Ugh. (Pronounced: uh-kkk)
2010 - what did I ever do to you?
You've been treating me like a red-headed step child. You've erased the two most important females in my life. What do I have to show for it? Bills. Shit loads of weighty bills from living above my means all this time.
Thanks dude.
I can safely tell you all now, that there was a lengthy period of time where I considered veering the car off a ledge. An electric device in the bathtub, perhaps or just a shit load of tylenol. It was a skeleton in my closet. A demon from my past. I personify this emotional bombardment because it helps me picture it. In my mind's eye I can walk up to this assassin and meet it face to face.
In the most crippling of attacks from this assassin, driving to work was next to impossible. I felt the same paralyzing hold when I was sixteen. This was a sequel to a movie that should never have been made. But I'm not reprising my role to complete the trilogy. This has to end for good.
There's an epic war waging in my mind's eye. Until recently, the assassin has had the upper hand. As if his pet zombies were attacking me while he made off with the girl.
Then life changed. And it was like...I was granted spider-powers. Because the zombies got so much easier to beat down. I made some friends and they brought shotguns. Now I can focus on the assassin.
I can't say this war will end anytime soon. But the tide has just turned, and I'm picturing myself webbing this assassin's feet to the ground and calling in Ironman for a rocket powered uppercut.
Once I've defeated him...I'll have a clean slate. A fresh start.
I think I've learned my lesson. Let's do this.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Give Me A Blog
Don't worry.
I won't turn this into another drawn out, nearly painful reading experience. I won't adhere to the oh-so-common business approach of "Hello sir or madam or both, my name is John Whogivesacrap and I'd like to apply for a position with your company as a writer."
I will, however, tell you my name. Adam Jakob Smachylo. The Driver's License may say that I'm 27 years of age, though the onslaught of turmoil and constant challenges at times makes me feel double that.
I've witnessed the closest of my friends' lives hijacked and destroyed by a self-loathing ex-girlfriend, I've had the most dearest of women in my life stolen from me by cancer and their own destructive guilty pleasures, I've felt the agony of a father that chose to run rather than stay and guide his son through life, I've watched as my own relationships crumbled and get swept aside as if nothing had ever happened.
Yet, I've been fortunate enough to have been loved by several young women, I've conquered a staggering fear of heights jumping 11,000 feet from an airplane I couldn't even stand up in, I've caressed the lips of an angel with my own - an angel that still haunts me to this day and I've driven a rusty 2005 Mazda 3 across a country unlike any other.
I'm only 27. What does all this get me? One incredibly unique view of our beautiful, yet sadly unfair world.
In my professional career as a writer, I have been a Creative Writer for radio stations in Thunder Bay, Toronto and Kelowna, and was the Creative Director for Z103.5 for a year. I was a Dean's List student at both Cambrian College in Sudbury for the Print-Journalism program, and at Confederation College for Television Broadcasting.
Writing has always been my passion. I've worked on several novels, posted a number of blogs, written several short stories and continue to write creatively for radio.
I won't turn this into another drawn out, nearly painful reading experience. I won't adhere to the oh-so-common business approach of "Hello sir or madam or both, my name is John Whogivesacrap and I'd like to apply for a position with your company as a writer."
I will, however, tell you my name. Adam Jakob Smachylo. The Driver's License may say that I'm 27 years of age, though the onslaught of turmoil and constant challenges at times makes me feel double that.
I've witnessed the closest of my friends' lives hijacked and destroyed by a self-loathing ex-girlfriend, I've had the most dearest of women in my life stolen from me by cancer and their own destructive guilty pleasures, I've felt the agony of a father that chose to run rather than stay and guide his son through life, I've watched as my own relationships crumbled and get swept aside as if nothing had ever happened.
Yet, I've been fortunate enough to have been loved by several young women, I've conquered a staggering fear of heights jumping 11,000 feet from an airplane I couldn't even stand up in, I've caressed the lips of an angel with my own - an angel that still haunts me to this day and I've driven a rusty 2005 Mazda 3 across a country unlike any other.
I'm only 27. What does all this get me? One incredibly unique view of our beautiful, yet sadly unfair world.
