Tuesday, May 13, 2003
I passed my dispatch ride today! I'm still in post-ride-fried mode. My brain hurts! I'm glad that is done. That is all.
Monday, May 12, 2003
Vomiting is one of those subjects people often try to graze over when discussing drinking.
They prefer to center on the glamorous aspects of drinking, the cerebral impairment, the fights and mishaps, the staggering around blindly and the cool hangover cures.
But let’s face up to reality: while many a boozer likes to brag he never or rarely reverses the flow of alcohol, truth be known, even the most accomplished drinker finds occasion to vomit. Even if it’s just to make room for more booze or to impress fellow imbibers with the distance he can launch the meat loaf he had for lunch.
Personally, I believe every aspect of alcohol should be celebrated and elevated, the good and the bad, the pleasure and the pain, the hooching and, yes, the hurling. And if you’re going to do something, even something that may ostracize you from polite society, you should do it right.
Never Retreat, Never Surrender
First off, public puking is something you should never do halfway. It’s very bad form to bolt out of a room, hand clasped over your mouth, chunks of half-digested Dinty Moore frothing between your fingers. This behavior is akin to a barely wounded soldier fleeing the battlefield in disgrace.
If you have sufficient warning, tell your companions: “Do excuse me, but I must vomit,” and stroll casually to the restroom to relieve yourself. That is not retreating, that is merely retiring to the rear to refit and regroup, so you may later return to the front and continue the gallant struggle.
If you cannot exit with that bare minimum of dignity, however, you must stand in place like a soldier chained to a machine gun and let them have it.
Ralphing the O'Maolain Way
Once you have decided that, yes, you are going to hurl, and no, you’re not going to make it to the restroom in a respectable fashion, try your best to refrain from spewing in a haphazard and sloppy manner. No matter how drunk you are, it is never cool having food and stomach acid jet out of your nostrils.
One of the biggest mistakes a vomiter can make is bending over. This puts pressure on your diaphragm and makes the act of expulsion much more difficult and painful. Hanging your head at that angle is not only unflattering, it virtually guarantees a nose full of something you don’t want. Stand up, tall and proud (yet leaning slightly forward so you don’t get any on yourself). After all, you should be proud. You just drank enough booze to make even an experienced drinker as yourself regurgitate. And while you’re standing there, upright and dignified, realize that where you aim that puke is of vital strategic importance.
Select Your Target Carefully
One of the greatest afflictions of the novice drinker is a hair-trigger vomit reflex. One minute you’re humping the bejesus out of a Tijuana hooker, the next you’re hosing her down with recycled Herradura.
So you have to be ready at all times. You must precondition yourself so your target selection will be a thoughtless, instinctual act. And I do mean target, because once you pick a direction to let loose, you gotta stick with it. If you start puking on something (your girlfriend’s shoes, say), then try to redirect the stream somewhere less likely to earn you a knee to the groin, you will most likely inflict collateral damage on a wide assortment of targets. Each of which may earn you an additional knee to the groin, not to mention punches to the head. So take aim and get your money’s worth. Hold down the trigger and empty the magazine because, after all, there’s no such thing as half a knee to the groin.
Try to avoid white and unwashable fabrics. The same goes for valuable and sentimental objects owned by people who give you booze, money, or sex. Aim for porcelain or tile, point the stream at hard, smooth surfaces that are easy to clean. Hurl the bile at enclosures, such as planted pots and empty pitchers, even a pint glass will reduce collateral damage and, more importantly, will signal to observers that you are an experience puker.
If you do have to target something valuable or unsalvageable, don’t be to hard on yourself. Any place who lets humans drink more than a normal ration of alcohol has to accept the possibility of intestinal retribution. It’s practically a law. A fine example is what occurred at an infamous 1976 New Years Eve party at the parents of a high-school pal of mine. The parents thought themselves fiendishly clever by stocking their home with eye-poppingly white couches, chairs, and carpets, thinking it would surely prevent teenagers from making Purple Jesus Punch (with extra Everclear, because we were teenagers). Well, it didn’t, and when the inevitable vomiting started it was like Barney the Dinosaur had lost an argument with a propeller blade. Who’s fault was this? The teenagers? No. The kid who threw the party? No. The parents? Check. They knew that kid was going to mutate into a teenager when they had him.
When People Puke on People
It happens. You find yourself in a tight crowd and no matter which direction you turn, there’s some poor sap standing there, gaping at you when he should be leaping out of the way. Start bulging your cheeks at me and I’m already halfway across the room, smoking a cigarette.
I can remember just one occasion in which that fine instinct failed me. I was standing with friends in a tightly packed bar and suddenly a friend starting making with the bullfrog impression. While everyone else stood there, gawking in terror and thus deserving a good drenching, I lunged gracefully backwards into the crowd. Seeing an open corridor, my friend followed, hosing me down as he went. Like a faithful puking dog, he followed me across the entire length of the room, spraying me with vomit like it was not only his job, but a job he took extremely seriously.
