:: Something is free in the office today ::

This morning, a large box of free tea samples – various types, brands, etc - showed up in our office. From a customer, or some tea company, or something... it's origins are not really important.

But the way people are crawling all over themselves for individually packaged, 25-cent tea bags, you'd think they were filled with gold. Since 8:15 this morning, people have been talking about tea. Discussing the various types in the box – green tea, vanilla tea, cleansing tea, some Starbucks' brand – asking where it came from, or debating loudly what types are best for what situation.

And just when the fucking conversations stops, some new person – someone blissfully unaware of this free bounty of tea – shows up and asks what the box of tea is all about.

And if that's not happening, the one person whose desk happens to be adjacent to said box – and is therefore is the self-appointed guardian of the tea – is wandering around the office, offering it to the people who were so unmoved by the free stuff to begin with that they never left their cubicles.

Listen, it's fucking tea. It's not new – it's been around since dates ended with 'B.C.' for Chrissakes – and it's not really that interesting, either. Get over it.

:: 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?

:: Anger rising ::

I had a meeting set this morning for 9:30 a.m.; the guy I was supposed to meet with was to meet me here in our office. He sent me an email at 8:45 a.m. asking if we could "kindly reschedule to 11" because he had a doctor's appointment. No problem, I said. 

So 11 a.m. rolls by. Then 11:15. Then 11:35. I call, but there's no answer and his voicemail is conveniently full. Now angry, I email him and ask him where the hell he is, and mention that I don't have all day – I have other things to do, and my time and patience was running short.

Ten minutes later, I get an email back saying, "Oh, sorry, I just got home from the doctor's and I'd left my phone and home, and blah blah blah - can we do this by phone?"

Yes, I said, by phone will be fine. I call. No answer. I call again. No answer. 

This guy has absolutely burned my last nerve. 

For starters, he had to meet with someone else from my office yesterday at 3 p.m. He finally arrived for that meeting 10 minutes late, and then said hurriedly, "I just have to pick my daughter up from school I'll be back in 10 minutes!" and then drove off.

He reappeared 35 minutes later. 

And here's the thing: being late is one thing, but what pisses me off the most is that his two reasons for it – picking up his daughter and a doctor's appointment – are not things that just come up out of the blue. He knows when his daughter gets out of school, and presumably knows if/when he has to pick her up.

And have you tried getting a doctor or dentist appointment in the last 10 years? You have to book that shit months in advance. I have a dentist appointment tomorrow morning, and I've known since 2007. So why the hell would he schedule things he knew he'd be late for? 

Because he has no concept of time, or regard for other people's time, that's why. And being a person who is almost always punctual, this pisses me off some.

Eventually I did get in touch with him – 2 hours and 15 minutes after our rescheduled 11 a.m. and nearly four hours after we were first supposed to get together – and basically told him to stuff it. Told him I wasn't interested in meeting with him anymore (at least not today), and if he wanted to call me back sometime next week, that'd be fine, but I was done chasing him. 

He said he'd call by Monday afternoon.

Somehow, I doubt it.

:: The Pizza Rules ::

There are countless number of things I take issue with – seriously, try and keep track – and one that has largely flown under the radar is about pizza. Now, it may not shock you that a man of my, uh, carriage has opinions on pizza (maybe it only shocks you that it's taken so long for such opinions to bubble over) but be that as it may, what I really have a problem with is "pizza" with non-traditional toppings.

I put that last pizza in quotations because a pizza with feta cheese, lettuce, shrimp, or some god-awful white sauce instead of regular tomato-based pizza sauce is not real pizza. I'm sorry, but it just isn't. (Noted exception: BP's perogy pizza)

This little rant came to fruition last night when Christene and I headed down to the Cloverdale BP for dinner. We hemmed and hawed over a pizza – I wanted one with about 54 kinds of meat on it; Christene was less enthusiastic – until decided on a compromise: a pizza which had a couple kinds of traditional meats (pepperoni, ham) as well as a couple veggies. It also had shrimp.

Needless to say, this pizza was not good. Not so much because of the shrimp, but because of an utter lack of cheese, which meant all the toppings fell off the pizza when you tried to lift it out of the pan. But the shrimp didn't help. It just felt... out of place.

