I’ve never seen her not wearing this outfit…

Over the past few years, the majority of winners of the Nobel Peace Prize have not been household names, and in reality, that makes a lot of sense. The criteria to win a prize of that standard are not inherent in the human condition, qualities such as benevolence, kindness, and an un-willingness to accept mediocrity. It is because of this that I want to bring to the attention of the world an individual by the name of Ivy Pham, a Vietnamese Princess (she actually descended from royalty!) who calls East Vancouver (she’s actually hard as fuck!) home. I’ve known the ‘Phamster’ as she likes to be called for only a few months and what I’ve discovered from her humanity is an ejaculation of life, this ineffable explosion from her existence that sticks to the clothing of anyone who meets her. She has this presence about her when she enters the room that I’m sure could only be rivaled by Princess Diana when she walked down the aisle to marry Charles. In short, she glows. To the untrained eye, this could merely be the Asian glow (Ivy can pack them back like an Irish football hooligan) however, I’ve learned that this is her soul dying to interact with anyone and anything she can approach.

Just Another Tuesday Afternoon for the Phamster…

The first time I met Ivy Pham was under quite absurd circumstances, after an extreme night at Buffalo Bill’s Spicy Wing Eatery I came home to realize that I was toilet paper-less and about thirty seconds away from a Katrina-esque natural disaster. I ran through the halls of my building to find her floating cross-legged in the air, I asked the Phamster, “can you spare a leaf of toilet paper?” She giggled and fired dozens of rolls of toilet paper from the palms of her hands, peppered with sunshine dust and novelty floating hearts. I knew at that moment that I wasn’t dealing with a mere mortal, but a demi-goddess, an angel that was too weird to live, and too rare to die.

Since then she’s professed a profound desire to die at the age of twenty-seven, joining such divine figures as Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, and Kurt Cobain. When asked why she wants to die at that age, she only responds with, “Luke, silly boy, I’m eighteen now, if I’m not queen of the universe by the age of twenty-seven… well then I’ll just marry God and rule heaven.

Phamster, you Phantastic Phuck… I can only pray you accept these words as worthy of your eyes.

Dear Penthouse,

I celebrate this woman’s entire catalogue, everything this gem of human being has done transcends beauty, she could spit on my grandmother and I would tell my G-Ma to apologize for upsetting Ms. Ryder. Every guy has their ‘White Bronco,” an elusive angel of a woman who they will subconsciously chase to the end of the Earth full well knowing that if they ever found her they would freeze up and have to cover their blatant erection… ‘Nona is mine. She has a smile that could cure cancer, an innocence that makes the Virgin Mary seem like a dirty whore, and a voice that causes early puberty.

“Whoa, whoa, wait Luke… you haven’t posted on this site in months, you’re posting on the day Barack Obama becomes President, and you decide to choose Winona Fucking Ryder as your first topic?” In short, yes, and here’s why: while I recognize that writing something on Barack Obama would have been the logical decision, the person I’ll be thinking about when I rest my head tonight will be Pam Dawson from Mr. Deeds, it will be Susanna Kaysen from Girl Interrupted, and it will be that image of Winona on Entertainment Tonight when she was arrested for stealing from Saks 5th Avenue.

Which brings me to the infuriating shop-lifting incident, I don’t quite understand… if Winona Ryder steals from your store you say, “thank you Winona for even thinking about my garbage store, I am honoured to even be remotely involved in your thought process”. For those of you who don’t recall the story, ‘Nona was arrested for stealing over $5000 of accessories from the upscale outlet Saks 5th Avenue. The poo-fucker prosecutors decided it would be appropriate to treat an angel like other people who have committed similar crimes, as such, Ms. Ryder was sentenced to three years probation, a butt-load of community service hours, and had to enter drug treatment program. First of all, if she wants to do drugs, steal and be the general bad ass vixen she is, she has every right to. When I cried over this back in 2002, my dad (who is a slave to the Winona hype) put it into perspective for me, he said, “Luke, you have to understand that the devil has an influence in our world, and one day those prosecutors from California will suffer in Hell, while you and I will be in heaven cleaning Winona Ryder’s feet,” it made me feel better.