I forgave my friend, even hours later when I was still finding vomit in different pockets, but not everyone is as laissez-faire about it. When you realize you must vomit on a fellow human being, you must immediately choose between friends and strangers. The decision rests entirely upon how good a fighter you think you are. A friend is more likely to forgive you, but he is also likely to stop buying you drinks. If you must choose between a man and a woman, go for the man. He may clobber you, but if you puke on a woman, first she’ll knee you, then her boyfriend will clobber you.
If you’re the self-sacrificing type, you may gallantly leap upon the grenade you’re about to drop and puke on your own chest. I’ve seen it done, but I don’t recommend it. While it may seem noble and save you from a punch, a vomit stain down the front of your shirt is as the mark of Cain. Bartenders will not serve you. Girls will not wish to make out with you. Friends will mock you. For you, the party is over.
The Aftermath
When it comes time to clean up the mess, a word of advice: don’t. That’s what dogs are for. You’d probably just grind it deeper into the carpet anyhow. Behave as if it’s no big deal. Apologizing profusely may spare you a thrashing, but your dignity as a drunk will suffer a graver injury. There is nothing more pathetic than a man who has just puked crawling around in a puddle of vomit with a paper towel in his hand, trying to make amends. You are a sick man, after all, and sick men shouldn’t be subjected to such humiliation and cruelty.
Do not feel guilty for puking. Stand up for your rights. If pushed, ask them if they really wanted you to keep that (make a subtle gesture towards the ejecta) inside of you.
Or you can brazen it out. Act unabashedly proud and point out interesting food chunks while hoping the hosts have servants who are even now approaching with hot water and disinfectants. If caught red-handed, I always opt for this bold approach. Sometimes, if the room is drunk enough, I try to really brazen it out, insisting that I did not just vomit, that it was (insert the name of likely scapegoat here) who did it, then demand an apology. On some groups it works. The upper-crust British, for example, are such slaves of etiquette you can vomit on half of Burke’s Peerage and get away with it by employing this method.
If you puked on someone and they possess the ill manners to remain standing, perhaps even seething, before you, say, “Terribly bad form, I regret it deeply.” Then wipe the puke from your lips with the nearest available absorbent material (resist the urge to use your victim’s tie) and always remember to smile. Too many people don’t smile enough, and the world would be a better place if we smiled more. Make the most of this opportunity, let the warmth of your smile increase the human bond between you. Offer him an Altoids, even before you eat one. Then gracefully stroll away, as if on the way to an important, but not pressing, engagement.
If this bold approach is not your style, you can either pretend to pass out (the Possum Gambit) or make a face like you might do it again and make haste for the front door (the Rattlesnake Ruse). By the time you come back (in twenty minutes or twenty years, depending on severity of the episode), it’ll be all cleaned up and you can plead drunken forgetfulness of the whole affair.
Of course, there a limits to what lengths you may go to save face. To venture beyond those limits is to risk severely damaging the minds of those unfortunate enough to witness your misguided efforts to mask your misstep. To illustrate the point; I offer this disturbing personal experience:
While attending a party, I watched a foreign exchange student chug an entire pitcher of Coors. No big deal, we were young and did crazy things back in the day (the Coors part, not the chugging of pitchers). Shortly thereafter, he got the “Oh shit, I have to barf” look. He goggled at the throng of people between him and the restroom, his eyes darting back and forth for a solution. Suddenly, quietly, he puked into the empty pitcher. I think he was one of those British-educated exchange students, for he did it neatly, silently, and didn’t spill a drop. So far, so good. He glanced around furtively, thinking no one had noticed. He was in the clear. He’d pulled it off! Then, suddenly, inexplicably, unbelievably, he drank the pitcher again, in an attempt to conceal the evidence.
Our eyes bugged with disbelief. Even more incredible was the fact he didn’t regurgitate again. But we did.
Like an insanely polite man attempting to hide an unfashionably hissing stick of dynamite, he set off a chain-reaction, Monty-Pythonesque, mass-pukathon that haunts me to this day.
The Astonishing Comeback
I’m ashamed to say that some drunks I know think vomiting sounds just like last call, when it should sound like the bar’s door being unlocked. You just made a whole bunch of room for more booze! I’m not saying you should go shake hands with the liquid fiend that made you puke in the first place (probably tequila), I’m saying you should ease into a nice stomach-soothing pint of Guinness. Maybe a nice White Russian to replace your stomach lining.
* * *
Special Bonus Section: The Secrets of Projectile Vomiting
Any high school punk with a belly full of Purple Jesus Punch can puke on his neighbor’s shoes. It takes a real drunk to nail a moving target from halfway across the room. Why would you wish to do such a terrible thing? Perhaps you don’t care for the quality of your company. Perhaps you’ve been informed your highly-prized keg privileges have been revoked. Maybe you just spotted your girlfriend making out with your best friend and can’t think of a better way of informing them of your outrage.
In the face of these circumstances, the projectile vomit is the ultimate weapon: it will clear a crowded room, it will demoralize the most upbeat bash, it will steal the desire to make out from even the most wanton of ex-girlfriends. Here’s how you do it:
At the first sign of trouble, stand up straight. Use good posture, you will find it much easier to direct your flow. I gleaned this lesson from opera singers, who know the value of being able to project.