So while our subpar dinner was not the direct result of the shrimp, it caused me to consider all the pizza offerings which we had to choose from on the menu. Among them – the items listed above, plus one with pulled pork, another with peanut sauce and sesame seeds, and other strange concoctions that I cannot remember right now.

Whatever happened to pepperoni, bacon, mushrooms, green peppers and cheese? I mean, is that what we've come to here – we're so bored with traditional food that we have to put pulled pork and fucking shellfish on pizza to make it new and interesting? Listen, I like pulled pork. Like shrimp and feta cheese, too. But not in a pizza. When I order a pizza, I want it to look like a fucking pizza. And more importantly, taste like a pizza. With plenty of cheese.

Stick with what works, pizza chefs. You're fucking up a good thing (Again, the perogy pizza notwithstanding. That shit's delicious.)

In conclusion: Less this, more this.

:: I'm not an idiot ::

When you and your friends have known each other as long as my friends and I have, there ends up being a million different things you end up ragging each other about, constantly. You know, that Bucholtz is dumb (even though he's really not) or that Sean is the real-life version of Pigpen (likely only partly true) or that Chris is an asshole (mostly true).

It's all in good fun. I mean, if you can't bust the balls of the person you've known for 15+ years, whose balls can you bust?

And then there's me. I have accumulated plenty of these so-called stereotypes (for lack of a better term) too. You know, that I can't/shouldn't be allowed to do anything mechanical because I work behind a desk and not in a tradesperson or tradesperson-esque capacity.

Or that for most of my life, I didn't exactly get a lot of chicks.

Or that any story I start won't finish for at least 20 minutes.

You know, the usual kind of stuff that friends give you shit about because a) it's usually always funny and b) nobody is going to get offended by it.

It's all in good fun, and it's all fair game. I rarely get bothered by it, but lately it's been happening to me with increasing regularity, and it's getting annoying. Case in point: Friday at Ian's.

I tried to tell some story which was (probably) hilarious, and it was not a long story. But of course, knowing my penchant for long stories, everyone had to mock it by piping in with a million questions, interrupting me every two seconds.

"What time was this?"

"What were you doing before that?

"What colour was the car the person was driving?"

"Sorry, this was at what time again?"

In the end, I just said "Fuck you guys" and didn't finish the story. And then, later on, the jabs continued, especially when the subject of real estate was brought up. I can't remember all the details - we were drinking a lot - but basically, the general consensus was that the idea of buying a rowhouse without a strata was stupid, because what if the roof/walls/etc collapse?

Nothing I could say was enough to satisfy anybody and - again, likely because of the booze - I actually started to get pretty pissed off for a minute, until the subject was changed. And I'll save everyone the reasons behind why no strata is no big deal (See jerks? I can shorten a story!), except to say that it works in Eastern Canada and Europe, and last I checked, people are cool with it. (editor's note: I haven't actually checked. I didn't make any calls or anything).

The point I have to make then, is of a wider scope. Whether it comes to buying this house, or telling a story, hammering a nail or whatever it is, I take issue with the fact that the general consensus is that I'm somehow incapable of doing it, and doing it properly.

So just a reminder: I'm a smart person - graduated high school, college and everything (almost with honours!) - and I have a job and have managed to make a better-than-decent living, and I have not ended up destitute and wearing potato sacks for clothes (yet), so I've obviously done some things right. Maybe not a lot of things, but some things, sure.

And while I'm not going to get into a boozy, in-depth argument over the merits of the strata system, or whether or not a 30-year warranty on the roof covers only the shingles or the workmanship too, nor am I going to explain how - if years from now, my neighbours don't want to join forces, sans-strata to replace a needs-replacing roof - I can just replace my section because all the houses are actually separate when you get down to it, I am going to ask this: Considering my common sense, don't you think I'd check into all these so-called red flags to make sure that they're actually, you know, not red flags, before I wrote a deposit cheque for $20,000?

The benefit of the doubt is all I'm asking for here.

(As for those who say I can't tell a short story, I'm willing to concede that point. This blog post, after all, is 722 words, and I could've summed it all up in five: Get off my back, please.)