In my professional career as a writer, I have been a Creative Writer for radio stations in Thunder Bay, Toronto and Kelowna, and was the Creative Director for Z103.5 for a year. I was a Dean's List student at both Cambrian College in Sudbury for the Print-Journalism program, and at Confederation College for Television Broadcasting.
Writing has always been my passion. I've worked on several novels, posted a number of blogs, written several short stories and continue to write creatively for radio.
2010 - What did I ever do to you?
Holy shit - this is the worst year of my life.
When shit gets this heavy, I always try to tell myself that it's for a reason. Life better have a pretty good reason for this.
But sometimes you sit there and wish for something to happen - then it does.
I made my bed, now I have to sleep in it.
It's tough to say exactly what happened with me, with us and with life. I suppose sometimes love just isn't enough. I hope that we will both come away from this learning a bit more about ourselves and with minimal regrets. If a man's level of freedom is measured by the guilt he shoulders from his past, then I may never actually meet a true free man. I'll certainly never look in the mirror and see one.
I pray to my Mother constantly. I beg her to help me. I beg her for strength, for answers and for a reason to go on. I don't know if she hears me. Sometimes I feel like I've disappointed her or hurt her in someway by how I live my life.
It's so easy to count the horribly disappointing and overwhelmingly stressful things happening in my life. There's just so many of them...how can you enjoy the sight of the ocean with a mountain in the way?
But now at least I can fully focus on getting the help I need emotionally. Cuz ya know...I'm fucked up and all. Or perhaps I'm just not meant to live a certain way.
Either way, it's time to suit up and re-join the mercenaries who answer to one voice only: their own.
When shit gets this heavy, I always try to tell myself that it's for a reason. Life better have a pretty good reason for this.
But sometimes you sit there and wish for something to happen - then it does.
I made my bed, now I have to sleep in it.
It's tough to say exactly what happened with me, with us and with life. I suppose sometimes love just isn't enough. I hope that we will both come away from this learning a bit more about ourselves and with minimal regrets. If a man's level of freedom is measured by the guilt he shoulders from his past, then I may never actually meet a true free man. I'll certainly never look in the mirror and see one.
I pray to my Mother constantly. I beg her to help me. I beg her for strength, for answers and for a reason to go on. I don't know if she hears me. Sometimes I feel like I've disappointed her or hurt her in someway by how I live my life.
It's so easy to count the horribly disappointing and overwhelmingly stressful things happening in my life. There's just so many of them...how can you enjoy the sight of the ocean with a mountain in the way?
But now at least I can fully focus on getting the help I need emotionally. Cuz ya know...I'm fucked up and all. Or perhaps I'm just not meant to live a certain way.
Either way, it's time to suit up and re-join the mercenaries who answer to one voice only: their own.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
The Supernatural
I believe in ghosts. I believe we are like Transformers. There’s more to us than meets the eye.
I don’t really care what you believe in, nor do I care how many people read the previous statement and judge me as a potential schizophrenic. Let it be known that those of us who are the most judgmental are the most likely to be judged themselves.
In my eyes it is impossible to perceive this human life of ours and not stop to wonder at how exactly we came to be. Are we simply a biological anomaly born of the random yet perfect placement of a massive burning star? Or was there really a superior being that cascaded down from the Heavens to create an intelligent, yet corruptible race in its own image?
Me? I don’t subscribe to human-fabricated belief that there is one holy being that oversees all life on this planet like a shop foreman.
Let me also add that any group that masses together to worship a single being and follows its ‘rules of conduct’ could also be called a ‘cult’.
And yet despite all my personal beliefs, I saunter passed an older building in the nicer parts of Kelowna, and I feel as though I’m being watched. It’s a feeling that’s nearly impossible to put accurately into words.
When I’m being ‘visited’, the symptoms are often visible. Teary eyes, shaking hands and arms, heavy breathing. It’s as if I’m being watched by a thousand eyes, like all the deceased that came to be that way were holed up in a room and I just walked into it with a huge sign on my chest that reads ‘I hate ghosts’.
Images appear in my mind, images that I honestly can’t say I’d ever seen before or thought of before. It’s for that reason that I have a hard time accepting that it could be an over-active imagination. I see people – people with very specific details. A slender young woman in a long, red dress with spaghetti straps over her shoulders and long, black hair draped across her right shoulder. She’s standing atop the height of a tall staircase, staring down at me. I don’t think she knows she’s dead.
