Observations Pt. 3

I know, I know...I'm late. Not in that good "Hey, I'm knocked up!" way, but in the "sorry, I had to stop and steal candy from orphans" way. Funny thing, when you're not at work, nobody does it for you. God damn Cheerio fuckers. Anyhow, I'll have an epilogue up some time with some murderous wisdom to share about "The American Experience". Until then, suck on these:

Dill pickle chips:

Do Americans not have these at all? Is there some sort of law against pleasure in America (don't answer that, I know) How can you people possibly survive without these, tasty, savoury, salty, pickley slices of deep fried love? It baffles the mind! Look, I'm a potatoe chip connesiur, so I am completely confident when I say that bbq, salt n' vinegar, regular, jalapeno, sour cream n' onion all suck a diarrhetic ass in comparison. I honestly pity you poor, chipless Americans.


Yellow Lights:

It's a universally accepted rule that a yellow light means speed up, because the light will turn red soon. I have no issue with that. I compensate for it. But in America, it would appear that a yellow light means "Hey! The light is going to turn red. You only have another thirty seconds to go through the intersection. Yeah, it's illegal and your fucking up the people who actually have the right-of-way but, you know what, fuck them. You're special." It would appear that there are a lot of special people in America.


Airport Security:

Hey, Lady, there are three hundred people in line! Would you mind helping your kid pack his backpack, tie his shoes, put away his toys and put his things through the scanner? Not that I'm in a hurry, but I do have a whole fuckload of stuff that has to go through that electronic raping and I'd rather not  hold everybody else up. Yes, our shoes are tight (we had the same sneakers).

To the US security people: you were excellent. You didn't feel me up once. However, requiring me to remove the padding from the car seat, maybe a little much.

American Beef:

 I'm going to give Armourica a pass on this one. I bought the best steaksI could find in the supermarket which is something I generally don't do. But even when I buy supermarket beef, I can perform magic. It wasn't tough, but the taste was...there? Was this the vaunted American beef that I've heard so much about? Was this "grain fed"? Was this going to make me swear of bovineian deliciousness for the rest of my days? No. Of course not. I realize that you people have suffered since you restricted out beefy imports. It's not your fault, blame the gubment. Really, people, You shouldn't be able to see the ribs on a cow. Ever.


American Cigarettes:

Yes, I smoke. Deal with that shit. I'll quit when I fucking feel like it. I'll tell you though, I'd quit a hell of a lot sooner if I lived in America. American cigarettes are fucking disgusting. "But D" you're saying, "all cigarettes are gross." Not like this. American cigarettes act like they want to be cigars but really just don't want to put in the effort. I'm really wondering if the camel shit and boot leather rumours are true? I brought five packs of Canadian cigs with me to moderate the blurgh, but I knew that I would have to give in eventually. But I honestly have to wonder how these lawsuits against the tobacco companies were successful because the fucking dirty pimps pretty much tell you you're going to die with the taste.

Tact:

Let me just say that, after having three kids, my wife's modesty has pretty much been tossed out the window. It takes me both hands, both feet and an abacus to count up just how many people have seen my wife's slippery valley. For real, ask Trouble and Tracer, if baby's hungry; she'll whip that shit out in front of total strangers. However, you won't see a thing. She's a tiity ninja! You'll all be sitting there talking and suddenly there will be a booby on the boob. I can't help but think that this could be a marketable skill.

So, the day we fly out of FLA, the rest of the family decides to hit the IHOP (I voted for The Waffle House). We're seated in a booth by a bubbly used-up thirty year old woman but the booth is too small for the car seat. This causes some serious issue as the poor lass can't figure out what to do. I tell her it's no big deal and put the car seat in an adjacent booth (it wasn't busy) which only leads to more confusion. I spend the next five minutes convincing our lovely waitress that it will all be okay. We proceed to peruse the menu while listening to the delighful banter between the kitchen and the serving staff when the baby gets hungry. True to form, my lovely wife slaps a titty in her face. Note: This also works on men. Our waitress comes along to take our orders and as my father starts to speak she says: "Sorry, wait a minute." looking at my wife she continues, "I just want to say, that I think that is the most beautiful and natural thing ever. I'm glad that you're comfortable enough to do that in a restaurant and I just think that's beautiful."... Cue silence.

We're all a little bit speachless and my wife responds with the appropriate awkward courtesy. The waitress continued to fire questions at The Mrs. and The Mrs. continued to respond in an affable manner.  We weren't upset or mad because the waitress was totally sincere about it. She honestly thought that this was the greatest thing ever! She was cordial, friendly and we enjoyed her quite a bit. But, can I have my pancakes now?

StabbyMart: Tossing Titty To Troublesome Toddlers.

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.