Observations: - Pt.2: And I'm A Fucking Po-dunk?

So I got in a bit o' shit for my last post as I related the great state of Florida to the rest of the nation. In the interst of impartiality, I've closely monitored the license plates of various species of Americans. I've come to the conclusion that I was right and all y'all bitches are moderately to severely retarded. I need to make a couple of exceptions though, I went to dinner with a couple of fellow Pajibans known as Trouble and Tracer Bullet (Mrs. Bullet, Little Bullet as well as Mrs. Admin and mine own demon spawn also attended). It was an excellent time and to those Pajibans who have not had the pleasure of meeting the brilliance of Miss Trouble or the awesomeness of the Bullets': nyah, nyah, nayh, fuckers! As an aside, the lovely Little Bullet was extremely disheartend when she met me. Tracer had told her that they were going to meet Doran which she interpreted as Dora. Her disappointment that I was not a small, spanish girl, with a bad haircut was palpable. However, after a short time, she warmed to the Canadians and was fantastically charming and utterly adorable. So, with those exceptions, I still can't figure out how Americans manage to survive.

1. Conversation Is Brilliant:

 A few excerpts:
- "No, no, Mamma; go to the house to see if Brandene got in before you call the police and report a break in."
- "I've drank a beer at seven countries so far!" (I don't really have an issue with this one but it immediately followed the previous comment. Priorities.)
- "Jackass!" (yelled by a man in a pickup with 'Corrupt Government' and 'I Fish To Piss off Tree Huggers' bumperstickers.
- "What can I get you sweetie? That'll be $10.57 darling. Thank ya sweetheart." Was she coming on to me?
- "Hey! Save half of that bag of cookies for me!" I assume I don't have to say that they were both riding scooters.
- "Reel the leash in a bit Pa, he's getting in folks way." People, if your kids require leashes, you failed.
 


2. Epcot Hates Attractive People:

Seriously. Wow! Did we pick '1/ 2 Price For Fuggs' day? What is really disturbing is that most of them had kids. *shudder*

3. A Lawyer For Everything:

In America, you can sue the economy. You think I'm joking but there are radio ads.

4. Tight Jeans:

While this isn't limited to America by any means, it is certainly more prevalent here. Ladies: I am certainly not opposed to you showing off your attributes. But, when there are mountains of flesh being extruded from the top of your jeans, you've gone too far. Also, I will not be able to look at a muffin the same way ever again. There was also a couple of women that had those sexy lateral tears in their jeans. They weren't even that big. But, when your jeans make your thighs look like a fucking strudel, you aren't kneading my pastery.

5. Five-inch Heels

Respect. Honey, you are at a theme park wherein you will have to walk about ten miles, but you are willing to sacrifice comfort for pain in order to look good. I'm doubly impressed that you're married with three kids but are still willing to  stuff yourself into those jeans and put on those heels for your man. Practicality be damned! (In her defense, that was a nice big booty.)


6. SeaWorld is far Superior to The Magic Kingdom:

Really. Roller coasters, the waterpark, animal shows (see #8) fewer people, sharks! I fucking loved Sea World. None of the pomp and pretentiousness (see # 10). 

7. The Amount Of Southern Twang Is Directy Proportional To The Rate Of Rascal Scooters Rented:

 Don't crawl all up in my joint. Facts are facts. Motherfuckers could walk, they just choose not to. That and the morbid obesity.

8. Shamu Is A Dick:

Bitch decided she wasn't going to put on a show. Since the dominant female was pre-menstrual (I have no evidence to back up that statement) all but three whales decided to fuck off. So, we were sitting there for 45 minutes and got a five-minute, weak ass show with three of the eight whales. The three that were the most lackluster. Go see Seymour and Clyde. It was awesome! Dude got smacked in the junk by the sea-lion.!

9. My Father Has Been Driving Here For Years:

Pops isn't the best driver. He's hard on the gas and induces whiplash when he brakes. I wouldn't have an issue with that except for the fact that there are THREE KIDS IN THE FUCKING CAR! One of which isn't old enough to scream with terror. In the week we've been here, motherfucker has forgotten what turn signals do, thinks that mirror checks are good enough and has learned that yellow lights are just kinda warning you that the light might change eventually.