A gruff, middle-aged man storms into our home looking for someone. He has a thick, dark mustache and a displeased expression on his face. He doesn’t speak English, but he understands when I tell him he’s in the wrong place.
My Mother stands in the living room of my new apartment, watching me do the dishes, crossing her arms and raising her eyebrows as she watches. She’s not happy with how I’m handling certain things, so I remind her where she’s supposed to be and where I am.
I don’t see this as a curse, as often this sense has helped me steer clear of what could’ve possibly been some malicious spirits in the past.
It makes me wonder. When it comes to the spirits of the dead, those lonely souls that wander our Earth trapped and in some cases oblivious…is ignorance really bliss? Or does a spirit’s influence hold sway over even the most closed-minded of fools?
After all, spirits are just as capable of evil as we are.
I don’t really care what you believe in, nor do I care how many people read the previous statement and judge me as a potential schizophrenic. Let it be known that those of us who are the most judgmental are the most likely to be judged themselves.
In my eyes it is impossible to perceive this human life of ours and not stop to wonder at how exactly we came to be. Are we simply a biological anomaly born of the random yet perfect placement of a massive burning star? Or was there really a superior being that cascaded down from the Heavens to create an intelligent, yet corruptible race in its own image?
Me? I don’t subscribe to human-fabricated belief that there is one holy being that oversees all life on this planet like a shop foreman.
Let me also add that any group that masses together to worship a single being and follows its ‘rules of conduct’ could also be called a ‘cult’.
And yet despite all my personal beliefs, I saunter passed an older building in the nicer parts of Kelowna, and I feel as though I’m being watched. It’s a feeling that’s nearly impossible to put accurately into words.
When I’m being ‘visited’, the symptoms are often visible. Teary eyes, shaking hands and arms, heavy breathing. It’s as if I’m being watched by a thousand eyes, like all the deceased that came to be that way were holed up in a room and I just walked into it with a huge sign on my chest that reads ‘I hate ghosts’.
Images appear in my mind, images that I honestly can’t say I’d ever seen before or thought of before. It’s for that reason that I have a hard time accepting that it could be an over-active imagination. I see people – people with very specific details. A slender young woman in a long, red dress with spaghetti straps over her shoulders and long, black hair draped across her right shoulder. She’s standing atop the height of a tall staircase, staring down at me. I don’t think she knows she’s dead.
A gruff, middle-aged man storms into our home looking for someone. He has a thick, dark mustache and a displeased expression on his face. He doesn’t speak English, but he understands when I tell him he’s in the wrong place.
My Mother stands in the living room of my new apartment, watching me do the dishes, crossing her arms and raising her eyebrows as she watches. She’s not happy with how I’m handling certain things, so I remind her where she’s supposed to be and where I am.
I don’t see this as a curse, as often this sense has helped me steer clear of what could’ve possibly been some malicious spirits in the past.
It makes me wonder. When it comes to the spirits of the dead, those lonely souls that wander our Earth trapped and in some cases oblivious…is ignorance really bliss? Or does a spirit’s influence hold sway over even the most closed-minded of fools?
After all, spirits are just as capable of evil as we are.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
The Ultimate Showdown
It’s a late night, even for billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne. But for his alter ego, the night has only just begun.
As of late, Bruce Wayne’s attention has shifted from running and managing his internationally renowned company, Wayne Enterprises, to bringing justice to the scum and slime of Gotham’s humanity as the feared Dark Knight. Recently though, Gotham’s streets have been quiet and peaceful. No doubt thanks to the fear he’s bestowed on the criminal minds throughout the busy metropolis. So his obsessive attention has turned to other cities in need of a bat’s brand of justice.
New York City. A hot-bed of crime and superhuman criminal tourists who are constantly on the lookout for a night on the town. But not in Spiderman’s city.
Perched atop a tall building, Spidey listens intently to the honks and engines of a city that never seems to sleep. He sighs heavily – he’s bored. It’s been quiet lately, oddly quiet. He thinks maybe he can finally take a vacation – maybe battle some evil-doers in Hawaii or perhaps Kelowna. It’s late – time to head home to MJ and see if he can put Spidey Jr. to work.