Keep your mouth shut. Let it well up deep inside you, building the force and power necessary to clear the safety zone that may well be forming around you. Hold it as long as you can, let the power grow. When you can’t hold it any longer, open your mouth wide and let fly. Keep that posture intact, act as if you’re hitting an A note at The Met. You may arch your neck and head forward to give that extra little push, and make sure you use your lips to funnel the tail end of the comet well away from you.
For additional effect, aim the stream at a ceiling fan in hopes of initiating an unforgettable barf-fest of Stephen King proportions. It’s that easy.
—Marc O’Maolain
They prefer to center on the glamorous aspects of drinking, the cerebral impairment, the fights and mishaps, the staggering around blindly and the cool hangover cures.
But let’s face up to reality: while many a boozer likes to brag he never or rarely reverses the flow of alcohol, truth be known, even the most accomplished drinker finds occasion to vomit. Even if it’s just to make room for more booze or to impress fellow imbibers with the distance he can launch the meat loaf he had for lunch.
Personally, I believe every aspect of alcohol should be celebrated and elevated, the good and the bad, the pleasure and the pain, the hooching and, yes, the hurling. And if you’re going to do something, even something that may ostracize you from polite society, you should do it right.
Never Retreat, Never Surrender
First off, public puking is something you should never do halfway. It’s very bad form to bolt out of a room, hand clasped over your mouth, chunks of half-digested Dinty Moore frothing between your fingers. This behavior is akin to a barely wounded soldier fleeing the battlefield in disgrace.
If you have sufficient warning, tell your companions: “Do excuse me, but I must vomit,” and stroll casually to the restroom to relieve yourself. That is not retreating, that is merely retiring to the rear to refit and regroup, so you may later return to the front and continue the gallant struggle.
If you cannot exit with that bare minimum of dignity, however, you must stand in place like a soldier chained to a machine gun and let them have it.
Ralphing the O'Maolain Way
Once you have decided that, yes, you are going to hurl, and no, you’re not going to make it to the restroom in a respectable fashion, try your best to refrain from spewing in a haphazard and sloppy manner. No matter how drunk you are, it is never cool having food and stomach acid jet out of your nostrils.
One of the biggest mistakes a vomiter can make is bending over. This puts pressure on your diaphragm and makes the act of expulsion much more difficult and painful. Hanging your head at that angle is not only unflattering, it virtually guarantees a nose full of something you don’t want. Stand up, tall and proud (yet leaning slightly forward so you don’t get any on yourself). After all, you should be proud. You just drank enough booze to make even an experienced drinker as yourself regurgitate. And while you’re standing there, upright and dignified, realize that where you aim that puke is of vital strategic importance.
Select Your Target Carefully
One of the greatest afflictions of the novice drinker is a hair-trigger vomit reflex. One minute you’re humping the bejesus out of a Tijuana hooker, the next you’re hosing her down with recycled Herradura.
So you have to be ready at all times. You must precondition yourself so your target selection will be a thoughtless, instinctual act. And I do mean target, because once you pick a direction to let loose, you gotta stick with it. If you start puking on something (your girlfriend’s shoes, say), then try to redirect the stream somewhere less likely to earn you a knee to the groin, you will most likely inflict collateral damage on a wide assortment of targets. Each of which may earn you an additional knee to the groin, not to mention punches to the head. So take aim and get your money’s worth. Hold down the trigger and empty the magazine because, after all, there’s no such thing as half a knee to the groin.
Try to avoid white and unwashable fabrics. The same goes for valuable and sentimental objects owned by people who give you booze, money, or sex. Aim for porcelain or tile, point the stream at hard, smooth surfaces that are easy to clean. Hurl the bile at enclosures, such as planted pots and empty pitchers, even a pint glass will reduce collateral damage and, more importantly, will signal to observers that you are an experience puker.
If you do have to target something valuable or unsalvageable, don’t be to hard on yourself. Any place who lets humans drink more than a normal ration of alcohol has to accept the possibility of intestinal retribution. It’s practically a law. A fine example is what occurred at an infamous 1976 New Years Eve party at the parents of a high-school pal of mine. The parents thought themselves fiendishly clever by stocking their home with eye-poppingly white couches, chairs, and carpets, thinking it would surely prevent teenagers from making Purple Jesus Punch (with extra Everclear, because we were teenagers). Well, it didn’t, and when the inevitable vomiting started it was like Barney the Dinosaur had lost an argument with a propeller blade. Who’s fault was this? The teenagers? No. The kid who threw the party? No. The parents? Check. They knew that kid was going to mutate into a teenager when they had him.
When People Puke on People
It happens. You find yourself in a tight crowd and no matter which direction you turn, there’s some poor sap standing there, gaping at you when he should be leaping out of the way. Start bulging your cheeks at me and I’m already halfway across the room, smoking a cigarette.
I can remember just one occasion in which that fine instinct failed me. I was standing with friends in a tightly packed bar and suddenly a friend starting making with the bullfrog impression. While everyone else stood there, gawking in terror and thus deserving a good drenching, I lunged gracefully backwards into the crowd. Seeing an open corridor, my friend followed, hosing me down as he went. Like a faithful puking dog, he followed me across the entire length of the room, spraying me with vomit like it was not only his job, but a job he took extremely seriously.
