YUP!

Okay I'm sorry for posting so many videos, and I know for some people on dinky computers this site probably comes up made slow. But look just look at this and tell me it didn't need to be posted.

Teach Yourself: An Iller Vocab

I originally wrote this for online magazine Elliotmag.net. They've had one issue and it's alright. Check it out, but read this first. Been thinking about making a podcast, but the main resource (time) is scarce.

People trust me, and they have good reason. I’ve worked hard to develop a persona well worthy of individual praise and acceptable self righteousness. People trust me because I’m likeable and charismatic, I give a firm handshake to men. A small and polite hug to women, and give kisses on both cheeks to Europeans. I once stumped Alex Trebek (much to his chagrin) and guessed the million dollar briefcase on ‘Deal or no Deal’. After that I never watched the show again, I figured what’s the point, you know? The fact that I am so upfront and transparent about how upfront and transparent I am only increases the already otherworldly amounts of trust that has been placed in my hands. This is why I have been entrusted (there’s that trust word again) to tell you how to live your life, and it is actually very humbling to me. So sit back, relax and get ready to do everything I say whether you agree with it or not. Now that introductions are out of the way let us get started.

Stop being a goddamn prick and use your big words like a big boy every once in a while. I’m not sure if it is the parties or drinking, the drug abuse or video games, the social networking or the TV, but I seem to meet people who talk like they have just graduated from kindergarten with alarming regularity.

Before you wonder if I’m being serious, first ask yourself how serious you are being. Because I am definitely not taking you seriously when you use the word ‘fuck’ as some sort of universal adjective bestowed upon us from the gods. In fact most four letter words are probably not the best way to describe things. Words like, sick, nice, and good, all have a place, but there are other words that someone probably worked very hard in creating and although he is not rolling around in his grave, because contrary to popular belief dead people do not actually roll around in their graves, I will say that if he were alive today he would probably feel a bit downtrodden for wasting his time thinking of some pretty interesting words, when he could have been banging hot bitches that I am sure his ill vocab helped him get.

I’ll even get the ball rolling. “How was the party Jimmy?”

“It was fucking awesome.”

“No.”

“Errr-It was fucking...good?”

“No.”

“It was really eclectic; there were a group of people who had some controversial ideas about health care. Initially I didn’t agree...” He looks at me curiously and I nod my encouragement for Jimmy to continue. “but after a light-hearted debate on the matter I found their position to be rather compelling if not at least an interesting stance on a subject that I am not entirely familiar with.”

“Yes, yes that’s a start Jimmy, that’s a start. How about you Jennifer? What are you watching tonight?”

“I’m thinking of watching Housewives of Orange County.”

“No.”

“Housewives of Atlanta.”

“Try again.”

“Housewives of-“ I give Jennifer a menacing glance. She looks fretfully at the floor and tries again.

“Big Brother?” Fuck it Jennifer you’re a lost cause.

Listen, I’ll level with you, I love to drink. A steady dose of Fresh Beverages (rum and cokes) and White Russians (vodka, milk and your choice of coffee flavoured liqueur, I prefer Kahlua) keep me sufficiently buzzed and happy. But we all know drinking kills brain cells so I’ve decided that exercising my brain to promote growth and mental stability wouldn’t be all that bad. Try reading or playing chess or talking about something other than celebrities. Although I will say J.Lo’s last album rocked....what? I do all the above, and since I have made a concerted effort to partake in activities other than drinking games and watching entertainment television I have noticed a significant increase in my vocabulary, memory, motor skills and various other cognitive abilities, namely telekinesis.

The best part is, when you stop trying to live the life of the hills, and drop the valley girl accent or super bro attitude, you will add a layer of respectability that others will recognize immediately. Conversations will flow easier and people will undoubtedly like you more, especially if you are unattractive. Chances are you will even like yourself more as a steady dose of hobbies is good for the soul, or at least the brain. Try playing Boccee.

The other day I left my glasses at home and had to squint to read a menu, that’s all it took to remind me that one day I will die. Every once in a while you will come face to face with your mortality and if you can face those situations without shutting your eyes tightly and wailing to the lost love ones in your life I commend you, but if you see yourself in that moment of utterly brutal self reflection you better have something better to say to yourself then, “That party was sick.”

MUSIC!!! OMG!

If you want to impress the indie crowd use this


The Ladies love this guy so maybe he has some tips. (For those who need them).


This is old but it proves everyone should listen to DnB because it's good for you.

Divel...oooohhh I get it.

Checking your watch during dinner will create suspicion. So, Euston was smart to check his watch while he had a private moment with the maitre d’. He left the conveniently located closet and caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. The view was impeccable. He adjusted the cuffs to his three piece suit, reassembled his blonde hair and proceeded to dust some invisible particles from his shoulder. Of course he didn’t forget to give himself a furtive grin and nod before returning to the table.