With a quick thwip of his webs, he’s off swinging through the jungle of buildings and concrete. He thinks about what MJ was wearing to bed. A small pair of booty shorts and a small t-shirt that says “#1 Spiderman Fan” and she was gunna prove it when he got home.
Spider-sense suddenly sends shockwaves down his spine – something’s coming at him, small but possibly explosive. He flicks a few quick weblines and pulls himself higher, spins and spots a baseball sized sphere – it’s tracing him and gaining speed. He jumps off a wall with one foot to spin and web the sphere down, but it’s broken apart into a dozen needles. With no time to think, his instincts take over. Arching his back, flailing his arms and kicking his legs out to avoid the needles which clack off the wall behind him with a small electric shock.
Still in mid-air, his Spider-sense fires off again. A man – a foot – coming at him quickly. He reaches up and spins two weblines, giving him the leverage to pull himself up. A man in a black cape soars under him, just missing landing a critical kick to his lower regions.
With a few flips and jumps, Spidey lands effortlessly on top of run-down building. The caped man soon lands before him. They stare each other down for a few minutes.
“Rob Zombie?” Spider jests.
The caped man reaches back and flings forth several edged shuriken-like weapons. Spidey’s timing is flawless, he somersaults to the right, dodging the weapons. Spider-sense again, the weapons are seekers, they turn and come back at him. A backflip and a few thwips of his webs and Spiderman spins and fires the weapons back at his attacker.
He’s gone now, out of sight – and the weapons fling off and fall to the ground.
“Oh, I get it. You’re the boogieman,” Spiderman exclaims.
“Boo,” comes a distant voice.
Spider-sense again, and Spidey dives out of the way of another crushing attack from above. He turns and aims for the feet, trying to subdue his attacker and keep him on the ground. The caped man pulls his cape over his head, and the webs sizzle and evaporate quickly after touching the cape.
“Someone’s got some time on their hands,” Spidey quips, “guess I’m just gunna have to do this the old fashioned way.”
His attacker is quick, too. Tossing several bolas to incapacitate Spiderman, but Spidey’s spider-sense is too strong. He leaps, bounds and dodges the bolas, jumping to close in on his attacker and does just that, landing a spinning kick to his enemy’s right side.
Batman is staggered, and now Spiderman can see exactly who he is.
“Wow. You bring new meaning to the term ‘bat-shit crazy’”.
Batman stands tall and pulls out two rods – they’re electrified. The goal – stun Spiderman or incapacitate him and bring him in. Batman squeezes the rods and they zap with electrical force.
“Shocking,” Spidey cracks.
Batman comes at him, swinging high – Spiderman ducks, swinging low – Spiderman jumps, swinging both batons at once – Spiderman somersaults to the side. Batman swings downwards – Spiderman grabs his arm and twists – Batman drops the baton. Batman swings with the second baton – Spiderman chops it out of his hand and lands a harsh kick right in Bat’s chops, sending him staggering backward.
Batman’s been hit before, but not like this. Spiderman’s strength and quickness were much more than Batman had anticipated. Batman, after all, is only a man in a costume – somehow Spiderman can foresee his every move. But he isn’t out of tricks yet.
He pulls another sphere from his belt, tosses it hard against the roof and covers himself. It blasts with a massive shockwave and burst of light. Spidey’s senses are blinded – stunned, he covers his eyes and keels over .
Sensing an opportunity, Batman lunges forward, crashing his foot into Spiderman’s chest and sending him sprawling backward. Batman moves for one of the stun rods, but by the time he’s got it, Spiderman is back on his feet – his enhanced strength has given him superhuman endurance, and kick from an ordinary man isn’t enough to stymie him for long. Batman moves to attack, but Spiderman is gone.
“Boo!” Comes a familiar voice from up high.
Spiderman lands a web-swinging kick right into Batman’s back. Batman collapses in a heap. He can’t cope with blows of that strength. He reaches for another stun bomb, but Spidey delivers another kick to his mid-section, sending him dragging across the rooftop.
Spidey pins him down. “Still wanna brawl Bat-boy?”
At this point, it’s important to note to that both these men are heroes – they’ll never stoop to killing. So it’s safe to say that the two would recognize the good in each other, talk and sort out their differences. In another dimension, I think Spidey would just mount Batman, and serve up some serious ground-n-pound until Batman’s head caved in.