I had a discussion about what makes Winona Ryder so fabulous with a cool dOOd I know who, I’m ashamed to admit, is a bigger fan of Winona than I am. It was agreed that she has a beauty that transcends sexuality, she appeals to the five year old boys who get their rocks off to the Sears underwear catalogue, as well as thugs from the inner city who would kill their own mother just for a whiff of ‘Nona’s farts. Ann Coulter would fuck her, God would fuck her, hell, Lumberg would fuck her… there is nothing that can stop her.

I can only pray that one day Winona you’ll read this, and smile, I want to let you know that I would do anything just to make you happy. You don’t realize it yet but your life would be infinitely better with me as your minion.

I’ll walk a thousand miles… just to find the ground deserving of your feet.

Disclaimer: I feel retarded even including a disclaimer for the following post, but some people are just sen-si-tive, and I understand that. This little ditty is what the kids like to call “tongue-in-cheek” and is meant to point out the irrelevant nature of most political punditry throughout this election campaign. If you don’t see it that way, than you can act out what the kids like to call “tongue-in-my-ass”.

I see you out there, middle-American bigots. You’re probably lounging on your La-Z Boys with an ice-cold six-pack of Miller Lite right now, cursing the world for not being a Sunday, simply because you don’t want to endure another aching moment without seeing Jeff Gordon in all of his sexy leather-clad glory. You reluctantly switch your Zenith 27-incher to the Democratic National Convention and wonder why it is that Obama’s subhuman spawn are screaming “Daddy!!” at the image of their father on a 30 foot high JumboTron in a high-pitched tone that only dogs and Wolf Blitzer seem to recognize. Obama stares back at you with his eagle-eyes (or hawk eyes depending on how patriotic you think he is) and a shiver slowly ascends up your spine, pulsating through your sunburned neck, finally culminating in a fiery explosion that burns your cerebral cortex to a fine crisp. It all seems too vivid, too real for you to handle, and you fight the consuming urge to reach for the 12-gauge you have stowed away in the baby’s crib for just this type of situation. No, no get a grip of yourself, you paid good welfare money for that TV and you’ll be goddamned if some anti-American, potentially biracial terrorist ruins it for you. You hope upon all hopes that it’s all a terrible dream, that Obama is a figment of the collective American imagination, and somehow, some way, Hilary’s overgrown and yeasty vagina will once again rise to prominence in your defeated country. “All Hail the Pants-Suit” you hear yourself yelling to no one in particular. Deep down, way down in the part of you that wishes Ralph Nader were still around, a realization occurs; the realization that any opposition to the liberal army of Obamaniacs is completely and utterly futile. Hilary’s vagina will be conquered faster than you can say “Oprah Winfrey” and through the thick haze, Barack Hussein Obama will be the victor. But I tell you, closet racists of America, there’s still hope. Yes, that word that the man has used so well throughout his elaborate and pricey campaign, can be a mantra for you too. I’ll tell you why: Barack Obama doesn’t care about black people. Sure, he certainly looks black (you can’t really tell them apart anyway), and the Wire is his favorite show and he talks about eating chitlins and playing basketball in high school, but is this all an elaborate ploy? The answer is an unequivocal yes. First of all, Obama is from Hawaii, hardly a haven for African-Americans, and he spent a large portion of his childhood in Indonesia. How dare he. Pick a country and live in it. If he is as in love with his country as his lovely wife Michelle claims he is, than he would have never had a reason to leave it. And especially not to attend some darn-tooting Muslim Madrassa. That’s where suicide bombers are born, or so I’m led to believe from the ever-accurate coverage over at Fox News, your one-stop shop for babbling and incoherent political smearing (Now with 20% more smear!). Secondly, and more importantly, Obama killed Bernie Mac. And probably Isaac Hayes too. Don’t you find it too much of a coincidence that on the eve of quite possibly the most significant election in modern-American history that two of the blackest men alive bite the dust? One of the Original Kings of Comedy, and the buttery-smooth funk singer who regularly put the Shaft in Shaft, both vanquished by everyone’s favorite democratic candidate for President. Sure, they both supposedly died without the influence of foul play, but I’m not buying it. Don’t you think Obama could kill you if he so desired? Bernie Mac attended a fundraiser for Barack in July, where he got in a little bit of hot water for using the word “Ho” in his routine and less then a month later, BAM, he’s pushing up daisies or petunias or whatever it is black people lay at their gravesites. The only reason I can see this loose-lipped quip as displeasing to Obama’s posse, is that Bernie was out-blacking him. Obama speaks eloquently and affirmatively, while Bernie Mac appears to have just been awoken from a decade-long coma whenever he talks. Obama seemed perturbed, and passive-agressively condemned his actions (possibly through killing him), much in the same way he has distanced himself from the blackest preacher since Al Sharpton: Pastor Jeremiah Wright. Sure, the man has said a few quasi-racist things, and referred to Caucasians as those “White-Devils” but who among us can claim they haven’t made similar statements? I, for one, am constantly blaming my mediocrity on whitey holding me down, and have also completely denied myself the pleasure of purchasing crackers, simply out of principle.