10. Disney Has Ruined Itself With No Help From Me:

I wanted to fuck Disney in its ass. Why? Because that's what I do. I didn't have to because they did it all by themselves.  I'm going to qualify this opinion because I personally know the most gorgeous princess in the whole joint. I can understand that the characters can be mobbed. I understand that it could lead to incredibly unconfortable situations with rabid fans. I can even understand that Occupational Health And Safety (that's the Saskatchewanian version of the people who make your work safe) may get involved and set certain rules. But holy fucking hell, I've had two situations with classic character's security that have totally ruined the wonder of Disney.

The first instance was when we were walking by Donald Duck and Goofy in their "trapper" gear (you'll see). If you want to get a picture with the characters, you have to get in line to await their pleasure. (They no longer walk around the parks, they are at VERY specific places at VERY specific times). Fine, my ladies aren't all that into meeting people dressed as the characters and I can appreciate why they do it this way. So, as we're walking by, fifty feet from Donald and Goofy, I pull out my camera to take a shot. The...rotund security guard comes up to me and tells me that I have to get in line if I want to take a picture. I'm a little taken aback and ask "Is Disney really telling me when and where I can take pictures?' to which she thinks with her ass for a moment and replies: yes. I laugh and take my photo.

The next situation is when Chip & Dale were leaving the character building at Epcot to go to their signing area. (Yes, you can wait in line for hours at at a building to meet all the "classic" characters. Thank Godtopus my girls are so practical.) So Chip & Dale were walking to their spot with their security when a girl (who was about fifteen) goes and gives Dale a hug. She didn't run across the plaza, or make an effort, or actually try to cross paths with the chipmunks; they were just there. The poor girl was bodily removed from Dale to such an extent that our entire party (at least the adults) all complained: "Hey! Come on! That was unneccessary!" Seriously, I thought that the Disney cop was going to mace the poor girl and put her in cuffs. It was absolutely fucking ridiculous. Talk about ruining the fantasy for the customers.

Look for part three of my acute observations as well as the epilogue to my Amurican adventures.

Observations Pt. 1

For the purpose of these posts I'm just going to assume that Orlando is a fair and reasonable cross-section of all of The United States of America. Therefore, if they do it here, they do it everywhere. I know that this is a perfectly valid application of stereotyping so, quite frankly, if the rest of America doesn't like it: sack the fuck up and fix it because people are kind of stupid down here. Honestly, it's bordering on retardation. Either that, or I need to work on my extra-sensory perception.

1. Turning signals are for fucking losers.

Americans expect that you will not only know what lane they are moving into, when they are turning and where they are turning; but you should also be able to interpret the urgency with which they need to do any of the preceeding actions. What I will give Americans credit for is that when you do turn on your signal, they immediately make room. I'm guessing that this is a reaction to a form of stimuli that they've never been exposed to. The light starts flashing and they have no idea what the fuck you're going to do.

2. Americans wish they had Canadian money but they're too goddamn proud to just admit it.

As much as they may make fun of us for it, Americans envy our ability to determine monetary sums by colour. The fact that I have to actually look at the denomination of a bill to determine how many ones I want to get back is stupid. America has finally realized that looking at numbers is dumb and also that 78.4% of Americans can't recognize a '5' anyways, so they've started colouring their money. But just a little. Because they want to appear like they don't actually need to colour their money due to awesomeness. A little known fact: The IRS loses 892 billion dollars a year because they think twenties are actually fifties.

3. Gay is universal.

It doesn't matter what country you're from or what language you speak, The Gay is like barbecue, you can smell it a mile away. there's also a lot of meat involved). I am extremely happy to note that my gaydar is still a finely tuned instrument, Geep won't be springing any surprises on me anytime soon. Also, my eldest daughter's Gay-sense is as fine an instrument as my own.

4. Sorry, I'm from Canada.

A term that gets you out of trouble without any reprecussions. I've used it five times already and have gotten the same reaction every time. "Oh, well that's ok". It seems that Americans are incapable of understanding that foreigners in their country know exactly what they're doing. "Sir, you can't smoke there." Sorry, I'm Canadian. "Sir, you can't take your drink out of the restaraunt." Sorry, I'm Canadian. "Sir, the staff don't appreciate it when you call them whores and then ask them what the going rate is for a blumpkin." Sorry, I'm Canadian. (It's $86.23 by the way).

