Had to do it again!

SHAMELESS ADVERTISEMENT TIME.

My good friend Sven, long time CMoGer and extraordinary gentleman is promoting Toilet Paper all over canada.
Toilet Paper HATES CANCER.

You should hate cancer too, it's the worst.

So Sven and Toilet Paper are asking that you "like" Toilet paper on social networking site so it can kill cancer once and for all by throwing money at it. For every person that "likes" toilet paper and "hates" cancer, Toilet Paper's distributors and propagators will spend another dollar killing cancer. Money is Toilet Paper's sidekick and together with the help of Sven they will save the world.

Just click here and "like" Toilet Paper.

What would you do without Toilet Paper? You'd have a shitty asshole. You'd probably have cancer too.

And the living is easy...

Oh man.

What do we do here again? I can't quite figure it out. I tried navigating to this page just now and I couldn't even remember the URL.

LAWL! NERD JOKE!!!
FORGETFULNESS.

A lot of things change in people's lives during the summer. Friends come back from out of town, other friends leave to travel the globe. Sometimes old lovers that you totally forgot about show up with new haircuts or butt implants and you see them in a whole new light. It's a time for heartbreaks and it's a time for new beginnings. It's also a time for bikers to get hit by motor vehicles.

So I work at a pretty ritzy restaurant these days. Hold your horses. I didn't say I work/live at the Ritz. I said I work at a ritzy restaurant. It's called The Rushton (Ritz Carleton-esque(but not really)) Anyways, this job, where I endure hours of insults and degrading comments from a 5 foot tall columbian woman AKA My Boss, is what's got my pockets feeling chubby these days. Not fat... Just chubby.

Husky is probably more accurate.

I bus tables and get yelled at for not realizing with my own powers of reasoning that sweet potato fries only come with garlic aoli, NOT KETCHUP.

So me, my husky wallet and my deflated sense of self-esteem took ourselves out to Scarborough to purchase a pretty red Miele road bike from a kind, middle aged Asian(presumably chinese but if I'm wrong, no racial, guys.) couple I met on craigslist.

It rode like a real beauty. My little Italian vixen. If she bore anything in common with an Italian woman, it was her looks, but also her temperament. The bike came with really small, one-sided pedals so whenever you shifted gears or hit a bump, your feet would slide right off. Within the first week I was riding up Dufferin after having purchased a pair of Calvin Klein dress pants for mad cheap.

WINNERS FTW

Sidenote: I hate dress pants. I only bought them cause at a restaurant as high class as The Rushton, "THERE IS NO WAY I CAN BE COMING TO WORK WEARING JEANS." sigh... They were black jeans and they were nice too. But jeans NONETHELESS!!!

In the middle of Dufferin St, both my feet come flying off my pedals for no apparent reason and I am unable to find my balance. I get launched off my bike and it now has a dented front tire.

I go to work bleeding, get yelled at for bleeding, am refused any bandages or gauze, bleed some more and then go home at the end of my shift. I don't worry too much about my accident, every new bike is gonna take some getting used to right? I'll spend my next paycheck on some new pedals for my bike, right? WRONG.

My friend takes my bike for a ride one day and tells me that because my front tire is dented, I run the risk of having it collapse under too much pressure, resulting in me becoming a piece of meat at the side of the road.

I ride it anyways.

I don't become meat, I'm actually quite fine, sort of. INSTEAD...

Not only do I nearly get fired from The Rushton for not upholding their standards of perfection in apparently every aspect of my performance, (My manager isn't one to give compliments. If you're not getting yelled at, you're doing a stellar job. I get yelled at all the time.)
but on my way to meet my friends downtown, (I'm riding extra slow to avoid having my front wheel collapse with the spokes impale me in several different places) I'm going through a fucking intersection, it's my light, I have the right of way blah blah blah and I GET HIT BY A CAR. I fully saw the guy, I figured I'd zip right past him. Nope, he decided that just as I was in front of the vehicle he would pump the gas.

As I'm gliding over the hood of the car I find myself feeling really exhilirated more than anything. I hit the ground, ripped my arm open AGAIN and sat up only to give the guy driving a thumbs up. He drove away after he saw I was in such good spirits, while I look over to see my bicycle is a mangled mess. At least the front wheel didn't kill me....

His license plate was stuck between my back wheel spokes so I filed a police report while some girl hung out with me until my friends came to meet me. If anything goes down she's my witness. I HAVE HER ON FACEBOOK!!!

I now have no bike, I only work morning shifts because my manager can't stand to see my allegedly incompetent face and all I have to show for it is... Uh....

Well...

At the very least I get to say I've been hit by a car, which in all honesty isn't nearly as bad as everyone makes it out to be.