Just recently, Obama was criticized by Bill O’Reilly and friends for not condemning Ludacris for a specific lyric urging voters to “paint the White House black” after he is elected. Now, I can totally see where Poppa Bear is coming from. Obama is half black, and in the spotlight, so he must therefore have an opinion on anything that any black person in the history of time has ever said or done. (I can only assume that if he hasn’t criticized O.J. Simpson for the killings of two pretty white people in 94’, that he himself must also be a brutal murderer. Lock your doors.) I know why he doesn’t, though. Cuz he’s a pussy. He’s scurred. He knows that if he calls a press conference to denounce Ludacris’ ludicrous lyrics that he won’t under any circumstances be able to control his temper. What will start as a controlled and measured response to the young MC, will eventually develop into a failed attempt at socio-political battle rapping. He will bust out the gold fronts and traditional Democrat/Crip blue bandana and try to revive what little black piece of soul he has left in him. It will be embarrassing, and Nancy Pelosi will eventually have to step in to finish the poorly executed verse with a bang…literally. Fearing a violent response from John McCain, a grizzled, sociopathic Vietnam vet, Pelosi will grab Spike Lee’s shiny Desert Eagle from his baggy Hilfiger’s and start unloading on mofos. The Democrats cannot be embarrassed again, and Nancy sure as hell ain’t going down without a fight. Barack will be left to cower in the corner, viciously sobbing in the reluctant arms of Joe Biden, who will wince in shame, for he has finally realized what everyone else is thinking…The whole world is blacker than Obama. So, kiddies, next time you eat at KFC, or your hair comes out a little nappier than usual, turn down that Souljah Boy song you’re bumping out the whip, and take a look around. Be vigilant. Cautious. Wary. And be certain of one irrefutable truth, Obama is watching, and he won’t be out-blacked.

And you will vote for him…cuz you’re racist.

I’ve been watching the Olympics. Women’s gymnastics ruptured my loins, Usain Bolt “blew my mind and the word’s” and tonight I have watched the Gold Medal volleyball and ping pong matches and am currently watching Spain try and beat America in basketball much like a stick beats the drum. I was initially hoping to write an inspired post wherein I could expose philosophies of mind over matter but then I realized that that would require America to lose this game, which as I bare witness, is simply not possible. To put it in perspective (if you know the sport), every time Spain looks to be getting close to taking the lead the camera flashes to Lebron James and Kobe Bryant on the bench, jesting and grooming each other like bored monkeys.

But I was hoping, and I suppose still am hoping that Spain wins the Gold. And it has nothing to do with my love for Spain, because I don’t love Spain, I’ve never been there and have no interest to. In fact it has nothing to do with either country, at least in that depth. What it does have something to do with is the so called “Dream Team’s” failure to win the gold in Athens four years ago. Again, if I you know the sport, you don’t have to think very hard to realize how impossibly embarrassing this was. I have only clipped two pictures from a newspaper before in my life. One depicted a Lebanese man sitting on a miraculously salvaged chair that was perched atop the rubble of his house which teetered atop his bombed neighbourhood as he lit a cigarette.

The other picture was of the facial expressions of a benched Allen Iverson and Tim Duncan as they themselves bore witness to a crushing defeat at the hands of a Puerto Rico thus eliminating them from real medal contention: The facial expression looked like that of two seven year old boys as they watched Santa Clause butt-fuck the Easter Bunny after they were so sure neither existed. As a direct result of this puberty, the newest assembly of genetic super beings (also known as America’s Olympic basketball team) has been dubbed the “Redeem Team”, a clever signature that seems to glow with an entitled victory and promise. Is it really deserved though?