“Euston, where have you been Thompson was just telling us a fascinating story about the museum.” Bellowed, a now tipsy, Divel.

“I was on my way back from the washroom when I saw the Maitre d’. She was having some trouble with a man who felt he lost his reservation for unduly reasons.”

“Well I hope you didn’t tangle yourself in her mess?”

“Divel, as a gentleman I had to make sure there wasn’t a scene. I was only involved with her for 10 minutes.”

“That was quick.”

“That’s what she said.”

Euston, of course, was lying but not entirely. For all his own purposes he was a gentleman, and sometimes a doctor, and on Wednesday a realtor of high regard. Today he was sharing dinner with two important men.

Divel was a large man and the president of a very profitable cracker company. He spent sometime in politics gaining success as a councillor for Old York. If asked about his time in politics Divel would often complain about the food. Old York was one of the older neighbourhoods in Toronto and as such parties there presented a menu of epicurean interest. Euston was surprised Divel showed up to dinner. There were murmurs in the streets that he stayed up for three days preparing a shipment of Royal Select saltines for the prince of Kiribati. Gossip suggests the prince, who was going on an expedition into the mountains of Tibet, said if they must bring rations let there at least be Royal Selects. Divel ordered another whiskey cleared his throat of phlegm and searched his pockets for his lighter. He looked tired, his eyes were baggy, and the few strands of grey hair that remained on the sides of his head were unkempt.

“Here Divel, use mine”

Thompson handed Divel a lighter out of his breast pocket. The lighter was a glimmering silver with an inscription of his family’s crest. While Euston was preoccupied Thompson had been telling Divel about the dispute he was having with the Egyptian government. It seemed Thompson’s Curators Inc. were in the middle of a custody battle for the remains of an ancient tomb.

“The museum won’t support us. Even after all the Thompson family has done for them.” Thompson said.

“Fuck the museum.” Divel barked. “Are you gonna let a couple of sandbags weigh you down?” Divel’s last comment shocked Euston it was more poetic than usual. Before building the cracker industry with his bare hands, Divel, was a veteran of the British naval brigade. There he learned a lexicon that was short and surprisingly flexible. “Fuck the museum and fuck the Egyptian government.” Divel wasn’t overly abrasive but he did not have the patience for those who became submissive while facing a clusterfuck. In the navy he was taught anything could be fixed with spit and grease and he prescribed the same solution to his problems outside the regiment.

There was a lull in the conversation as both Euston and Thompson thought of ways to trump fuck the Egyptian government.

The three men sat at the round table under the dim light of a chandelier. Divel started to slouch down in his seat so he didn’t have to support his massive stomach with his back. He looked around lazily, possibly, for a more entertaining group. Then stared out the window inquisitively. Euston and Thompson could not resist and stared with him. A person was flying horizontally towards the window. And then smashed through the glass and onto the trio’s table. The poor man had broke all of the white china and cleared off a fresh bottle of wine with the glasses. Thompson was startled and jumped out of his seat, Euston and Divel didn’t flinch, and the Maitre d came rushing out of the closet to see what happened. Rain started blowing through the hole in the window putting out Divel’s cigar. He grunted and lit up another one. Divel panned the restaurant seeing more than one shocked face, “Terrible weather these days.” He said.

Dawn of the Assholes

Don’t let anyone ask you, “What’s all this Hoopla about?” If they don’t know, you sure as hell don’t have to tell them. Unless of course you have just been waiting…just been itching for some dumb scunt to be a dumb enough scunt to ask you what you’re doing so you can set them on the right track.

The world is comprised by haves and have nots, and I’m not talking about money, I’m talking about something intrinsic to the very nature of being alive. Don’t ask me how they did it, but a large portion of society has derived a way to live without a soul. These are the assholes who don’t know what’s DOWN. They might as well be flesh eating zombies, and like Roger, from Dawn of the Dead, we are going to whip them. “WHIP THEM AND TAKE IT ALLL”

But I’m getting ahead of myself…or is that just my writing style? I won’t be so presumptuous as to assume I have a “writing style.” That seems like a gimmick “writers” use to legitimatize their writing. As far as I’m concerned writing is fluid and depends largely on circumstance. Take this one for example; I’m at work, hunched over my desk so no one knows I’m not writing reports but writing posts. This circumstance has led me to think and type at an increased rate as to avoid being spotted. Hence me getting always getting ahead of myself and jumping into the details of things before letting everyone know what it is that I’m talking about.