:: Shovel your own damn driveway ::

After a few days of Mother Nature attempting to snow (You'd see a few flakes and that was it, then a few hours later, a few more), it finally snowed for real today. Still is, as a matter of fact. It's nothing to get worked up about yet, and I'm sure when it stops there will be nothing more than 4-5 cm on the ground (knock on wood).

This new snowfall, however light, means that our strata unearths all the community snow shovels and the big bag of salt for the walkways and courtyards. In previous years, people have just grabbed the shovels when necessary, and I've only ever used them last year, when the snow in front of my garage door was too much to drive over. And once or twice I used them when I was feeling generous, and I shoveled a path through the snow so people could get to their front doors.

The common areas - walkways, court yards, etc - in each "pod" of townhouses have usually been cleared by one or two people. In my pod, it's the strata president usually. This is because a) many of the people who live in this pod are elderly, and b) because he's the fucking president.

Lately, this guy has been driving me crazy. He was first elected strata president because he's sort of the complex handyman anyway (He is a very "handy" guy, so it's a position he voluntarily takes, and seems to enjoy) and also because at the time of the strata elections, he was unemployed so, no matter his other faults, he was deemed the best choice because he'd have, presumably, all kinds of time to devote to the strata cause.

The last few weeks, I've seen him around the complex fixing things, and each and every time, he has to make a point about how "I'm just volunteering, you know" and "I don't get paid for this."

Listen Bucko, we know you don't get paid. You do the work because you're able to and it saves the strata money. We fucking get it. And while we certainly appreciate it, I don't need to be reminded that I should be appreciating it. If you didn't wanna do it, you shouldn't have signed on to the god damn president, and at this point, I'd just as soon pay somebody to come fix the roof, or shovel the snow, or whatever. At least that way I'd seen some tangible benefit to the $224 I pay in fees every month.

But if you want to do it, that's fine. But don't make the rest of us feel guilty. Because I don't tend to feel guilt about these things - I just get pissed off and annoyed.

Today, however, was the breaking point. We arrived home from grocery shopping and Mr. President was shoveling the area in front of his garage, and the three ajacent spaces (four people all share one common garage). My garage - and the garage that three or four fellow residents share with me - is not a part of this area.

Still, the guy feels the need to tell me that he's got the shovels and salt out, and they'll be by his front door again all winter.

"Thanks," I said. "I'll remember that."

Then I started to go inside, but he spoke up again.

"Yep, just by the front door.... I'm just sayin'."

Yeah, I get it. You're saying "Hey, you should shovel this area that you don't even use, because I'm always the one doing it." Or, more accurately, he's saying "Hey, you should volunteer to do help out."

And you know what? Maybe I should. Maybe I even will when I have the time or the inclination. But don't fucking guilt me into it. You aren't doing it out of the goodness of your heart. You are doing it because you only work 20 hours a week and oh, have I mentioned this before? You are the fucking president. (I know shoveling snow isn't actually written into the actual presidential duties, at least I assume it isn't, but the position does carry with it, by default, more responsibility than the average resident. That's all I'm saying.)

After this conversation, I immediately hopped in my truck to take it for a spin around the block (I'm having 4-wheel drive issues and wanted to see what was up with it), and unfortunately this meant driving right past Mr. President/Volunteer Shoveler again.

I notice that he has finished about half of what he was shovelling.

Of course, he waves me down. I roll the window down, and then he asks, "So... do you want me to just leave the shovel here for you?"

"Yeah, fine, whatever," is my response, and I drive away. He leaves the shovel leaning against a post and goes into his nice warm house.

And in the five minutes I was driving around, I just got angrier. For starters, I'm fucking driving away - how do you know when I'm coming back? Maybe I'm going to work and won't be back for 9 hours. Maybe I'm leaving forever. Or maybe I'll be back in five minutes.

The point is, he had no idea.

Secondly, he already guilt-tripped me once. But that's apparently not enough. So not only is he telling me "Yeah, do some of the work I volunteered for, and shovel the driveway" he's telling me also, "Oh yeah, also do it right now."

Fuck. You.

So I came home, parked the truck, went inside and got some gloves. And then I came back out and begrudgingly grabbed the shovel.