Bottom line: Batman is a rich man in a costume. Yes, he has extensive training and millions in resources, but Spiderman is a superhuman. Super-strength, super-endurance, Spider-sense, reflexes of Halak and more. No matter of gadgetry is going to save Batman from Spiderman’s abilities.
Clear winner: Spidey.
Don’t shake your head at me, Kristen.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Old School
Whilst juggling various websites and snooping through pictures of friends' facebook profiles, I somehow stumbled upon my olde Myspace profile. Myspace - does anyone use that shit anymore?
I found plenty of old photos, coupled with old blogs. Blogs that I wrote over three years ago. It's always fun to see what kind of retarded shit I wrote in the past.
Here are a few highlights from blogs from the past.
This was a blog I posted about my 'Pitt' - a giant hole in the ground I would create, were I king of the world, for criminals, ugly people and fat people:
Even in previous years, I was writing blogs about zombies:
I think it's time we all accepted the truth. Eventually, there is one thing that all of us in this world have to face and deal with, and it's coming soon. It's going to be frightening…challenging and dangerous. Many of us will perish and it could even mean the end of an entire species – the human race. Yes, an epic scale. This one thing that I speak of will test the very wits of humanity. It's coming soon, and I truly believe it's about time we started preparing for this onslaught now. I'm talking about zombies. Yeah – the living dead. They feed on your flesh, there's a lot of them and when you die you become one. Do you really want to become a zombie? No. And the worst part of all is, you can't communicate with them…cuz they won't listen. You'll say "Stop eating my flesh, it hurts." And they'll say…..nothing. They'll just keep doing it – indicating that they are either non-coherent or just jerks. Cuz who hears you say "Stop eating my flesh, it hurts" and keeps doing it? Jerks. That's who. Jerks.
My thoughts on Hinder's 'Lips of an Angel':
My first experience with the 'Retard Sandwich':
Finally...my personal thoughts on Nicholas Cage:
I don't know who the genius was that decided to put Nicholas Cage in front of a camera, but may his soul burn in hell eternal. Nicholas Cage is a monotonous, clueless wannabe southerner who looks like he got hit in the back of the head with a shovel a few too many times.
Now I can't possibly point out every flaw that Nicholas Cage possesses. It's as if whatever higher power in this galaxy, when creating life on earth, required a dumpster for all the incomprehensible garbage that spewed out of creation, looked upon Nicholas Cage and said "Giddy up!" Yes, I am saying that Nicholas Cage is the dumpster of human kind.
First of all, the guy looks like his head is about to explode. His bulging eyes and lurching neck…he belongs in a cheap Transylvanian horror flick with fangs and a cape. I.E. he's ugly. Don't let the receding hair line fool you, his hair is actually running from his face, like deer run from a predator.
Secondly, how can anyone take him seriously? I was watching The Rock and when Nicholas Cage came on I realized it was a comedy, and I laughed and laughed…this guy's voice is like listening to your grandparents have sex…how can you not laugh?
Finally – he WANTS to be a southerner??? Who WANTS to be a southerner??? What kind of retard goes out looking for a type of person that somehow sounds STUPIDER than he does and then…imitates them?
I found plenty of old photos, coupled with old blogs. Blogs that I wrote over three years ago. It's always fun to see what kind of retarded shit I wrote in the past.
Here are a few highlights from blogs from the past.
This was a blog I posted about my 'Pitt' - a giant hole in the ground I would create, were I king of the world, for criminals, ugly people and fat people:
So then you bring up your pathetic peasant comment or concern. You say "The people of the land are in turmoil, m'Lord. We need more food – the dragon continues to steal it all!"
Or some such nonsense. Always with turmoil you peasant people! It sickens me.
So ultimately you get nowhere with me and near the end of the conversation I say "PITT!" and point to you. That spells trouble. Let me explain the 'Pitt'. If I were King, and in this instance, I am…I would dig a hole. A giant fucking hole – millions of feet deep and millions of feet wide. I would call it the "PITT" and Christopher Walken would monitor it for me. Any law-breaker, rapist, murderer, thief, person that pisses me off, retarded person, handicapped person, ugly person, fat person, ex-girlfriend etc. would go in the Pitt.
