Perfectly Famous

Thank-you Esso Nightshift,

It’s an indescribably poor sensation putting your mouth to a can of energy cola for that first sip and smelling raw taint all around the rim.

I’d rather live my life as a tiny board game character who camps out in the dank corners of the disposable Gillette razor I keep in the shower than ever have to go through that again.  Scenario bonus: I could call over the shoe piece from Monopoly and a Connect-4 disc to huff compressed air on the weekend.

I’d be sick if I wasn’t hesitatingly impressed there is still someone out there who gets their giggles off by leaving their bathing suit scent on the rim of convenience store cans.

This format sucks..

..And something must be done

I’ve got to working on a new format for the website…  I’ve got a buildup of posts I would like to make but I’m a bit shy of doing it in a blog format..”typical” is such a shitty word. 

I declare - a new format is due..this is weak!

masterofuniverse42

“masterofuniverse42 (4 minutes ago)
It’s so retarded that I don’t know where to begin. Crunch bars ARE a religion, believing in anything else is fucking out-of-ur-skull-MORONIC. Please kill yourself now, and save the oxygen for the rest of us who have braincells that actually use oxygen.”

I hope you google your username, masterofuniverse42 - you hero.   I randomly saw your comment posted on a candy bar advertisment video.  It really doesn’t matter why I was looking at those kind of videos.  I someday hope that one day everybody loves Crunch bars as much as they ought to.  Well, at least those that ”save the oxygen for the rest of us who have braincells that actually use oxygen.” 

You’ve caught retardation…

Turn a room fan on and try to blow it out the window before the people in the kitchen notice.

Mr. Big will destroy you 

above: enemy

Three Dream Jobs - Myth VS Reality

Every child has a dream job.  There are hundreds.  Normally people, around the age of ten, come to their senses - sometimes they don’t.  Below are what I consider the top three over-glamorized jobs.  These jobs are a myth for the most part, smoke and mirrors.

Astronaut Myth

Just stay in school, don’t do drugs and listen to your parents - easiest job option ever!  You’ll have no trouble making friends and everybody will want to hear how fucking cool it was the last time you were on the moon.  Nobody would get in your way, nobody would ever say no to any of your most outlandish requests.  You’ll have jars in your living room filled with the sands of other planets, stardust is your favorite though.  There is a really good chance you could bring people back to life.  Basically, being an astronaut is like being Jesus V2.0…With a laser blaster.



Astronaut Reality

You go to school until you’re fourty-five, you are so used to hovering over your notebooks you have even become allergic to girls perfume and you still live with your parents.  Lets not even get into the Star Trek issue.  Nobody wants to talk to you because every time you go out you wear that stupid sweater that makes you look like a serial molester.  Let’s not forget Canada has never sent a single man to the moon, so much for your enthralling stories about aliens and lunar battles.  Unless you develop a revolutionary addition to the space station you’re not gong to be getting that new Toyota, enjoy your Dodge Caravan.  Working for the Canadian Space Agency sucks, it would be more fun to get caught diddling yourself naked face down on your parents bed at two in the morning when they were clearly supposed to be sleeping.



Cowboy Myth

It isn’t all square dancing and cattle drives, sometimes you even get to shoot Indians and rob banks!  Live by your own rules, wander from town to town causing ruckus at the saloons.  You get a wicked set of chaps and a horse bred in hell.  Women throw themselves at you, bullets curve around you…You are the biggest bad ass in the wild west!  Added bonus - don’t worry about listening to your parents or put in the extra effort in school, just hop on and mosey out.  For the extra edge, do as many drugs as possible and drink like a fish.


Cowboy Reality

You are shop cart pushing street trash.  You have a criminal record dating back to when you were thirteen and you robbed old Mrs. Floyd of her Player’s Lights. That criminal record extends into your 30’s when you got caught shooting up behind my truck, smelt like you pissed yourself too…Way to go, Duke.  Your parents have done all they can to forget they passed up the abortion (your Mom went to the bar instead, lucky you).  The last woman you were with gave you full blown AIDS and told everyone outside the McDonald’s bathroom that you started crying as soon as you got it up.  You do wander and roam but it’s only to get the junk moving through your system, nothing in this world is worse than your life and there is absolutely no doubt you will die shivering and alone.  Hopefully sooner than later. 


Model/Pop Star Myth

You are so amazing!  You’re the most beautiful person in the room and you manage to sing and act as well.  Everybody has a lot of respect for you because you just look so great, thank God your manager also got you onto the stage and into the studio as well!  You’re CD is going to sell millions, your movie is going to kick the Dark Knight’s ass!  You can retire before you ever had to put in a real days work, your face is blessing magazine covers every month.  All because your twisty DNA was a spiral staircase to heaven.