5. De-regulated Liquor Is Stupid.

I'm sure that Capitalism is great and everything, but the fact that I have to go to two different places to get my liquory fix is complete bollocks. I can get damn near any type of beer and wine I want at a grocery store but then I have to go to a "liquor" store for the high-test? Yeah yeah, "Stupid Canadian, you can get beer at liquor stores." I know this, motherfucker. However Coors Light, Bud Light, Corona and beer with fucking fruit in it is NOT good beer. Neither is Molson Canadian or Labbat Blue even though it's 'imported'.

6. Everybody Who Works In The Service Industry Is Way Too Happy.

For fuck's sake! I get it! Tourism is a big part of Orlando's economy. But it's like there was a sale at Doctor Cowhides Fake Smile Imporium and Eatery. Are you really this happy to see me? I'm a white-ass Canadian rolling into your store/restaraunt/ride/ with three kids and some grandparents. I'm not your ideal customer and, in fact, I'm going to cock punch you if you giggle at me one more time or drop a "hey folks" when you approach my demon-spawn again. I swear, if I don't see some tasty fucking rage soon, I'm going to drop my own and then I'm going to jail and then I'm calling in the Royal Canadian Kilted Yaksmen.

7. Disney Likes Anal, Without Lube.

Disney is the top. You are the bottom. And you'll pay Disney to fuck your ass with a mouse-eared dildo. You may as well just relax and take it like a man. A masculin, hairy, power bottom of a man.

8. Parents Are Idiots.

It would seem that Dinsey, in addition to scouring your rectum vigorously, also immediately reduces most parental IQ's by a factor of ten. Parents, your nine-year-old doesn not need a stroller. They do not need you to buy them every single fucking knick-knack that they see. Just because you paid a ridiculous amount of money for some make up, glitter and cheap-ass hair extensions to make your son/daughter look like a princess, doesn't mean he/she is. And finally: just because it is Disney, does not give you license to let your misplaced money shots run amok and fuck with my joint. I will put YOU over my knee and learn you some respect.

StabbyMart: Learning Amuricans How Canada Do.

Vacation Day 1: Canada Firmly Plants It's Head In It's Ass.

Seriously people, they should not schedule flights for 6:30am. We were up at 3am to be at the airport two hours before our flight. I should add that The Bad One had been up at midnight, puking in her closet while standing on a toybox and shitting herself. According to her, she had no idea what she was doing and just woke up standing in her own effluence. Needless to say, we were not in good shape.

We leave for the airport and get there at about 4:15. Now, Transport Canada says that we have to be at the airport at least two hours prior to the flight because of new security measures. We'll get to that shit in a moment. So we're there when we should be but, the ticket agents are nowhere to be found. What. The. Fuck! So we wait around for a half hour and they finally show up. Then they fuck up both our and my parents boarding passes and luggage tags, run out of paper for the luggage tags (this is unforgiveable) and let two other families cut in line. Needless to say I am not in the best of moods so far. Neither is the five month old baby and she's letting us know.

Next we're on to security. Now, I love Canada. I think it's a great place to live and has the sexiest mooses in the world but sometimes we're complete fucking retards. In reaction to the Underpants Bomber and the US saying our security isn't good enough, we now have to take any layers of clothing off, (including belts and shoes) put them through the x-ray scanner then the metal detector and bag search. Oh, yeah, we're not allowed to take a carry-on bag because of the Skiddy-mark Bomber. But we can take a diaper bag and I can take my laptop. The logic of this fails me. No clothes, but you can take the electronic device that could be wired for anything, bravo. Then, we're off to a full-body pat down. EVERYBODY gets the full search, every fucking passanger. In their infinate wisdom, they only have one woman but three men performing these searches. Guess which line moves quicker? Oh, and they check our bags again because the x-ray didn't do a good enough job. Needless to say, I'm now terrified of what US Customs and the security is going to do to us if Canada is like this. Mercifully though, baby has cried herself to sleep. (she doesn't like the car seat if we're not moving).