I think my overall point lies somewhere in between that response you left on your high school English exam when you didn’t read that book and pure retardation. I simply hope Spain wins to validate a small revelation I just came across, so just pretend, dream if you will, that Spain takes over these next two quarters and wins. It has happened, OK?

America’s 2008 Olympic basketball team is the greatest basketball team ever assembled, and Spain just destroyed them mentally. Redemption is just as pathetic as vengeance.

The live game is really close right now, but there is no way Spain could win right? For that matter, can anyone really tell me, without consulting a dictionary, what is really the difference between redemption and vengeance anyway? Is it just that same false sense of entitlement, a justification of retribution based on nothing but principle? America as a country seems to be looking, through the pixie sticks of democracy to redeem itself for its questionable actions and leadership over the last eight years. Coincidently, that’s same amount of time since America’s Dream Team’s last Gold.

The American Dream/The American Dream Team/America Redeems/America’s Redeem Team.

This is why the Olympics matter. And that question on your English exam may have been about metaphor. Countries love to flex in front of each other, just not as much as they like to flex in front of the mirror.

“It’s back to a 3 point game with under four to play”

Let’s all watch and not really give a fuck.

Go ahead, buy a cup. Spend seven dollars on a coffee that is served to you by hipster perverts that wear horned rimmed glasses with no lenses. Better get a scone too, that’ll put the cost up to an even ten, it’ll also offset the lack of calories from that decaf, no-fat, specialty coffee you bought. Take a seat on the cum stained couches, to your left is a pseudo-intellectual, she went to Tufts and studied anthropology. You’d engage her in a conversation but she seems too focused on her Vanity Fair… she’s just looking at the pictures, all the cocaine from college riddled her brain into a fine mush. To your right is that goofy looking business man with thinning hair, he clings on to the vestiges of his youth by getting what the kids get, problem is that his masturbatory image reeks of failure. He’d be watching the high school girls walk to school if Shannon Smith didn’t have a restraining order on him. He clutches what appears to be a WIRED magazine, he stares at it with a certain degree of satisfaction, this is all a charade, he is daytime manager at Burger King, and the smell of free trade coffee and the perfume of stay at home moms gives him a boner. The cum on the couches, it’s his.

For Just Ten Dollars You Can Be As Cool As Britney Spears…

I’m sure Starbucks makes good coffee, good enough however to sacrifice your morning pay for some elitist posturing? Because really that’s what you are paying for, the ability to parade around in your vintage ensemble delightfully displaying to the world you are a douche. And not just a normal ‘I hate bunnies and rainbows douche,’ but a ‘I hate bunnies and rainbows because I’m better than them douche.’ Listen, I know I don’t have the funds to drop seven bucks on some status cardboard, quite frankly the jug I found in the river will suffice for me.

If Conservative America is a digestive system, then Bill O’Reilly is the colon, collecting the chili dog lies and Big Mac deceptions that the Republican Party slams down our throats. These lies and deceptions sit festering in this old, overworked colon, and are eventually expelled via the King Douche himself, Bill O’Reilly. Leaving my socialist convictions aside, I would prefer a conservative government that is honest and acts in the best interests of its people, than a socialist government who deceives. Well these days, lies and dishonesty are the only games in town and Bill O’Reilly is the sexy mayor.

O’Reilly’s playhouse of doom airs every weekday on FOX News, an organization that is fascist at best. But when The O’Reilly Factor shows its slutty face every night, so do the skinheads and holocaust deniers who watch him. I’m serious, when I watch The O’Reilly Factor I feel as if I’ve stepped back into 1937 Munich and the propaganda machine is in full force. Absurd claims from, “just as many liberals watch my show as conservatives,” to “only conservatives are patriotic,” remember folks, this is a man who guarantees that he does not spin or warp facts, and he assures the viewer that his information is fair and balanced. Well my dear friends, I’ll let you in on a secret, it’s not. Almost everything Bill O’Reilly says is either a lie or warped well beyond the confines of truth.

The terrifying thing is that this juggernaut isn’t slowing down, every night he bends the truth a little more, and subsequently my testicles inch closer and closer to shattering. My favourite example of his utter disregard for the facts comes from a May 6^th, 2007 airing of his show where he disemboweled the New York Times for not covering the foiling of a terrorist plot at JFK International Airport. Bill said something along the lines of, “the New York Times isn’t really concerned about Muslim guys allegedly trying to set up another 9/11.” Now the Times has always been a thorn in O’Reilly’s pudgy side, however his lack of journalistic integrity and simply astonishing slander tactics was revealed when it was clear that the New York Times not only covered this article, but it was on the first fucking page! “This isn’t the Colbert Report, this is the O’Reilly Factor, and this is fact,” you’re right Bill, it is the O’Reilly Factor, where your divisive, hateful remarks leave a monstrous quife on an already crippled media.

