:: Quotes ::

"I looked at his passport and his name was just a bunch of upside-down 7s and a smiley face." - Christene, trying to book an appointment for a new patient who did not speak English.

"Hey bitch, buy me a Bentley!" - Bucholtz, on what he'd say to try in an attempt to pick up Emma Watson.

"Kyle, don't say 'Big fucking dick' in front of children.... Kyle! Don't say 'Tranny with a big, fucking dick' in front of children, either." - Jeremy, thinking of the children.

"You aren't allowed to bring a date to your Christmas party because I know what happens when you bring a date to your Christmas party." - Christene, who had to miss my work Christmas party this year but, once upon a time, was a Christmas party date herself.

:: Chris on Christmas ::

"You ever filled a stocking before? It feels like I just spent about $120 on absolutely nothing. I wish I was marrying a Jew." - text message I received today from my brother.

:: Wasted Talent ::

This year, I have discovered two things about myself: 1) Despite never really playing before, I am actually quite good at playing poker, and 2) I am also pretty good at picking football games. 

Now, I've played poker before 2010, obviously, but it's only ever been with my friends at 2 a.m. once everybody's schmammered, and I'd never actually been in a tournament. But then, in May – while on a golf weekend trip out in Chilliwack – I played in a 12-man tournament, and after slow-playing everyone to death (I'm rather conservative, it turns out) I ended up finishing second, and won $60. I also received a handful of compliments about how well I had played.

Then, last weekend at Davy and Colleen's, I lasted five hours and ended up sixth out of about 16 or 18, which is pretty not bad. And though I collected no monetary winnings, I did score myself a sweet consolation prize – a large bottle of Baby Duck wine.

Which brings me to my next thing: picking football games. 

I'd been in a million football pools prior to this year – although I've never done very well – but I'd never been in a pool like the one Chris, Me, Davy and a few others were in this year. In addition to the typical fantasy league, we also had to pick who we thought would win each game every week, and whoever picks the most correct games – no point spreads – by the end of Week 17, gets $60 or so. 

And while I was knocked out of the fantasy league in the first round of playoffs – losing to Davy on the last play of Monday Night Football, no less – I am doing quite well at this pick 'em business. 

I'm kicking ass, as a matter of fact.

Now, I know a decent amount about football, and I can predict the odd game or two, but this was the first time where I was forced – if I wanted to win – to pick a winner in each and every game for 17 weeks. 

Turns out, I'm pretty good. My success rate through Week 15 (not including tonight's Monday night game) is 99.1 percent.

Yes, 99.1. 

I am, in this part of my life at least, less than 1% away from being perfect.

Davy's in second place at 92%, but I've got a seven-game lead on him. 

So yeah, 2010 has been a pretty good gamblin' year for me. And what do I have to show for it? 

$60 – with that number jumping to a potential $120 – and a big bottle of $9 champagne*. Yep, I'd say I'm putting my newfound talents to good use. 

*I would also like take this opportunity to point out that, in my 167-person hockey pool run through my dad's work (it's a pick-a-player-from-each-box style pool) I am currently in first place. I'm only three up on second place, and a week ago had a 14-point lead, so these things change quickly, but still, I am in first place. Winner gets about $1,300. This is the same pool I won two years ago, collecting a cool, cool $1,600. 

:: The Way Kids' Brains work ::

I was in Wal-Mart recently, and as I walked past the pet supplies section, I heard a little kid – who could not have been more than five years old – tell his mom they should buy some dog food. 

"We don't have a dog," the mom replied, matter-of-factly. 

Then the mom dipped around the corner for a brief second, leaving the five-year-old kid standing there with his older brother, who was probably 9 or 10.

As soon as the mom turned away, the five-year-old instructed his older brother to grab one of the big bags of food (which the five-year-old obviously couldn't lift) and put it in their shopping cart.

"We don't have a dog," the older brother said.

"I know, but if we buy some dog food then mom will have to buy us a puppy to eat it!" the five-year-old genius answered.