I forgave my friend, even hours later when I was still finding vomit in different pockets, but not everyone is as laissez-faire about it. When you realize you must vomit on a fellow human being, you must immediately choose between friends and strangers. The decision rests entirely upon how good a fighter you think you are. A friend is more likely to forgive you, but he is also likely to stop buying you drinks. If you must choose between a man and a woman, go for the man. He may clobber you, but if you puke on a woman, first she’ll knee you, then her boyfriend will clobber you.
If you’re the self-sacrificing type, you may gallantly leap upon the grenade you’re about to drop and puke on your own chest. I’ve seen it done, but I don’t recommend it. While it may seem noble and save you from a punch, a vomit stain down the front of your shirt is as the mark of Cain. Bartenders will not serve you. Girls will not wish to make out with you. Friends will mock you. For you, the party is over.
The Aftermath
When it comes time to clean up the mess, a word of advice: don’t. That’s what dogs are for. You’d probably just grind it deeper into the carpet anyhow. Behave as if it’s no big deal. Apologizing profusely may spare you a thrashing, but your dignity as a drunk will suffer a graver injury. There is nothing more pathetic than a man who has just puked crawling around in a puddle of vomit with a paper towel in his hand, trying to make amends. You are a sick man, after all, and sick men shouldn’t be subjected to such humiliation and cruelty.
Do not feel guilty for puking. Stand up for your rights. If pushed, ask them if they really wanted you to keep that (make a subtle gesture towards the ejecta) inside of you.
Or you can brazen it out. Act unabashedly proud and point out interesting food chunks while hoping the hosts have servants who are even now approaching with hot water and disinfectants. If caught red-handed, I always opt for this bold approach. Sometimes, if the room is drunk enough, I try to really brazen it out, insisting that I did not just vomit, that it was (insert the name of likely scapegoat here) who did it, then demand an apology. On some groups it works. The upper-crust British, for example, are such slaves of etiquette you can vomit on half of Burke’s Peerage and get away with it by employing this method.
If you puked on someone and they possess the ill manners to remain standing, perhaps even seething, before you, say, “Terribly bad form, I regret it deeply.” Then wipe the puke from your lips with the nearest available absorbent material (resist the urge to use your victim’s tie) and always remember to smile. Too many people don’t smile enough, and the world would be a better place if we smiled more. Make the most of this opportunity, let the warmth of your smile increase the human bond between you. Offer him an Altoids, even before you eat one. Then gracefully stroll away, as if on the way to an important, but not pressing, engagement.
If this bold approach is not your style, you can either pretend to pass out (the Possum Gambit) or make a face like you might do it again and make haste for the front door (the Rattlesnake Ruse). By the time you come back (in twenty minutes or twenty years, depending on severity of the episode), it’ll be all cleaned up and you can plead drunken forgetfulness of the whole affair.
Of course, there a limits to what lengths you may go to save face. To venture beyond those limits is to risk severely damaging the minds of those unfortunate enough to witness your misguided efforts to mask your misstep. To illustrate the point; I offer this disturbing personal experience:
While attending a party, I watched a foreign exchange student chug an entire pitcher of Coors. No big deal, we were young and did crazy things back in the day (the Coors part, not the chugging of pitchers). Shortly thereafter, he got the “Oh shit, I have to barf” look. He goggled at the throng of people between him and the restroom, his eyes darting back and forth for a solution. Suddenly, quietly, he puked into the empty pitcher. I think he was one of those British-educated exchange students, for he did it neatly, silently, and didn’t spill a drop. So far, so good. He glanced around furtively, thinking no one had noticed. He was in the clear. He’d pulled it off! Then, suddenly, inexplicably, unbelievably, he drank the pitcher again, in an attempt to conceal the evidence.
Our eyes bugged with disbelief. Even more incredible was the fact he didn’t regurgitate again. But we did.
Like an insanely polite man attempting to hide an unfashionably hissing stick of dynamite, he set off a chain-reaction, Monty-Pythonesque, mass-pukathon that haunts me to this day.
The Astonishing Comeback
I’m ashamed to say that some drunks I know think vomiting sounds just like last call, when it should sound like the bar’s door being unlocked. You just made a whole bunch of room for more booze! I’m not saying you should go shake hands with the liquid fiend that made you puke in the first place (probably tequila), I’m saying you should ease into a nice stomach-soothing pint of Guinness. Maybe a nice White Russian to replace your stomach lining.
* * *
Special Bonus Section: The Secrets of Projectile Vomiting
Any high school punk with a belly full of Purple Jesus Punch can puke on his neighbor’s shoes. It takes a real drunk to nail a moving target from halfway across the room. Why would you wish to do such a terrible thing? Perhaps you don’t care for the quality of your company. Perhaps you’ve been informed your highly-prized keg privileges have been revoked. Maybe you just spotted your girlfriend making out with your best friend and can’t think of a better way of informing them of your outrage.