You are a disease Bill, better fit for the autocratic militaristic regimes of Myanmar or North Korea. Ever since I heard your voice on FOX News two years ago I’ve exercised, I’ve eaten right, because nothing would please me more than to outlive your ruthless, uber-patriotic ass.

Seriously Bill, either swallow my balls or stop breaking them.

A person who is self aware of their imminent death usually has a pretty high opinion of themselves. I know I would, it’s a very selfish time to be alive so to speak. All compulsive urges must be realized and all spiritual complexes most come to fruition – the latter is usually that smelly 21 grams found in the departed’s now drivable pants. I probably think of the apocalypse at least once a week, I don’t fear or study it, I merely acknowledge its presence if only for a second. You see, as one of the world’s most foremost slackers I often write off personal responsibilities and civic duties as moot and meaningless simply based on the logic that the world could end tomorrow. Whether it is a sink full of dirty dishes or a Don’t Walk sign I just can’t be bothered because the cool sensation of cosmic annihilation provides a really, apparently rhymey elation. And it feels good, like a cold beer in a hot shower or silk panties straight from the dryer in a cool basement…did I just write that…fuck it, the world might end tomorrow (now do you see the powers I possess?) Uh, but please don’t template this idiotic subsistence as your own, it is a dangerous practice for amateur loafers (you will lose everything) and most certainly catastrophic for civilization (people even lazier than me will inherit the earth…I get chills). That would actually be pretty ironic, I mean tragic, wait I mean hilarious, the world is willed to come to an end after everyone adopts my “the world could end tomorrow” fortune cookie cat shit as some sort of serious ploy towards knowledge and understanding. I now understand why China filters the web’s content.

I guess what I am trying to say is that I always thought that if someone pushed me out of a plane I would be able to fashion a make-shift parachute out of my pants and shirt and land with bare ass grace on top of a hot air balloon. But maybe that’s just me saying I would get bored as I plummeted to my certain doom. Sure the flips and barrel roles would be fun, as would terminable velocity, but I just feel like I could do better, maybe we all could. So, what would you do on your last day if you knew that all that was and ever shall be was coming to an end simultaneously? Ragnarok baby, End Times, how would you spend your last 24 hours, last hour, how about your last 5 minutes? And I’ll give you five good minutes because I’ll say you can travel and manipulate time and space to spend your remaining seconds doing anything with anyone or thing fictional or real.

Are you a lover – would you get naked and make pleasant love to your partner on the back of a tyrannosaurus as it made unpleasant love to a stegosaurus in Vietnam while Metallica played from helicopters dumping napalm all around you? Are you deep and misunderstood – would you pull a five petal flower apart minute by minute and then quote Blake? Are you a multitasking anarchist – would you get punched in the face, shot gun a beer, deflower a virgin, shoot up with heroin while howling at the moon and set yourself fire? Then send the video tape to AFV and make the nation’s head explode? Would you fry an egg on the back of Little Boy, the first atomic bomb as you rode it down to Hiroshima? You could be Conan the Barbarian, you could be Mary Magdalene on birth control or an amphibious Muhammad Ali, whatever the fuck you can conceive here people.

These are obviously extremes, it can be Christmas morning with your family or a great time with your friends, it’s your dream apocalypse, you get whatever you want. The reason I am polling this is because I personally think we should all arrive on one single realistic thing to do in perfect unison. Like fire bottle rockets out of out asses I don’t know.