And then I cleared my own God damn driveway, and - because I'm so thoughtful and nice - the driveway of the old war veteran who parks next me. That was it.

Mr. President's side is still only half finished. He can fucking shovel it himself.

:: And you thought I was a jerk... ::

Today marks an exciting new day in the world of blogs (Yes, there is such a thing), for today marks the return of a well-respected, obnoxious blogger after a lengthy hiatus. Two obnoxious bloggers, actually.

Finally, at long last, a blog that speaks to me.*

By gar, it's been awhile.

*Don't worry other blog friends, your blogs also speak to me and I love them, but this particular blog in question actually yells at me, rather than speaks, and that's something I can get behind.

:: Social skills ::

Just in case any of you were wondering, saying "So...?" casually as someone walks by your desk – when they otherwise have no reason or desire to speak with you – is not an acceptable conversation starter. 

And after your target walks past and into the lunchroom – ignoring you, in case you were unsure –it is not acceptable to get up from your desk, corner them in said room and start inane conversations about whatever pops into your head at that given moment, apropos of nothing. 

I don't care that you are starved for attention. All they want is some fucking coffee. 

Leave them be.

:: Workin' hard, or hardly workin'? ::

There is very little work-related banter that I enjoy. That's not to say that I don't like talking with the people I work with – because I usually do – but I just despise the usual, cliched workplace topics of conversations (ie: My rant in an earlier post about people complaining that it's Monday).

And aside from that whole Monday thing, there are few things I hate more than somebody who greets you with a "Working hard or hardly working?" After which, they almost always chuckle to themselves with glee. Now, I admit that the phrase was probably funny the very first time somebody said it – Oohhh, I see what you did there, you flipped the words around! – but that was probably some time ago, in the 1950s.

I imagine that soon after that, the hilarity died considerably. And now, three-quarters of the way through 2009, the phrase is essentially Michael Jackson.

Dead.*

Anyways, the reason for all this is because, about 20 minutes ago while meandering through Wal-Mart across the street from the office (I was, during this time, "hardly working" for those of you keeping track), I overheard a guy talking on his cell phone.

And how he greeted the voice on the other end of the line was, essentially, a re-working of the "hardly working" question:

"Killin' time or is time killing you?"

Uhhh, what?

After I gathered my thoughts – my initial one being that this guy was the world's biggest idiot – I began to dissect this ridiculous phrase.

First off, it has absolutely no meaning. How does time kill you? How is that possible. After careful consideration, the only two ways in which I think that time could in fact be murderous in nature are 1) Dying of old age, and 2) People who are so busy they say that "There aren't enough hours in the day."

As for Way #1, it's pretty self-explanatory. You're old. You've been alive for a long time, and when that time is up, you die. Technically, it's time that kills you.

As for #2, well, these people are apparently so busy that they are being "killed" – figuratively speaking – by having a limited amount of time in which to complete a number of required tasks.

I get it, and I'm pretty sure that's what the intention of the "is time killing you?" line is all about. However, that does not make the sentence any less stupid, nor the speaker any less retarded.

It's no different that the original phrase – which is lame to begin with, as I said – and by trying to make a new version of said phrase, he just looks like a huge douche. You can usually get away with spouting lame cliches – Hell, athletes who are always taking it one game at a time and giving 110% do it every day – but who is this guy to try and coin a new phrase?

He's just some wahoo shopping at Wal-Mart in the middle of a work day and therefore likely unemployed**. And while it can be argued – pretty easily, I might add – that I, too, was in the exact same situation, there was one big difference: I wasn't coming up with asinine new twists on old phrases, thus making myself appear totally unhip and out of touch.

Nope, I was just killing time before it killed me.

*Yeah, I went there.

**A crass generalization, perhaps, but that's what why I'm considering changing this blog's title to Classic Times: Judging books by their cover since 1981.

:: The desert calls ::

I worked a 14-hour day today, in three different cities. It started at 8 a.m. at my office, doing my usual job. Now, this wasn't too bad to begin with - minus the fact that we had to skip our usual walk to get coffee because it was too fucking cold out - but it got worse.

I won't bore you with the details, but just say this: budget cuts have made a certain part of my job a living hell. I spent three-quarters of my day today talking to colleagues on the phone about said problem, trying to find a solution, dealing with complainers, then complaining myself when no solution could be found. Good times.