In the face of these circumstances, the projectile vomit is the ultimate weapon: it will clear a crowded room, it will demoralize the most upbeat bash, it will steal the desire to make out from even the most wanton of ex-girlfriends. Here’s how you do it:
At the first sign of trouble, stand up straight. Use good posture, you will find it much easier to direct your flow. I gleaned this lesson from opera singers, who know the value of being able to project.
Keep your mouth shut. Let it well up deep inside you, building the force and power necessary to clear the safety zone that may well be forming around you. Hold it as long as you can, let the power grow. When you can’t hold it any longer, open your mouth wide and let fly. Keep that posture intact, act as if you’re hitting an A note at The Met. You may arch your neck and head forward to give that extra little push, and make sure you use your lips to funnel the tail end of the comet well away from you.
For additional effect, aim the stream at a ceiling fan in hopes of initiating an unforgettable barf-fest of Stephen King proportions. It’s that easy.
—Marc O’Maolain
Sunday, May 11, 2003
Main Entry: hyp·o·crite
Pronunciation: 'hi-p&-"krit
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English ypocrite, from Old French, from Late Latin hypocrita, from Greek hypokritEs actor, hypocrite, from hypokrinesthai
Date: 13th century
: a person who puts on a false appearance of virtue or religion- hypocrite adjective
Main Entry: hy·poc·ri·sy
Pronunciation: hi-'pä-kr&-sE also hI-
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural -sies
Etymology: Middle English ypocrisie, from Old French, from Late Latin hypocrisis, from Greek hypokrisis act of playing a part on the stage, hypocrisy, from hypokrinesthai to answer, act on the stage, from hypo- + krinein to decide -- more at CERTAIN
Date: 13th century
1 : a feigning to be what one is not or to believe what one does not; especially : the false assumption of an appearance of virtue or religion
2 : an act or instance of hypocrisy
Pronunciation: 'hi-p&-"krit
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English ypocrite, from Old French, from Late Latin hypocrita, from Greek hypokritEs actor, hypocrite, from hypokrinesthai
Date: 13th century
: a person who puts on a false appearance of virtue or religion- hypocrite adjective
Main Entry: hy·poc·ri·sy
Pronunciation: hi-'pä-kr&-sE also hI-
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural -sies
Etymology: Middle English ypocrisie, from Old French, from Late Latin hypocrisis, from Greek hypokrisis act of playing a part on the stage, hypocrisy, from hypokrinesthai to answer, act on the stage, from hypo- + krinein to decide -- more at CERTAIN
Date: 13th century
1 : a feigning to be what one is not or to believe what one does not; especially : the false assumption of an appearance of virtue or religion
2 : an act or instance of hypocrisy
Saturday, May 03, 2003
Once upon a time in the Kingdom of Heaven, God went missing six days.
Eventually, Michael the archangel found him, resting on the seventh day. He inquired of God, "Where have you been?" God sighed a deep sigh of satisfaction and proudly pointed downwards through the clouds, "Look Michael look what I've made."
Archangel Michael looked puzzled and said, "What is it?"
"It's a planet," replied God, "and I've put LIFE on it. I'm going to call it Earth and it's going to be a place of great balance."
"Balance?" inquired Michael, still confused. God explained, pointing to different parts of Earth, "For example, Northern Europe will be a place of great opportunity and wealth while Southern Europe is going to be poor; the Middle East over there will be a hot spot. Over there I've placed a continent of white people and over there is a continent of black people," God continued, pointing to different countries. "This one will be extremely hot and arid while this one will be very cold and covered in ice."
The Archangel, impressed by Gods work, then pointed to a large landmass in the top corner and asked, "What's that one?"
"Ah," said God. "That's Canada the most glorious place on Earth. There are beautiful mountains, lakes, rivers, streams and an exquisite coastline. The people from Canada are going to be modest, intelligent and humorous and they're going to be found travelling the world. They'll be extremely sociable, hard working and high achieving, and they will be known throughout the world as diplomats and carriers of peace. I'm also going to give them super-human, undefeatable ice hockey players who will be admired and feared by all who come across them."
Michael gasped in wonder and admiration but then proclaimed; "What about balance, God? You said there will be BALANCE!"
God replied wisely. "Wait until you see the loud-mouth bastards I'm putting next to them...."
"I'm So Excited About Canadians Ruling The World!" - - Prime Minister John Diefenbaker
Eventually, Michael the archangel found him, resting on the seventh day. He inquired of God, "Where have you been?" God sighed a deep sigh of satisfaction and proudly pointed downwards through the clouds, "Look Michael look what I've made."
Archangel Michael looked puzzled and said, "What is it?"
"It's a planet," replied God, "and I've put LIFE on it. I'm going to call it Earth and it's going to be a place of great balance."
"Balance?" inquired Michael, still confused. God explained, pointing to different parts of Earth, "For example, Northern Europe will be a place of great opportunity and wealth while Southern Europe is going to be poor; the Middle East over there will be a hot spot. Over there I've placed a continent of white people and over there is a continent of black people," God continued, pointing to different countries. "This one will be extremely hot and arid while this one will be very cold and covered in ice."