Let me here you,

Love Ed

Competition is healthy, kids. There’s nothing quite like shattering the brittle hopes and dreams of your rival competitors with one fell swoop of victory. Inevitably, someone’s feelings will get hurt, salty tears will be shed and their delicious souls will be eaten alive, sans cutlery. So in the spirit of the 29^th Olympiad I bring you a different kind of competition, one that doesn’t rely entirely on sheer athleticism or intellectual prowess, but rather what sportscasters like to call “grit”, “heart” and “ginormous testicles.” An Everyman’s Olympics; a fantastical display of absolute and utter frivolity, done simply for the purpose of a lifetime of fame and glory for the victor and more importantly, vicious shame for the loser…Mr. Scott Strybosch. Before the Yankees and the Red Sox, the Leafs and the Habs, Good and Evil, Kenny and Spenny, the Tar Heels and the Blue Devils, the Israelis and the Palestinians, Jesus and Steven Seagal, there was Brandon…and there was Scott, a rivalry so great that it could only be settled through a series of pointless events that no one else really cared about. Yes…it is that big.

This is the most appealing photo I could find of myself…

Now, Scott and I have been friends (and I use the term loosely) for quite some time. The only thing, really, that has kept us going for the past four long and grueling years, is our competitive spirit. It mostly started out of an epic laziness that we both shared, a kind usually reserved for other animal species, such as the sloth or Roseanne Barr. A phone would ring, a doorbell would beckon, a friend would lie on the ground severely injured crying out for medical attention, and we both did not want to move from our place of quiet rest and reflection, so what, oh what could we do to decide who would get up off the couch? Only the most pure, strategically complex game known to man would be sufficient, and that game is Rock, Paper, Scissors. This quickly escalated into more nefarious forms of rivalry, such as video games, dirty mother jokes and other metaphorical pissing matches. So we decided, why not settle it once and for all, with a good ole’ fashioned decathlon…

Scott’s Been Ready for This His Whole Life

A Decathlon of Debauchery, if you will, fit for only the most mediocre of men, the averagest of Joes. The stakes are high, indeed. Besides eternal and everlasting glory for the winner, there is one small stipulation that both Scott and I have agreed upon. The winner will have the beautiful task of picking the middle name of our second child. The reason for it being the second is two-fold: one, because it will hopefully limit the amount of children we care for, which can only be a good thing for society as a whole, and secondly, because it also ensures that we put all of our futile faith in our first child. He/she will have to be the doctor, lawyer or sports star, while the second-born will be relegated to subhuman status, most likely becoming one of the many frequenters of day-time talk shows, whining about how his/her daddy gave him/her “Thundercunt” as a middle name because of quite possibly the dumbest bet since the dawn of time, or well since cunts first started to thunder. And, I’m also up for suggestions, people. You know I can’t do this on my own. Please send in your potential middle-names. They will be judged based on their comedic, alliterative and humiliating potential.

So with little time to waste, here are the events, kids. Mark them on your calendars.

1) Rock, Paper, Scissors

2) Foosball

3) Smash Bros. for the Nintendo Wii

4) Jr. Chicken Eating Contest

5) Charades

6) Basketball Triple-Header (1 on 1, Horse and 21)

7) Drinking Contest

8 ) Poker

9) Dance-Off

10) Scavenger Hunt

Tie-Breaker: Busk-Off: One hour to beg, borrow or steal as much money as possible.

May the most mediocre man win!

Alright men,

How many of you are with me when I say a drunken urination, outdoors, without hands and or regard for smaller and therefore worthless life forms is a proud proud moment.

That feeling when the wind is at your back, your pants are at your ankles and your hands are resting on your hips like you have two 45 magnums in holsters and you urinate, by god you urinate from your throne. I once had a science fair project in grade six where I rigged a cardboard box and cheap fan together, I then tied paper airplanes (I make unreasonably poor paper airplanes) to a piece of yarn and demonstrated the properties of flight, NASA called it a wind tunnel, the judges patted my head and called it a good effort. I was pretty studious as you might imagine. But anyway, I’ll be damned if my true self, when spouting a half case of beer into the gutters of this world doesn’t fly by Bernoulli’s principle, as if it is lifted and nodding in agreement to the truest things ever spoken. When you are on the horizon it is a sensation not unlike making sweet love to god in her gaping vagina that is the universe. It is great. Girls, this is just one more of life’s more urbane pleasures you will never know, prove me wrong though.

Sincerely

The drunkard who beat Ed senseless and stole his identity…and his shoes.