In between these phone calls, I did a minimal amount of real work, and also traded phone calls back-and-forth with my bank, as I am in the process of trying to secure a car loan. This was the worst part of my day, but again I won't bore you with details. I'll just break it down quick:

- I own my own place. It is assessed at $244,000. I could sell it for 260.

- My credit is perfect. So perfect, in fact, that last Saturday a car dealership approved me for financing - for an amount far greater than I needed, as a matter of fact - in less than fifteen minutes.

- I make a good annual salary, and have a second job which in theory would cover the entire cost of a monthly car payment, were I to get one.

- I have no other real debts, except for my mortgage (which many people driving nice new cars despite modest salaries have and can easily afford) and a few hundred bucks on one credit card.

- I asked for $32,000 (Whether I need this much or not is debatable, but considering all the above points, I thought it was more than a reasonable request).

- The bank said I could only have $25,000.

- Then the following things happened: I got really mad, and yelled at the bank folks, calling their offer "insulting." Then said I was taking all my money out and going to a different bank. Then I hung up. Then they called me back four times, all of which I sent straight to voicemail. In the messages they left, they said they'd "try to work something out." Their second "offer" was pretty much the exact same thing. I called back and yelled some more.

- I still have no new truck.

I don't know what else to say about this really, except that it really, really pisses me off. When I was 20-years-old and jobless, I got a $21,000 loan from the same bank with no questions asked. Why they've now decided that a stable person with a good job and a house is not to be trusted with anything more than a $400/month loan is beyond me. But whatever.

Sorry, I know I said I wasn't going to bore you with details and then went ahead and did exactly that, but I do that sometimes... stories just get away from me.

So where was I? Oh right, my stupid long day. After bitching at the bank for another little while, eventually I had to drive downtown to cover a basketball game, which just happened to overlap with two other things I normally would have covered. I watched the game, took pictures - even got hit in the side of the face by a ball on its way out of bounds. I was sitting courtside on the floor, camera to my eye.

With four minutes left in the game, I had to race back to Langley, grab some dinner en route, and then watch the Canucks game, so I could write about it and file a story by 10:15 p.m. In between stoppages in play, and in the intermission, I worked on my basketball story, and did interviews over the phone from the dining room.

Then the game went into overtime, which meant I had even less time to file a story. I made it on time though, like I always manage to do, and now I'm sitting here, way past when I should've gone to sleep, especially because I have two more nights like this between now and Saturday.

The only thing currently bringing a smile to my face is the Bud Light Lime that is sitting in front of me, ice cold and half-full. It is the last of the Lime beers I brought back from Vegas when I was there in the fall. Somehow I made 24 of them last five months.

This particular beer is making me happy because it reminds me of sitting at the Stratosphere Las Vegas, playing Super Jackpot Party for about three hours straight, getting fucking bombed off this particular beer. Then, at about 3 a.m., I stopped by the hotel gift shop/store and bought three more for the elevator ride to my room.

I woke up hungover with one unopened beer in my bed next to me, and an empty bottle still in my hand.

And in a little over a week, I'll get the chance to do that very same thing again, only this time with the addition of four days watching spring training baseball in Arizona.

Can't come quick enough.

:: No Laughing Matter ::

Of all the people I know, there are only a few I would consider genuinely hilarious people – these are people who consistently make me laugh. I'd put Jeremy in that group, Bucholtz and Christene, too. My cousin's ex-boyfriend, Dave, was also a funny, funny dude. And of course, Chris makes me laugh, but that's usually because he's drunk and yelling at someone, and Kelsey makes me laugh because she's usually done something stupid – like injured herself eating lobster.

That's not to say the rest of you don't have your moments, too - nearly all my friends make me laugh numerous times, which is why they're my friends, I guess. (This is my disclaimer so I don't get 50 messages from you idiots, mad that I didn't list you by name).

And not to build myself up too much, but I know I'm a pretty funny guy, too. I didn't once win columnist of the year by writing about the Israeli peace talks, after all.

But what's more troubling is that, increasingly, I have been running into more and more people who think they are funny, but whose "jokes" are so lame or dated – usually both – that I just cannot take it anymore (Hence, me posting about it).