The Archangel, impressed by Gods work, then pointed to a large landmass in the top corner and asked, "What's that one?"
"Ah," said God. "That's Canada the most glorious place on Earth. There are beautiful mountains, lakes, rivers, streams and an exquisite coastline. The people from Canada are going to be modest, intelligent and humorous and they're going to be found travelling the world. They'll be extremely sociable, hard working and high achieving, and they will be known throughout the world as diplomats and carriers of peace. I'm also going to give them super-human, undefeatable ice hockey players who will be admired and feared by all who come across them."
Michael gasped in wonder and admiration but then proclaimed; "What about balance, God? You said there will be BALANCE!"
God replied wisely. "Wait until you see the loud-mouth bastards I'm putting next to them...."
"I'm So Excited About Canadians Ruling The World!" - - Prime Minister John Diefenbaker
Thursday, May 01, 2003
Posted by Jay and Silent Bob:
My autographed copy of Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back, and my Buddy Christ came in the mail today. Very cool.
In Reply to: Jay & Silent Bob lick balls - Darth Randal 15:25:37
All you motherfuckers are gonna pay, You are the ones who are the ball-lickers. We're gonna fuck your mothers while you watch and cry like little bitches. Once we get to Hollywood and find those Miramax fucks who are making that movie, we're gonna make 'em eat our shit, then shit out our shit, then eat their shit which is made up of our shit that we made 'em eat. Then you're all fucking next.
Love,
Jay and Silent Bob
My autographed copy of Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back, and my Buddy Christ came in the mail today. Very cool.
In Reply to: Jay & Silent Bob lick balls - Darth Randal 15:25:37
All you motherfuckers are gonna pay, You are the ones who are the ball-lickers. We're gonna fuck your mothers while you watch and cry like little bitches. Once we get to Hollywood and find those Miramax fucks who are making that movie, we're gonna make 'em eat our shit, then shit out our shit, then eat their shit which is made up of our shit that we made 'em eat. Then you're all fucking next.
Love,
Jay and Silent Bob
Friday, April 25, 2003
Fuck... I'm just totally getting into working 4 on 4 off, and they are changing my schedule. Monday to Friday. Does that eat my ass or what? What the fuck, over?
Wednesday, April 23, 2003
Effective May 1, 2003, meals will not be provided for space available passengers traveling on Domestic/Transborder routes personal travel.. If your station presently makes arrangements to top up meals with the caterers to encompass space available employees traveling please ensure that effective May 1,2003, they discontinue this practice. Meals will continue to be provided for Pos travel.
FUCK YOU AIR CANADA.
FUCK YOU AIR CANADA.
Tuesday, April 22, 2003
It is tax time again. I feel ripped off. I pay TONS of taxes. I suspect I'll pay even more in the future. I paid for my education myself, and yet I was not able to write off it as an expense. I still paid almost $40 G's for a little piece of paper that says I can fly a plane, but I cannot deduct it because I did not attend a formal school. Rip off.
Enough of all this. I think the government should institute a "user pay" schedule for everything. Kinda like they have with the entire aviation industry in Canada. Now the airlines pay to use navigation equipment, fees for landing and departing at airports, etc etc. And now the passengers have to pay extra on their tickets instead of the govenrment taxing everyone in the country to pay for services not everyone uses.
So by that logic. I've never had to use welfare... why should I pay for it. I've paid my whole life for unemployment / employment insurance, and only ever collected for about 1 month. ( a reduced ammount because I was still working part time. ) I think I've paid my share, I don't want to pay any more. PST... when I am visiting a province that pays PST, I should be exempt. I don't live there, why should I have to pay? When foriegn travellers come to Canada and spend their much welcome money, they get a GST rebate when they go home! Can I get a rebate the next time I pay PST in Saskatchewan? Health care... I am relatively fit.. I am not a smoker. I figure that since I don't need a doctor very often, I'll just stop paying for health care up front, and when I go to the doctor, I'll just take a big wad of cash with me. Hmmmm.... maybe the doctor and I can arrange some sort of fair trading agreement. He might need a flight to Australia, and I might be able to hook him up at a reasonable price....
Here is an idea. The banks and oil companies are making record profits. Tax the hell out of them. The reason they are making record profits is because they are screwing us! Lets take something back from those bastards.
Tax tobacco companies, and tax cigarettes more. This is how it must work. Tax the tobacco companies so much they stop selling in Canada. Tax cigarettes so much that people quit smoking right about the time the tobacco comapnies leave. Put the money recieved into some sort of investment so it can make some money, and support the health care costs incurred by all the smokers who didn't quit soon enough.
Legalise and tax gambling. It shouldn't be for churches and native groups anymore. Viva Lost Wages. If you are dumb enough to gamble and loose your money, you are dumb enough. I'll take your cash, thank you!
Legalise prostitution.... tax it too. Call it a flat tax.
Tax churches.
No more tax breaks for anybody. (ouch I just bit my tounge.)
Fuck it. As soon as I get enough flying time under my belt. I'm outta here. I hear Air Rourotonga is looking for pilots.