I laughed and continued on with my shopping. Sometimes, kids are fucking awesome.

:: Scott the Super Villain ::

The following conversation took place via BBM last week, but first this: With his neatly trimmed beard, it has recently come to my attention that Scott bears a startling resemblance to Hank Scorpio - CEO of Globex Corporation, international/evil supergenius, and runner of Fun Runs.

Don't believe me? Well, take a look for yourself:



See? It's uncanny.

I mentioned this to Kelsey on Facebook the other day, and she in turn passed along my compliment/observation to Scott. The conversation quickly got away from us.*

(*Warning: the following is full of Simpsons and sports references. May fly over the heads of the non-obsessed.)

Scott: Nice Hank Scorpio reference.
Me: Thank you. Your resemblance is uncanny. Now just get yourself some moccasins and a business hammock and you're all set.
Scott: Will do. And I will take that as a compliment, (Hank) is a pretty cool dude.
Me: I would definitely take it as a compliment. Feel free to blow up a bridge, if people don't take you seriously at work.
Scott: I'm gonna take over the Eastern seaboard.
Me: Good for you. When you get home, there's gonna be an extra floor on your house.
(brief pause, for regular conversation)
Scott: Now Nick, I know that you wanted the Dallas Cowboys, but I hope this gets you one step closer to achieving that dream of yours.
Me: Aw! The Denver Broncos?!
Me: By the way, I love the fact that the whole team shows up on the Simpson's lawn. You think when Francesco Aquilini bought the Canucks, Hank and Daniel set up some nets in his driveway and played some street hockey?
Scott: Yes, they'd be in full gear, too.
Me: Absolutely.
Scott: Speaking of the Broncos, McDaniels fired today.
Me: Really? Wow.
Scott: Yep. Won his first six games, went 3 for 20 since.
Me: That is poor. Even the Maple Leafs think that's a bad record.
Scott: Yeah, even JaMarcus Russell has a better winning percentage.
Me: When asked to comment, Russell declined because he had his mouth full of cheeseburgers.
Scott: ..... and his hand was stuck in a bucket of KFC.
Me: KFC and performance-enhancing steroids. Steroids which - judging by his awful career - later turned out to only be Skittles.
Scott: He wanted to get in shape, so he drank nothing by milkshakes.
Me: Diet milkshakes?
Scott: Russell: "Oh, crap!"

:: Two old people talking about TV ::

A few minutes ago, somebody here happened to make some exaggerated grunting noise for some reason or another. After said noise, another person said, 'That sounded just like that tool guy, you know, from that old show?"

She meant, of course, Tim Allen – he of the trademarked but lame grunting noise – and his old show from the '90s, Home Improvement. But she couldn't remember the name of it. Thankfully though, a third person decided to help.

And after a two-minute brainstorm/discussion – in which help was enlisted from at least 2 other passersby – this was the conclusion:

"Oh, I know the show – it was This Old House."

"Yeah, that's the one."

"It had that guy in it... Tim something."

"Tim Allen!" 

And then, as if a 3-minute conversation about a subpar, outdated '90s sitcom wasn't bad enough, this: 

"I like Tim Allen, he's really funny. He's like Bill Murray."

Now let's just back the Comedy Caravan up just a second (see what I did there? Home Improvement watchers will get it). Tim freaking Allen is not like Bill Murray.

Sure, Allen has his charms – he sometimes funny, and I usually like him (and I still love The Santa Clause). But he's not Bill Murray. Bill Murray is a comedy legend, whereas Tim Allen is so well-thought of by most people that his show is – as evidenced by the previous conversation – often confused with a long-cancelled do-it-yourself show hosted by Bob Vila. 

Bill Murray was in Caddyshack.

Tim Allen was in Who is Cletis Tout?

Tim Allen was in Wild Hogs.

Bill Murray was in Groundhog Day, Ghostbusters and The Royal Tenenbaums.

Rest assured, Tim Allen is not Bill Murray.

Even if hopelessly unhip 50-sometimes think otherwise. 