My biggest pet peeve is the people who purposely misspell and mispronounce words, effectively ending up sounding like a live-action lolcats poster (And as many of you know, there is nothing I despise more than those goddamn lolcats). This is not funny. It may have been mildly entertaining four years ago, but that was a simpler time, when funny was harder to find. So we settled for mildly cute and amusing instead. That time is over.

The worst part is, rather than calling these people on their lack of originality, cleverness or humour, equally unfunny people are encouraging them. Recently, someone I know posted online some quip about being a champion of procrastination. Fair 'nuff. Valid point. End of story.

But then somebody else, a friend I assume, commented that they would dethrone this champion of procrastination, but they were "too lazy."

Gee, I don't think that joke has ever been made before. How clever. This is the same person who probably still goes around asking people "Is that your final answer?" and wearing Hammer pants. But it gets worse...

A few comments later, after about as much witty repartee and one can stand, somebody else chimed in with something along the lines of "OMG LOLOLOL You guys just crack me UP!!!"

Yeah...thanks for coming out. Go back to your Springer reruns and "Idiot's Guide to Growing a Mullet" handbook, jackass.

We just can't be encouraging this behaviour. These are the kind of jokes you expect when an Autistic Day Camp take a field trip to Open Mic Night. (Wow, that was offensive, even for me)

I also cannot stand the people who, while not straying into LOLcat territory, instead regurgitate the same phrases, comments and jokes we did when we were in high school. That was 10 years ago, times change! (editor's note: 10 years...fuck).

Nobody says anything is "the bomb!" anymore, and not everybody's "mug" is hilarious. Sure, there are ugly, goofy people out there, but not everybody. And while I'm bitching, lets update the ol' music collection from Marilyn Manson's Beautiful People and DMX, aiight?

These are just examples, but there are more. For starters, some amateur "artist" with a ballpoint pen and computer paper dropped off to our office today a comic strip he thought we could run in the paper (forgetting, obviously, that our publication has not once, since its inception in 1976, ever run comics). The comic was titled "Wang, Dang and Doodle" (editor's note: OK, the title is mildly hilarious if you are 7. or 27). It was about, apparently, three duck-like characters. Each piece of paper was supposed to be one frame of the strip.

Frame 1: Giant scribbly head of one of the characters (probably Wang?), saying "OH NO, MY WIFE LEFT ME."
Frame 2: A different giant scribbly head asking, "OH NO WHAT HAPPEND (sic)?"
Frame 3: Head #1, explains "SHE LEFT ME FOR THE MARCHING BAND."
FRAME 4: Head 2: "OH I GUESS YOU JUST WEREN'T MEN ENOUGH FOR HER!!!!"

Ohhhhhhh burn! I see what you did there. The man vs. men thing, because it was a whole band. I get it – very clever. Good work.

See people? This is the kind of mind-numbing shit I've been bombarded with lately. And it baffles me as to why it's suddenly occurring. And why were are encouraging them.

Do these people think they are actually hilarious, worthy of their own hour-long Comedy Central special? I mean, common sense says you update your shtick – nobody does TV dinner jokes anymore, do they?

Let me break it down in an analogy for you. I'm not good at running, so I don't enter marathons. But if I was absolutely convinced that I should do that anyway, I would practice. I would go to the gym. I would get running advice and hone my craft. Or at the absolute bare minimum, I'd buy the proper fucking shoes to at least give myself a fighting chance.

Now, for these wanna-be comics, I suggest just giving it a rest. You are good people with (presumably) many awesome qualities – you don't have to be funny, you're fine without that skill set.

Or if you're determined, it's not that difficult to improve. Just turn on a TV. We have sophisticated, clever comedy now like The Office, Curb Your Enthusiasm and 30 Rock, among others. Not to mention reruns of classic episodes of The Simpsons, which is the cleverest, most satirical show ever produced.

We can do better than fart jokes and lolcats, folks.

A little effort – that's all I'm asking for.

