Archive for April, 2009

Peepee dancing since Spadina

Posted on April 24th, 2009 2 Comments

I’m on the Friday night’s third pint so please to apologize for any brevity or witlessness.

Imagine my surprise when I stumble outdoors into the still-full sunlight of seven o’clock and — there’s the streetcar. This would never have happened when I was all hypothermic in the middle of deepest darkest winter.

Me and the guys from work jump on and continue our discussion of chicks we’d do. Yes, ladies, we are admiring you from afar.

While I remark how short our wait at the TTC stop was, the conversation naturally meanders over to public transit (anything’s interesting inebriated, no?), and we get to talking about the purpose of streetcars. Or maybe that was in the bar.

Anyway, I make a sparkling remark about rails being in the earth since Toronto was a wee’un. We got ‘em, makes sense to keep using ‘em. That must have been the deciding opinion in the discussion because everyone suddenly looses interest in the topic.

As my colleagues alight at University, I settle back to dream about the future of transit in Toronto:


I hop off the streetcar at Yonge and head straight for the subway where, much to my surprise, the same chums I left earlier are now chatting up some girls heading north on the same line. In the time it took me to make it two blocks on the streetcar, they were able to go south three, do a u-turn back north a further three, all the time making relaxed stops at stations in between while psychically enticing me to hop on the same train.

That pretty much settles the argument of streetcar efficiency in my mind.

As my buzz starts to wear off I start to wonder how a longer streetcar (that’s basically what the new vehicles will be), would have made this trip any shorter. As much as I like the idea and even the look of the new trains, I suspect that until the city either widens the street or starts randomly detonating taxis, they won’t do much to make transit faster.

But I’d still do ‘em.

If they have a toilet, cuz I really have to wee.

Filed under: Pictures, Why I'm Right

Barometer Mafia

Posted on April 23rd, 2009 2 Comments

Why is the weather report such a secret?

It really doesn’t matter which station you watch; CTV, City, Global, Omni; there’s an incredible coverup underfoot to hide the truth about the weather from the public. How in the world was this conspiracy allowed to happen?!

Need proof? Just think to the last time you watched the 11 o’clock news…

…but, sadly, the kitten couldn’t be saved.

Tragic story.

It certainly is, Anne. Now we switch over to Michael to tell us what the weather will be like tomorrow. Michael?

Thanks, Gord. I’ll be telling you all about the doozie of a weekend we’ll be having. But first, here’s Kathryn Humphreys with the sports, and I must say, Kathryn, you look like you’ve gained some muscle.

Sure have, Michael. But enough about me. The Leafs. Whole team: dead. Plane crash. More after the messages…

Yadda yadda. Buy stuff, etc. Back to the news…

…police are now looking for the fugitive infant. If you have any tips, call Crime Stoppers. Gord?

Thanks, Dwight. Boy, is it me or are they getting younger and younger?

Hard to understand. Now we go over to Michael with the weather. How’s our weekend shaping up, Michael?

Well, Anne. It was looking a bit dodgy around noon but from the data we’re receiving from our two-hundred-thousand weather stations around the GTA, I would revise my earlier estimate. Things are going to change drastically!

Uh oh! Sounds ominous, Michael. Or is it swinging to extreme good weather?

Well, Anne, now you know I can’t tell you at this moment otherwise I’d have to sneak into your bedroom while you sleep and place a single drop of poison on your lips via a suspended thread, being held by me, a vague shadow somewhere on your ceiling. That is, if I was even there at all. It’s not like I would leave any evidence behind. How about I tell you the full weather picture after the commercial?

Sounds good, Michael. Please join us after the commercial break as we unveil the weather forecast for your weekend.

I’m pretty sure I missed a couple of breaks and segments in there, but you get the idea.

When the weather finally comes, it’s an orgasmic explosion of weather facts. Michael tosses them to the camera benevolently. Ahhh. Now, at long last, we will know whether to hang on for one more weekend or just end it all on Friday.

Wow. Imagine the power in that guy’s groin. He’s probably the belle of the ball everywhere he goes. Women would go to great lengths just to spend one night with him and, perhaps, bring news of the following week’s weather back to their people.

How was this allowed to happen? The weather should be free for everyone! We should all have the right to know whether to wear galoshes or sandals to work tomorrow.

Or tune into the Weather network where they apologize out their ass for not having that shit in front of you, on a silver platter, every ten minutes.

Stone cold pimpin’

Filed under: B Sides, Pictures

Botched Chromedomes

Posted on April 22nd, 2009 Be the first to comment

Since I took the time to do an in-depth examination of a woman’s butt yesterday, I thought I’d turn the tables and examine a questionable trait among men: the comb-over.

For a while there I thought I might be losing my hair too (it ended up just needing a good wash). I swore to myself that if my hair ever did start to thin I would lop off my golden mane in a heartbeat. Dicking around with hair to make a single strand look like a whole head-full is just bad. Nothing else. Just bad.

With any sort of head movement, that reverse ponytail slips off its intended resting place to produce…well, let’s call it like we see it; it looks dumb. Partial coverage is just as bad as soon as that head is below eye-level, as was aptly demonstrated by one gentleman’s noggin on the subway, the full sphere of the lie is revealed.

Yeah, it is a lie. You’re looking at the guy standing and everything seems okay. Despite the strangely elevated curve of  hair above the scalp, it looks plausible. You’re led to believe that this man still has a head full of hair. But then he drops a pencil.

Situations like that can be controlled; bend from the knees while maintaining eye contact, or get an underling to retrieve the pencil for you. But when you’re on a windy street you either have to wear a snug hat or risk having your hair salute passerbys on your behalf.

Please allow me to illustrate.

No more than five minutes after the first gentleman I mentioned, I spotted this next example. There, I really didn’t know what was going on.

His hair waved upward from the spot on his forehead where a horn would grow if he were a unicorn. It stood up in the breeze much in the same way as a unicorn’s horn might. That tuft of hair waved about in the breeze as though it were celebrating its emancipation from the rest of the hairline, a sole island of erect hair that I just couldn’t picture being molded into anything believable.

You try and try not to laugh but, DAMN IT! Coffee, through nose, onto lap.

Man. I wouldn’t want to be blog fodder for some jerk in the future; get laughs for the urine stain on my pants, sure, but not a drafty hair tower. That’s not cool.

Filed under: Why I'm Right