Model/Pop Star Reality

You’re one of few pretty faces from a small town, it’s easy to see why you would think you could kick back and let it all come to you.  You’ve had it pretty easy by being pretty easy.  Yeah you get called to go out on the town all the time but it’s only because any guy who has spent more than twenty-five minutes with you has found out your formula: one jug of domestic beer, two shots of some fruit flavored garbage, three cigarettes and four trips to the bathroom later - you’re stomach is infected with baby.  Keep in mind though, this is your peak.  By the time you make it to your mid-twenties there is hardly an intelligent thought in your head.  Your Facebook status lets everybody know how “fuxiNG pISSed” you are about what that guy said to you last night, but can you blame him?  You’re a diaper that is past it’s prime, full of shit and time to dispose.  You’re starting to see that more and more people are disrespecting you and treating you poorly, that’s a feeling you’re going to want to get used to.  Oh, you are an awful singer too - so just stop.

Dear...

Dear Coin Operated Apartment Laundry Room, 

Well my old friend, it’s the weekend again.  A time known to all low-grade apartment dwellers as the well favoured “Days of Laundry”.  They come from every point of the buildings compass to celebrate their renewed desire for clean attire in a forty-eight hour mass cluster fuck of suds and static.  There is something to be learned and cultivated from each group of tenants who transverse the halls over this two day period. 

• Asians, who typically make the journey with family members.  They come in groups of two and three, the young tail behind burdened with the load comprised of twenty-four liters of no-name detergent and jumbo box of anti-static pads.  Armed with enough materials to launder an entire nation they give narration throughout the loading and unloading process to the young in the hopes that soon the chore can be passed down, the weekly burden be placed upon stronger shoulders.  They make one single venture out, often occupying every available laundry processing fixture available to them.    Overloading is common which is naturally followed by a watery inundation that is more often than not left unattended. 
• Europeans, the most elegant of the entire complex.  They travel alone in the early hours, if not for the sixty watt bulbs illuminating the hallway they would have only the breaking sun to guide their steps.  A waft of soy and cotton can be faintly detected when their party of one reaches the laundry room, they carry with them the lightest of loads.  Three; perhaps four garments of clothing with the lightest soiling imaginable are toted along with an individually sized detergent packet and lone dryer sheet.  These folks are a model combination of efficiency and waste, two elements which can hardly sit at the same dinner table without bickering over who should go to bed earlier.  They utter nary a word as they go about their task of washing what appears to be their outfit for that evening.
• Hippies.  There is a curse executing itself throughout society that few have shed light on.  There is a third generation of hippies living amongst the palate that makes up apartment communities across this great country.  They were born in the eighties, products of parents who were born in the sixties when the hippie virus was first contracted and discovered.  Post secondary education seemingly not a priority this group drifts from one building to another with high hopes and low expectations - for themselves.  They can be sighted in the evenings exiting their chambers.  Little emotion or complexity lay behind their rose tinted eyes.  They travel alone, lugging behind them a three foot tall clothes hamper overflowing with band shirts, loose fitting jeans and bong water towels.  No matter how many weekends of laundering the hippie has under his belt it always seems to escape their minds that the prison-style laundry machines require two single dollar coins.  No variation of the two-hundred cents may be used.  It’s an eternal struggle against “the man”.
• South Americans, the most entertaining of the whole bunch.  There are only two rules regarding the use of the laundry room.  It opens at six in the morning and closes at ten in the evening.  The south American returns home late from their third job around nine thirty.  Hilarity ensues as a two hour task is started with impossible dreams of completion.  
• North Americans, the most predictable of the whole bunch.  There are two breeds of north American launderer, the person who hates doing it and the person who person who hates doing it just a little less.  The latter will set up a base camp in both the apartment and the laundry room, commuting between the two locations with timed frequency.  There are piles whose population is dictated by color spread out in both the living room and bedroom, name brand detergent and fabric softener sit patiently by the door.  The process is carried out with military precision, not a single soul is allowed to interrupt the delicate set of events.  The true hater will rush the process, sorting and folding are completely out of the question, the detergent is name brand but the lid is not fully screwed on.  Fabric softener, considered too much of a hassle,  is replaced by the twinning method.  The concept is quite transparent, two dryer sheets are used instead of one convincing the hater that twice the softness and bounty freshness will be released upon the garments.

 Though the journey isn’t easy for anyone to make, the benefits are obvious.  It ensures enhanced social encounters with everyone, relieves anxiety when a bad odor is pointed out in a group, it helps to ensure reproduction but most importantly it provides for everyone the single greatest feeling in the world - putting on warm underwear.

Thanks Coin Operated Apartment Laundry Room,

Your old pal,

Jefri

1st--

…it’s happening

I’m going to get dressed up in a beethoven outfit and scoot my ass accross this page like a dog does.