"Hello Nick! How was....whatever it was you were doing, before you came here?" - Sean

"If Brad is a testament to everthing that Christmas stands for, then fuck Christmas!" - Scott, after some shitfaced/weird waitress at The Duke, came over to us, literally crying her eyes out, and proceeded to tell us how great a person Brad was, because he'd "been through Hell" and was a "testament to blah blah blah."

The speech, and the whole situation, was probably the most awkward/ridiculous public speech/moment any of us had witnessed in quite some time. Apparently, this stupid old broad had got it in her head that Brad's car accident - which was what, 13 years ago? - was a result of drunk driving, so she a) gave a speech about the merits of not driving drunk and b) proceeded to turn B-Rad into the epitome of hard work, determination, and all-round good guy-ery. Basically, if you'd have listen to this woman, you'd be under the impression now that it's not Jesus whom we celebrate on Dec. 25, it's Brad Fucking Gorski. Same person, apparently.

Now don't get me wrong, Brad is a standup guy, but he's still a douchebag, and in no conceivable way was deserving of any kind of tribute. No more than anybody else we know, anyhow. And certainly not one that involved actual, real tears from a complete stranger.

So in conclusion, we all like Brad, but we don't like drunk-ass old waitresses. Also, Libya is a land of peace and contrast.

Oh, by the way - Merry Christmas. For those of you coming to the annual Christmas Night drinkathon, I'll see you in a couple days. As usual, we'll celebrate the birth of Jesus by drinking Budweiser and playing darts. I can think of no better tribute. (No wussing out either, people...not like last year).

For those of you not coming, well, I'll just leave you with this.

:: The Ballad for the Single Guy ::

For far too long, I have been the single guy amongst groups of couples. Of course, there are a few other single stragglers as well, who appear from time to time, but by and large, it's me surrounded by pairs. And over the years it's only gotten worse.

Now, except if I'm clearly joking around about it, this strange phenomenon has never really bothered me. Sure, there are times when you feel like the 3rd (or 7th) wheel, but most of the guys in these couples I've known for a hundred years, so it really never feels weird. Mostly, it's just me hanging out with the boys, and the girls are around, they're around. It's cool.

But tonight, well, tonight pissed me off.

Some/all/many of us are going to Whistler for New Year's. Derrick and Chris spearheaded a get-organized movement, and Derrick found a place to rent in Creekside. Wonderful. There are, however, limited beds, and two people will have to sleep on the floor. Sleeping on the floor isn't really a big deal, and I'm sure we'll work it out when the time comes. In the end, we'll likely be too drunk to give a shit anyway.

However, what I take issue with is the selection process. Derrick said him and Whitney get a bed because he organized it and booked. Absolutely fair. No problems there. Chris said him and Jenna get one because, well, because that's how he wants it. As for the remaining beds, I said I want one. The response?

"Well, I'm pretty sure the couples aren't gonna wanna sleep on the floor, so you might be screwed."

Oooooh, the poor couples don't wanna sleep on the floor? Who fucking cares.

Single guys don't wanna sleep there either, and just because there's one of me and two of them doesn't mean I should get jewed out of a hide-a-bed, especially when I was the very first person to say "Yes, I'm in" other than Chris and Derrick themselves.

Now, I realize that Derrick was half-kidding when he said it, and it was somewhat tongue in cheek (He also said I could have a bed if I paid him more), but there was a seriousness to it too.

What the couples want, the couples get. It's discrimination against single people, and for the first time it really aggravated me.

In the past, nobody's really seemed to single me out negatively (or any other single person) when it comes to any events, unless they're kidding. I remember Kyle pissing off Amanda once because he told me to meet him at the movies, so I did. Little did I know that I was ruining Date Night. Yes, it was funny, but ultimately nobody really cared because A-Scrams wasn't really mad; she's a good sport. And just the other day, Kels called to see if I wanted to be including in the Hemlock condo rental that ultimately fell apart. Yes, she called me because the condo had room for 5 people and two couples leaves only one extra space. However, at least she asked.

Whether it's pity, or friendship, I don't really care. I chose not to analyze it that closely. But if there's any more incidents like this Whistler business, or if I actually get screwed on this deal simply because I'm single, I'm so outta here.

:: The Office Shit ::

I have worked in my current office for nearly three years. The building has hundreds of advantages over my previous office - which of course was in the mighty burg of Peace River, Alberta.