Que the boarding of the plane. I step on and immidiately wonder how the hell I'm going to fit in these tiny-ass seats an this old ass jet. I'm lucky enough to be immediately adjascent to the lavatory so I figure I can make some money off this bitch. $3.59 a visit man, that's how I roll. Jacq attempts to wedge the baby carrier into the seat and with an extra 110 lbs of fury she is successful. Then...Everest starts screaming...and screaming...and screaming. It doesn't help that we're sitting on the tarmac for thirty minutes with no air (why can't the goddamn plane have air on during the loading period?) for no apparent reason? So, I'm frustrated and hot. My middle daughter is freaking out because she's kind of a wuss and doesn't know what to expect and, on top of it all, I'm the guy with the screaming baby! Cuntnuggets!

Finally we start rolling, the air comes on and we can all start to chill becuase we're finally getting under-way. Even baby went to sleep when we started taxiing.That is all except The Bad One who's kind of shitting herself. Not literally, but given the circumstances six hours ago, I was pretty worried. We take off and...WOW! look at the city at night! That's cool!  She did freak a bit when the landing-gear came up though. Like I said, old-ass jet. I also didn't make any money as the Potty Troll, motherfuckers were only carrying American money, and I don't speak Amurican.

After an uneventful flight, with little turbulance, we touch down in Minneapolis and sit for another twenty minutes while they figure out how to make the concourse drop down far enough to connect to our pissant little plane. The solution was literally a board that made a ramp and then we had to traverse a lovely incline to get to the terminal. Of course, we are docked at the gate that is as far from the entrance to the terminal as is possible. By this time, I have not had a cigarette in two and a half hours and have to take a very large leak. Nevermid the fact that, given what Canadian security did to us, I am dreading the rectal examination that the United States is about to give me. So we rush down to the terminal and find a bathroom. I see a woman come out of the left side so I go right. Let me tell you, there is no silence like that which greets you when you walk into the woman's restroom. Apparently, the female that was coming out from my left, realized her mistake before I did. Now, as we were the only plane at customs at the time, everybody got to witness my mistake. My answer: "Well, in Canada, women have penis' too." There were many laughs and I had clearly marked myself for US Customs.

We are waiting in a brilliantly speedy line for someone to go through our bags. He checks my declaration, looks at me sideways, may be convinced that the baby is hiding something, and waves us through. "Yes!" I think, "No search!" but there is still The Yellow Line! I approach the line cautiously, with great trepidation...this bitch looks mean. "Passports!" she bellows, so I dutifully pass all five to her. She asks who 'this one' is for, I pick up The Bad One. She changes papers and asks the same question again, I show her the baby. She askes a third time and I wonder why the kiosk is so high.

We get through without a hitch, grab our bags and head to security. 'The Man' tells us, "oversized luggage and pretty ladies over here," I ask what is considered oversized. We are directed to security and have to take off out shoes, jackets, and I have to take my computer out of its bag. I'm expecting a search beyond the portal so I clench tightly. Nothing. We all walk through the metal detector like we were made of moose-hide. I take my clothes out of the bin and ask the lovely miss if there is a place I can go and have a smoke? I'm told I have to go outside but that I can't go outside from here. "Fuck!" says I, "I'ma cut a bitch." She laughs. (Americans are so cordial in the security line. So as I'm puting my shoes and shit back on, one of the guards tells my wife that he's got to test her shoes. You all think that I'm the evil motherfucker in this family, but you have no idea. (I should mention that he rolled his eyes while saying that). He rubs some paper on them, puts the paper in the machine and grins sheepishly at my wife. "Here you go, they're fine." US Customs, Immigration and security; seven minutes. Canadian security; fourty-five minutes. Stupid Canadians.

We board our plane and again wait for another fourty-five minutes with no air conditioning while they manually start an engine due to some broken equipment (THE FUCK!?). Oh, and then a door won't close properly. The plane is full of kids so I don't feel like mine are going to be the problem. Indeed, baby falls asleep immediately and sleeps through almost the entire flight. There is nothing evenful about the flight other than a Jennifer Aniston movie playing. The attendant asks if we would like to purchase headphones, I laugh at her. I begin drinking and come to the conclusion that booze tastes better in little bottles. We land and wait around for our luggage. I text Trouble "The Mooseknuckle has landed" and she squees a bit. I wonder where my complimentary Manatee is. Florida has lied to me just to get me on his wang. We get to the house with only a small detour and unpack. Then we go to get something to eat which takes twice as long as it should as my father has no idea how far away the restaraunt is. Our waitress is named Mercedes, I giggle. Stereotypes are fucking awesome. We stop at the grocery store for food and booze as these are the two things we cannot live without. Upon retuning home we adjourn to the pool-side patio and get drunk. It's winter here but to us it's a nice summer evening. Plus, HUMIDITY! Glorious moisture! My skin hasn't been this smooth since last summer.