:: Black Friday ::

"Shoplifting is a victimless crime, like punching someone in the dark." - Homer Simpson

This weekend, which technically began Thursday, is U.S. Thanksgiving/Black Friday (editor's note: Happy Turkey Day, American readers! All 4 of you). And because Black Friday is one helluva shopping day down south*, Christene left this morning, alone with her sister-in-law and a couple of her sister-in-law's friends, for the outlet malls of Seattle/Bellevue/Burlington etc...

(*Black Friday is to the U.S. what Boxing Day is to Canada, and it always struck me as odd that, here, the biggest shopping day of the year would come a day after Christmas, rather than before. I mean, how many times in your life have you heard somebody say, 'You know, we should just delay Christmas this year by a few days so we can buy all our presents on Boxing Day. We'd save a fortune!" Well, for all the problems America has - war, racism, real estate and economic disaster, the BCS – at least they've got this right.)

They return Sunday. Which means I am all alone – with the dog – for the whole weekend. Now, I could throw some wild and crazy party now that I am temporary sans ball-and-chain, but let's face it, that ain't gonna happen. Especially considering the weekend by myself got off to a helluva start at 6 a.m. this morning. After dropping Christene off for her shopping/shoplifting (probably) adventure, I came home to find the dog had peed all over his big dog bed (which he's never done) and also the floor.

A large portion of the floor.

Between keeping the dog from sitting in his own urine, cleaning the large area of pee-covered floor, cleaning the kennel and washing and drying the bed/bed cover, I spent an hour this morning cleaning up.

An hour I could've spent sleeping. Or planning a legen-dary shindig. But alas, everyone has hockey or work tonight and, quite frankly, I don't want to get up to much before my staff Christmas party tomorrow night anyway, so here's how my Friday is gonna break down.

I'm gonna go home, order a pizza, sit on the couch with the dog and watch the hockey game. And then when it's over, I'm going to load up the Wii and have a marathon Mario session – I have the newest Wii-version of Super Mario, plus the original, Mario 3 and Super Mario Land are all loaded on the machine.

Yep, I'm gonna live it up.

And hopefully when she's down in the States, Christene can steal me something nice. I'd love a copy of Bonestorm, but I'd also settle for Lee Carvallo's Putting Challenge.

:: The Beginning of Asshole Chris ::

It's well established now, and something of an inside joke amongst our friends, that my brother, Chris, has a bit of a jerky side to him. Sure, he is for the most part a nice guy. But there's been plenty of times – after a few beers – where he's not so nice. Not towards us, mind you, but usually to complete strangers. Which of course, usually makes for big entertainment for the rest of us. 

This persona has become known as Asshole Chris, and nearly every one of us has a story. 

A few months ago, I tried to explain the Asshole Chris phenomenon to Christene, because she's always so damn adamant that this cannot be the case – "He's such a nice guy," she always says. And while I explained, I tried to think of how this whole asshole personality came about. 

Now, it's easy to assume that it came about as soon as he hit 18/19 years old and started drinking and going out to the bar. But in fact, I think the seeds were planted much, much sooner.

When I was 18 and Chris was about a week away from turning 15, the two of us went to the movies to see the South Park movie on opening weekend. Now, this was in the days when – for big movie openings – a theatre employee would introduce the movie and talk to the crowd before the film actually started. 

Before South Park, the employee offered some kind of prize – probably a free movie pass – to the person who could do the best Cartman impression. Even though it was a packed theatre, only one guy volunteered. So up he walked to the front of the theatre, grabbed the microphone, and did his impression.

It was not good. Awful, as a matter of fact. When his impression was over, the theatre remained almost dead silent – some people weren't paying attention while others were simply too polite to boo. 

Except 14-year-old Christopher. 

After about a one-second pause, he yelled out from our seats near the back of the room, "THAT FUCKING SUCKED!!" 

He got some laughs, some scattered applause and the rest, as they say, is history. 

But that was the start. 