More A Reflex Than Anything Else

No need to look at me like that. I get this all the time. I know you saw me looking but I was just curious, I see a pair of legs like that dozens of times a day. A dime a dozen I tell you, so wipe that look off your face because to assume I was fantasizing about anything other then you maybe becoming a personal fetcher, and fetching my personal things after a hard days work is beyond presumptuous on your part, and actually borders on inexcusable public self-gratification. And really, if you need your ego stroked by wearing that skirt, (whose fabric seemed vaguely exotic to me and piqued my curiosity bringing this whole situation to its current predicament)…If you need that self-gratification by every man who walks by you then just go home and stick an onion if your fat vagina. Yes, I can tell your vagina is fat because of your slim form fitting exotic fabric skirt. I’m not saying its (editors note: the vagina’s) not nice it just looks like it has taken on a bit of water weight is all. I know women get bloated at times so I actually don’t hold it against you.

No, I’m not saying your ugly, actually you’re fairly attractive in relative terms. You know, relative to your race, weight, place of business, those types of things, but I would have looked down if you looked like Chewbacca…Why? Because of the goddamn exotic fabric that’s why, and your crotch peeking little hello glances at me. Is that a floral pattern? I’ve never seen flowers like that…lilies? You don’t say. Well listen, I’m happy we straightened this whole mess out, I’m not interested in you and you're not interested in me so I think we should exchange the common place pleasantries of our respective cultures and be on our way! What’s that look? You mean you are interested in me….Well I don’t want to come off as an ass hat, but I was getting that feeling, I have a knack for things like that you see, especially when you start looking at my hair. Don’t look at my hair that way and don’t ask any questions about it either. I’m not being an asshole…I can just tell we would never work, you with your shallowness and all. Why, I can tell you’re shallow because of that skirt. Is that silk? I've never seen a skirt made of silk with that kind of floral pattern, the workmanship of it really is incredible. No, I’m not flirting with you. No, I do not have an erection. (editor’s note: I do have an erection, but it’s just a small one and entirely [editors note: mostly] coincidental) That happens sometimes and you shouldn’t take it as an invitation.

Okay so we’ve both looked at each others crotches, and I’ve admitted you’re attractive and you think I’m pretty interesting but really you’re not my type, do you even know what a dragon's tooth sword is? Let me just shake your hand and once you depart I’ll forget this ever happened. I have a memory like that; it’s finicky like an old stapler. You know there are staples in there but it won’t staple. Dave asks me if I’m sure there are staples in it, and I’m thinking you’re even dumber than I am if you think I don’t know there are not staples in this goddamn stapler, meanwhile I’m discretely trying to open a new pack of staples and get it into the stapler before Dave demands to examine the stapler himself…if he does it’ll be an embarrassment alright, my face will get hotter than Paris Hilton’s lexicon. (sigh)

I don’t think I got your name. Nice to meet you they call me Handstyle. Well who the fuck are you (editors note: word implores me to write: "who the fuck is you." Word is from Mexico?) to say that’s a weird name, you go to Mongolia and they think Susan is a pretty rotten name too. I didn’t mean to make you upset, why do girls become upset so easily, they’re so emotional you would think they would earn enough skill points in that area to manage their emotions more effectively.

So you’re not interested anymore? Well that is invariably what happens on these chance encounters. (editors note: I notice the skirt has a neat little plead in it as she walks away)

Need more frosted flakes

So this is the part of the night where I try and stay awake for 4 more hours before I have to go to work so I can finally fall asleep.

I had work yesterday morning at 10am. I got there at 2pm. It was probably one of the worst mornings of my life. And while there was no murder, mystery or intrigue involved, unlike most of my mornings, it was fucking shitty. It's bad enough having you mother who's been awake since 7 in the morning ask you at 12 noon why you didn't go to work, but on top of that, when you borrow your friends bike to rush to work, the bike fucks up when you try to change gears in the middle of college street. 30 minutes later I manage to get the chain back on and it's semi-smooth sailing. I get to work and I do the usual (aka, play harvest moon for snes until my brain feels somewhat reminiscent of yogurt or creme brule) Usually I just sleep at work, which is what I'm planning on doing today once I get there. But I swear on my life I WILL NOT BE LATE. The bike mechanic up the street says I'll have to come in tomorrow to have it fixed. I fixed it myself in literally 20 seconds after I left the shop.

I kind of enjoy having my hands covered in grease to be honest. It makes me feel more manly, more useful. It's like proof to people that you've been up to something somewhat manually demanding and perhaps even slightly important in some way or another. People are so cynical these days, a little grease really put's people in their place. My hands are still filthy, I think I might just leave them like this forever, I'm a big fan of the look.

What is creme brule anyways?

Throwing Smoke? That Sounds Cool Too!