If they want to call that a writing style I’m all for it. But I know that can’t be too accurate because half the time I read something I wrote on this site and wonder if I was on acid. But let’s try to stay focused. Striving for my BCOMM is costing me my soul, and I have already had the unique displeasure of witnessing the mass amounts of students in this higher learning educational institutions that would sell their mothers gravestone for a AMEX Black Card. Obviously the strife for and lust for financial security, (security meaning BMWs, expensive champagnes, complex and vast real estate portfolios) Listen, the scope for this topic is way larger than this post so I’ll just say you soulless demons know who you are and stay off my BLOCK.

Being a young adult these days is like trying to decide whether to be a movie star or recording artist. All the Hipsters want to be straight edge and all the straight edge kids want to be bad as fuck. Half the time it comes out looking like queer as folk, and if you don’t understand its because I’m just playing with words, there’s very little meat here to digest but I guess if there’s a theme to this it would be. Ummm…..Be Yourself. Yea I like that one. Just be yourself guys, if you don’t know what’s going on, that’s probably the way it’s meant to be, don’t ask some dude with a Sperry’s on what’s happening because that’s just not your crowd. When you know what’s going on it want feel like Hoopla anyway. It will feel like David Bowie or Stars.

Respek to Rusi, the cell phone post made me laugh in my throat a little.

Get on my music nuts

So I'm usually not one to shamelessly promote musicians/DJs that I may or may not know, but this guy has been doing big things recently and deserves some recognition.

As far as DJs go, not much is really noticed by the masses in the realm of skill, especially when most of the audience is girls and guys who often times don't even really like the particular genre and just came for the cheap drinks/to look cool/to get hit on by hipsters etc.

One thing I've noticed about every one of DJ Scratchsmith's sets is that the crowd actually gets excited. Balancing a killer selection with sharp skills and an overall pleasing demeanour, DJ Scratchsmith is worth watching out for.

Check out his Facebook Page and Myspace

Seriously

There Will Be Posts!

For the last month and change I've read blog posts on the blog I had the audacity to create by my darling compatriots. I couldn't help but think of the critically acclaimed movie, "There will be blood." When the main protagonist, (or is he the antagonist?) Kneels on his knees at the front of a small church and exclaims, "I'VE ABANDONED MY CHILD! I'VE ABANDONED ME CHILD!" Yes I have, and like Mr. Plainview I'm going to bring it back and nurture it with an expensive steak meal with milk and whisky.

Listen, I wouldn't say I'm proud of myself, but who is these days? I rather write but I have fucking priorities. And by fucking priorities I mean actually fucking girls. Not really, but you all expect me to be cool. Well I'm not cool, I just write as one on a blog. (I actually am DOPE though.)

This is getting out of hand, I'm getting emotional, my hand is qwaivering (obviously quivering and waivering) and I feel like I'm about to puke because I'm drunk. I'm going to put you all on a train. Picture a large freight train because that's the kind of train it is. Its kind of dark and cold inside. There may or may not be a mexican inside. That's up to you, and I won't take the paint brush out of your hand. Go ahead, create a masterpiece. This train your on? It's not stopping in L.A, or New York. It's not stopping in Toronto or B.C. It's not stopping in Tokyo, Seoul or Istanboul. That's because it's not stopping at all. Its a terrifying, exhilerating ride that you are on for the rest of your life. Partake in the festivities, or don't see if I even care.

False Prophets Inside a Giant Hot Air Ballon Face. For Real.

So I'm in the library wondering why people put their phone on vibrate then leave it in front of them. I'm wondering because often my mind drifts when it faces an illogical situation. Here is what I am having trouble with...

(cell+vibration)/distance = intensity of touch stimulus; where distance must be greater than inside your body.

So as you can see the further you get from the cell vibration the less effective it is at activating your sense of touch. I guess if you are not concerned with your sense of touch and simply want to be alerted then placing the phone on a desk in front of you will work, for instance;

(cell+vibration)x(DESK) = loud fucking noise

notice the positive relationship between the desk and cell vibration. Of course we must hold the desk constant and increase the vibration to a level suitable to make loud fucking noise.

I must excuse my self for the second formula because it only works in a perfect experimental environment. For instance under normal library hours the circumstances dictate the following formula;


the sum of[(n)x(DESK)^2 - distance]; where n is the number of cellphones vibrating between the limit of 0 - infinity, and distance is constant
= (loud fucking noise + smack in da mouth)X(intensity of smack in da mouth)

distance remains constant because we are in a cramped QUIET lab. The second formula is now exponential because again we are in a cramped QUIET lab.

prescribe your own medicine and dance. Okay stop dancing and punch. Okay stop punching. What have you learnt other than these three moves. Well its a good thing I'm here to teach you. Salivate all you want vegetables are still edible, meat must be killed and stories will be told.

Garnishing the backlash of stability will never persuade the conservative mind. And who are you not to listen if I am not to tell. Of course you should be happy. Just watch for the snakes, the liars, the hilarious to others, the options, the past, the deleted, the faces. Definitely watch for the faces.