:: Random school memory ::

Not sure why I thought of this today, but I'm going to tell you a story from my two years spent at Kwantlen University College (later changed to Kwantlen University, later changed again to Kwantlen Polytechnic University... just pick a fucking name and still with it, perhaps.)

In my second year there, I was taking political science class that I now rank as probably the second-worst class I ever took in university; the first being two-semester art/photography class I took at the University College of the Cariboo, which is now Thompson Rivers University (editor's note: can't any school keep its name the same?)

Anyways, this course was focused on Canadian politics, and was taught by a horrible shrew of a an old woman who had no teaching skills, whatsoever. Every class was the same thing – she'd throw some notes on the overhead projector, and we were supposed to copy them down. 

For three straight hours. 

(I've often wondered why she didn't just made 30 copies of these notes and hand 'em out to us, but then I realized – if she did it that much more efficient way, what would she do for the three hours of class time?) 

She was also a huge NDP booster/member, and being that it was a political science class, it gave her ample opportunity to espouse her left-wing NDP viewpoints and opinions. It was an election year, if I remember correctly, and at one point she even handed out NDP buttons to the entire class. Now, I'm not what I'd call politically active and while I don't necessarily dislike the NDP, I did not appreciate having paid for a class only to receive political propaganda. 

On this occasion, I declined said button. This upset her. 

A few weeks later, we were required to write opinion essays about a certain political topic. I believe I chose immigration. And because I enjoy playing devil's advocate (and being an asshole) I chose an anti-immigration opinion. I knew, as a staunch lefty, this would piss her off. 

So I wrote a well-reasoned essay, complete with facts, sources, footnotes, etc... and handed it in. A week later, it was returned to me with a large "FAIL" written along the top of the cover page. Underneath that was scribbled the following: "This opinion is wrong."

I was understandably pissed off. If she quibbled with my facts, my sources, my writing style - anything of the sort – and failed me because of that, well, what can I do? But to fail me because she did not share my opinion? Well, that didn't fly with me. 

After complaining loudly and, let's face it, probably pretty rudely, I left the class. The next day I went to whatever administrative body that handles teacher complaints, and explained the situation. I'd like to fill an official complaint, I said.

The response? 

"Don't bother. We have some many complaints against her already, one more is not going to make a difference."

In the end, I passed the course – I may even have got a pass on the essay in the end, I can't really recall – and I don't believe Mrs. NDP taught much longer, but still, this is the kind of education I got for the first two years after high school. 

(And truth be told, most of my university profs at Kwantlen were awful. For many, many reasons. But this woman was the absolute worst.)

Community college, FTW.

:: Behold Frostillicus! ::

It's cold out today. Perhaps not as cold as a Kwik-e-Mart freezer (or Fort McMurray, for that matter, where I understand it recently snowed) but chilly nonetheless.

:: A solution to the The Situation ::

Halloween is only a few days away, and it looks like Jersey Shore-themed costumes are awfully popular, which really shouldn't come as much of a surprise due to both the show's immense – if inexplicable – popularity and also the fact that douchebags of the world really like to show off their douchebaggyness (Ed Hardy shirts, after all, are not exactly understated).

I, of course, being of both good taste and a bad attitude, hate Jersey Shore. It's such a lowest-common-denominator show that it makes Rock of Love look like fucking Masterpiece Theatre. Sadly though, my hatred of the MTV program will do nothing to slow its popularity, nor the thousands – millions maybe – of Snooki and The Situation costumes that are sure to sprout up on the streets and at Halloween parties beginning tomorrow night.

All we can really hope for, I guess, is an increase in poison Halloween candy and firecracker accidents this year. Either that, or a bad batch of energy drinks and jagermeister.

:: My dog, the jerk ::

Since getting our boxer-English bulldog cross, Gunnar, three weeks ago, I have mentioned to people, but not yet written about, his aversion for all things athletic. Yes, he's a boxer – typically a hyper breed, that requires much physical exercise. But he's also a bulldog.

A lazy, lazy bulldog.