Ok now I am laughing just thinking about that science fair project. The planes did not so much fly as they were mercilessly beaten against the interior of the tunnel (flimsy cardboard box). I believe I calibrated everything to the scientifically universal 1-2-3 setting on my fan. 1 being gale force winds, 2 being a catastrophic hurricane, and 3 being the noble attempt of some early flying machine attempting to re enter earth’s atmosphere. I may have single handily confirmed the flaws of the AVRO ARROW that day, those 15 minutes in my parents basement. Be thankful I wasn’t an A student or I may have recruited your dog to commandeer the maiden voyage of some far more elaborate upheaval, some belligerent affront to knowledge and discipline, to the entire scientific method. It most likely would have been a lawn chair caped with a Canadian flag and perched on top of a pile of TNT. They gracefully called that one piece of shit space craft the CHALLENGER (ED) but I wouldn’t feel bad if you called mine RETARDED. It doesn’t really know you’re talking about it anyway.

Oh, and tonight I heard a story about some guy who got decapitated in a Georgia amusement park. Apparently he lost his hat on a roller coaster and when he got off he hopped two fences to go in and get it, the ride came down and that was it. What a fucking idiot. Two fences and not a clear thought in between them. I wonder how elated he was when he picked up that hat, I wonder if his last words were something along the lines of “This is the greatest fucking hat in the history of the world” or, “How could I have gone on without you?” I wonder if he had the hat on when his head got severed, that is the ultimate question, did he fulfill his destiny?

My drunken heart goes out to his loved ones.

***

Man I was loaded last night. I just spent about an hour correcting grammar errors here that would condemn all my previous schools if I brought it to attention. I found this MSN message left to Luke on my desktop when I woke up.

Ed says:

that girl who loves (censored) i have told you abuot has bout (censored) and wants to hook up. haha im on fire flirting with right now to. for example

Ed says:

Jen says:

but yeah i’m a lightweight still

Jen says:

so if we did drink then.. yeah i can be a handfull

Ed says:

thats ok i can be a mouthful

Ed says:

my eloquence knows no bounds. i simply could not let that one by. she loved it…i dont know what to make of that, i should have a lawsuit on my hands

I deserve to be hit by a car.

There are four (sort of five) women on this planet, all wonderful, unique human beings, for whom I would drop everything (including my pants) and run away with. Seriously, I would devote my entire life to these four wonderful women, I’d worship the ground you walked on, I’d fluff your pillow, and I’d hang out at H&M as you tried on what appears to be the same eyeliner for five hours. I’m already in love with you four, so we wouldn’t have to worry about that, we could just get married. I suppose this is an official marriage proposal to you ladies, if you want to take me up on my offer: luke.walker@mail.mcgill.ca.

Jena Malone

Holy hell girl, you were in a movie that destroyed me and made me eternally crippled by your immense fragility. Donnie Darko, aka Jesus fucking Christ, is so into you that he sacrifices himself for your safety. When deities have crushes on you, you’ll get my relatively spastic attention. You were sharp, confident, yet horribly frail, and it was probably the most devastating thing I’d ever seen. As I watched you die at the hands of a Polynesian in a bunny suit, a solemn, salty tear trickled down my mounds of acne. I was fifteen, horny as hell, but in love.

Sierra & Bianca Cassidy (Cocorosie):

Apathy + cheery music with horribly dark undertones + what has to be a pretty solid heroin addiction = premature ejaculation. These girls get arrested at borders, cancel shows for “personal issues,” and record albums in their apartment. They don’t give a fuck and would likely sell me to Gypsies to fund their drug addictions, but if me traveling in a caravan for the rest of my life means they can get some smack, then I’m happy. Basically they are the hottest sisters ever created, their music fills my heart with this intoxicating bliss that resembles the narcotics they drive into their wonderful arms everyday. God has a voice, she speaks through them.

Natalie Portman

I suffer from the Madonna/Whore complex pretty bad. Basically you have to rep the “Madonna” or the “Whore,” if you transcend both categories or spill over into both I’m left confused and unable to read you. And not in the “she’s like a book and I read a new page of her everyday,” it’s more like “her entire life is written in Sanskrit and I’m blind,” I simply can’t read you. There is one exception to my disability, her name is Natalie Portman. This girl can play the seductress and I have to cover my pants in the theatre, or she can play the cute girl in distress and I have to borrow tissues from the people behind me. I would murder my friends just for a handful of her beautiful locks. She holds the title of being the only girl to be my focus as I cried while masturbating… it’s love people… love.

Sarah Silverman

Two words… The Aristocrats: Click HERE

So there’s the list, if you disagree, speak up. And again, to the ladies on this list, I’ll always be there for you.