I was with a group of people who thought I couldn't hear them. I wish I couldn't. When you get older you don't care. When you don't care you don't care.

No seriously be happy, but don't care. If you care everyone will find something else to care about. **edit** Cowards (sorry forgot that part)

Low kick to hyper to hadouken to high kick to super to throw to light punch, light punch heavy punch to hyper

I swear to god I would kick the ever living shit out of you.

Given the opportunity I might just lose it and beat some asshole within an inch of their life.

I would throw elbows, spinning hook kicks, plum knees, and did I mention I can shoot fireballs?

I'm getting ahead of myself.

I have a black belt in Karate. I've done kickboxing, traditional boxing, and right now I'm practising muay thai and jiu jitsu. I've been doing this stuff since I was in the eighth grade and it's really the only thing close to a sport apart from snowboarding and that I'm not completely incompetent at.

No I am not good at basketball. Get over it.

Now please understand that I don't want to come across as someone who's fronting. I am not a fronter.

For the sake of clarity:

(That's a picture of me not fronting)

I don't go around beating people up for fun, I don't even do it for practice.

In all honesty I've never been in a fight. Except for that one time I fed the monster under my bed a gourmet knuckle sandwich for touching my ankles when I woke up one morning.

Aside from that one, isolated (albeit friggin' awesome) experience, I have never had to purchase the ingredients and prepare a knuckle sandwich for anyone I've ever met.

The reason this has never happened is I don't fight people unless they hit me first. A good friend once said to me "Nobody is going to call you a bitch if you respectfully decline an invitation to engage in hand-to-hand combat, but everyone will know you as a bitch if you start a fight and get put on your ass."

Makes sense, no?

Lucky/unlucky for me, I've never met anyone brave/foolish enough to hit me.

Lucky because "violence isn't the answer" or something like that.

Unlucky because I've never had the chance to show anyone my flaming Shoryuken in person... (That's where I do an uppercut while jumping in the air, spinning 360 degrees. Did I mention my hands are on fire?) Trust me it's pretty sweet.

The worst part about all this is that not only can I not show off, but when people say "Okay Kid, if you won't fight, at least play me a round in Street Fighter/Soul Calibur/Tekken/Guilty Gear/Marvel Vs. Capcom/ Virtua Fighter/Mortal Combat/ King of Fighters/Primal Rage/Killer Instinct/Whatever bullshit fighting game I forgot to include in this list." And I have to be like:

"SORRY!!!! I SUCK AT VIDEO GAMES BASICALLY!!! THE IDEA OF PRESSING LEFT, DOWN, DIAGONAL LEFT/DOWN + PUNCH TO GIVE YOU AN IMAGINARY SHORYUKEN SEEMS HARDER TO ME THAN LIGHTING MY HANDS ON FIRE AND PUNCHING YOU IN THE FACE IN REAL LIFE!!!!"

Now the fact of the matter is, while I own approximately fifty two gazillion video games, (give or take a few) I basically suck at all of them. At least compared to all my friends, who somehow are miraculously nerdier than I am, a reality I never thought even remotely possible. Maybe I'm just hopelessly lacking hand-eye co-ordination. Regardless, name a game:

Halo? suck at it

Call of Duty? suck at it

Super Mario? suck at it

Pac Man? suck at it

But I am damn good at Wii Fit.

Apparently being a fatty with a controller glued to your hands makes you a better fighter with more bragging rights than someone who could actually kick your ass.

Guess it's time to hang up the gloves and get comfortable. At least I'll have super strong thumbs.

Mortal Kombat + Uppercut = ?

Why is garlic bread so delicious? The mysteries of contemporary earth are surely plentiful, a cornucopia of gift baskets times two. And just like gift baskets there are great parts like roasted cashews and questionable additions like goat cheese.

Garlic bread is worth all of our attention and I don’t think it’s an insult to forget who created it. Modern times calls for us to accept things we don’t really understand, here are a few examples; caramel inside of Caramilk bars, medical science, love, divorce, gold prices and reality TV.

Lost my train of thought

The best way to enjoy garlic bread is to prepare it yourself. It starts with a stroll down to your local bakery, or at least it used to. There you may have a few words with the shop keep before you peruse the aisles, for the type of bread you want.

Now, a loaf of French white is never a bad choice but take a minute to expand your experience. I suggest trying the Kaiser buns with sesame seeds. The combination of light fluffy bread along with the savoury taste of roasted sesame seeds is not complex, and still provides a perfect match.

Actually the entire concept of garlic bread is pretty brief and maybe that’s why it’s so tasty. A couple of people got together and said;

“Hey lets put garlic on this bread.”

“Should we toast it?”

“Sure.”

I like garlic bread; I like sports, video games, hot girls, cool cars and good movies. There’s a lot of other stuff that might not be too important but I’m not sure yet.