Ever felt like you don’t have the resources to make your dreams a reality? I don’t mean having a Jacuzzi and secret sauna in your basement for business deals. Suffice it to say you know what I mean, I know what you mean too. We understand each other. And on to the main feature.




Throwing Smoke


LOL get me off this team

So I asked to be traded. No dice. At the end of my second minor league season I was hoping I would get some offers from other ball clubs who were interested in prospects. Turns out I’m not even allowed to become a free agent. The Rays reeled me in for decent 97 000. I know… I’m pretty much balling at the ripe age of 24.

Midway through May I was called up to AAA Durham Bulls. Obviously this manager had some sense because he offered me the closer role off the fuckin bat. Or so I thought. After closing ten games, ten saves, and a microscopic 1.59 era I was sent back to the mid relief. Why? Because I was slacking on my fielding training! Someone needs to get my out of the Rays farm. It’s run by morons, I mean Mormons. I few weeks after that I was back in AA. Attitude problems they cited. Rampant alcoholism and sexual assault was more like it. But I was performing on the mound, isn’t that the only thing that should matter? How did I handle my demotion? I promptly started working on my K/9 (strikeouts per nine innings). I just started striking fuckers out, because I’m a boss. I finished the season in Montgomery AA.

As spring season ended I got a letter from the general manager. It read something like this? Wanna pitch for the Rays in late inning relief for 300K. Fuckin Eh.

. No dice. At the end of my second minor league season I was hoping I would get some offers from other ball clubs who were interested in prospects. Turns out I’m not even allowed to become a free agent. The Rays reeled me in for decent 97 000. I know… I’m pretty much balling at the ripe age of 24.

Midway through May I was called up to AAA Durham Bulls. Obviously this manager had some sense because he offered me the closer role off the fuckin bat. Or so I thought. After closing ten games, ten saves, and a microscopic 1.59 era I was sent back to the mid relief. Why? Because I was slacking on my fielding training! Someone needs to get my out of the Rays farm. It’s run by morons, I mean Mormons. I few weeks after that I was back in AA. Attitude problems they cited. Rampant alcoholism and sexual assault was more like it. But I was performing on the mound, isn’t that the only thing that should matter? How did I handle my demotion? I promptly started working on my K/9 (strikeouts per nine innings). I just started striking fuckers out, because I’m a boss. I finished the season in Montgomery AA.

As spring season ended I got a letter from the general manager. It read something like this? Wanna pitch for the Rays in late inning relief for 300K. Fuckin Eh.

I Need a Dollar

Ever pissed on a police department in New York? Me neither. I'm sitter here typing outside right next to one and I really have to go. I'll probably just go inside to do it.

I can never fight the feeling that sometimes I'm not taking enough risks. If I were to die in the next 15 minutes, I'd probably wish I had done more reckless shit with my life. Base jumping, or hang gliding, or swimming with manta rays. Brooklyn is way more tame than I ever could have imagined. So many hipsters. So many fixed gear bikes. Maybe I'm in heaven, should I hate it here?

I don't.

Is there such thing as a dollar cab? my friend insists that they exist. I've heard that it's just slang for the subway. Who knows.

What I do know is that Marlboro is the black coffee of cigarettes. I'm actually kind of glad I picked these, they make me feel nauseous enough to stop me from smoking. So instead I'm just focused on how to make it in America. I really wish I lived here, it's just right, exactly where I wish I could be. This sounds stereotypical, trust me, I know.

I'm just about ready to vomit and go to bed so I can't continue, but I promise, there will be more to come very soon.

I buy lotto tickets because they make me feel good. Before the draw there is a rush of excitement. My mind races through all the things I will say and do after I hit the jackpot.

I dream of calling in a chorus line of women to perform sexual acts for money then I secretly sit them down and offer them a chance to live out their dreams if they can tell me what it is and how they plan to get there. It would be an on the spot interview, where a desperate female succumbing to the temptation of sex for cash, is initially vulnerable, then confused, and then tormented by choice.

I can see myself speeding down the highway switching both lanes with the top down screaming out; "money aint a thang."

I imagine my new wealth would make me desire only the finest chocolate. I would fly out to each corner, or segment, of the earth and seek it out. Then I would assemble a research team consisting of a world renowned chocolatier, a professor in hydrothermal dynamics and a taste ambassador from 5 major nations. The goal would be to develop the best hot chocolate in the world, without adding milk or water.

Instead of going to the movies I would attend political galas and hold season tickets to the Noble Prize Awards. Speaking of movies, I have always wanted to make one. With my jackpot money I would make the best action movie ever. The film would be 3 hours long with explosions and kung-fu guaranteed every 5-10 minutes. There would be absolutely no Computer Generated Imagery. I plan to spend at least 5-10 million on pyrotechnics and stunt work.

I would build arcades all over the city and they would make money.