And considering that I am, for the most part, a lazy, lazy person, we get along just great. (Minus the odd peeing on the carpet, of course.) But despite his dislike of walks – which in reality, might actually be of a love of the couch and lying down, more than anything – I still drag him outside every weekday morning at about 6 a.m., before I have to get ready for work.

Now, he doesn't usually do his business on these walks – he doesn't like to poop while on a leash, and by 6 a.m. Christene has usually put him out once already anyhow – and make no mistake about it, both of us would rather be sleeping, but I force the two of us to go outside because I think it's good to get some exercise, even 20 minutes worth.

And if ever I thought Gunnar's hatred of exercise was a mere coincidence, or a figment of my imagination, today sealed the deal.

Near the end of our walk, as we approached our house, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned around to see a middle-aged man jogging towards us, out for his morning run. As a courtesy, I moved over to one side of the wide sidewalk, and pulled Gunnar over, too.

But then, as the runner came along side us, Guns – who's normally pretty laid back, and pays no mind to anybody, except if they're playing with him – leapt to the left, directly into the runner's path, nearly tripping him into a nearby planter as a result. Neither dog or man actually got hurt, and the jogger just kind of laughed and kept on truckin' along.

And Gunnar went back to his somewhat-calm walk as if nothing ever happened.

Then we both went in the house and sat happily on the couch – me drinking coffee, Gunnar eating a bunch of dog treats.

I had to give him something, after all. He earned it.

:: Brain freeze ::

Yesterday afternoon, I sat at my desk and ate a big bowl of ice cream. Somebody I work with had bought a big tub of it, put it in the lunch room freezer and told some of us to help ourselves. I went and got some and came back to my desk.

Being that my desk is in a high-traffic area right near the lunchroom door (the office equivalent of getting a table near the washroom), there were no shortage of people – from other departments, and therefore not initially told of the ice-cream bounty – walking by and making comments about my ice cream.

This was incredibly annoying, as you may imagine. Then, it just got plain stupid.

Guy, leaving lunchroom: Hey, I didn't see any ice cream in there!

Me: Well, it's in there.

Guy: Where was it?

Me: It's ice cream, where do you think it was? I've give you a hint – it wasn't the microwave.

Guy: Weird, I never saw it.

Me: Did you look in the freezer?

Guy: Well, no, I didn't.

Me: Can't imagine why you wouldn't have known about it then.

These are the people I work with.

:: She was spouting cliches a mile a minute ::

I just overheard a woman on a phone call. In the span of no more than two minutes – and that's probably being generous – she said the following things about a person who was the subject of the phone conversation.

"She's bigger than life."

"She's got a mega-watt smile."

"She just lights up the room."

"She'd give you the shirt off her back."

So yes, this woman is probably a fantastic person – not to mention potentially topless – but what I am more concerned with is the fact that the person on this end of the line is apparently completely unable to form and express unique thoughts.

I mean, I work in sports, so I hear cliches all the time – about taking it one day at a time, giving it 110%, etc – but that's different. (I don't know why or how it's different, so don't ask, but it just is).

It's probably the same reason I hate – HATE – when I hear or read (lookin' at you, Facebook statuses) people spouting some cliche phrase and pass it off as wit or a deep thought*. It's not. It's lame, and does not make you intelligent. It makes you lame.

*Today's annoying example: Somebody on Twitter posted that lame quote about how "yesterday's history, tomorrow's a mystery and today is a gift. That's why they call it the present." Good one, jackass – real fucking original. You think that up all by yourself?

:: You dial 9-1, then when I say so, dial 1 again ::

So apparently Halloween is a big deal here in Milner Heights, our home of two-and-half weeks. About every second house seems to be decorated up with stuff. I've never seen anything quite like it, actually, but then again, it's a relatively small area, so maybe that's why it seems like a lot.

Anyways, on that note, I was out taking Gunnar for his daily 6 a.m. walk (which we both hate, by the way - we'd both rather stay in bed, especially Guns... he's tough to get going in the morning, which I can appreciate.)