Enough of all this. I think the government should institute a "user pay" schedule for everything. Kinda like they have with the entire aviation industry in Canada. Now the airlines pay to use navigation equipment, fees for landing and departing at airports, etc etc. And now the passengers have to pay extra on their tickets instead of the govenrment taxing everyone in the country to pay for services not everyone uses.
So by that logic. I've never had to use welfare... why should I pay for it. I've paid my whole life for unemployment / employment insurance, and only ever collected for about 1 month. ( a reduced ammount because I was still working part time. ) I think I've paid my share, I don't want to pay any more. PST... when I am visiting a province that pays PST, I should be exempt. I don't live there, why should I have to pay? When foriegn travellers come to Canada and spend their much welcome money, they get a GST rebate when they go home! Can I get a rebate the next time I pay PST in Saskatchewan? Health care... I am relatively fit.. I am not a smoker. I figure that since I don't need a doctor very often, I'll just stop paying for health care up front, and when I go to the doctor, I'll just take a big wad of cash with me. Hmmmm.... maybe the doctor and I can arrange some sort of fair trading agreement. He might need a flight to Australia, and I might be able to hook him up at a reasonable price....
Here is an idea. The banks and oil companies are making record profits. Tax the hell out of them. The reason they are making record profits is because they are screwing us! Lets take something back from those bastards.
Tax tobacco companies, and tax cigarettes more. This is how it must work. Tax the tobacco companies so much they stop selling in Canada. Tax cigarettes so much that people quit smoking right about the time the tobacco comapnies leave. Put the money recieved into some sort of investment so it can make some money, and support the health care costs incurred by all the smokers who didn't quit soon enough.
Legalise and tax gambling. It shouldn't be for churches and native groups anymore. Viva Lost Wages. If you are dumb enough to gamble and loose your money, you are dumb enough. I'll take your cash, thank you!
Legalise prostitution.... tax it too. Call it a flat tax.
Tax churches.
No more tax breaks for anybody. (ouch I just bit my tounge.)
Fuck it. As soon as I get enough flying time under my belt. I'm outta here. I hear Air Rourotonga is looking for pilots.
Monday, April 21, 2003
So, after posting the rant about "your" and "you're". I've recieved some negative feedback about my attitude. If I was incorrect, the negative feedback would be understandable. But, since I'm not... (not to put too much of a fine edge on my response ) ...screw off.
To all the people who gave a positive response, thanks for your support. I hope you're feeling better now too!
To all the people who gave a positive response, thanks for your support. I hope you're feeling better now too!
Saturday, April 19, 2003
So... before I left Calgary with the car, the oil change guy (luber) told me I had a broken spring. I thought that sucks, because I have neither the time or the money to fix it. I hit the road the very next day. On the way to Smithers, I discovered that the water pump was leaking. So since then I've been buying the cheapest antifreeze I could find, Zellers $6, and I've been filling it up every few days to a week. Lately, the car has been making quite an ugly grinding noise when I make left turns. Last night, we went over a bump and the car made a loud clunk and lurched to the right, and the grinding became constant. Luckily we were only 2 houses from home, so we made it to the driveway. Today I went out to have a look, and I couldn't see anything more than the broken spring. But since the car was sounding waayyy to bad to drive to the shop. I called a tow truck. Since the front of the car had to be lifted to get it to the shop, I had to back the car out of the driveway. I made it about 10 feet, and the right side of the car collapsed. The right ball joint had failed. So we managed to get the car picked up and tow it to the shop, which cost me $45 just for the tow. It is a 10 minute walk to the shop, but a $45 tow. Ouch. Wether it was a block, 10 blocks, or 10 miles, really makes no difference. The car was unserviceable in the condition it was in, and the tow truck got the car to the shop without any more damage. I guess it was worth $45.
So we get to the shop, the only shop that would take us on the long weekend, get it up on the lift, and all I see underneath is uglyness. I can see visions of $100's with wings on them flying out of my wallet. Here is what I've asked them to do.
Fix the broken springs, both sides, no sense doing one side and not the other.
Fix the broken ball joint, which will have to include the way bar bushings, but that is good because the car isn't going anywhere withot this getting fixed.
Fix the leaky water pump, which hopefully is just the gasket. Kevin Louis you are an asshole. He fixed it a few years back, and he probably fucked up the gasket putting it in. That is OK, I've gotten plenty of revenge on him in advance. ( How is that windshield doing? )
And since they are also a tire shop, I ordered 2 new front tires, cause these were screwed.
And my insurance / plates expire at the end of this month? Did they expire already? Hmmm, another $600.
So everyone that I owe money to... Bear with me, it will be another month or so. I need my car to get to work. I would take my bike, but when I start work at 03:45, I am not riding my bike.
Did I mention that I am broke?
I was going to change the name of "My Opinion" to "My Therapy", but I was watching a movie the other day, and on the special edition DVD, there was a crazy lady preaching that I was going to go to hell for watching said movie. Her 15 seconds of fame was entitled "My Opinion".. I'm keeping my opinion. Maybe this way I won't burn in hell.