Stay tuned for further adventures of the Admin family as well as patented observations from myself which will undoubtably be offensive, un-PC and possibly start a war.

EDIT: I should add that the family count is still at seven. I have not killed my mother or father...yet.

Apologies And Selfishness

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry that I haven't been reading your blogs as much as I should have. I'm not dropping guilt, I'm not trying to get Dani in a twist, I'm not attempting to get Spot to love me and I certainly wouldn't want Lainey to feel bad on No Fucking Whining Wednesday. I'm really sorry that I haven't been able to read the blogs that I always enjoy and get me through my day. Seriously; I don't think I've even looked at Blogger since my last post.  I could list the ones I try to follow but then this entry would be a series of fourty-sum links and I'd probably end up sending someone to dwarf/muleplay.com. I started this blog because I wanted to write entertaining, funny, vitriolic, stories and I think I've gotten away from that. Perhaps this isn't a bad thing...but I haven't been able to write about shit for the past three weeks. Fuck that shit! I actually started this joint to provide an outlet for my tasty, tatsy rage so that I didn't end up choking the fuck out of somebody and spending the rest of life in prison. Given that I've been in a bit of a funk lately and haven't had any time to read a book much less write a post I was especially stabby so I was really looking forward to a week and a half of holidays.  With that, let us begin...

I was at the lake last week and it used to be my solstace, my escape, my recharge. Now...it's my hell. I'm the type of person that has to take a break. I've got to turn off and just do almost nothing for about a week straight at least once a year. So we used to go to the lake where we have a largish house and just fucking get loose for a while. No work, no phone, not really any TV just straight chill. I could read three books a week play with the kids, swim, have some drinks, whatever. It was straight heaven be it summer or winter, spring or summer, sunny or rainy. That is, it was heaven until about a year and a half ago.

That was when my mom decided that she had had enough of the grind, enough of playing house and enough of raising a child. I should point out that said child isn't me. Said child is a fifty-two year old man who still needs a mommy to take care of him and love him. Said child is my Step-father. Now, while my mom  is certainly no treat and has turned into a mid-life teenage drama queen, I can appreciate that she no longer wants to play devoted housewife/mother. So, my mom moved up to the lake to "take a break" and got a job at the golf course hotel. The hours were long and the work hard as it's a new resort but she was enjoying it. All the while Mr. Oblivious thinks that she's just unhappy with her professional life. Meanwhile, he's gotten a taste of what it's like to run a household. Doing your own laundry, cooking and cleaning for yourself and not having anyone to tuck you in at night (figuratively speaking). What's his answer? Why, to leave his current six-figure job for one that pays half as much, work twelve hour days rather than seven, lose four weeks of holidays and move right the fuck up there too. How long did this realization take? ONE MONTH. Jesus fucking christ man, you couldn't make it one month on your own? What did you do for the first thirty-two years?

So now they both live and work at the lake, much to my mother's dismay. The hours are long, the pay is, well, good if your my mom and worked these same hours for far less your entire life. Problem is, when you have to give your husband 3/4 of your income to save for retirement and pay for the house (oh, did I fail to mention they're building a new house? Yeah, tore down the cabin and started over.) that tends to throw a wrench into the works. Needless to say, there is a lot of stress. They're living in a small town-house that doesn't allow for any privacy or solitude. Add to that the animosity that my mother has toward Pops and well...lets just say that things aren't all that peachy. Really, I can't tell you how awesome it is to go on vacation, have nowhere to hide from the tension and not be able to relax at all because you just added two more bratty fucking kids to the crowd. Unfortunately, they think it'll all be better once the house is done and they have more space. I know better, the issue was there prior to construction and it will continue to be there after.

I'm aware that I sound like a whiny bitch so I'm going to wrap this up quickly. We used to go to the lake every two months. Even if it was just for a weekend. I've been there twice in a year and a half. And it shows. I can't remember a time when I've been wound so tight and not had the ability to chill and take a break. Whatever happens, I know that my family will be ok. Why? Because I'm the father. Of whom I'm not sure anymore.