I would build a 24 hour restaurant called "4.99'rs" where every option on the menu is $4.99, cooked when ordered, with ingredients bought that day.

I might go out looking for strong hobo's. After capturing them I would put them in a training facility that teaches mixed martial arts. Within a few years I would have developed a strong core of homeless fighters and a distinguished guide for developing raw talent.

I would buy every convenience store within a 10 mile radius of my home. I would call the acquired stores Proxy Fridges. If the public wanted free access and food they would have to pass the test. Each store would have a computer game on the front, it could be chess, it could be Halo, it could be a certain top score in Raiden II. No matter what the game the difficulty will increase when someone has gained access. Also, the difficulty increases after each month. Obviously the easier games like snakes and ladders will be on stores with less than favorable stuff like large supplies of pickled onions.

If any of this stuff sounds interesting to you then buy me more tickets!!!

So you know what really hip social people with blogs do right? They have segments! Well, I have a new segment featuring the double life I’m currently leading as a MLB pitching prospect. I’m not sure what to call it, so I’ll give it a working title for now – “Throwing Heat”. Wow I actually like that, if you can top that I’ll be impressed. (Note: These exploits may or may not be real. Actually that line is becoming increasingly blurry.)

Throwing Heat

My Double A Manager’s a Bitch

I’m on my road to the show. I’m one of the top young prospects in the minors and everyone knows I have Hall of Fame potential. I just wish my manager could see the same thing everyone else does. I was drafted by the Tampa Bay Rays and started my career out in Montgomery in AA. It took a while to adjust. Here I am, a 23 year old hard throwing lefty from Toronto with dreams of becoming the next great MLB closer now living Montgomery Alabama. Talk about culture shock. The Biscuits as we are known are a quality organization from top to bottom, except for my manager, more on that later. I came in not expecting to make a large contribution right away, so you can imagine my surprise when my first outing was a 7^th inning appearance in a one run ball game in our favor. I came onto the field to the song Rules by We Are Scientists – one of my absolute favorite bands and the night was all up from there. I retired the side in order, was called on to pitch the 8^th and left the game with my first hold.

After my initial outing things became a bit tamer. I worked a few five and six inning outings but quickly became the de facto set up guy. I carried a 0.00 era well into the second month of my tenure and in no time at all I was a fan favorite. I even earned the virtually non-existent three inning save. I also worked an 8 and 9 inning combination with men on to earn my second save of the season less than a month in my AA rookie campaign. And that’s when the extraordinary happened. I was sitting by my locker having a quick burn of that good ol Alabama shit, when my manager approached me and offered me the closer job.

I didn’t even expect to get it so soon. I promptly started to rack up the saves when my fortunes started to shift. A hamstring injury had me on the 60day DL. The chemistry of the team quickly turned sour. Our first place first half team was barely getting by in the second half without me. Coming back from rehab I noticed a change in my manager. “You’re going back to set up…”. My first reaction was that’s fair. More than two months without any action I understood if he wanted to work me back into the lineup. I went back out there right where I left off. Dominating, after a few series I approached my manager about getting my closing role back. And you know what he did? HE BENCHED ME! My fucking AA manager is out of his fucking mind. I don’t want to sound like a dick, but the closing role was mine before I left, and I earned it again after I came back, so I’m not sure where he gets off.

I’m seriously thinking approaching someone in order to get traded.

Identity Crisis

I need some role models. What do you guys read? Blogs, books magazines.

Seriously, comment. Don't message me on facebook or tell me in person. Fucking comment.

I want to see it right here. It's an ego boost, to be completely honest.

Remember when you used to listen to way more Drum and Bass? Like playing Need for Speed and shit. The Crystal Method?

Good times.

Are you a man? Do you wear jewelry? What do you think about that? I've been really contemplating what it means to be a manly man these days. I think it falls down to these few things.

1. Being comfortable with yourself and any socially unacceptable impulses you may have.

2. Being physically fit, confident and having a commanding presence.

3. Being kind of sexist sometimes. I'm not gonna get into details but I think you can see where this one is going. Being dominant or whatever

4. Being hairy. Men aren't pretty, we're dirty animals. Get used to it.

Everything else is just humans being unique. I think oftentimes jewelry really suits some males. So all the CMoGers out there with necklaces or rings on, don't be offended. BE STRONG.

Would you ever do heroin?

Side Order of Style is the worst blog ever, by the way.

Lights...(not the artist)

Didn't really have time to post anything resembling an article this week. Maybe next week. But as I was packing up at work a light turned on in my head. It shone through my eyes, intensified through my glasses and burnt a hole through my monitor. I did the research, and luckily I'm not liable for that kind of damage. After all that I had this idea, it was that people who twitter are just people who are too dumb to have a blog.

The Staff-