At a certain point in everyone's life they would have to interview me to see if they belong in the Pitt. I would ask some standard questions. Like "You're ugly go in the Pitt" or "You're a fucking waste of life go in the Pitt". And I would call it all "Adamism" – survival of the non-Pittish. I would throw them all in the Pitt and they would attempt to survive in the muddy, wet and foodless terrain of the Pitt. Or dry…I haven't quite decided yet. And sometimes when I get mad I'd have Christopher Walken drop scorpions in there. And I'd ask him here and there – Hey Chris, how's the Pitt? And he'd say "It's…glorious….I'd like to drop…some scorpions – can I do that?" And I'd say hell yeah, Christopher Walken. Hell yeah.
Here is a small list of people that belong in the pitt:
Tom Cruise
Hal Gill
Foo – (Ryan's Cat)
Hinder
My Chemical Romance
Anyone I don't like.
Anyone my friends don't like.
My girlfriend's ex's.
Ashton Kutcher
Even in previous years, I was writing blogs about zombies:
I think it's time we all accepted the truth. Eventually, there is one thing that all of us in this world have to face and deal with, and it's coming soon. It's going to be frightening…challenging and dangerous. Many of us will perish and it could even mean the end of an entire species – the human race. Yes, an epic scale. This one thing that I speak of will test the very wits of humanity. It's coming soon, and I truly believe it's about time we started preparing for this onslaught now. I'm talking about zombies. Yeah – the living dead. They feed on your flesh, there's a lot of them and when you die you become one. Do you really want to become a zombie? No. And the worst part of all is, you can't communicate with them…cuz they won't listen. You'll say "Stop eating my flesh, it hurts." And they'll say…..nothing. They'll just keep doing it – indicating that they are either non-coherent or just jerks. Cuz who hears you say "Stop eating my flesh, it hurts" and keeps doing it? Jerks. That's who. Jerks.
My thoughts on Hinder's 'Lips of an Angel':
There is an experience that we've all had in our lives that really helps us define who we are and what we like. I'm talking about hearing the very first song that makes your insides attempt to escape your body – away from the foul sound that drives you to clog your ears with acid and death. That song, for me, was (looks around hoping no one hears him say it) Lips of an Angel by Hinder.
SSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
Yes, absolutely horrid song. The lyrics – if you can call that desperate, decrepit word vomit lyrics…are like the sound of impending doom. Like the sound of your executioner throwing the switch to your electric chair, or the sound of a dentist's high-pitched squealing drill as it grinds through the teeth and jaw of the unfortunate client paying for his attention.
And for those of you who are reading this and thinking "Lipth of an Angel ith a good thong, Adam. You thon of a bitch. No wonder no one liketh you and you have to pay your friendth to thtay your friendth and you thtink and you're ugly."…
My first experience with the 'Retard Sandwich':
So I'm driving along the QEW…blaring a bit of LL Cool J on my deck (Rub my back, rub my back, rub my back, rub my back – OH!) and tapping my mitt against the steering wheel to the beat. Clearly – I'm in the zone. I'm in the "on the way home from a long, hard day of pleasing idiots and covering fuck ups" zone. I'm in the passing lane – and I know a lot of you out there (Especially anyone from Thunder Bay) can't quite grasp the concept of the passing lane (That's the lane furthest to the left) and I remember chatting with the ex about this – and we both agreed that northerners don't really comprehend that the lane on the far left is for people who are going fast. Er, sorry faster than you. And when you see them gaining speed on your ass, you should boot it out of the way – you should vacate that lane – and leave those who are hell-bent on speed and quickness run free in what I like to call the "jungle lane" cuz people go wild on it. There are two lanes. Utilize them. For the love of God. Utilize them.
Anyways – cruising along at high speeds, blaring the tunes, in the zone when low and behold – completely unbeknownst to me, the guy beside me starts entering my lane. Just wants to pay me a little visit it seems, he starts what I like to refer to as a "lane ambush". When someone encroaches you in your lane – you're getting lane ambushed, my friends. I suddenly am forced to do un-earthly tactical defensive moves to avoid colliding with Captain Ambush over here. I'm suddenly on the shoulder…I'm smashing my horn and I'm upset. I am fearing for my life. I look over and some old man is returning my gaze – and he fires a "oops, I did it again" Britney Spears sort of look at me. And the anger washes over me like a nice, warm morning shower. Except this particular shower was wrought in turmoil. My turmoil. I have been sabotaged my friends, lane ambushed, as it were. I gather myself, return to said lane and feel the need for vengeance. I am now much like a predator – except I shall kill no one. I will not stoop to Captain Ambush's level. I yank over to the right lane, speed up beside him and prepare for a mighty fingering (no comments, please). I glance over, and this old man is…he's…as if he's sneaking food from under his desk in class…he's eating something…but he's trying real hard to hide it from any and all onlookers.