For starters, my current office is not in Peace River, Alberta.

Among it's many charms, this office is five minutes from the beach, has a machine that pumps out quality hot chocolate for a mere 25 cents, and was built within the last 40 years, as opposed to the Peace River office, which was 85 years old, and drafty as hell. The back entrance was a double-door, and even when closed, you could've slipped a loonie length-wise through the opening. In -40 weather, that's not fucking cool.

My current building also earns points because it also used to be a bank, so there's a vault with one of those really thick, heavy doors, which my friend Steve once got locked in, adding to the office's awesomeness.

But the thing I hate about the place, aside from the fact that once through its doors I'm expected to work, is the bathroom. Now, as far as public facilities go, it's alright. Always clean, if not a little bit cramped.

It has it's problems though. For starters, due to the cramped space, it's tough to, uh, 'air out.' But, by far, the biggest problemis the bathroom's extremely close proximity to people. It is about four steps away from my department's little war room, with a door in between that is - unfortunately - always kept open, because otherwise it was cut us off from the rest of the office. It's close enough - and the office is quite enough - that every flush, every tug of papertowel from the dispenser, every turn of the tap, is heard by the rest of the people in our department.

That is a problem if you gotta take a shit. Especially a violent one, as is often the case after lunch if you've chosen to hit up the little Malaysian restaurant down the block. Let's face it - nobody wants to hear that.

There's one guy in our office that clearly has no problem with the situation, he heads in there, newspaper tucked under his arm, at any and all times. He just doesn't care - and to be honest, he's somehow as quiet as can be. But I just can't do it.

The only times I've ever taken a shit there was during a rare moment when everyone was out of the office for a few minutes, and a few times on Sundays or early mornings when the office is still empty. In three years working there, I estimate I've only dropped a deuce at the office four times. Six times maximum.

How do I do it, you're probably wondering. Well, it's simple. If it's near the end of the day, and it's not an urgent situation, you just wait. But in three years I've managed to scout out some prime spots throughout the community. The No. 1 option is the hockey rink. It's about a 5-minute drive away, so if there's an emergency situation it doesn't do the job, but usually it's fine. I picked this spot as much for it's emptiness as it's lovely facilities (Which are top shelf). Being in the line of work I'm in, I always have a fairly good idea of what goes on at the rink and various times of the day. Usually, from about 8 a.m. until 2 p.m. - when the junior team arrives for practice - it's damn near empty. And in the summer it's even better - even emptier - because the ice is taken out, and nobody's around. It's still open however, because the city has a Rec office in the building, thus keeping it open through the summer months.

It is option A by a landslide.

If the rink isn't an option for any reason, other choices the bathroom/storage/concession booth at the local athletic park. The bathrooms are public, and usually unlocked during the day. However, it's not as prime a spot as the rink due to the fact that, on occasion, it is locked. Also, the walk from the parking lot to the bathrooms is lengthy, and hilly. If you're in a hurry, it's trouble.

Other options I've tested are the public bathrooms at the beach (which lose serious points for grossness), and the curling rink. The curling rink is often closed, however, and even when it is open, I ALWAYS end up being roped into a 20+ minute conversation with the people there, so a quick 15-minute shit turns into a 40 minute affair. And even though I consider myself an A-1 slacker, I just don't have that kind of time.

So as you can see, I have a serious problem here. In fact, it's the shits (pun intended).

It actually makes me yearn for the days of Peace River, where the men's washroom was tucked way down in the basement, in the dark, where nobody ever went unless they need a copy of a newspaper from 1936. It may have been -30 down there and dark, with a door that you had to body-check to close, and then still wouldn't lock, but good god was it peaceful.

The kind of place where you could eat all the Malaysian food you wanted to at lunch.

I know I'm not the only one dealing with this same issue. When I moved into my place last July, Chris' No. 1 reason for wanting a key was because my house is only a 2-minute drive from his office, and he wanted to be able to come here at lunch to take a dump. Understanding his predicament, I gave him a key.

Life would just be so much easier if the architects of these buildings would realize the obvious difficulties of droppin' the Cosbys off at the pool when co-workers are so close by.

Not everybody's got a hockey rink nearby, after all.