And about 8 houses up the street from us, I noticed one house with its two front windows all boarded up. At first, I thought that somehow these windows of this new house had been smashed, but when I looked closer, I realized that the way the boards were put up, I think they were meant to look haphazard and sketchy.

You know, for Halloween.

The trouble is, these boarded up windows are the only decoration - if indeed that's what they are - outside of the entire house. No spooky witches or other statues, no black and orange ribbons or anything. Not even a pumpkin!

So that being the case, I'm really not 100% convinced that this house is festive. I'd say there's a decent chance there's some kind of situation going on in there - perhaps the residents are boarding up to prevent some kind of zombie attack, I don't know. Or perhaps it's a murder scene. The possibilities are endless.

All I know is that it, on its own, it makes the house look like some kind of white trash murder scene.

Which may, come to think of it, be the scariest decorations on the whole block. Well played, weirdos. Well played.

:: Minor annoyance of the day ::

People who say they "seen" something.

For example, the woman I just heard, who told somebody that "I seen that yesterday."

No, you fool, you saw something yesterday. You ain't seen nuthin'.

:: Delayed response ::

Witnessed a very Seinfeldian moment today at the office. However, unlike Seinfeld, the moment was annoying rather than hilarious.

More than two hours ago, one co-worker made some faux-angry remark about how, if our department kept screwing up – thus directly affecting his department – he was going to send some people after us/get us in trouble, etc.... It was said in jest, we all chuckled, blah blah blah, end of moment.

And then we all moved on with our days.

One guy though – who is something of a socially-awkward rube and has been mentioned here, here and here– just couldn't let the moment die. What he also couldn't do, unfortunately, was come up with an on-the-spot, witty remark. Like I said, he's not that quick.

So, two hours pass, and he wanders back to the guy who made the fake-threats, and said, "Remember earlier when you said ....." and then proceeded with his hilarious comeback that he'd spent two hours crafting in his brain.

Couple problems. The first of course, is that two fucking hours passed. But secondly – perhaps most importantly – is that his finely crafted bit of hilarity was awful. Like, one of the top-5 lamest "jokes" I've ever heard.

Worse than a "dad" joke. Hell, even worse than a bad "dad" joke.

And then upon the joke falling flat, he topped it off with what's sadly become his signature line: "Right? Riiiight???"

At this rate, all I can hope for is that he soon takes a new job at Tyler Chicken.

"Dogs are like babies you can swear at." - Christene

Say hello to my little friend....

:: Banana thief ::

Tonight while out picking up a few groceries at PriceSmart, I saw a guy steal five bananas.

That's it. Five bananas. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I was in the self-checkout area, just about to leave, when through the open bay-doors walked a youngish guy - probably mid-20s. He proceeded to walk towards the produce section right in front of him. He walked past a few bins of fruit until he got to the bin full of bananas. He took a few seconds, sorted through the bananas til he found five suitable ones - in two separate bunches - then picked them up and walked out.

The trick to successful thieving, or so I've heard, is confidence. Look like you own it. This banana thief clearly had read the handbook - he owned those bananas. Owned them hard.

Still, I couldn't help but wonder just compelled this guy to steal bananas. Why not apples? Nectarines? Shit, why not just rob a cashier?

Weird.

:: Definition of irony (sort of) ::

While sitting at my desk, which is adjacent to the lunch room, I was just forced to listen to two women, both in their late-40s/early-50s, bitch and moan – quite viciously, I might add – about their respective elderly mothers.

About how they try to run their lives even now; question their parenting skills; how they were terrible parents themselves and that's why all their children escaped and moved far away, and how all they do is complain and blah blah blah. It got so obnoxious and loud, I almost told them to shut up.

But I didn't. Because the thing is, I don't think these two realize that, judging by the way they just spent their lunch hour complaining and whining, in 20-30 years they will probably turn out the exact same way.

Old. Bitter. Angry.

That'll teach 'em for annoying me.