But by golly…I know what he's eating.
Finally...my personal thoughts on Nicholas Cage:
I don't know who the genius was that decided to put Nicholas Cage in front of a camera, but may his soul burn in hell eternal. Nicholas Cage is a monotonous, clueless wannabe southerner who looks like he got hit in the back of the head with a shovel a few too many times.
Now I can't possibly point out every flaw that Nicholas Cage possesses. It's as if whatever higher power in this galaxy, when creating life on earth, required a dumpster for all the incomprehensible garbage that spewed out of creation, looked upon Nicholas Cage and said "Giddy up!" Yes, I am saying that Nicholas Cage is the dumpster of human kind.
First of all, the guy looks like his head is about to explode. His bulging eyes and lurching neck…he belongs in a cheap Transylvanian horror flick with fangs and a cape. I.E. he's ugly. Don't let the receding hair line fool you, his hair is actually running from his face, like deer run from a predator.
Secondly, how can anyone take him seriously? I was watching The Rock and when Nicholas Cage came on I realized it was a comedy, and I laughed and laughed…this guy's voice is like listening to your grandparents have sex…how can you not laugh?
Finally – he WANTS to be a southerner??? Who WANTS to be a southerner??? What kind of retard goes out looking for a type of person that somehow sounds STUPIDER than he does and then…imitates them?
Monday, April 26, 2010
Shazam
Shazam.
That's the best word to describe what just happened.
Kablamo.
That's the sound of vacationing in Florida then moving across the country to British Columbia in two weeks.
Ump-shaka.
That's the sound of me working at my new job.
Pfffferrt...
That's the sound of stank-ass farts from mucho fast food.
Well, what can I say. It's been a few weeks now - I'm broke, but I'm alive. First impressions - Kelowna is pretty to look at, the weather is the dream - but the people are cliquey. Like a high school. A high school full of high people. A high high school.
Anyways - things are cool now. Settled in for the most part - let me just say that having a couch feels like it makes all the difference in terms of being settled in.
I miss my peeps, though. Azeem and his constant swear words at me, Stef and her comedic outbursts, Amanda being a giant skankasaurus, Matt sharing 'precious cargo' with me...Kristen whining about there not being anything on TV and that she's bored...
OH WAIT...that's happening RIGHT NOW.
If Chapman or Azeem or one of my really good friends were here in this place...so I guess it's time to make some funking friends. It's not easy for me. Look at me. But people at work are warming up to me a little bit.
One last thing - I think everyone in the world should see this place just once. Kelowna. I haven't even seen all of it, or even half of it - but it's something else.
When are ya'll comin' to visit?
That's the best word to describe what just happened.
Kablamo.
That's the sound of vacationing in Florida then moving across the country to British Columbia in two weeks.
Ump-shaka.
That's the sound of me working at my new job.
Pfffferrt...
That's the sound of stank-ass farts from mucho fast food.
Well, what can I say. It's been a few weeks now - I'm broke, but I'm alive. First impressions - Kelowna is pretty to look at, the weather is the dream - but the people are cliquey. Like a high school. A high school full of high people. A high high school.
Anyways - things are cool now. Settled in for the most part - let me just say that having a couch feels like it makes all the difference in terms of being settled in.
I miss my peeps, though. Azeem and his constant swear words at me, Stef and her comedic outbursts, Amanda being a giant skankasaurus, Matt sharing 'precious cargo' with me...Kristen whining about there not being anything on TV and that she's bored...
OH WAIT...that's happening RIGHT NOW.
If Chapman or Azeem or one of my really good friends were here in this place...so I guess it's time to make some funking friends. It's not easy for me. Look at me. But people at work are warming up to me a little bit.
One last thing - I think everyone in the world should see this place just once. Kelowna. I haven't even seen all of it, or even half of it - but it's something else.
When are ya'll comin' to visit?
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