Now we're off for a Florida vacation for two weeks. With my parents that I can't be around for more than three days. Thankfully we have some options and are staying in a house. I've already told them that they will be leaving for a couple of days so we can chill. I'm boss of this bitch! That being said, if you know any good lawyers in the Orlando area please let me know. Also, I would appreciate it if you started a bail collection for me. I'm hoping for the best but...damn.

By the way: Blogger is being a real testicular itch and won't let me comment on a lot of your blogs nor even my own. Suggestions.

Toodles, ho-bags.

CBII: Book 9 - The Ghost King - R.A. Salvatore

The Ghost King is Salvatore's third entry in the series that he's titled Transitions. It's passably writtten, holds no surprises, and is exactly what you've come to expect. Generally, if you're a Salvatore fan, this won't be an issue for you. For me, however, I'm getting exhausted about reading about the same characters and the same story but set in a different place (kind of, but not really). I've read all of Salvatore's books but alas I think this will be the last (with one exception). Everything has become so damned recycled to me that I just don't think that he can do anything more with the regular characters nor those that he pulls from adventures that happened in the years prior.

Indeed, if you've read the preceeding adventures of Drizzt Do'Urden, this installment will strike a familiar chord. Just for shits and giggles, I'm going to give you a synopsis of the story but I'll leave blanks in place of all the key plot points. Fill in the blanks as you see fit and let's see if it seems like you've read this before. Ok? Money.

Our story begins with the evil BLANK who everybody thought was dead. BLANK proposed an alliance with BLANK in order to seek revenge upon those who banished BLANK and supposedly destroyed BLANK. The unsettleing thing, though, is that they consumate this unholy undead union by using The BLANKY BLANK.

Meanwhile, Drizzt and BLANK are enjoying some time in the wilderness around BLANK when BLANK is suddenly struck down by a strange magical force that renders him/here in a state of delerium. Drizzt quickly returns to BLANK with BLANK for help. After many unsuccessful attempts at helping BLANK, BLANK finally tries some magic and is immediately struck by the same affliction as BLANK. Drizzt is at a loss as to what to do when a strange dwarf appears and suggests that he take BLANK to see BLANK who may be able to render aid. Drizzt and BLANK immediately set out with BLANK to BLANK'S to try to save BLANK. Upon the road, they meet the strange dwarf who is, of course, BLANK. Indeed though, BLANK is not alone as he is travelling with BLANK: Drizzt's mortal enemy. Together they travel to BLANK'S facing danger from BLANKS and BLANKS and epecially BLANKS in the hopes that BLANK can save their freind.

Yep, fill in the BLANK. It was a fun ride, Mr. Salvatore, but I think I've outgrown you. If you're an obsessive Salvatore fan, by all means read The Ghost King. But don't be surprised when you're not surprised.

Life Is Like A Box Of Chocolates.

That is if those chocolates were all penises being shoved into every oriface I posses with the enthusiasim of Pee-Wee Herman in an adult theater. God damn, shit has gotten real up in this bitch! Work is bending me over as if I was a two dollar whore on sale for a buck-fitty, Christmas vacation was more stressfull than restful, and I swear upon Gotopus' holy Rorschach test that if my parents don't smarten the fuck up I'm going to get emancipated. I have stories. Fuck me, do I have some stories but I have to find the time to put those motherfuckers down on paper. Truth be told, I've also been in a bit of a funk and haven't felt motivated to do much of fucking anything. However I'm leaving for vacation next Saturday and I'll be cock-smoked if I don't find time to vent and return my beloved store to the glory it once was. That is, if I can take my computer on the plane (fucking terrorist taint bleacher!)  or if I'm not in jail for murder. See, I'm taking a vacation with my parents and let's just say that I already have three kids, I didn't have any intention of adopting two more middle-aged ones. (See! Stories!)

Stay tuned my magnificent motherfuckers. Shit is about to hit the industrial strength fan. (This, of course, causes said shit to splatter all over every wall in the office as well as the floor. While you may think this is bad, it's quite fun to watch these fucking goat spelunkers step in it and fall on their asses.)

Kisses, bitches.