly talented and cool people. This is no office job in a cubicle - this is actually something I want to do.

In some ways, I'm a little sad to leave behind the wistful, carefree days of 3pm cheesies and cocktails with Dr. Phil. But after 4 months of relying solely on self-employment, I decided that I really do prefer being paid on a regular basis a lot more than starving and losing sleep. I shall continue to offer creative services through Rocketstudio on a part-time basis, if my work schedule allows it.

I sure did learn a lot while I was working from home:
  • "being bossy" and "being your own boss" are not the same thing.
  • my landlord does not accept paintings, demo CDs, or bottles of red wine in lieu of a rent payment, even though that's exactly what some of my clients think is a pretty fair trade for a website for their rock band or art gallery.
  • My upstairs neighbour exercises vigorously at exactly 9 am everyday with some kind of squeaky apparatus, like a rowing machine, an Abdomizer, or perhaps a mattress.
  • Drinking before noon is not nearly as bad as everyone claims it to be. It's really quite fun.
  • TV networks don't want unemployed people to enjoy themselves too much during regular business hours, and ensure our continued misery by repeatedly airing such films as Rush Hour, Short Circuit 2, Beethoven, and Mannequin.
  • Three little words: "no mo' Snarbucks"
  • Even when unemployed, I'm still not lame enough to participate in a recent meme from The Idea of Progress. I'm overwhelmingly flattered that Mr. Progress deems me lame enough to have earned such an honourable invitation, however, I believe the only lame quality I possess is my Secret Love of Journey, which isn't really all that lame (or secret) - it's just good common sense. It's been scientifically proven that Steve Perry kills 98% of bad times and lonely nights. My personal idea of progress? "No mo' memes!"

Saturday, October 13, 2007

I'll Bet she complains about a lot more than just your small cock

Guy, you know who you are. You keep sending me these annoying e-mails, whining about how your wife constantly complains about your small cock. Well, if she knew you were telling the whole world about it, she'd divorce you, too. I mean, it's a drag that she's got certain expectations, but talking about it is not gonna make it any better.

And you totally make her sound like a bitch, you know. I bet she's just some poor stressed-out lady who's coping with an idiot blabbermouth husband and a really unsatisfying sex life. So take your pills or stretch it out or something. Because no one cares. Except, obviously, your fucking wife.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

Shameless plugs that won't result in a scalp infection

After several months of unabashed swearing and childish hissy fits, the BBJ online shop is finally up and running! Barbie's Basement Jewellery ( is an awesome fashion accessories company that makes wicked hot belt buckles and other fun trinkets. These make amazing gifts and turn you into an instant superstar when you give them to your friends. I know "it's more important to give than receive", but screw all that, upholding my reputation as a totally fucking cool person is all I have left in my sad mess of a life.

In other news, the stylish winter lodgings of rocketstudio are now live and temporarily residing at until construction on the main estate at is completed.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

It's beard season

It has recently come to my attention that very few people are familiar with the term "beard", as it might be applied to someone like Katie Holmes here.

beard (bîrd) n. - One who serves to divert suspicion or attention from another.

I'm not convinced that Tom Cruise is gay, but I do think he's crazy, so he might wanna buy himself a moustache as well.

Wednesday, October 3, 2007

It's the only pie you're getting tonight, mister.

I get kind of annoyed with people who claim to be allergic to certain foods in order to avoid eating something they don't like. There's a huge difference, people, and that difference is a trip to the emergency room.

So if you don't like the way something tastes, you should just say so, because lying about it "to spare someone's feelings" is completely stupid. I think that once you hit adolescence, you can go ahead an eat whatever you like and not eat what you don't like, and people will pretty much respect your choices. Because faking an allergy is totally douchey.

Case study # 1:

I made a totally awesome coconut creme pie for my dinner date last night and he turned up his nose at it...

Date: Hmmmm. Smells like Hawaiian Tropic tanning oil.
Me: It's coconut creme pie! Homemade!
Date: So it's got coconut in it...
Me: It's kind of a key ingredient.
Date: Ah....yeah. Uh, I'm allergic to coconut.
Me: (concerned) No way! Gosh, I'm sorry, I should have asked...okay no worries. So what happens to you?
Date: What do you mean?
Me: Do you swell up and explode?
Date: No.
Me: Do you turn blue and explode?
Date: Not at all.
Me: So what then? Is it lactose intolerance? Your limbs shrivel up and fall off? Do ya get giant lips? Break out in hives?
Date: I get a really bad taste in my mouth.
Me: That's it? Does that require immediate medical attention?
Date: Not really. I just don't like the taste of coconut, I guess.
Me: So you're not actually allergic to coconut.
Date: Well, no. But I really hate coconut.
Me: Why didn't you just say that?
Date: Well, you went through all this trouble, and it's a beautiful presentation...

What I thought: Shut the fuck up and eat your pie, you big fat liar.

What I said: How about some Oreos? Or are you allergic to those, too?

Tuesday, October 2, 2007


I was enjoying a very happ'nen scene with some friends at Hump Day Bump, a weekly Wednesday late-night whoop-up for those of us who don't have "real jobs".

I was minding my own business, enjoying a fine libation, when a gay old acquaintance of mine spots me and swoops in to introduce me to his new housemate: "This is my new roomie! He's straight! Can you BELIEVE IT???!!! He's here to scope out the ladies!" And on that note, he ditched Roomie at my table and floated toward the bar.

"Interesting, " I thought. Because checking out the ladies at a gay/lesbian social club is always so worthwhile for straight men on the prowl. I silently wondered when Roomie would notice that he's actually simmering in a big stew of queerness.

Then a very attractive female friend of mine stopped at my table on her way back from the bar. There's some hugs, some small talk, and because I have impeccable manners, I introduced her to Roomie. Kind regards abound, and then she's on her way. But Roomie cannot take his eyes off her as she disappears onto the dance floor. He has that smitten look.

"I'd like me some of that!" says Roomie. Ah yes, such a dude. "Are you close friends with her? Do you think I could get her number? I got a real good vibe... I think she likes me!"

I doubt it, honey. I probably should let him know that my very attractive female friend is also very much into the ladies. And is probably a lot more successful at it, too. After all, she is smokin' hot.

"I do believe she prefers bush to nuts," I say. Maybe I should have been much clearer on this point, but what can I say? I was feeling poetic. And tipsy. And completely disinterested in pimpin'.

"Oh, I don't really care about politics," says Roomie. "Besides, Bush IS nuts! hahaha!"

Great. Then I got exactly what I deserved: a five-minute monologue of bad, cliché Dubya jokes and Roomie's personal hotness rating of the Bush Twins. (summary: not very hot, but he'd still "do 'em both"). But before he could launch into his working theory about the First Lady being "a real go-er", I totally snapped and blurted out:


"Laura Bush is a dyke?!!!!" Roomie is totally shocked by this new revelation.

"No! I mean my friend.... that girl... she's a lesbian, so I when I said bush..."

"...aaaah! You meant pussy." Roomie completed my sentence, and without missing a beat, he says, "See? We already have something in common!"

You gotta give props to the man who sees the lass as being half-full.

And no, I did not give him her number.