So we get to the shop, the only shop that would take us on the long weekend, get it up on the lift, and all I see underneath is uglyness. I can see visions of $100's with wings on them flying out of my wallet. Here is what I've asked them to do.
Fix the broken springs, both sides, no sense doing one side and not the other.
Fix the broken ball joint, which will have to include the way bar bushings, but that is good because the car isn't going anywhere withot this getting fixed.
Fix the leaky water pump, which hopefully is just the gasket. Kevin Louis you are an asshole. He fixed it a few years back, and he probably fucked up the gasket putting it in. That is OK, I've gotten plenty of revenge on him in advance. ( How is that windshield doing? )
And since they are also a tire shop, I ordered 2 new front tires, cause these were screwed.
And my insurance / plates expire at the end of this month? Did they expire already? Hmmm, another $600.
So everyone that I owe money to... Bear with me, it will be another month or so. I need my car to get to work. I would take my bike, but when I start work at 03:45, I am not riding my bike.
Did I mention that I am broke?
I was going to change the name of "My Opinion" to "My Therapy", but I was watching a movie the other day, and on the special edition DVD, there was a crazy lady preaching that I was going to go to hell for watching said movie. Her 15 seconds of fame was entitled "My Opinion".. I'm keeping my opinion. Maybe this way I won't burn in hell.
Friday, April 18, 2003
Well here it is... Version 3! What do you think? I seem to do a new version every year or so. And every year seems to translate to about one thousand page views. Pretty cool. Drop me a line, I want to know what you think of the new website, and I would love to see who is looking again. It used to be easy, when I only had a few regular viewers, but now I can't always figure out who is looking. Who of you was looking from the domain mjcatholic.ca ? It is for a Moose Jaw, Sk, school! Al is that you??
On another subject.... english to be exact. This has been bugging me for a while... The use of the word "your" instead of "you're".
Pay attention now.. I just copied this from a buddies website...
"your eighteen, your in 7-11, you don't know sh#t about sh#t, and pull up your f*ckin' pants." - Dennis Leary
Right idea, wrong word.
Your is possesive, as in... "Those are your shoes, they belong to you."
You're is used when you are describing something that someone is. As in "You're an asshole, give me my shoes."
So when someone says "your eighteen..."... I think, your 18 what? 18 year old scotch? 18 year old daughter? 18 cans of beer?
"You're" is a contraction for "You are", do you see it? you're = you are.
If you don't uderstand, you're in need of some english classes... Like the ones your 18 eighteen year old daugher is in.
pull up your f*ckin' pants!
On another subject.... english to be exact. This has been bugging me for a while... The use of the word "your" instead of "you're".
Pay attention now.. I just copied this from a buddies website...
"your eighteen, your in 7-11, you don't know sh#t about sh#t, and pull up your f*ckin' pants." - Dennis Leary
Right idea, wrong word.
Your is possesive, as in... "Those are your shoes, they belong to you."
You're is used when you are describing something that someone is. As in "You're an asshole, give me my shoes."
So when someone says "your eighteen..."... I think, your 18 what? 18 year old scotch? 18 year old daughter? 18 cans of beer?
"You're" is a contraction for "You are", do you see it? you're = you are.
If you don't uderstand, you're in need of some english classes... Like the ones your 18 eighteen year old daugher is in.
pull up your f*ckin' pants!
Monday, April 14, 2003
Ya know? There are some days a guy just can't win. You try to do stuff the right fucking way, only to find out the rules have changed.. Ever heard of the term "MANGRY"? Can't shoot 'em, can't leave 'em on the side of the road when you're done with them. And NO I'm not talking about Kathy.
Wednesday, April 09, 2003
How do you like that? A guy spends his whole life looking for certain things, some thing he gets, some he doesn't. Some things come at exactly the worst time, and he has to turn them away. That sucks, but the long term reward is worth the sacrifice! Thanks for the smile!
Friday, April 04, 2003
Ya know what? This flying thing is fucked. Looking back on everything now, I should have just gone back to school and got a degree. The fucking bullshit that pilots have to put up with to get anywhere, is retarted. The next time you are sitting back complaining about how much money pilots make, think about all the sacrifices they had to make to get to where they are. One of our pilots has moved 7 times in the last 5 years. How stable is that. How can anyone lead a normal life with that kind of bullshit. How much does that hat really cost?
When you are complaining about how much they get paid, remember, when you pay peanuts, you get monkeys. How would you like a monkey flying your 747, with 400 people onboard. Nuff said.
When you are complaining about how much they get paid, remember, when you pay peanuts, you get monkeys. How would you like a monkey flying your 747, with 400 people onboard. Nuff said.
Tuesday, April 01, 2003
Air Canada files for bankrupcy protection! Today! You fucking dumb fucks. The allmighty Air Canada has fallen. All the arrogance in the world can't save you now. You're going down sucker. The beer must be flowing at WestJet, the fags. And the government, has already declared it will help Air Canada, where the hell were you when Canada's finest airline was struggling? Canadian Airlines, was the best airline this country has ever seen, and ever will see. All hail Canadi>n. All hail Canadi>n. All hail Canadi>n.
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